#ink kingdom notes

[mojogifs]

Lord Aldhelm + The Battle of Tettenhall

For @lord-aldhelm xo

[little-pondhead]

Classic "promised-at-birth-to-the-Ghost-King" story, except the contract never states how, exactly, the King is to use the offered soul. Usually, one would be offered as a bride or sacrifice. But with Pariah Dark sealed away, his retainers got a little lazy in the last few millennia. They just made some generic contracts and practically handed them out like candy.

When Danny took over as king via conquest, that included all the weird and messed up soul contracts the previous retainers had signed. And since ghost magic was a thing and seemed to have it out for Danny personally, many of these contracts updated their terms and conditions as soon as that crown hit Danny's head, reflecting the new King's subconscious desires and personality.

This caused many issues with those still around to profit from these contracts. Some people lost their power, some gained more, and some were unbound and kicked to the curb. A few special people found themselves dropping dead after their less-than-ethical abilities disappeared.

Danny was unaware of the chaos he had unintentionally caused for quite a while. It was only brought to his attention when a letter arrived on his desk one day with a copy of someone's valid contract enclosed. The new changes have been highlighted, and a separate note is attached.

It seems that in exchange for blessings of near-immortality for her infant son, a mother had offered Pariah Dark both their souls in order to ensure her child's survival during harsh times. (The souls were to be collected upon death and were to be used as soldiers in the King's Army.) The mother's soul had returned to the Keep decades ago and was recently assigned to tend to the gardens, while her son seemed to have grown into a fine gentleman and was still alive. He used his mother's gifts to serve his country and loved ones well, it seemed.

At first, Danny didn't see what any of this had to do with him. If the mother was already a part of his kingdom, and the son would be eventually, why was a letter about the whole thing showing up before him?

Then he read the revised contract, which bore his magical signature. A signature that overruled the power of Pariah and binding it to him.

'...and as such, in return for the abilities stated above, [Mary Pennyworth] and [Alfred Pennyworth] will fulfill the conditions detailed below, upon pain of Ending.

[Mary Pennyworth], when returned to the Kingdom of Dark Kingdom of Stars, will work as a lieutenant in the Skeleton Army caretaker in the Gardens of Pluto.

STATUS: COMPLETED

[Alfred Pennyworth], when returned to the Kingdom of Dark Kingdom of Stars, will work as a general in the Skeleton Army caretaker of the King and his Court.

STATUS: PENDING'

Danny had to re-read the contract several times to understand what it was saying. He now had a caretaker? What did a caretaker do? Was it like a ghost parent? Could this guy ghost-ground him??

He sighed and pressed the speed dial on his phone for Tucker. Time to find out who the hell this Alfred Pennyworth guy was, and how to break a magic contract when it wasn't even fulfilled yet.

Meanwhile, Alfred had just found the original copy of the contract amongst his mother's belongings after it glowed and drew him in. The paperwork cleared up a lot of mysteries he'd always wondered about himself, even if he disapproved of his mother's methods. Nonetheless, he smoothed out the aged paper with dark green ink, noted the fresh (sloppy, a teenager?) signature, and began preparing to meet this supposed new King and his Court.

It wouldn't hurt to make introductions before he died, after all.

[shesjustanothergeek]

The Gods We Can Touch Chapter Six: Salt and Blood

Masterlist of Series

Summary: The older twin of Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, you were a picture of the maiden, untouched and untainted by man's sins. At least, that was what Alicent Hightower believed when she held you in her arms moments after her old friend's labors. You were her shining light, her dream. Though you were never hers, she believed you were meant to be.

What will become of you as time passes and the Queen's shining light grows within the blackened darkness? Will her eldest son's morbid fascination with the light burn the realm? Or will her second son's obsession with the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen change the course of the Seven Kingdoms as we know it?

Author's Note: Alright, everyone. This is the last time you'll see baby Aemond and the reader, so let's cherish it. In the next chapter, we will start where the show did with the characters aged up in Ep. 8. I'm very excited to write for adult MC. I'm not going to lie; I'm a bit worried about writing Aemond's inner dialogue, as I've never written for a male character who isn't obsessed with the reader, but I'm sure I'll do fine. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Chapter Warnings: Alicent being delulu, parentified sibling trauma, and watch me make you feel even worse about Driftmark.

As you journeyed from the gloomy corridors of the Red Keep to the sulfuric atmosphere of Dragonstone and now to the sandy shores and scattered shells of Driftmark, an air of sadness seemed to cling to you wherever you went. You stood at the edge of a cliff, gazing down at the tranquil sea, overlooking the stone coffin that cradled your late Aunt Laena. Two deaths, each carrying its weight of sorrow, yet only one mourned.

You wondered what it would be like to die choked in flames like Ser Harwin and Lyonel Strong did. Would it be the same as suffering dragon fire like your Aunt? Most likely not. Hers was a swift burning of flesh from bones, while theirs was hours of agony and suffocation. 

Despite what your family claimed, the idea of dying to your own dragon’s flames wasn’t an appealing end to you. It didn’t seem noble like how stories explained it to be. It was horrifying to have your skin torched from your body, to feel the power of a thousand suns on your flesh. It would be excruciatingly painful, and you wished it upon no one, not even those you despised most. You would much rather meet the Stranger in your sleep. 

You barely settled into your new home on Dragonstone before your mother received the two ravens. One bringing news of Ser Harwin and the other of Laena, containing death in the ink. You consoled your mother and father as best you could, hugging and kissing and telling them that you loved them and were sorry. It was an impossible task to do, but you couldn’t help yourself. You hated seeing them so distraught and wanted to make them feel better. 

At night, you cried into your pillows in your now isolated bedroom until Jace and Luke entered, watery eyes matching yours. As the eldest, it was your job to hold your family together when your parents couldn’t, and it left you no time to properly grieve the loss of an Aunt and a father figure.

You felt terrible for your cousins Baela and Rhaena. To go to bed one night and wake up the next without a mother was a depth of grief you couldn’t imagine. You didn’t think you could live a life without your mother; you would die with her, and the ability of your cousins to continue without her was admirable as you observed their sullen faces streaked with tears. 

Your Great Uncle Vaemond spoke his sermon in High Valyrian, which was too fast and practiced for you to understand. You could decipher some words here and there, but ultimately, you were lost listening to a man you rarely met. You felt your mother straighten her stance from behind, her arms coming to circle the three of you in a protective embrace.

Vaemond’s eyes were on yours, Luke’s, and Jace’s, but everyone else was focused on him—on the coffin with Lady Laena’s face carved into it.

As your eyes wandered to the other people surrounding the funeral procession, fear struck you as you caught your eldest uncle’s eye. It wasn’t very comforting to see Aegon so soon. You had set it in your mind that you wouldn’t have to see him for many years, and yet, here you were, dressed in an obsidian and red-sleeved gown, pearls adorning the collar and your veiled headpiece. Quickly, you turned away, instinctually taking Jace’s hand in yours.

An air of stiffness surrounded your family that you weren’t blind to. It was always there, but now, more than before, you felt it. You thought it was childish to be so locked into familial drama when someone lay dead inside a casket. Though you didn’t remember much of the times you met your Aunt Laena, she still deserved the respect of putting these grievances aside. You knew you were part of it, but more important things were happening than what you suffered. 

The cries of your father sent waves of sadness into your heart, and with the sudden urge to get him to stop, you left the safety of your brother and clung to your father’s waist. He lifted you into his sea-worn arms and clung to your frail body as if it was the only thing that kept him from sinking into his grief. You rested your temple onto his shoulder, tears of empathy falling from your eyes as he pressed your head closer. 

Afraid of what would become of your father if you let go, you allowed him to crush you in his embrace for as long as he needed it as a scornful laugh broke through the tense atmosphere. You peeked from your position to see Great Uncle Daemon chuckling to himself with a shake of his head at what Vaemond said. You felt annoyance bubble inside you, solidifying your distaste for the man as the Velaryon guards clad in silver armor and blue seahorse sigils lifted the ropes and lowered your Aunt into the roaring sea. 

You didn’t leave your father’s side for the remainder of the day, not even when he slowly lowered himself into the sea with his sister as the cold, salty breeze swept through the evening. You wanted to speak with Aemond, if just for a small moment, but your family came first. They always came before anyone else, a fact that your mother instilled into the very fabric of your being.

Sitting atop one of the rock ledges near your father, you dipped your feet into the saltwater, dragging your toes to watch the water ripple and allow time to pass. It didn’t feel right to leave him alone. The image of him falling into the ocean as your Aunt played repeatedly in your mind’s eye. You were afraid in his grief, he would follow her. Only when your father’s squire, Ser Qarl, took your father from his place with his sister did you leave, joining the rest of the goers for the wake late in the evening.

Searching through the crowd of people for your mother and your brothers, you couldn’t find them. Alone with none of your family for protection, you felt fear pull at your chest. Your hands began to scratch at your arms and scalp, attempting to quell the insatiable itch. The fabric prevented you from doing so, and tears of fright soon began to collect at your lashes. 

From across the balcony, you saw a flash of green, a color that had never offered you comfort until now. Yet as quickly as you saw it, it vanished, leaving only a head of white promptly running down the stairs. You felt your heart drop into your feet as you watched Aemond run across the sandy dunes like he was running from you. 

The call of a dragon you never heard before screeched through the gray skies. It was mournful as if it were calling for a lost pet or child. In this case, it was a rider. As you looked up, you could see the vast shadow of Vhagar’s silhouette soaring through the clouds, flying in the same direction your uncle went. You felt your eyes grow wide with worry at the realization, wanting to chase after Aemond and warn him.

“Let’s get you to bed,” a tender, feminine voice came from behind you as you jolted in surprise. The tall figure of Queen Alicent stood before you, curly auburn hair pinned back into a magnificent updo and clad in her usual green and gold as she put a hand on your back. “Your mother already sent your brothers.” 

“Where is she?” you hastily asked. Aemond was no longer on your mind.

“I’m uncertain. Your father is off drowning his sorrow in his cups with his squire,” she answered in the same velvet voice you remembered her having, bitterness you didn’t understand laced in the undertone.

You felt offended by how the Queen spoke about your father. He was grieving. He was allowed to spend time with whomever he wished, doing what he wanted.

Alicent lifted her arm, wrapping it around your petite frame, and led you inside Hightide. It was not as cold or formidable as Dragonstone; its dark magic melted into the walls, yet it didn’t hold the warmth of the Red Keep. Still, you felt unwelcomed here, either by the place or its people. The pale stone walls were filled with bits and pieces of shells from clams, mollusks, and other long-dead shell creatures mixed into the mortar to make it stand the test of salty air. 

The Hall of the Nine, where you passed as Queen Alicent, led you to the guest chambers, where you held the Driftwood throne where your grandfather Corlys reigned. You recalled when you visited this place many years ago and how he went on about the many treasures from his sieges and conquests that decorated the room in all its glory. He and his wife, Rhaenys, sat in a heated discussion in front of the hearth.

Once you reached the door to your shared bed chambers with your brothers, Alicent turned to you. It was the first time you had seen her since what Aegon had done to you, and you felt tension. It seemed as if she wanted to speak, to say everything that had been bottled up since the revelation of her son’s transgressions, but she was unable to do so as tears choked her. Instead, the only words that came out were those she couldn’t say to her children. 

“I hope you can find the time to visit the Keep. Helaena asked when you would be returning, and it broke my heart to tell her you wouldn’t be,” she confided, stroking the thin black fabric covering your dark hair. “Aemond has turned inwards since you left, and Aegon has become crueler to him. It makes me wonder if he’s always been this way and that my love for him has blinded me from his transgressions.” 

You said nothing. The mention of Aegon’s name still felt like a blow to the stomach. “I hope you can find it within your heart to forgive my son for what he did to you and that we may yet be the family we were always meant to be.” Your tongue felt like lead as your breathing began to race, your chest rising and falling at a rapid pace as Alicent kneeled before you, a sad smile on her supple lips as she tenderly swiped your tear-stained cheeks with her smooth thumbs. 

“I love you, my shining light, my dream.” 

Leaning in, she took your small frame by your shoulders, kissing your forehead as one would do to their babe. You felt sick, nausea churning in your stomach as you quickly opened the bedroom door, hastily shutting it behind you in fright. 

It was all too much—Lady Laena’s death, Ser Harwin’s, seeing your father in shambles, and Queen Alicent’s steadfast belief that you should become a part of her family no matter what happened to you. The Queen desired to wed you and Aegon despite the horrors he committed. The realization that she genuinely didn’t see what your eldest uncle did to you as something that would permanently bar you from joining the union pierced your heart. You would much rather marry Aemond or Helaena, but having no ties to her seemed better.

Your brothers peered at you curiously from their beds as you clutched your chest, looking as if you ran the entire way here. They didn’t ask any questions, and you didn’t move to speak, loosening the ties of your gown and shrugging it off until you were only in your smock. You didn’t feel like changing into your nightdress in front of your brothers, deciding to climb into bed and shove your face into the pillows, refusing to cry in front of Jace and Luke as you fell into a dreamless sleep.

When Aemond learned of Lady Laena’s death, he knew it was a sign from the Gods that his time had come. The Seven had deemed this the moment to prove himself to everyone who doubted him and thought him useless without a dragon. 

Vhagar. 

The largest, oldest, and strongest dragon in the world was riderless. 

Aemond believed that once he gained the only thing he lacked, life would finally be what it should have been. He would make his father proud, shove all the taunts and jests from Aegon and his nephews back into their faces, and finally become a man you deemed worthy—your Mors Martell. 

As Aemond fled from the wake when the candles had long melted, he thought only of the ichor coursing through his veins. Dusk was upon the island, and the night’s wind blew harshly, strands of his silver-blonde hair covering his face as he climbed over the dunes. Vhagar was further from the castle than he initially thought.

“Fuck.” Aemond released a sigh of exasperation and scrambled across the uneven ground. 

When he came upon the dragon, he was in awe. Vhagar was as frightening as she was enormous—a giant, green-scaled, moving mountain that shook the ground and blew sand with every movement and breath from her powerful lungs. 

Taking advantage of Vhagar’s resting state, Aemond crept along the sparse grass, feeling each gust of air she created with her wide nostrils, blowing the sand into his face and ears. Anxiety was present in his gut, feeling a slight tremble in his limbs as he closed the distance, wrapping his hand around one of the many ropes draped across Vhagar’s scales. Suddenly, he felt the ground underneath him quake, and the head of the dragon lifted with a low rumble.

Vhagar observed Aemond with tired yet calculating amber orbs, double eyelids blinking. She grumbled as she bore her teeth to him. They were the size of a fully grown adult, sending a shiver down his spine. As if it were an act of divine intervention, Vhagar laid her enormous head back down, seeming disinterested in the young boy before her. 

If Lady Laena’s death wasn’t proof enough Aemond was fated by the Gods to claim a dragon, the most powerful beast in the world, laying its head in acquiescence certainly was. Blinded by his small victory, nerves still in his mind, he reached for the rope ladder again, only for Vhagar to raise her head and growl, low and deep. A snarl formed on her great maw as Aemond stumbled back in shock and saw the light of orange flames gather at the back of her throat. 

“Dohaerās!” (Serve!) he shouted instinctively, recalling the many lessons he observed in the Dragonpit as he felt the heat of fire on his countenance. “Dohaerās, Vagus! Lykirī!” (Serve, Vhagar! Be calm!)

With Aemond’s commands, the she-dragon relaxed, recalling her flames and closing her mouth. She purred to him like a cat, a sign that she approved his merit while standing in the face of death. Vhagar would allow the Prince an attempt to claim her, but he must prove himself before the eyes of the Gods, before the eyes of a dragon. 

Aemond took the ropes and climbed atop the mighty Vhagar’s back, positioning himself in the saddle and grabbing the reigns. 

“Sōvēs!” (Fly!) Aemond ordered, and Vhagar rumbled, raising her legs and shaking the sand from her scales. “Sōvēs!”

She obeyed, taking a few giant steps and flapping her great wings, pushing off from the ground and leaving a sandstorm in her wake. Though Aemond told Vhagar to fly, he still had yet to control her as she took to the night sky in a near-vertical position, catching him unaware. The force knocked him from the leather saddle, leaving him dangling in the air with just the reigns for purchase. Aemond screamed with fear, feeling as if his stomach lurched out of his body as he struggled against the whipping wind to regain control. 

She tested him as he grabbed the pommel, sat upright, and pulled the ropes to balance her. He felt like he was on a bucking horse, loosening, tightening, twisting, and turning to the left and right to steer her safely. Vhagar ignored Aemond’s movements and continued to fly like he wasn’t there, diving into the dunes of Driftmark before he reared her upwards, dragging her claws across the sand. He squealed in terror, blocking the debris that scratched his face as she soared over the sea.

Aemond knew he needed to prove himself to her, to show the war-hardened dragon that he deserved to ride her. Her chirps and groans from the day earlier called to him like nothing before, singing to the Prince in her dragon song of forlornness and isolation. Perhaps that was why he felt compelled to claim her. They both shared that feeling of loneliness deep within their souls, that same oddness in their families. The dragoness was too large to be held within any structure, leaving her in forced solitude, her only companions being her rider. Aemond was the only one, despite his Valyrian features, not to have a dragon. 

That would no longer be his story.

Aemond fortified his mind and will, putting his soul into his movements as he lifted Vhagar higher in the sky. He could feel the blood of Old Valyria coursing through his veins as the mighty dragon obeyed, leveling out her vast wings and soaring over Spicetown and back to Driftmark. He screamed with fear and joy as she flew with him in the skies, a bright smile he was sure you could see in Lannisport. 

Aemond had proven himself. He had shown himself and all who doubted and bullied him for not having a dragon that he was capable, that he was worthy. 

Everything was as it should be.

Perhaps you would allow him to kiss you again and spend the night in his embrace. Aemond had no doubt you would be proud of him as he listened to your assurances that he was brave, a dragon knight who you could trust with your secrets and protect you from enemies, and that he deserved your heart. 

Aemond landed Vhagar with a grace he hadn’t possessed before, climbing down the rope ladder on her side with windburnt cheeks. As soon as his feet touched the sand, he ran straight to the underground caverns of High Tide to wake you and explain everything.

“Jace!” 

You faintly heard a voice calling, sounding distant in your dream state. Ignoring it with a groan, you rolled over, trying to return to sleep.

“Jace, wake up! Someone stole Vhagar!”

This woke you from your sleep. You sat up to see Baela and Rhaena hovering over your brother’s bed. 

“We need to stop them!”

Jace and Luke quickly threw the covers off and stuck their feet into their slippers as you observed them curiously. Rubbing the sleep from your face, you yawned, begrudgingly following them. 

“You cannot steal a dragon,” you countered after a long silence in the pale stone halls, your voice laced with sleep. It felt like you had hardly gotten a wink. 

“She is my mother’s dragon! I was supposed to claim her,” Rhaena countered, tears collecting in her dark eyes. 

Yawning again as you followed a few paces behind your siblings and cousins, you rolled your eyes, wanting to bite with the remark, “Why didn’t you?” But you didn’t say it. The reason was apparent why she didn’t, and Rhaena didn’t need any more reason to be distraught.

They led you to the caverns of High Tide, stumbling in your sleepless state. They led to the beaches lit only by dim torchlight, your movements groggy and slightly annoyed. On the other end of the tunnel, Aemond appeared before you with a proud grin and windswept hair. You couldn’t help but mirror his expression, a contagious self-satisfaction that spread to you. 

He needn’t say it aloud. You could tell by how he carried himself, shoulders back, chin high, and a slight lift to his cheeks, that your uncle claimed a dragon—the mightiest one in the world, Vhagar. 

“It’s him!” Rhaena exclaimed, pointing an accusing finger at Aemond.

It didn’t deter him, countering with his head high, violet eyes flicking from you to your cousin. “It’s me.”

“Vhagar is my mother’s dragon!” she yelled, hurt as if this reasoning would change Vhagar’s fate. As you moved to Aemond, Jace grabbed your hand, stopping you with an anxious yet demanding look on his face. 

“Your mother is dead, and Vhagar has a new rider now,” your uncle replied, and you felt your brows raise in shock. You knew better than most of the cruelty he could commit, but after spending time with Aemond and seeing the softer, gentler, and kinder side of him, it took you off guard. 

“She was mine to claim!” Rhaena argued, charging toward him in a challenge. Your skin began to itch, and your breath quickened. 

The hatred felt at the funeral carried over into your brothers and cousins. Tension in the air crackled like a fire in a hearth, watching the yellow and orange flames slowly dwindle into embers until someone threw tinder to spark it.

“Then you should’ve claimed her! Maybe your cousins can find you a pig to ride,” Aemond sneered. “It would suit you.”

Your lips parted in empathetic offense as you looked from your uncle to Rhaena, tears of guilt and shame pricking at your eyes. You apologized about the pig, and you thought Aemond forgave you, but it seems he couldn’t let go of the hurt no matter how close you were. The feeling of joy for your uncle’s feat was as brief as your friendship.

With a surge of rage, Rhaena charged forward, attempting to push Aemond, but he swiftly countered, and she fell to the ground. You jumped back in shock as you covered your mouth, Luke standing beside you. Baela screamed, protecting her sister as she punched him across his face and Aemond yelped in pain. Without thinking, you went toward your uncle, fearful for his well-being in your heart, but he swiftly stood before you could reach him, returning the same swing to Baela. You gasped in horror and moved to the side, narrowly missing your cousin’s body from colliding with yours. 

“Come at me again, and I’ll feed you to my dragon!” Aemond snarled at the twins, and without warning, Jace ran to him with a shout, shoving your uncle in offended anger and smacking him across the cheek.

You screamed for them to stop as you watched Luke try to join the fray, but you held him back, scared that he would get caught in the crossfire. He was the youngest and the littlest, most likely to get hurt. You needed to protect what family you could. Aemond brought this upon himself with his words of arrogance, but that didn’t stop you from wanting to defend him, too.

The scene before you was violent, a flurry of white, black, and red running atop Aemond as Luke slipped from your grasp, all pummeling, kicking, and screaming at him as you cried for them to stop. He was helpless as he suffered blow after blow, and you felt your heart splinter. This wasn’t a fair fight. Without worrying for yourself, you jumped on top of Jace, pulling him back from your uncle and giving him a chance to defend himself. You felt like a betrayer, turning against your twin to save your uncle. Your brother grunted as you both fell to the ground, his body on top of you as you struggled to keep him from fighting. 

You and your siblings had fought before, but nothing like this. It was so vicious, filled with violence and want for pain, as Jace whipped his head back into yours, causing it to slam against one of the many jagged rocks across the ground, having you see stars. He went back into the brawl with no worry for your safety as you heard the unsheathing of a knife, your eyes blurry as you struggled to see the scene before you. 

“You will die screaming in flames just as your father did!” Aemond yelled, suddenly holding Luke by his neck with a rock in his hand.

“My father is alive!” Luke gasped in protest, flinging his arms and blood running down his face.

You needed to get up to protect Luke from physical harm and the threat of discovering your lineage. You didn’t believe Aemond would kill Luke. He was capable of violence, but he wasn’t a murderer. As you tried to move, your skull felt filled with sand, pulling you back down to the ground as you felt the warm trickle of liquid run down your neck. You blinked rapidly, trying to clear your sight and mind. 

Aemond spoke again to Jace, seeming to forget your existence and holding a sense of superiority. “He doesn’t know, does he, Lord Strong?” 

You forgot how cruel Aemond could be. Your stolen moments of reading and kisses in the night had closed your eyes to it.

“Aemond, don’t,” you mumbled, skull pounding as the excruciating sounds of your brothers and uncle’s shouts pierced your ears like needles. 

You blinked your eyes into focus, seeing Jace wildly swinging a knife at Aemond as you managed to kneel. Your brothers didn’t realize how dangerous what they were doing was, that a knife wasn’t something to use against someone who was armed with only a stone in hand. While Aemond was bigger and had more combat experience, a dagger would kill him. Being upset because someone claimed a dragon wasn’t worth murdering over. 

Reaching your arm out with a soft grunt, you grabbed Jace’s ankle as Aemond pushed him over, holding the same rock above his head as he did for Luke. You thought Aemond knew better than this. You gave him the perfect opportunity to run and get help now that Baela and Rhaena huddled into a scared, crying mess, but he was too far gone into his anger to see reason, blinded by it. 

“Aemond! No!” you shouted hoarsely, trying to stand but failing as your head pounded like a drumbeat.

He turned to you then, lowering the rock to his side as he stared at you with the sudden realization of what he had done. Your uncle was filled with a surge of superiority inside him. He couldn’t think straight, and when he happened upon the five of you, people he was always told that he was above, something inside him that lay dormant finally broke free. He knew he was always capable of violence, but felt remorse when he saw your bruised nose, tear-streaked cheeks, and blood dripping down your throat. 

Did he do that to you? 

Suddenly, Aemond was blinded, sand thrown into his eyes as he stumbled back and heard the yell of Luke, unimaginable pain soon following. You watched in horror as your brother savagely sliced into your uncle’s left eye, blood pouring and splattering across the ground. 

Aemond couldn’t remember if you were amid his attackers. He surveyed the bruised and battered bodies before him and realized what he had done as his stomach fell to his feet.

He hurt people, just like Aegon. You would never entrust your secrets to him. His hands committed violence, but his heart desired to tell a different story—one of a strong and noble prince who went through many trials and tribulations to prove himself worthy of the princess's heart.

All you could hear were screams. Screams from you, screams from Aemond as you crawled towards him, sobbing. 

“Aemond!” you cried as he doubled over, falling into your body as he screeched in pain. 

“It hurts!” he wailed into your chest, his free hand clawing into your back. “It hurts! Help me!” 

You trembled, arms struggling to keep yourself upright against his weight as the flurry of guards rumbled inside your skull like thunder. Unable to make out their words as they moved, it seemed like you were watching the world from outside your body, from the lenses of another, as Ser Harrold pried Aemond from your embrace.

It hurt. Everything hurt—your heart, stomach, muscles, and head. You weren’t sure who led you, Baela, Rhaena, Luke, and Jace to the Hall of the Nine as a flurry of people gathered, pushing and shoving as you clutched your skull. The room was so bright, so loud, as you heard your uncle’s screams. You felt sturdy arms grab you by your shoulders, roughly moving you as if you were nothing more than a doll, as it felt like your eyes were about to burst. Steel blue fabric blocked your eyes as you saw the hazy image of a seahorse stitched into the fabric.

“Father?” You reached out, small digits feeling along the fine silk until the texture of scruff scratched at your skin. Blinking, you saw the aged face of your grandfather, Lord Corlys, as he gathered you and your brothers behind him. 

Where was he, and where was your mother? 

You felt sick as people scattered around you like seagulls when they discovered a bloated whale carcass, all trying to see the injured Prince, who cried until the Maester poured Milk of the Poppy down his throat. It felt like when you accidentally drank the water from Blackwater Bay, like a cold, nauseous sensation that sent beads of sweat rolling down your spine. 

“I don’t feel good,” you whispered to Jace as you leaned into his side, clutching your head and gut. He paid you no mind, peering behind your grandfather to see your other one appear, bearing total weight upon his dragon-head cane. 

“How could you let such a thing happen?” Viserys questioned Ser Harrold, examining Aemond as you heard the sickening squelch of flesh and rattle of metal tools. “I will have answers!”

Despite it undoubtedly being a harrowing sight, you wanted to be by your uncle, to hold his hand through it, to feel his pain with him, but you couldn’t. You needed to be with your brothers. What they saw and experienced would haunt them for the rest of their lives. Luke had taken Aemond’s eye. 

“The princess and princes were supposed to be abed, my king,” the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard explained, shame woven in his words. 

Viserys wouldn’t allow his knights to show such carelessness, surveying each of them with critical eyes. “Who had the watch?”

“The young prince was attacked by his cousins, your grace,” Ser Cristion nonchalantly replied. His words angered you for reasons unknown, and you felt a lump rise in your throat. 

Viserys turned to the room, looking between the two Kingsguards on opposite sides of the family as he hobbled on his cane. “You swore oaths to protect and defend my blood!” he boomed in a way you hadn’t seen before. You were afraid he would direct his anger at you, Jace, and Luke, wrapping your arms around them like you were in any state to protect your brothers. 

“I’m very sorry, your grace,” Ser Westerling said, head hung low in unimaginable disgrace. You felt bad for him. There was no way he could have stopped this. He was doing his duty and serving his King. It was Ser Criston who should be blamed.

“The Kingsguard has never had to defend princes from princes before, your grace-”

“That is no answer!” your grandfather yelled at Ser Criston, causing a clap of pain to thunder inside your skull. 

You wanted to go to bed, sleep for eternity, and be awake to everything as it was yesterday. Your brothers and cousins unbloodied and Aemond dragonless and with an eye. 

“Where’s mother?” you noiselessly questioned Jace, leaning into his ear and almost losing your footing. You needed to stay strong for them. 

“It will heal, will it not? Maester?” Queen Alicent asked, velveteen voice quivering with pain for her poor son. Maester Kelvyn finished stitching Aemond’s skin, throwing the needle and thread into a bowl with your uncle’s fleshy, viscous eye. 

“The flesh will heal. The eye is lost, your grace,” his nasal voice replied matter-of-factly.

You were going to be ill. 

Quickly, you ran through the multitude of people, pushing past Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys, who tried to stop you before you vomited all the contents of your stomach onto a person’s unsuspecting shoes. The crowd gasped in revolt, those not close to you jumping back and clutching their chests in shock. You found yourself before the fireplace, basking in its comforting warmth as you leaned onto the hearth and looked at the unlucky soul you retched on. 

Perhaps the Gods had a twisted sense of justice as you saw the disgusted face of Aegon before you. You didn’t hide your amused smirk.

“Tend to the Princess!” the King shouted to the Maester, seeming to forget about his injured son and throwing his cane in your direction. 

A flurry of green came before pale gray, tenderly cradling your visage in her palms as if you were her child, inspecting it. You grabbed the Queen’s wrists and attempted to push her away as if her touch burned, but she resisted, struggling against your childish strength until she grabbed your shoulders. Her touch reminded you of Aegon as you burst into tears, muscles going limp and at Queen Alicent’s mercy. She turned your head in her grasp, examining you with the utmost care that made another wave of nausea through you. 

The crowd observed in anxious silence as Aemond turned to watch his mother treat you with the affection he wished to receive. Familiar hatred bloomed inside his heart, swallowing his dry mouth as he thought resentfully. He would still have his eye if he hadn’t been so concerned with you. 

“I want my mother.” you whimpered, lips quivering in fear as the Queen lovingly wiped the blood from your neck. 

The Queen released you from her grip as if you had struck her, chest heaving and wide brown eyes watering as she turned to her eldest son. Your mother was here; you didn’t realize it.

“Where were you?” she interrogated Aegon, smacking him upside down before he could answer. 

“Ow! What was that for?” he questioned, incredulously rubbing at the afflicted area grimly. You held no sympathy for him as you hugged your sides. 

“That was nothing compared to the abuse your siblings suffered while you were drowning in your cups, you fool!” she whispered heatedly so only he could hear, shaking his gangly body in rage. You looked at the Queen with confusion, thinking she had gone mad with grief when she said “siblings.”

As the grand Hall doors creaked open, a shaft of golden light spilled into the room, casting long shadows on the marble floor. With an air of elegance, your mother swept into the room, her silk gown trailing behind her. Following closely was Uncle Daemon, his formidable presence filling the space. Amidst the whispers and murmurs, your name and that of your brothers floated through the air, drawing your attention. Without a second thought, you moved toward her, the sensation of fingertips brushing your bicep as if a ghostly hand had tried to hold you back, sending shivers down your spine.

“Show me, show me!” your mother ordered you and Luke, softly running her digits across your body as you sobbed with relief. “Who did this?”

“They attacked me!” Aemond yelled before you could get a word out, leaning from behind his chair. 

You saw his wound on full display. An ugly crisscrossed row of stitches lined up his eye socket and onto his forehead, the flesh puckered and pink as it fought the infection. Your mother moved your face before you could stare any longer as a chorus of accusations from your brothers and cousins sang. You couldn’t get the image of his gash out of your head. 

“He was going to kill Jace! I didn’t do anything!” Luke loudly shouted as you scrunched your eyes with a painful wince.

“Enough!” you heard your grandfather yell, and you looked at him with helpless, watery eyes, but no one listened. 

“It should be my son telling the tale!” the Queen protested, fist pounding against her chest with conviction over the voices.

You continued to look at your grandfather in anguish, the King of The Seven Kingdoms, whom everyone ignored except you. “Silence!” he yelled, voice rattling inside his hollow chest as flem flew from his decaying mouth. 

The Hall went silent, quieter than the Stranger himself, as everyone looked at one another, stunned at the turn of events. People came here to mourn the loss of a daughter, an aunt, a niece, a wife, and a sister. Viserys looked at you and then at his son, his ivory staff sounding with every movement as you swallowed, the taste of bile strong. 

“He called us bastards.” you silently whispered to your mother, wiping the tears and snot from your face.

“Aemond, I will have the truth of what happened.” The King approached your uncle as he slumped into the armchair, stepping swiftly and with a newfound curiosity. “Now.”

“What else is there to hear?” Alicent questioned, clutching at her neck as tears threatened to spill. “Your son has been maimed, and her son is responsible.”

“Twas a regrettable accident,” your mother countered, moving her body to shadow the three of you from the onlookers.

“Accident?” the Queen repeated, astonished. “The Prince Lucerys brought a blade to the ambush! He meant to kill my son!” 

You realized the truth didn’t matter now. All that did was what people perceived it to be. 

“Twas my children who were attacked and forced to defend themselves!” your mother argued as she placed a comforting hand onto Luke’s shoulders. “Vile insults were levied against them!” 

Your grandfather turned from his son to the four of you as you inhaled a shuddering breath. “What insults?” he questioned, a dangerous lilt to his tone that you had never heard before as the Hall went silent. It raised the hairs on your arms. 

“The legitimacy of my children’s birth was put loudly to question,” your mother replied, her chin high yet holding a nervous waver to her voice. 

As she turned towards you, your mother’s eyes conveyed a silent but insistent demand to verbalize what you previously whispered. She wished everyone to hear these words from you—the compassionate and considerate eldest daughter known as The Gods’ Light among the common folk. With tears streaming down your cheeks and your chest heaving with emotion, you gazed at Aemond with a sense of guilt. You knew the words you were about to utter would carry an extraordinary weight. Both sides sought someone to bear responsibility for the turmoil, but you recognized the unspoken truth. 

At that moment, honesty seemed inconsequential. Aemond had suffered the loss of his eye due to Luke’s actions, and you keenly felt your failure to shield your brothers from harm. You would never fault at your duty again. 

“He called us bastards,” you confessed, lacking the anger and conviction of your siblings as you sniffled, refusing to look at Aemond. 

You watched as the Queen’s auburn tresses bounced with the slight affirming nod of her head, a look of disbelief and recognition crossing her face. At that moment, it became clear that she had informed Aemond about the deception, hardening your heart with betrayal. You had believed that she was different and loved you like family, and it stung to realize that she didn’t hesitate to spread lies that would hurt you.

“My children are to inherit the Iron Throne, your grace. This is the highest of treasons,” your mother reasoned, stepping forward to her slouched father as you attempted to reach for her hand to keep you hidden. “Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such awful slanders.”

As you gazed at your mother, her expression eerily mirroring that of Alicent’s, your lips began to quiver with unease. Was your mother implying that he should be subjected to torture? It seemed unfathomable. She couldn’t possibly be serious.

“Over an insult?” the Queen asked, shaking her head in disbelief. You knew she was trying to protect herself as you glared at the woman you once thought held the moon. “My son has lost an eye!”

“Tell me, boy. Where did you hear such lies?” the King seethed, face a hairsbreadth from Aemond as you whimpered.

“The insult was training yard bluster,” Alicent swiftly reasoned, eyes flicking desperately from her son to her husband. “The lot of boys. ‘Twas nothing-”

“Aemond,” your grandfather interrupted, ignoring his wife’s explanation. ���I asked you a question.” 

Your uncle sat in solemn silence, his lone violet eye unwaveringly fixed on the ground while his father awaited his reply. Before he could utter a word, the Queen unexpectedly interjected. 

“Where is Ser Laenor, the children’s father? Perhaps he would have something to say on the matter,” she jeered.

Your grandfather turned, sparse brows scrunching together as he turned to Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys. “Yes. Where is Ser Laenor?”

“I do not know, your grace. I… could not find sleep and decided to take a walk,” your mother answered for them, smooth palms wiping across her crimson skirt.

The Queen let out a derisive laugh, her disbelief evident as she shook her head at her old friend. It was impossible to ignore the precise timing of Daemon’s arrival into the Hall of the Nine, trailing just moments behind Rhaenyra with her tousled strands of golden hair. Alicent bore the knowledge of her friend’s calculated machinations, even as Rhaenyra’s children stealthily slipped out of their beds to perpetrate the heinous act of maiming her son. She couldn’t dismiss the nagging suspicion that Ser Laenor was likely engaged in equally treacherous activities.

“Entertaining his young squires, I presume,” Queen Alicent sneered like before, making you feel the same deep-seated ire. 

As no one dared to voice their opposition to her words, a glint of silver caught your eye from the corner, revealing Ser Criston Cole’s silent laughter. Like Ser Harwin, you felt the urge to wipe that smug grin off his tanned face, even though you knew it was impossible.

“Aemond, look at me. Your King demands an answer,” your grandfather began, staggering before your uncle. “Who spoke the lies to you?”

Everything went silent; the roaring of the fire and the crashing of the waves in the darkness were all that could be heard in the Hall. You understood that whoever Aemond implicated might not live til the next morn. You felt your throat grow tight and struggled to breathe, clutching at your throat as you swallowed the acrid taste in your mouth. Queen Alicent told him as you recalled the time in Helaena’s room. It confused you at first why she would spread such gossip as she seemed to hold a tenderness for you. Claiming your brothers were bastards went without saying you were, but you realized that whatever contempt she had within her heart weighed far more significant than any affection for you. 

Some of you wished to shout that it was her, but you realized that was something Alicent would do without a second thought if the roles were reversed, and you did not want to be like her. She was wicked and cruel, just like her eldest.

“It was Aegon. He told Aemond to call us that,” you answered as every pair of eyes flocked to you. You didn’t like how close your grandfather was to him, afraid that he might strike him for the consequences of his mother. You felt your heart lurch into your throat as you gained the courage to speak the words aloud of all the bad things he did to you. “And he… he”

Before you could finish, your mother tucked you into her waist, kneeling and pushing your face into her shoulder. You tried to pull away from her when his hand rested on your head, the welt sensitive to touch. 

“Don’t,” she whispered into your hair, disguising it as a kiss. They deserved to know. Everyone needed to know what awful Aegon did to you. You wanted to move against her, but your mind was foggy and muscles weak.

“Me?” Aegon exclaimed with shock, wide amethyst orbs looking at you with a broken expression. 

“And you, boy,” your grandfather crept towards him, the rhythmic tapping of his cane piercing your skull like an ice pick. “Where did you hear such calumnies?” Your uncle refused to answer him as his gaze bore holes into your being. There was no remorse in your heart for him. “Aegon, tell me the truth of it!” Viserys shouted, causing you to flinch and cover your ears. 

“We know, father,” Aegon replied fearlessly, refusing to remove his stare from your quivering form. “Everyone knows. Just look at them.”

Feeling the stares from the guests, you admired your uncle for not implicating his mother like a coward, removing your body from your mother, wiping the snot from your lip. Let them look, you thought, inhaling a deep breath as you felt your mother bring you closer. They would stare at you for the rest of your days. It was best if you grew accustomed to it now.

“This interminable infighting must cease!” the King declared, banging his walking stick off the pale stone floor. “All of you! We are family! Now, make your apologies and show goodwill to one another. Your father, your grandsire, your King demands it.” 

You grimaced at his words, and though you loved your grandfather, having been his favorite granddaughter, you disagreed with him. You refused to apologize for your family trying to defend themselves, and the Queen couldn’t help but agree more. 

“That is insufficient,” Alicent said, gesturing to her son. “Aemond has been damaged permanently, my King. Goodwill cannot make him whole.” 

Aemond’s fingers dug into the wooden framing of the armchair, and your chin quivered at the thought of what he might be feeling. 

“I know, Alicent,” Viserys sighed, “but I cannot restore his eye.”

“No, because it’s been taken,” she sobbed, clutching at her chest, flicking her hair back in a manner that reminded you of Aegon. “There is a debt to be paid. I shall have the hand of her eldest to one of my sons. To mend the rift and unite the House of the Dragon once more.”

“Alicent,” your grandfather breathed in a warning, yet still turned to his daughter, having a hint of hope in his violet eyes.

You looked at your mother, shock overcoming any sadness you felt as she shoved you behind her skirts like a hen would do to her chick, too stunned to speak. “I refuse.” 

The Queen shook her head, a sneer curling her plump lips and wet cheeks. Rhaenyra was a selfish, wicked woman with no inclination of decency. Why couldn’t she see this would be solved if she returned Alicent’s rightful daughter to her? The Queen steeled herself to the belief that she would have to fight for her right to have you. She knew deep in her bones that you would one day be by her side.

“Then I shall have one of her sons’ eyes in return. The Princess is innocent,” the Queen declared with a desperate wave of tears. 

Aemond looked to his mother, face impassive, and senses dulled from Milk of the Poppy. He didn’t recall telling her about what you did for him, though it was very little. It felt like he was becoming a second thought to his mother, who seemed only to be scheming on how to insert his niece into their lives. Aemond realized then that he would always be second in his mother’s heart to you, and he felt hollow at the thought, the love that once filled it for his niece ceasing to exist.

“Do not allow your temper to guide your judgment,” your grandfather warned Queen Alicent. She said nothing as her chest heaved, brown orbs flicking between her husband and old friend.

Believing the matter finished, the King backed away, but Alicent wouldn’t allow this to be the end. She looked to her sworn protector, an apathetic expression on her visage. 

“If the King will not seek justice, the Queen will. Ser Criston, bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon.” Ser Criston looked to the Queen with a startled expression as Luke cried for your mother. “He can choose which eye to keep, a privilege he did not grant my son.”

“You will do no such thing,” your mother steadfastly declared, ensuring the three of you were behind her.

“Stay your hand,” the King commanded as the Queen shook with rage, desperately looking between her husband and sworn protector. She reminded you of a deer cornered in a vast forest, listening to the distant howls of wolves closing in for the hunt.

“No, you are sworn to me!” she yelled, finger pointing to her chest indignantly. All waited for the knight to respond, the Lord Commander slowly bringing his hand to the hilt of his sword.

“Protect your brother,” your mother whispered, never straying her eyes from the Queen. Without further instruction, you stood before Luke, gradually backing him away from the group of people unnoticed. You understood Alicent would not hurt you, as did your mother. 

“As your protector, my Queen,” Ser Criston replied with a wary head tilt.

“Alicent, this matter is finished. Do you understand?” your grandfather declared, seething, his face centimeters away from his wife before he addressed the room. “And let it be known that if anyone’s tongue dares to question, the birth of Rhaenyra’s children should have it removed.” 

Breathing a sigh of relief, you let go of Luke, coming to take your place beside your mother as she thanked the King. The unsheathing of a blade cut through the room as the form of Queen Alicent charged toward your family, startling you, the King’s ancestral dagger in her grasp. Luke screamed as she reached the four of you, but your mother stepped in her path before Alicent could enact her rage. 

Suddenly, a person shoved into you, disregarding your existence as you found yourself on the floor. You noticed how the stone seemed to ebb and wave like the flow of the tide. Lord Corlys appeared beside you, lifting you into his arms, securely bound around your torso as he took you into the circle of your cousins and brothers, your mother struggling against the Queen. 

“You’ve gone too far!” your mother admonished the Queen as tears burned her eyes. She pushed against Alicent, and she jerked against her, trying to get to your brother.

“I?” Queen Alicent exclaimed, voice thick with anguish as you attempted to push out of your grandfather’s arms, kicking your legs into his side. “What have I done, but what was expected of me? Forever upholding the kingdom, the family, and the law while you flout to do as you please?”

“Alicent, let her go!”

The Queen still poised the dagger to strike, its new path being that of the heir to the Iron Throne as your mother looked helplessly to the onlookers. No one made to separate the two as they all stared in shock, the fire illuminating their faces like wraiths of death. Landing a hard smack to Lord Corlys’s neck, he dropped you as you shoved through the onlookers toward your mother. She put her life for yours and your brothers, but who would put hers before theirs? 

“Where is duty? Where is sacrifice? My happiness and dreams? It’s templed under your pretty foot again!” the Queen sobbed, her form trembling with hurt and rage, everything that she bottled inside her for years. 

“Release the blade, Alicent,” Lord Otto commanded, a man you hadn’t met until this morn, but she paid him no mind, adrenaline coursing through her veins as she pushed against her old friend. 

“Wasn’t taking her, my only light, enough for you? And now you take my son’s eye, and to that, you feel entitled,” she confessed, tears making the Queen’s mouth thick with wetness as you shouldered your way to the inner circle of people. 

“Exhausting, wasn’t it? Hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness,” your mother interrogated, a bitter grimace on her sharp lips. “But now they see you as you are.”

Alicent stared at your mother with an enraged offense that wrinkled her brows as she felt fire surge through her, and with a loud cry, she unthinkingly swung your family’s ancestral dagger. You screamed, running to your mother as you pulled her back, seeing a gash on her inner arm that gushed with blood. 

“Mama,” you wept, tenderly holding her limb as if it would break. 

Dropping the dagger, Alicent took an instinctual step toward you, a blanched, horror-stricken expression across her round face. She longed to go to you, to dry your tears and stroke your head against her bosom like your true mother would, but she could not. The terror and fear in your wide brown eyes that resembled her own sliced through her chest and laid her heart and soul bare as she felt a small hand slide into hers. The Queen hoped to see you standing beside her and thought herself mad before she securely took her son’s fist.

Much like you, Aemond knew his parent needed him. “Do not mourn me, mother. ‘Twas a fair exchange,” he expressed with a maturity beyond his years. He turned to you, a violet gaze once filled with joy now devoid, hollow, and one less eye. “I may have lost an eye but gained a dragon.”

You wished Aemond hadn’t claimed one this way and felt a hiccup wrack your lungs as you cried into your mother, Jace, and Luke coming beside you. You sadly realized this was the end of the fleeting companionship you cultivated with your uncle. All the stolen moments of reading, ideas, philosophies, and aspirations you shared under the cover of privacy were nothing more than air the moment he ran across the dunes. You would have still cared for him without a dragon, as before, but his pride wouldn’t allow it, and now he stared at you with an eye that you knew far too well. 

Aemond hated you. He loathed you and your brothers with a fire that would never cease. This was your fault. He lost an eye because of you—because he cared about his bastard niece and had the foolish dream of becoming the man you loved. You did not deserve it. You were nothing more than a common girl born from sin, undeserving of your station. He would despise you for the rest of his days no matter how his heart screamed to have you by his side when darkness fell and all that was left was the ghost of your touch. 

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Happiness never lasts in ASOIAF. I'm going to miss writing for baby Aemond and reader. They were so cute! From now on it's going to be messed up young adults with severe mommy uses and mental illness. I'm not going to say who has which XD. Thank y'all so much for reading and I hope to see y'all in the next chapter!

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[barbieaemond]

A snake in the bosom

Moodboard by the queen herself @zae5

PAIRING: Prince Regent Aemond x Lady!reader

WARNINGS: dark Aemond, angst, public humiliation, semi public sex, p in v, fingering, oral sex (m receiving), religious kink, knife kink if you squint, overstimulation, light choking.

WORD COUNT: 5.3k

Author’s note: House Peake were green loyalists during the Dance. Shout out to @zae5 who helped me brain storming this filth 🫶

taglist: @zae5 @multyfangirl @chompchompluke

The skies rumble as they always do when preluding a storm. But it’s different this time. The thunder echoes in your chest, sliding through your ribs and then rattling them to break free.

A warning, the Gods’ way to seal what cannot be undone. They greet this new day, this new order, with blinding lightning. The Wood seems bathed by the early morning light, and yet the owls will soon resume their sentry task on the branches of these ancient trees.

A new flash forces you to look up and you think you can see them, the Seven, leaning out from their perches, pointing a finger at a woman like any other, with her bowed head devoted to obedience and her tight corset to choke to death any desire inside her heart.

And you did.

You stopped going to the library, you kept your eyes faithfully down, weeding out the need to caress the silver through your gaze, to feel the cold alabaster carved into angles so precise and sharp as to be exhausting.

You stopped lingering on the delicacy of long white fingers turning pages, on white knuckles around the sword, rippling with veins, blue and green as snakes crawling underneath. 

Not looking didn't do much good.

It's all burned into your eyelids, and the more you don't look the more your mind betrays you like a stab in the back, evoking slender hands and an arched mouth that lazily pulls itself up into an omniscient smirk.

It happens so often that you've come to terms with it. Desire is a shadow that follows you step by step, crawls into your bed as you lie with your husband, makes you close your eyes as you peak and in the darkness that shadow is finally flesh, pulsing and weighing on you, but it is not.

It shouldn’t and it will never.

The lightning tells you can no longer hide, there is no way to stall now, no way to trick the King about the allegiance of your family. It is easy to fool a fool, more so when he’s willing to make himself one in front of a woman. But the King is burned. His cries of pain can be heard outside Maegor’s Holdfast, until the Maesters are merciful enough to give him milk of the poppy.

The throne is empty, the Kingdom has no ruler. But the Gods are snickering with thrill and dread.

Not for long.

“My lady, there’s a storm coming.”

You turn and see your maid clutching a cloak to her chest to shelter from the wind. "Please, you should go back inside.”

You nod tiredly, walking on the thick grass, dragging yourself back within these walls in which days seem to pass following two different times.

There’s the real, urgent one, a military up and down of whispers and promises, pawns moving and ravens coming and going, breaking or forging alliances as easy and quick as their wings flapping. And then there’s your time, dilated, obscenely slow, like molasses. It sticks to your fingers, prevents you from picking up ink and parchment and write, cheat, whisper what you have easily spilled from the worn out lungs of your husband.

“Men sing like parrots in their final throes, remember that. They’d tell you anything when they think with their cock.”

Samantha had been right. But your sister is playing her game in Oldtown and Old Town is not the Red Keep. There are no eyes on the walls there, or ears behind the portraits. There’s no shadow trailing on her path, clouding her mind enough to look away from the game. A game of life and death, your father reminded you in his last letter, the scolding clear in the way the feather had pierced the parchment in some points. The answer was nowhere but in your head, and you were too ashamed to even confess it to a Septa, let alone put it on paper. There’s a snake crawling in your garden of lies and instead of chasing it away, you’re nursing it in your bosom.

You slow your steps upon glimpsing your husband. He’s striding towards you along the corridor. There’s a slight furrow between his brows, one that you have been able to recognize on the faces of many within this fortress. But it's more severe now, or maybe it's just that shadow that makes you see a new man, a stranger.

Has his hair always been that dull and mousy? Has his posture always been so unassuming?

They have since that night in the library, the sin whispers.

“Husband.”

“I’ve been looking for you. We have been summoned to the throne room.”

“Is something the matter? Is the King—"

"The King lives. But the Maesters believe it is best to confine him to bed. Come, Prince Aemond is waiting for us." he grabs your arm and you walk with him, glad that he can’t see the shadow falling on your face at the mention of the King’s brother.

The throne room is so dark that servants are hurrying themselves to light more candles. Every now and then a new lightning flashes from the large windows, making the Iron Throne an eerie sight at the center of the Hall.

There are a few Lords of the court with their ladies, and they seem just as lost as you as they see you and your husband halting before the ancient seat.

Whereas not more than a moon ago, Lords and Ladies would have had to wait hours to be received by Aegon, the new ruler is not long in coming.

The huge doors open and Aemond Targaryen stalks the room carrying the same storm breaking outside. He makes a striking figure, ominous; the lighting pours on his long silver hair making them look like moon rays.

A dreamy picture, were it not for the conqueror's crown on his head and the sapphire in plain sight.

It is the first time you see him without the eyepatch, the first time anyone has seen him without it. They said he wore it so as not to frighten the ladies, but the one-eyed Prince is done hiding. And if fear is all he can muster, so be it. It serves him well for what will come.

He halts before the Iron Throne and takes a good look at the little gathering. You can’t help but trail your eyes on his lean and tall figure, wearing a dark green doublet made of velvet. But it’s the sapphire that catches your eye, and the long scar marring his marbled face.

You remember that one. You remember it shamefully clear while disappearing along with his head beneath your gown.

“My lords” he starts lacing his hands behind his back “As you may know, my brother is in no condition to rule. Thus, according to the law, in case of physical or mental incapacity of the sovereign, the younger brother must bear the weight of the crown.”

There is a shy, almost uneasy passing of glances between those present, but Aemond ignores them altogether. “I will not style myself as King. You will address me as Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm."

Silence falls upon the huge Hall until a loud thunder seem to awaken one of the lords who hurriedly bends his knee before the Prince. "My Prince, I renew my absolute loyalty to you and your—“

"Get up, my Lord, I did not summon you to hear you pledge your loyalty.” He says in a bored tone, darting his eye at the man “Rest assured, if I had any doubt about it, Vhagar would be feasting on your corpse as we speak.”

Silence falls once more and Aemond revels in it. He can smell fear, just like the creature he rides. “But you did raise an interesting subject.” he tilts his head and looks at Lord Peake, your husband, with a benevolent expression stretching on his face. “Lord Peake, if I asked you to pledge your loyalty to me and my family, would you do it?”

You dare not to raise your head, keeping your eyes glued to the ground, but you can sense your husband’s uneasiness, the sound close to one being insulted as he addresses the Prince. “Prince Aemond, my loyalty to your Grandsire and the Dowager Queen has never wavered and it never shall.”

The Prince nods slowly, seemingly pleased by the answer, and keeps his gaze down for a few moments before casting a sharp glance at you. You can’t see it but you can feel it.

“That is very noble of you, Lord Peake. But I can’t help but wonder, is your lady wife of the same mind as you?”

Lord Peake looks puzzled, shifting the weight on his feet “My Prince, my wife is—”

“No.” Aemond cuts him off, darting a single look at the Lord before returning on you “Let her speak.”

With a deep breath, you look up, shrinking under his violet eye and the sapphire ominously glinting of his own light. “My prince, I am saddened that your Grace would think I’m nothing but loyal to your brother, the one and only heir to the Seven Kingdoms. Every day, I pray the Gods to heal him from his burns and give him strength to—”

“Hush.” He says, raising a hand to stop you. “That’s enough.”

You shut your mouth nervously, tensing all the more as he looks at you, unblinking, for a long moment before his lips stretch into a slow, cunning smirk.

“You know, I spoke to your distant cousin once, Lord…something Tyrell. He said something very interesting to me.”

You keep a blank face even when dread starts to run down your spine. Despite the distant kinship, there’s always been bad blood between Tarlys and Tyrells. 

“He said to be very careful with Tarly women. Pretty vapid things, he said, hiding a viper’s bite.”

“I am neither my prince.” you state calmly “I’m just a woman like any other, serving my husband, my house, my King.”

“Hmm.” He ponders, the smile lingering still. Then, he picks something form his pocket and asks “What is this then?”

Despite the darkness, you could recognize that seal with eyes closed. And that seal, now, in this room, clutched by Prince Aemond’s fingers, is a death sentence.

“This is not the seal of House Peake.” he rightly says.

You look down, mustering your courage, and say “No, your Grace. That is just a silly token of love between two sisters. I use it to send ravens to my sister in Oldtown.”

“I see. And why do you hide it?”

“I do not, your Grace.”

“Lying to the King may cost your head, my Lady. You’d do well to remember that.”

“Wife…” your husband takes your arm, searches your face with an anxious stare “What is going on?”

“The White cloaks found it.” The Prince informs him “when I made them search your rooms.” He looks back at you and raises an eyebrow “For a token you’re supposed to be so fond of, I may suggest placing it somewhere else than the bottom of an old trunk.”

“Am I on trial for sending letters to my sister?”

“Yes. Considering the circumstances under which these ravens were sent. Ladies give letters to their maids, they do not go personally to the rookery, more so in the hour of the bat.”

Courage leaves you like a gust of wind. You thought you had been clever, careful. Why would anyone take notice of a court lady simply taking a walk in the early hours? And even if they had, they would have dismissed the thought at the first distraction. But not him.

“You think I would not notice? I may be half blind but I can assure you, my lady, I see everything.”  He throws the seal on the ground and resumes his soldier-like posture, standing tall and domineering with his arms laced back. “What did you tell your sister? Knowledge about our war plans? Are you secretly siding with the Blacks? I’d advise you to choose your words carefully. From them depends whether you’ll see the next dawn or not.”

Your shoulders slump a little, like a doomed creature sticking its head in the noose.

“My father asked me to spy on my husband to gather knowledge about the green army at Rook’s Rest. But I did not send any raven. I stopped since—"

“Since what? Do continue, my lady, I think your Lord husband is keen to know why his wife stopped playing him like a fool.” He leans his head forward, like someone desperately willing to hear a big secret, but your tongue is a dead thing in your mouth.

“No?” he inquires as silence stretches “Fine, I’ll tell you. You see, Lord Peake, recently your Lady wife seemed to have developed a sudden interest in the library.” the prince says with a little grin “I’m aware of this because I am myself an avid reader. In fact, your lady wife and I have been keeping each other company lately. A rather…intimate company.”

Some of the ladies start to whisper at your back, and you know what kind of words they’re labeling you.

“Wife.” Your husband calls, and this time his voice is steel “What is the meaning of this?”

You open and close your mouth, unsure whether it is worse to tell your husband how you’ve played him or to confess your sin.

“Come, don't deny it now.” the Prince goads you “All the hours you've spent, all those late nights did bear fruit, did they not? You've betrayed your house and the Crown, yet what sweetness it was to have gotten a taste, I'm sure your husband would agree.”

Lord Peaks looks utterly bewildered, shifting his gaze between you and the Prince like a dead fish.

“Oh, so he hasn't after all.” Aemond laughs “A pity, for your treacherous essence reeks of the most bittersweet nectar. Tart, but delicious.”

Your husband’s face is whiter than a sheet for a moment, followed by a red veil of anger and shame. The latter is in plain sight in the way you keep your head down; the Gods have stopped pointing their finger at you and left you in the claws of a much crueler creature. Namely, your own desire.

 “Search her.” Aemond orders returning to a stern face “And search her thoroughly.”

“My prince?” asks one of the guards.

“Women can be sneaky with all those veils and layers. Lose the corset.”

The cloaks look at him puzzled, just as you and your husband and anyone else in the room, but the guards know better than to disobey the King. 

One of them goes to stand behind you and starts pulling the laces of your dress, another is busying himself with lowering your sleeves.

Your eyes bore to the ground with the purest humiliation as your chest gradually grows exposed. You could raise your hands to hide your breast, but you have nothing to hide, not anymore.

You know it and Aemond knows too. He’s not doing this because he thinks you’re hiding something. He’s doing so for his own pleasure—to see you bare, to finally make you come out of your den and stop hiding from him. 

You dare not look at him but you can feel his eye lingering on you, on your body; you can sense the ghost of a delighted smirk on that wicked mouth. 

He takes an unreasonably long time before he gives a short nod to the guards, at last satisfied with your public humiliation. What drives your husband to move is not regard for you, but for his own dignity. What are women if not property of men? And however ruined you are now, Lord Peake will not have talk of his wife standing with her breasts out in the Throne Room.

But just as he leans down to you, the Prince speaks “You may go, Lord Peake. All of you.”

The Lord stalls, looking lost at his Prince.

“You can wait outside. She stays.” Aemond commands.

His eye is boring into you as he walks down the few steps with leisure, lingering on the sole of his boot before resting it on the ground. “She needs to learn the price of her disobedience.”

Your husband hesitates, looks at you with lingering disdain and a veil of fear that keeps his eyes wide open, but he can only bow his head.

When you’re left alone the Prince, save for the guards on the four sides of the hall, you dare to look up and see his eye blazing, a cunning edge to it.

He starts circling around you, and what’s left of your dignity makes your hands fly up to cover your chest.

“You said you stopped writing to your sister. And you stopped coming to the library.” he starts with a collected and calm voice. “Why?”

“You know why.” you mutter.

“You better drop this condescending tone if you want to leave this room with your head on your shoulders.”

“Apologies, my Prince. I did not mean to offend you. But I dim you wise enough to understand why I thought it was best to keep my distance from you.”

He stops his circling for a moment “Enlighten me.” and then he’s pacing again.

You swallow, smelling ashes and smoke on his trail. “It was a sin.”

“Hmm. Which one?” He asks somewhere behind you. Out the corner of your eye, you see him slightly leaning towards you, silver rolling past his shoulder as he cocks his head to one side “Your betrayal or the fact that you let me feast on your cunt like a common whore?”

You swallow again. Shame is still coiling in your belly, but there’s also something else on hearing those words coming from his mouth, recalling that night. This man has just humiliated you in front of the court and yet you crave for him to get closer.

“Both.”

“Both?”

“I did not want to.” You say and it’s true. And this, this is the last chance you might have to avoid the pike, or worse, Vhagar’s fangs. “My father forced me.” You say turning your head left and right as he resumes his pacing behind you “I don’t know which kind of deal he has struck with Prince Daemon but I swear it, my Prince, I said nothing about Rook’s Rest, I—“

The word dies on your tongue along with your breath as you feel the coldness of a sharp blade against your throat.

“I should slit your throat here and now.” He whispers dangerously, you can hear his teeth gritting. His arm is pressing on your chest, keeping you locked against him. “What else Lord Tarly ordered you in all his great wisdom? Mh? To seduce me? To play me like a fool, like you played my brother and your husband to gather knowledge about our armies and report it to my uncle and his whore?”

“No, I—" you try to say, but he presses the blade firmer and you choke a gasp, unconsciously grabbing his arm.

“You will speak when I say so.” He seethes, pulling your arm back with his other hand, painfully twisting your bone until a moan of pain escapes your mouth.

It awakens something inside him, something savage that makes him collide his body against yours “Hmm.” He coos darkly in your ear “This brings me back to that night.”

He swiftly twirls the dagger, sheathing the Valyrian steel, but his hand is quick to resume his caging, sliding on your half-covered breast, looking down your shoulders at your bare chest.

His fingers are cold as they slowly travel up, but they lick flames on your skin, making your nipples harden. “Do you remember, little snake? I do.” he runs the tip of his finger on the hard sensitive skin and you whimper softly “It was hard to forget the sounds you made.” He speaks to your neck, his breath scorching “I could hear them when I fucked my hand at night. You made me sin so many times. Was that part of the plan too? Did your father force you to moan my name while you peaked on my tongue?”

“Please…” you sob quietly, feeling fire nestling in your belly at the sound of his voice and the feeling of his bulge against your lower back.

“Do you moan like that when your husband fucks you? Mh?”

He wants an answer, and he pinches one of your nipples when you don’t please him.

“No…”

“No? I thought so.”

Your body reacts on his own, clenching for how his voice in your ear pools like liquid fire below your stomach. You can see his delighted smirk out of the corner of your eye. “You better speak now, little one. Not even the Gods can save you from the spike. Why would they? They turn their backs on traitors and sinners. And you dared to sin with a Kinslayer. You have only me to beg for mercy.”

“You don’t want to kill me.” You choke when his hand laces around your throat.

He would’ve done it already. He might still do it, but his pressing hardness on your back tells you otherwise.

“No. I have a better use for you.” he says squeezing your neck “I will make an example out of your treacherous mouth. They will look at you and be reminded of the mercy of my crown.”

He steps back and you have little time to catch your breath as he sits on the Iron Throne with the confidence of a God on his perch. The candles mix with lightnings, making the blue of the sapphire and the obsidian of the crown shimmer in a disturbing way.

He rests his arms along the forged swords, his long legs almost sprawled out on the ground. “Come and pledge your loyalty, my lady.”

Your heart hammers in your throat as you swallow. This is a game of life or death, but not now. Your two times have merged into a perpetual dizziness and you’re sinking into the claws of your desire like quicksand.

“No.” he admonishes with a voice like honey when you dare a step closer “On your knees. Like the sinner you are.”

You sink to the ground and his eye goes down with you, smirking with something savage flashing on his face. “Go ahead.” He says spreading his legs around you. “Take your blessing.”

You raise your hands slowly, close to his belt but when you start unbuckling it you find there’s no tremor in your fingers. And he’s too quick to notice. “You wanted this, do you?” he asks “Did you close your eyes and pretend to suck my cock instead of your husband’s?”

The buckles clink together as you finish the unbuckling but he suddenly leans over you, gripping your cheeks with a hold of iron.

“Answer me.”

“Yes.” You quickly, shamefully say.

The left edge of his mouth pulls up tiredly, omnisciently. “How? Like this?” In a blink his long fingers breach your mouth, hitting the back of your throat until you choke on them. He pulls them back just slightly, grazing your tongue, and he looks at you with a lustful blaze in his eye.

“Suck.” he orders, and you oblige, keeping your eyes on him as your mouth close around his two fingers, sucking gently and twirling your tongue around the skin.

“Hmm.” He croons with pleasure, leaving your mouth abruptly to lean back against the throne, sliding a little on the ancient seat to push his crotch before you. He makes haste of pulling his cock out, giving it a few tugs while he keeps looking at you, at the longing darkening your eyes and wetting your gowns.

You take hold of his hard hot length, all veiny and leaking from the tip and it’s only natural for you to close your lips around it. You have obscenely dreamed of this.

He lets out a loud gasp, gripping the throne with his hands as your head goes down, taking him all in. It hits the back of your throat with a lewd choking sound; you breathe through your nose, resuming your holy punishment once you have adjusted to length and girth, sucking hard and fast.

"Greedy little thing.” He praises with his eye growing heavy with pleasure “Easy. Easy, now.” he goads you to slow down, and you do, looking up to see him watching you closely, his lips parted, his breath slow and puffed.

“Fuck—” he curses, titling his head back but keeping his eye fixed on you. “See? This is the only good use for your cheating mouth. And you look so pretty.”

The ache between your legs is unbearable, you’re swollen and wet, you can feel your undergown dampening.

“Are you soaked for me, hmm? I bet you’re dripping all over the Conqueror’s swords.”

You have no way to answer as you keep bobbing your head up and down, a sinner worshipping her own sin.

“Open your mouth—wide” he orders and you do, drooling all over him as he starts to thrust harshly in your mouth.

“Yes. Like this, yes—fuck” He pumps in and out, bucking his hips, hitting your throat on and on while he moans helplessly and loudly, as only a King on his throne can.

“Hollow your cheeks.” And when you do it, something snaps inside him. He grabs your hair, pulling at the roots painfully while he keeps fucking your mouth frantically, choking your breath. But you don’t mind. This could be your last day, your last hour breathing. The snake is sucking at your bones and you welcome the poison.

“Enough.” he croaks when he was starting to breathe too fast, too close to the end. “Get up.”

Your knees ache as you pull yourself up but he’s so quick in lifting up your skirts and grabbing your waist to make you turn and sit on his lap, facing the Throne Room. The Guards are exactly where they’re supposed to be, blind and deaf to what they can perfectly see and hear.

“Let me give you my blessing, now.” Aemond says spreading your legs on the throne, making you wince as you feel his hot fingertips on your wet aching folds. “You’re soaked.” he states proudly, smiling with victory next to your ear.

He draws lazy circles on your bundle, sliding down your dripping lips, slowly, too slowly. You buck your hips against his hand and his chuckle travels up and down inside you, rattling your bones like thunder.

“Please…” you cry when his fingers brush your swollen lips once more.

“I should summon back your husband. So he’d see how his pretty wife begs to be fucked by her Prince like a whore. Shall I?”

You grab his hand, pressing it to your core and he dips a finger inside, spilling a loud moan from you that makes him bite your ear as he feels your hot walls clenching around him.

“Fine. We shall let him hear it.”

He brings his soaked fingers to your mouth, sticking them inside to make you taste yourself, and then he takes your wrist, trapping it on your stomach with his hand. He easily slides his cock inside you, moaning along with you into the haunting silence of the hall. His thrusts are deep and quick, desire has consumed him too, for too long. The sounds of flesh slapping against flesh are only barely muffled by your frantic gasps. Your eyes are closed in a painful bliss, his hot labored breath dampens your neck as he fills you to the hilt.

Your throat is sore with lack of air as you turn your head and he slams his mouth against yours, filling your mouth with his scorching tongue, biting your lip and sucking until it’s swollen. All of this while relentlessly rutting into you, giving you violent bursts of pleasure that make your moans high-pitched and loud, so loud that everyone outside these walls can hear them. Your husband will hear them, the guards are definitely doing so.

“Fucking Gods, you feel so good” He pants in your mouth “You really wanted this. Your cunt is squeezing my cock like a vice. That husband of yours never fucked you this good, did he?”

“Gods—” you whine, squeezing your eyes shut but he grabs your chin with his free hand, forcing you to turn your head. “The Gods cannot hear you now. They’re deaf to the pleas of sinners.” with his free hand he clutches your bundle and he starts to torture you, drawing fast circles, while his length keeps rutting harshly. “Lucky for you I’m more merciful than the Gods.”

The tension in your belly is unbearable, it makes you cry obscenely and the sound only pushes him to go harder, faster.

“Please—I—I can’t—Gods—”

“You can’t what? Mh?” he nothing but growls, thrusting once more and then again. “This is your retribution.” He says baring his teeth “You failed your family for this. You lied and cheated. Now fucking—take—it” his last words punctuated with three deeper thrusts that make you whimper and roll your eyes back.

It doesn’t take much longer for you to reach your peak, letting out a long moan matched with sloppy shakes of your body against his. But he doesn’t stop, chasing his own pleasure as you whimper and sob with overstimulation. His hand keeps moving on your apex, all sticky with your pleasure and you grip his arm, trying to stop him. “Please—I can’t take it anymore—please my Prince—"

“You can and you will.” He promises “Give me one more. Come on, little traitor, just one more.”  

You’re not late in granting his wish, trembling all over him and curling your toes with spasms in your muscles.

He groans loudly beneath you, teeth clamping down your shoulder and he stills completely, coming inside you with a choked sound of relief vibrating from his throat.

You whimper softly, feeling him pulsing inside you, but he grabs your waist and forces you to stand up. You waver on your weak feet, his hand is around your arm but only to firmly push you away from him. Falling on the ground, you look up to see him fixing his breeches, hair all disheveled and a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“Guards.” He says hoarsely, catching his breath, and two white cloaks stand at attention, their faces blank, pretending to be oblivious to what they have just witnessed. “Take her to my chambers and have the maid give her moon tea.”

Then he looks down at you, his face is wild and yet viciously focused. “We’re going to find a way to send your husband back to Starpike.” He says grazing your lips with his long fingers. “You’re not leaving my chambers anytime soon. In the time being,” his hand grips your mouth harshly, his voice eerily calm “You will write to Oldtown in your own hand, and ask my uncle to send me the head of Samantha Tarly.”

You widen your eyes with terror and he smiles, sweet and poisonous. “And remember, little snake. If I find you near the rookery at odd hours again, I will cut your throat in your sleep. Such a waste it would be. I’d rather have you choking on my cock than your own blood.”

He leaves without another word and you’re left on the ground. You can’t beg mercy to the Gods now, you will have to beg for his and his alone.

thank you so much for reading!! 💕

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 5

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: it's saturday.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

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I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You follow the king into the great hall. Despite the sun beaming in through the open doors and the chirping of sparrows from the courtyard, it is a dour affair.  

King Geralt marches across the hall as you stand by a tall candelabra near the door. It remains unlit as the summer lights much of the space through the long windows and broad doors. He approaches the bishop in his robe and sash and points the man with a terse grunt. Lord Dustan and Lady Rozlyn stand behind the cleric, looking fraught. 

“Where is the bride?” The king growls as his golden eyes skim the stone walls. 

“Your highness, we’ve just called for her--” 

“She is aware of our impending nuptials, she would keep her betrothed waiting?” The king rebukes, “you summer souls and your flimsy spines.” 

The duchess twitches in offence but does not rebuff the insult. The wine has subsided well enough to allow her some sense. Lord Dustan’s lips press tight and he claps. 

“My daughter, at once,” he hisses in your direction. 

Before you can turn on your sole, the king grunts, “fetch her yourself. How can I trust you to keep my kingdom in order if you cannot bring the same to your own house?” 

“Yes, your highness,” Dustan blanches, “it was only I thought it would be swifter to send the maid.” 

“It would be swifter if you stilled your tongue,” King Geralt barks. 

The duke recoils and hurries off. Your eyes meet the king’s and he gives a slight tilt of his head and you resume your plaintive stance. Lady Rezlyn looks him up and down before she withdraws her gaze and instead focuses on the portrait of her husband’s predecessor.  

The air grows stagnant as you wait. When at last a stirring comes from above, the king is gripping the dagger on his belt. He is not impressed with the delay. 

“Father, I am here, I am here, unhand me,” Lady Jazlene blusters in ahead of the duke. She wears the red and ivory and matching ribbons have been braided into her curls. She has several necklaces piled around her neck and her hands are adorned in tones of silver and gold. “I am ready,” she sighs as she approaches the bishop and face the king, “it is not the wedding I dreamt of but for a king, I might settle.” 

King Geralt’s golden eyes narrow. He looks through his bride and she wavers on her feet as she reaches for him. He does not offer his hand nor his arm before he faces the bishop. 

“The vows,” the king demands flatly. 

“Er,” the bishop falters and searches the chamber. 

“Where is the writ?” The king hisses, “do you not have a scribe?” 

“Here, your highness, here,” Dustan waves to a squire waiting near the outer doors. “It only requires ink and seal, after the vows of course.” 

The king exhales hotly and faces the bishop again, signaling with a curt flick of his fingertips. You only then notice Merinda across from you, she must’ve followed the noble daughter in. She exchanges a glance with you, she is not more amused than King Geralt. 

“Ahem,” the bishop adjusts his tall cap, “let us begin. We commune here today to--” The king waves his hand dismissively and the cleric flinches. “Hm, uh, sir, your highness, my lord, King Geralt, of Rivia and the Hinterlands, and the Summer countries,” he stutters as his eyes droop, “do you swear, by the sacred rites and the laws of the realm, to take this woman in blessed matrimony? To attend to your duties as husband and keeper, until death?” 

The ceremony is as brusque as anything the king does. He does not have time or patience for the pageantry or prolonged talking. His shoulders rise with his breath and he heaves out, “I make this vow.” 

“And, Lady Jazlene, daughter of Debray, do you swear, by the sacred rites and the laws of the realm, to take this man in blessed matrimony? To attend to your duties as wife and servant, until death?” 

Jazlene sniffles and makes a show of blotting her face with her sleeve. Her mother blubbers from the side and Lord Dustan hushes her. Their threatrics are almost humourous amid the solemn air. King Geralt rumbles and stares over the bishop’s head. 

“I... I make... I make this vow,” Jazlene bawls and pulls out a handkerchief from her bosom. She covers her nose and wipes away her tears. “I shall love the king and serve him better than any w-w-wife.” 

The bishop hesitates as he looks between the bride and groom. He nods and beckons forth Lord Dustan, “so we will seal this marriage in ink and wax. Sign your names and let the royal stamp be applied to set in bond your fates until the black night sees you to rest.” 

Dustan comes forward with the parchment and signals to another unseen figure. A servant brings forth a quill and well as the contract is laid out on the table near the wall. The king approaches as Jazlene weeps at his side, trailing after him as she trembles. The king signs first, with a slash of the quill, then Jazlene barely keeps hold of the pen as she loops her name across the rough surface. 

She drops the feather and fans herself. She looks around, preening, and grabs onto the king’s arm, “so we are married.” 

He doesn’t react. He turns without acknowledgement as she stays latched on, pulled forth by his easy strength. His gaze touches yours as you watch the strange and strained scene. This is unlike any wedding you’ve ever seen, though you haven’t seen a noble one in all your life. Only the whispered vows of servants behind the stables or in the meadows. Those ones that are only written in spirit. 

His eyes quickly flit away and he sets his sight on the doorway beside you. He walks forward with his bride dragging on his arm. His mail jostles loudly with his steps as his soles scuff. 

“Let the marriage be consummated,” he mutters without look back, “you will be ready to travel at dawn.” 

“Your highness?” Dustan stumbles forward, “dawn?” 

“Husband, am I to come with you?” Jazlene murmurs. 

“A kingdom must be rebuilt,” King Geralt states without inflection. “I will not rule over a resentful people, I will show them I fought for them, not against them. And you will follow through on your vows to me or find I am not so weak as that fool, King Waleran.” 

⚔️

You help Merinda with Lady Jazlene’s travel chest. You pack away as much as you can; shifts, nightclothes, gowns, stockings, all that you think she would like to take with her. The sudden departure allows you little time for ponderance, you only do as you must. As ever. So is life. 

“She will hate it in the Hinterlands,” Merinda scoffs, “when I served for the earl, there was a man from the Winter Isles. He was missing fingers from the cold. He told me how they turned black and fell off.” 

“Then she will need to find some mitts,” you shrug as you roll up a cloak. Much of the lady’s clothes are not suited to a colder climate. She has no furs; they are not needed in the Summer lands. Midsummer through to High Summer offer little more than a cooling rain between mild to sweltering highs. 

“Perhaps she should bundle up against her husband too,” Merinda snickers, “he is icy as the tundras he hails from.” 

“He is a king, he has much to worry for,” you sniff. 

“Mm, I suppose, though he hardly ever looks concerned for anything. Speaks even less,” she muses, “I suppose Lady Jazlene will speak plenty for both of them.” 

“Queen Jazlene,” you correct her bleakly. 

“Oh, he should worry for that,” the other maid chuckles again. “Though I suppose now she will have all the gowns she likes.” 

“Perhaps,” you allow. 

“Let us prosper here without her demands. Where it is warm and sunny,” Merinda sighs. 

“It will be rather quieter,” you agree. 

You carry on until the chest is near overflowing. You sit on the lid as Merinda buckles the straps. You will need some male servants to come carry it to the stables. That should wait until morning. Lady Rezlyn bid you wait in her daughter’s chamber should she emerge from the king’s. 

You pack a smaller chest for her jewels and her cosmetics, and a few books she’s worn down with her fingertips, and her sewing hoops and needles. Oft, she only holds onto those possessions as she gossips with her mother. You suppose that will be difficult. When the duchess and her husband return home and their daughter must face her obligation without ally. 

There are servants like Merinda who might covet gems and pretty things, but you’ve never much envied the noble type. They have overly much responsibility. You only need swab a floor or lace a dress. Life could not be simpler. 

“Hm,” she hums and gives a cluck of her tongue. 

You wind up a length of ribbon and put it in the chest. You feel Merinda watching you. You look up and arch your brows. “What?” 

She smiles, “you remind me of him.” 

“Who?” 

“The king,” she tinkles with laughter, “you are both so... quiet. You never say more than you need to. I can appreciate that given who we serve but you are a hard nut.” 

“I don’t have much to say, suppose,” you reply. “Don’t know very much of the king, either.” 

She’s quiet as you carry on. You assume some things will need to be sent after the lady; the queen. It will be a long journey and not one which you think would entail many banquets. It’s a scary unknown ahead of Lady Jazlene, though it is overdue. 

When the smaller chest is full, you and Merinda lift it onto the larger. It is late and the night hue surrounds you as only a single flame is lit. You yawn intermittently but neither of you dare lay down to sleep. You wouldn’t want to be accused of idleness. 

You sit on the window bench and watch the moon as Merinda paces through shadows. You rest your chin in your hand but only for a moment as suddenly the hinges groan and cut through the din. You stand as Merinda faces the door sharply. 

Lady Jazlene drifts in. The ribbons in her hair are loose and her dress is still laced tight, though her skirts are rumbled and wrinkled. She leaves the door ajar behind her as she ambles stiffly towards the bed. She turns to fall onto the bench at the foot of the four-post frame. 

She doesn’t speak as she stares ahead. Merinda shuts the door as you inch towards the noble woman. She offers no reaction as you hover near her. She presses her hands above her knees and shudders out a breath. 

“My lady,” Merinda speaks first, glancing at you cautiously, “your highness, would you... would you like a bath?” 

Jazlene doesn’t answer. Her head moves subtly back and forth then dips again. She balls fabric in her fists. 

“I did what mother said,” she croaks, “and... I was... I was aroused. I was ready...” she murmurs. 

You and Merinda stand in silence. You’ve never heard the noble daughter speak so smally. She lifts her head. 

“I did it. I did my duty,” she declares, “but he...” she rises and you back away as she sweeps around the bed, a hitch in her step. She goes to the mirror and leans in, touching her cheeks, turning her head this way and that, “I’m beautiful, aren’t I? Mother says, father says... but the king... the king...” 

She blows out her breath and is silent. She spins and clutches her bodice. She looks down at herself. 

“He didn’t even let me take this off,” she babbles, “then he just... sent me away.” She puts her hand to her chest, “a bath? Did you say a bath?” She looks at Merinda, “yes, I must wash. Wash it all away.” She clears her throat and drops her hand, rolling her shoulders, “tomorrow we must leave--” her voice catches, “I must go to my new home with my...” she puts her back to you and sits on the cushioned seat before the vanity, “...husband.” 

You nod to Merinda and cross the room to meet her at the door. You share a look, one which doesn’t need conversation. Even though she’s laid with a man, your fellow maid looks distressed. You go out into the hall, pulling shut the door gently in the nocturnal dim. 

“Do you think he was cruel?” Merinda asks. 

“It isn’t our concern, is it? It is a wife’s duty...” you whisper, uncertain. 

“It was her first,” Merinda remarks, “perhaps she was unready.” 

“We shouldn’t speak of it,” you gird. 

“You needn’t be so chaste,” she reproaches, “if I didn’t know her wrath, I might even feel sorry for the lady.” 

“Mer,” you warn again, “let us get some water for the bath.” 

Merinda chuffs, “you are so... boring.” 

You walk away from her, ignoring her chiding. You don’t care if she thinks you dull. It isn’t your place to judge the marital matters of the lady and her husband. It is even dangerous to gossip over royal business. You will not chance it. 

She follows. You descend and go to boil a pot in the kitchen. Merinda lights several candles as you go to work. You carry the large vessel between you. Several trips up and down to fill the large tub. Merinda undresses Jazlene as you go to return the pot. 

You place it near the fire stove as the embers burn low and orange. You stand in front of it, the cindery scent tinging your nostrils. You should go back but unease lingers in your gut. The way Jazlene just stared, how hollow she sounded, you’ve never seen her like that. 

The candles behind you flicker and you turn to the swirling shadows. There’s a figure just inside the doorway, almost ghostly, much too towering to be the cook. You gulp and fold your hands against your stomach. 

“Hello?” You utter to what must be a wraith. 

There is no answer, the silhouette merely moves towards you. You steel yourself, a scream caught in your throat. The tint of the fire stove reflects off golden irises and the king’s figure comes clearer in the night. You suck in air and steady your feet. 

“Your highness,” you gasp. 

“Ale,” he sneers. 

“Yes, your highness, I will fetch--” 

“To my chambers,” he demands, looming over you. 

“Yes, your highness, ale, at once,” you go to spin and he grabs onto your arm, drawing you back. He grips tightly, squeezing as he pulls you into the haze of warmth radiating from him. Or perhaps that is the oven. 

He holds you, puffing out breaths as he glares down at you. You’re trapped in his simmering sights. You look up at him, eyes wide, lips slightly parted. He lets out a low snarl and slowly releases you. 

“I hate these summer lands,” he grumbles as you stagger back. 

You still and stare as he backs away. He turns on his heel and stalks towards the door, leaving you in frightful curiosity. You open and close your fingers, your forearm tingling from his firm grasp. You rub it through your sleeve as you spin towards the cellar. You will be certain to grab a full cask for the king’s thirst. 

[seneon]

SKETCHING SPIDERS ──── rayne ames x fem! reader.

about. whatever you draw on your skin, the same drawing will appear on your soulmate as well. ROYAL! AU. sfw + suggestive, reader's surname is archer, mentions of alcohol. wc of 3.2k.

notes. i'm experimenting. also first week of exams done i have math, business & accounting next week 😭😭

overcast clouds and the grey shades engulf the vast sky. you're seated in the royal room of a class for the children of nobles, fidgeting with a clean feather quill that was played by your fingers.

as usual, it is another boring day as an academic victim of the noble standards. in a classroom full of the descendants or the next heir of royal and noble families, they were all academically intelligent. for the future of their family, of course. that is no surprise, considering you have to study hard to maintain a good status in your family of nobles.

as the tutor continued to speak his mind out about philosophy or the sort, you looked around the classroom. for a high-class classroom, there sure is quite some dust in the high ceilings that nobody could reach up to.

you see many concentric circles woven by threads at the far corner, all meeting at one common centre. a genius idea then sprouted in your mind like the multi-legged creatures that created those corner ceiling webs.

the quill that you were just fiddling with became an item to use as your teacher rambled on and on about the stars and how to read them astrologically. you used it in a wiser way rather than write a bunch of fancy words into sketching. an act that only the royal artists could carry out.

first, you dipped your quill into the ink and lightly flicked the access ink off. then you lifted the sleeves of your lace coral pink dress, turning your left arm the other way. your seatmate, nora martin, watched in silence as her eyebrows scrunched in anticipation of what you were about to do with your lifted sleeves.

“what are you attempting to execute now, lady archer?” nora asked as you shot her a tiny smile. “just a teensy bit bored from mr. valac’s lessons. m’ gonna entertain myself.”

your seatmate, nora of the martin house, does not bat her eyelash or blink in your direction. this is common for her, just like buying groceries to cook.. or waking up to brush your hair with a wooden hairbrush made out of the best wood in the kingdom. she is used to your shenanigans, even if it meant to be a little bit rebellious during the process, such as dirtying your arm in boredom.

well either way, nobody is going to lift your sleeves to inspect your arm, for it is a crime in the law. at least, to people of nobility.

the ink does not easily dry on the surface of your arm, tainting your skin in a hue of black. the feather quill was quite ticklish too, sometimes it occasionally burns mildly against your skin as the tip of the feather drags along to create a small design with the ink.

once it dried, you showed nora your masterpiece. she actually fancied the result, thus praising how good you actually are at painting. for all that you know, your drawn masterpiece will not come off as easily as staining the tip of the quill in black ink.

it is going to be hard to wash it off. to wash the ink off.

“a spider?” kaldo gehenna asked as he inspected the drawing on the left arm of his subordinate. subordinate because the gehenna and the person he speaks to is of the same ranking in the military.

“how'd that appear?”

“i have no answer for you,” rayne ames, captain level replied as he too, inspected the mark that appeared on his arm. “i believe it appeared during the day.”

“i believe so too. i mean, you didn't have it when you dressed up this morning, did you?” kaldo placed his fingers in his chin, trying to find possible solutions as to where a random marking of a spider and a few strands of web marks came from. the military isn't one to have such markings.

now that it is night and it is time to rest and let loose if the days’ happenings, the ames undressed with his most trusted subordinate and the both of them are greeted with a marking of a spider on rayne’s arms.

the knights are only glad that they wore long sleeves. if it had been exposed, rayne was sure that his arm would be sliced off for having such a marking in his arm.

“i heard there is a legend where whatever your soulmate draws on her skin, it will appear on your skin too. perhaps your soulmate drew a spider on heir skin,” the other captain said as he shrugged.

“why in the world would my soulmate draw on her arm? is she a fool?”

once again, the gehenna shrugged and carefully kept his knightly gears back to where they belong. “perhaps she was feeling bored, just like you at today's assembly. two bored souls. you can try to draw something small on your arm to see if that does anything or not.”

left in a plain white button up t-shirt and his black pants, kaldo took his belongings and waved his subordinate good-bye. “well, i hope you find your soulmate soon. you really need some romance in your life, rayne.”

when the ames went home, all he could do was stare at the spider marking on his arms. the only explanation he could gather was that his soulmate clearly used the black ink for writing to draw the insect on her arm. she didn't even try to erase the parts where it went wrong, she just drew on it to create spider webs.

his stoic golden honey eyes that were locked onto the mere insect. fingers slowly tracing over the outlines of the spider legs and the webs behind it. he admits it, his soulmate is good at drawing. perhaps she is a painter, an artist. someone who comes from a lineage of working for the royal family in the line of art.

but if she is his soulmate, why has she drawn something now? why has she not been leaving any suspicious or interesting marks on his skin in his eighteen years of living? why only now, when he was just assigned to the role of a captain in the royal military?

whatever the case, rayne ames could only keep brushing his fingers against the mark that appeared out of mere thin air. he needed to find the cause of this random marking soon.

the fifteenth birthday of the royal prince, mash burnedead. of course his family of princes would host a royal birthday party for him. and of course, all nobles are to attend the young boy's birthday celebration.

so are you and your family. your parents, who stood among all the other noble adults as you stand beside them, their mouths never ending to boast about how well you do in your academics and how well you are in arts.

as if you were their little doll to ramble on and on, you simply stood there with a tiny smile, your fingers occasionally pulling up the elbow gloves so it wouldn't reveal a single speck of the spider drawing you drew just the day before the party.

you already knew it wasn't going to come off easily, considering the quality of the ink is strong enough to stain your white satin curtains for weeks before fully coming out. your parents had forgotten to inform you about the upcoming party of the prince too, making your arm more difficult to cover up since your silk elbow glove is on the shorter side.

“father, mother, if i may excuse myself to the restroom for a few moments?” you asked in a voice that sounded like it was a beg. you just wanted out from the ordeal of having to stand for hours and listen to your parents indirectly praising you while your mouth is kept shut with no place to allow your tongue to twist and turn.

“of course, dear! be back soon, alright?” your mother replied as you nodded and took your elegant bow at them and also at the other noblemen that were lending an ear to your parents.

it was all a simple lie to get you out of this pathetic situation and to escape to somewhere where you can have your own fun and enjoy your own time, whether it being alone or finding another fellow noble that you know off, preferably someone from your class.

your preferences led you outside the ballroom, where it is far from a huge crowd, but filled with people who prefer to be outside the ballroom.

“lady archer! over here!” the monotonous voice which you recognised called out to you as a hand fan waved in the air, signalling for you to journey your way through the hallways to where nora stood.

you made your way through the velvet carpet and curtsied at your friend, before doing so to the guests around her.

“this is noir martin, my idiotic brother of the military army and his friends of the military, lord kaldo gehenna and lord rayne ames,” nora introduced as you curtsied once again.

“they are looking for women to cheer their champagne to,” a horrified expression formed on your friend's face as she pointed her fan towards her elder brother. “especially this man.”

noir held his hands in the air for defense. “hey hey, little sister. it is normal for men who want to find a beautiful wife, isn't it?”

“not if you're a captain leading an army of hundreds of soldiers! they usually perish in battle like the strong mighty soldier they are, honouring their kingdom.”

the martins conversed in an argumentative conversation, kaldo occasionally joining in. while you stood beside nora, covering your left arm. if not, you'd keep pulling your elbow glove up.

it was no surprise that the attentive ames was silently observing you, a gorgeous noblewoman who will soon benefit to the future of the kingdom. the ames is to, one day, serve you, since you are an honoured ally of the royal family.

“oh uhm, i am quite anxious…” you averted his gaze, hands subconsciously moving to cover your arm as rayne's eyes followed your hands. “is there a problem with your arm? are you hurt?”

“you seem to be anxious,” rayne said.

that voice. the honeyed, yet silky voice almost no one in the military dares to defy. it was an addictively dangerous voice to the hearts and souls of many women.

“no! i’m not!”

there it was. the little sneaky spider legs that peeked out from the edge of your satin piece, though unknown to the people around. there was one person that knew about it though. he just happened to blink before he could see the leg peeking out.

“if you insist…” the knight slowly nodded, his hands travelling to the same arm that the spider appeared.

how odd. he's technically doing the same thing you are doing. it's just a different direction to what other humans in the hallways perceive.

“my name is rayne ames, captain of the royal military army. my brother finn goes to the royal academy too,” he bowed.

you did your part to introduce yourself as a proper lady. like any other proper gentleman, rayne took your hands in his and gave your knuckles a chaste kiss.

something he did to your fingers made you flutter on the inside. it was as if he invited butterflies into your body just by his lips touching the silk of your glove. it was no different for the kiss. he kept it chaste, but there was an unexplainable reason that tells you it wasn't just a gentleman gesture he was showing you.

well, the night went past with your newly made friend from the military who shared a mutual amount of laughs and jokes with you throughout the night. what could possibly go wrong?

“sir! there's a spider on your hand!” the voice of a knight exclaimed as rayne glanced at his hands, his eyes widening a little before he attempted to slap it away.

but it does not go away.

it stays.

just like the spider drawing that randomly appeared out of nowhere, completely fading after a few days. but now, a new mark appears. and a new accusation arises.

“could it be his soulmate!?”

“lord ames, perhaps your soulmate is nearby!”

“you fancy spiders, captain?”

the male slapped his palms against his forehead at the words of his soldiers. surely the mark has to appear at a strategy meeting where he is specifically pointing at other nations. there couldn't be a better timing where his hands weren't in the view of other people.

now his darling soulmate has to draw on her hand, close to her thumb, the same silly spider drawing again that appears as a temporary marking to the ames.

as if one time wasn't enough for the rayne to embarrass him and allow his comrades to lose focus of their goals— the marks appear at many other times in situations where he couldn't control. all over his arm.

one night he sat down at his armchair, surrounded by the crackling sounds of the fire. rayne took kaldo’s idea, dipping his feather into washable ink and wrote a stop drawing on your arm with his quill.

a mere simple no form. in response, rayne rolled his eyes, scoffing at how cocky the person on the other end is. he wanted to get this over with so his teammates would seal their mouth shut in the absence of a spider drawing randomly spawning on his skin.

it was hilarious, since it was only his left arm that received such a vulgar insect drawing. rayne gave up and put away his writing materials and went to slumber. he pray that the spider drawings would soon end and he would finally have peace in the army. and also to meet his soulmate who is so interested in spiders.

noir martin is officially wedded to a woman from the house of irvine, to a beautiful classmate of yours, lemon. and the world is to congratulate and celebrate the happiness of the newlywed.

“when am i be wedded to a handsome and strong man…” you muttered to yourself as you let out a sigh. “i could've sworn my soulmate wrote back to me.”

unfortunately your mutters were heard by rayne who stood beside you, serving as your escort for the day.

“oh? how do you already know your soulmate?”

“well. i draw. then he simply told me to stop drawing.”

rayne raised a brow. “if he's your soulmate, then why did he ask you to stop drawing?” in his mind, this soulmate of yours is an extremely selfish and rude man that doesn't deserve you at all.

“because i’m embarrassing him in front of his friends with my spiders.”

spiders.

“spiders?”

“spiders.”

his jaw slightly let loose. rayne couldn't focus on anything else other than to watch your lips move as you complained about your soulmate and spiders.

“my dearest lady y/n of the archer house,” the ames gently took your hand in his and bowed, remaining in his posture, he says, “may i commit a crime and steal you away for a few moments?”

spiders are your new favourite thing to draw now ever since that boring day in your philosophy lesson.

rayne just happened to the extra canvas.

a field of red roses tinted your cheeks red as you ceased the smile that threatened to surface.

“yes you may, lord ames.”

as you finished uttering your words, rayne took your hand to guide you through the huge and long halls of the martin estate. it was silent all the way and you felt nervous. as if there were thousands of spiders who slowly crawled up your back, giving you the chills yet the nervousness that embraced you.

he led you out the huge garden, never stopping until he reached the point where there were stone benches. being the gentleman he is, rayne told you to take a seat as he took off the white glove he wore on his left arm.

rayne took a seat himself, setting his gloves to the side. all while your eyes followed his actions, including the little mark that was just a bit above his pinky finger. you recognised that mark as you seemingly lit up upon seeing it.

“that's a—”

“spider.”

without hesitation, you took out your left arm’s glove. nobody is going to walk into the garden anyways, so it's safe to take off your glove. golden honey eyes immediately locking its gaze onto the same spider that was in the same exact position as the one on rayne's fingers.

“you’re my soulmate!” you exclaimed, gasping in the process.

the corner of rayne’ lips curved upwards a little as he nodded, his fingers tracing the spider that was imprinted on his fingers.

rayne ames is now tracing the undone spider sketches, smudging the ink all over your right thigh as you could feel his hot, ragged breath on your cheek. you faced the other way, your own breath heavy as you shifted in your position.

“trying to draw a spider on your thigh while i’m away on a mission by the king's orders tells me how much you miss me. how much you need me,” rayne said, his golden eyes staring into yours. “then you tried to sketch another in my presence, my lady. what are you trying to do?”

first of all, how did you get into this situation where both you are under the military captain as he cornered you?

long story short, you were out with your lady friends, and they were all drinking the night away. as your carriages came to pick you up and your lady-in-waiting cleaned you up after the night full of consuming the kingdom's finest alcohols, soberness left your mind.

the worst is the honoured son of the ames family arriving at your family's estate to give them an emergency visit. well you were not in a state to be speaking to guests, so you were kept in your room.

but rayne insisted on a visit to his beloved darling, and he too, ended up being drunk from the alcohol that you shoved into his mouth with the bottle that you sneaked in the house.

“i need you… and you need me too,” you muttered, lazy eyes scanning all over the white button up t-shirt that rayne wears. how it would be so easy to just tear them open right now.

“do i have you to myself?” rayne set his head at the crook of your neck, shifting up so his mouth comes in contact with your shoulders. the man slightly pulled down the lace sleeves, exposing your bare shoulders to him.

with rayne's lips on your shoulders, you hummed under your breath, resulting in a kiss.

“you are my woman. my soulmate, y/n.”

“forever yours,” you whispered into his ears as he continued to press chaste kisses onto your shoulder, his other hand leaving your sketched and messy thigh to snake it around your waist.

“i’m going to kiss you until those spiders all over your body are all messy. and you will do the same to me, darling.”

TAGS ★ @kyoghurts @caelivir @dragonictears @anqelically @hasumiis @raynesbunny @vash-yuu @sakireiz @futuristicxie @redlabelboom @ilovecandys2010

© SENEON 2024 ♰ do not repost, alter, or translate.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 4: These Words Are All I Have So I'll Write Them]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, prostitution, references to sexual content including noncon (18+), pregnancy, methods of ending pregnancy, speaking High Valyrian at a third-grade level, no Larys Strong this time yay!!!

Series title is a lyric from: “7 Minutes in Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Dance, Dance” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.7k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰💜

She gives you a new dress to replace the one that is sopping wet and algae-stained from your tumble into the fishpond: a deep gory maroon, low-cut across the chest, a slit up to your thigh. It is the most revealing thing you have ever worn. You keep crossing your arms and tugging at the fabric, trying to make it cover more of you, incurably out-of-place in this room, this world. The madam is seated at her desk and jotting down notes in a thick, ancient book. When you steal glimpses of her words, they are messy and often misspelled, the script of a child. If you had parchment, you could write a letter. Your hands itch for it; your fingers flex to grasp nothing.

A woman glides into the madam’s bedroom—a tiny kingdom where no men exist—and hands you a cup of tea. She appraises you with a swift, intrigued glance; her hair is long and coppery red, her belly rounded out. She is perhaps five months pregnant. The madam casts her a stern look and the woman dutifully vanishes. “What is this?” you ask as you take a sip. It’s hot, lemony, bitter. “Moon tea?”

The madame chuckles. “No. We have moon tea for if that doesn’t work.”

Because I’m going to be doing things that could result in a child. Because I’m going to be violated here, again and again, I who was so terrified of being possessed by even one man.

The madam says: “Can you play any instruments?”

“No.” You draw into yourself—eyes and ears and the pores of your skin—every detail, every tapestry on the walls and creaky board of the floor and shift in tones of voice, anything that could help you escape. You are a traveler in a strange land. You have no map, no compass. You can bandage burns and set bones, but you know nothing about brothels in the suffocating, squalid entrails of a city.

“Sing or dance?”

“Not well at all.”

A furrowed brow. “Can you sew?”

“Barely.”

“Cook?”

“No.”

Disappointment, palpable and shaming. “Can you read or write?” the madam asks, scratching disorderly lines of black ink into her book.

“Both.”

Now she has perked up a bit. “How well?”

“Fluently.”

A raised eyebrow. This is unusual. “Any other languages besides the Common Tongue?”

“No.” Then you add desperately: “But I know about medicine! I’ve studied herbology and wound tending, and I can act as a healer for the women here, I can—”

“You could, perhaps,” the madam says, smiling with sad, aged patience. “But that is not what the prince regent intended.”

You stare at her, aghast, petrified. There is no swaying her. You consider revealing yourself and attempting to bribe her with the renowned Celtigar fortune, but this is inadvisable. It is one thing to be raped; it is another to be raped and then murdered and then probably raped again. The Greens are the true heirs of the throne in this establishment, which means Rhaenyra and all those who aid her are traitors. Already you have overheard the women gossiping about King Aegon. They do not appear to fear or dislike him; on the contrary, they fret over him like anxious mothers or wives. They hope his recovery is quick. They are grateful he survived. They wonder if he will return to visit them again soon. They do not seem to be under the impression that he is vile, amoral, cruel, a threat, a curse. When they look at him, white hair and ocean-deep eyes, they do not see a monster.

“You aren’t bleeding currently,” the madam continues.

“How do you know that?”

“You didn’t ask for a rag when I gave you that dress.” New words springing to life on those yellowed pages, pricelessly valuable and yet forbidden to you. “Ever borne children?”

“No.”

“Are you a maiden?”

You can’t decide how to answer; you aren’t sure if either reply will help you. You settle on the truth. “Yes,” you admit tentatively.

“Good. We can charge more for you.”

“Wait, no, I’m not. I’ve been with lots of men.”

The madam laughs, shaking her head as she makes her notes. Her necklace and earrings jangle merrily, too large, glinting and gaudy. “Have no fear. I will make it easier for you. I will find a slight, young lad to be your first. He won’t be too big, he won’t last too long. And if you’re fortunate, he’ll even be handsome!” Her prominent, pale eyes go distant; she is orchestrating myths, the trade she deals in like some women sell silk or wool. “A soldier home on leave, perhaps. Looking for a taste of dwindling innocence before he marches off again to be butchered by a Costayne or a Darklyn.” She snaps back into the room. “It will be over before you know it. You’ll be more underwhelmed than anything else, trust me.”

You picture it, red, rust, rage, resignation: the impossibly large stain of blood on your cousin Theodora’s bedsheets. “What if I’m frightened? What if I cry?”

The madam shrugs. “Some men like that. It will convince them of your inexperience.”

You gape at her. “That’s appalling.”

“That’s the world we live in.” She sets down her quill, closes the book, and stretches out her back as she stands. “Follow me. I’ll show you around.”

There are rooms where the women sleep, rooms where they get ready, servants to arrange their hair and moonlight-silver mirrors and a cluttered array of cosmetics and closets bursting with sheer, sensuous gowns. As the madam momentarily diverts her attention from you to scold a servant for knocking over a tin of rouge made from ground cinnabar, you swipe a small stick of kohl eyeliner off a table and tuck it into the pocket of your dress. You might be able to write with it.

What is that pocket supposed to be for? A vial of perfume to mask the sweat of men, mint leaves to clear away their taste? A cloth to mop their mess off your thighs? You shudder, then trail after the madam as she floats out into the hallway.

There are bedchambers, six or seven of them, but the doors are shut. You can smell incense burning; you can hear moans and wet slaps of flesh beneath plucks of harps played by servants. Outside there is a courtyard where women sit on the stone rims of fountains simpering and stroking men’s beards, necks, chests, thighs. It is surrounded by a wall nine feet high. Armed guards pace through the maze of rose bushes and elm trees and proliferate quilts of ivy, keeping uninvited men out, keeping women in. They are protected from their own ambitions of some other kind of life. They are prisoners. The sky above them is a mosaic of spilled wine and gold; the sun is setting.

Downstairs in the kitchen, the madam leaves you in the care of the same woman you saw earlier, long coppery ringlets and a bastard in her belly. The dress she wears is a cleaner red than yours, not blood that has dried and flaked but a heart that’s still beating. She is chopping vegetables and tossing them into a pot boiling over the fire. The long wooden table is strewn with carrots, onions, potatoes, leeks, mushrooms, fresh dark green herbs.

She flashes you a wily smile. “Our cook dropped dead last week. We’ve yet to procure a new one, so I’m making myself useful. All the house laments.”

You laugh and join her, though you don’t know the first thing about working in a kitchen; you pick up a knife and begin slicing through a carrot. It takes more muscle than you anticipated.

“On a cutting board, you idiot,” the woman says kindly, passing you one.

“Sorry. I’ve never cooked before.”

“What? Never?” Her auburn eyebrows spring up. “Where did you come from?”

The cliffs, the sea, salt and waves and mist. “The Crownlands.”

She is studying you with interest as her blade hovers over a half-chopped leek. “Were you a handmaiden to a lady there, or…?”

“It doesn’t matter. Whoever I was, I’m not the same person anymore.”

“No,” the woman agrees softly. “None of us are, I suppose.”

You glance down to her belly. You don’t wish to offend her, but you are curious.

“Go on,” she prompts. “You may inquire. I am well aware of my predicament whether you speak of it aloud or not, I assure you.”

“Did the moon tea not…expel the child?”

“No,” she sighs as she resumes hacking away at the leek. She speaks with vague, weary fondness. “The lemonweed tea did not prevent it, the moon tea did not kill it. I nearly died of fever and vomiting myself, but the child held on. It’s alive in there, I can feel it kicking sometimes. A fierce little thing.”

You nod, still gazing at her belly, undeniable evidence of the act that built it. The copper-haired woman is almost certainly younger than you, and yet she knows exactly what it means to be opened by a man, pillaged, conquered, used, left. This time tomorrow, you will know it too. “The madam let you stay?”

“Not very enthusiastically, but yes. I cook, I clean, I do the shopping in the market. She does not fear letting me venture out into the city. She knows I have nowhere else to go. I only have to entertain clients if they ask for a pregnant woman. Some men have a particular liking for that, you know.”

You did not know. “Right.”

“Besides, there might be some advantage in it for the madam,” the woman tells you. She grins. “When the child is born, there’s a chance it will have the silver hair of a Targaryen. Then the madam could approach Otto Hightower for a reward of some sort, money, protection. Royal bastards have never been more valuable. Little princes are dying left and right.”

“King Aegon’s?” you say numbly. “The child could be his?”

“Yes, obviously. Who else?”

So Aemond does not frequent this place as a customer. You wonder how he met the madam.

Aegon was here before the war began, you think, blood hot in your face, your guts twisting and nauseous. How many women know what he feels like, tastes like, sounds like when he is moaning in pleasure instead of agony?

The copper-haired woman is staring at you quizzically. You have to say something. You hear your voice like the distant cry of a crow through fog: “What was he like? The king, I mean.”

She considers this. “Drunk. Sad. But perfectly pleasant. I wouldn’t mind serving him again. He’s well thought of on the Street of Silk. I do hope he recovers. I think Rhaenyra would hang us all from a gallows. She knows Daemon has a wandering eye, and she’s not the type of wife to look the other way.”

You are trying to clear it out of your skull, like a room full of smoke: Aegon was here, Aegon was here, Aegon was here. “When you met with him, it was in this brothel?”

She hesitates. “Mostly.”

Mostly…? “Have you been inside the Red Keep?”

“Once. Ages ago. There is a network of secret passageways beneath the castle and behind the walls. The king has been known to use them for…well. You know.”

It should not hurt you. You’ve spent all your life listening to the tales of his failings. Yet it does, more than you thought was possible. You’ve never wanted a man before. But you want Aegon now. You do, you must, otherwise you wouldn’t be so pained by the thought of others touching him. You wonder if he feels the same way about you, if he ever lies awake at night with his stomach in knots over your nameless betrothed.

You try to focus on this moment, this kitchen, this copper-haired woman.You need to find a way out of here. “So the madam will decide what happens to your child once it’s born.”

“Of course,” she replies simply.

“You don’t want to keep it yourself? You are not attached to it?”

The woman is suddenly serious, quiet, melancholy. “I have no choice in the matter.”

She’s my chance. She’s my redeemer. “Can I ask your name?” you say.

“What my family named me is of no account. As you said, we’re not the same people anymore.” She smiles, warm like embers once again. “People here call me Autumn.”

“Autumn,” you echo. A woman with hair the color of crisp, dying leaves, the color of a dying world hurtling towards winter. “I think I can help you. You and your child, no matter its parentage.”

She does not want to believe you—hope is a dangerous, taunting creature, one that builds a home in your ribcage and then taps taps taps its claws along the ladder of bones—but she does. You can see it flickering in her small, upturned hazel eyes. “You…what?”

“When you go to the market, do you take a list with you? Of items that you require?”

“Yes,” Autumn replies, puzzled. “The madam always gives me one.”

“Do you have any parchment here in the kitchen?”

Autumn shakes her head. “The madam keeps it in her room. Shall I ask her—?”

“No,” you say. “Definitely don’t ask for any. Is there an old list lying around, perhaps?”

“Um, let me see…” Autumn rummages around the table; onions go rolling, leeks are flung aside. She snatches a tattered, folded sheet of parchment from under a pile of potatoes and surrenders it to you. “Here. This is the one from yesterday.”

You open it and lay it flat on the table. Sure enough, there is a list written in black ink; but not in the Common Tongue. The items are sketched. There’s a carrot with a cloudlike plume of fronds atop it, a bee (meaning honey, you imagine), a pig and a chicken, a round bottle with a heart drawn above it. Perfume? you guess. “These are pictures.”

“Well, of course. I wouldn’t be able to read it otherwise.”

You take the stick of black kohl out of your dress pocket and flip over the list. The back is blank. You write as Autumn watches, baffled, fascinated.

Your Grace, you begin, and then scratch it out. You start again.

Aegon,

Aemond has imprisoned me in a brothel. He knows the madam (middle-aged, brown hair, clever).

“What is this place called?” you ask Autumn.

“The Pink Pearl,” she says.

Autumn works here, if you recall her. She says the establishment is known as the Pink Pearl. Please send someone to rescue me at once. I am to be put to work soon, and I am afraid.

You pause. What will he have been told? What will he think of you now?

I beg your forgiveness for my deceit. I did not mislead you out of malice. I knew you needed help, and that I would not be able to provide it if my true identity was known. I have not done anything to undermine your cause. I have not written a word to my family. I assume they now believe me to be dead. I do not want this, but it is a sacrifice I have made so that I can continue to serve you.

Please help me. Please allow me to return to the Red Keep.

My name was a lie, but none of the rest was.

Angel

“You’re highborn, aren’t you?” Autumn says, hushed, awed. “You must be, to write like that.”

“Yes. And I am a friend of King Aegon. If he knows I’m here, he will pay for me.” You don’t know that for sure, but you have hope, that risky rattling beast.

“He will pay to fuck you, you mean?”

“I believe he will buy my freedom.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

Then I will slit my own throat with one of these knives. “It’s better for everyone if he does.” You fold the parchment closed and then give it to Autumn. She takes it, perplexed but willing. “I cannot leave this place. But you can. I need you to get that letter to the king. You know the way to the Red Keep; you have been inside these secret passageways. Hand the letter to him directly if possible. If you are intercepted, ask to see the Dowager Queen Alicent or…” You debate this. Sir Criston is closer to Aemond than Aegon, but you believe the opposite to be true for the youngest Targaryen brother. “Or Prince Daeron. Tell them that the letter must be read by the king immediately, and by him only. If he is resting, he must be roused. If he is speaking with someone, he must be interrupted. Explain this and then leave. And do not allow the prince regent to see you.” Aemond’s words blow through you like a cold wind: If she tries to escape, kill her.

“This is a difficult task,” Autumn says uncertainly, the folded square of parchment disappearing into the bodice of her gown. “I cannot promise you anything. But I can try.”

“If I am rescued, I will see that you and your child are provided for. You will have your own home, one far, far away from here. You will never have to answer to the madam again. You will never have to lie with a man who is not of your choosing. Your life will be your own.”

She stares at you, dazed and wonderous. She cannot even fathom this, but she knows she wants it. You’ve begun to feel that way about certain things as well. When Autumn speaks, it is in little more than a whisper. “I would like that very much.”

“You will have my most fervent gratitude.”

“I will depart tonight after supper. I will tell the madam that I am craving apple cake from a street vendor.”

“Thank you, Autumn,” you say, lips trembling as they curl into a smile, tears blurry in your eyes.

She points to the stick of black kohl you’ve used as a makeshift quill, smirking. It’s still clutched in your dominant hand. “You’d better hide that before people start showing up looking for soup.”

Hours later, you are trying to fall asleep in a room you share with half a dozen other women who are not presently working, beds so close together they almost touch, soft snores, mattresses shifting when people roll over, a thin wool blanket pulled all the way up to your chin.

Aegon will read the letter. Aegon will send someone to rescue me.

In the darkness, your hands wander down to your belly, your hips, lower. Skating over your white silk nightgown, your fingertips press cautiously at a place where you sometimes feel an indistinct, uneasy sort of pleasure. You rarely touch yourself; you cannot do so without remembering that your body is not your own and never has been. But now, for the very first time and without any premeditation, you picture Aegon—his murky oceanic eyes, his crooked grin, his hands, his bravery, his gentleness, his shock of white-blond hair adorned with that single tiny braid—and instantly your once-ambiguous desire sharpens, strengthens, is accompanied by a wetness that you can feel blooming warm and needful beneath your nightgown.

But it’s not going to be him. It’s going to be some stranger who doesn’t know me and doesn’t want to.

You roll over onto your side and thrust your hands under the pillow, squeeze your eyes shut until they ache, try not to hear the moans that creep through the walls like dark veins of blood poisoning.

~~~~~~~~~~

All day you wait for someone to cross through the doorway of the brothel to claim you, a guard, a messenger, Daeron, Criston, anybody. But no one does. The women here keep strange hours: late to bed, late to rise, breakfast at noon, lunch at four or five, supper long after nightfall. You pick listlessly at a breakfast of biscuits with butter, honey, and blackberry jam, bacon, weak wine, pomegranate juice, lemonweed tea to prevent an unintended child like Autumn’s.

“I was stopped by a guard just outside the Red Keep,” she mutters to you in a stolen moment, huddled together at the end of a hallway by a window that opens out onto the courtyard. “They agreed to let me see Prince Daeron. He took the letter and said he would deliver it. That’s all I could do. I hope it’s enough.”

I hope so too, you think to yourself as you thank her, marveling with brick-heavy horror at how all the Valyrian ancestry and riches in the world cannot save you from the fate of being born a card for others to play, trade, bet on, use until it is worn and faceless. I hope so with everything I’m made of.

The other women take you with them to the bathhouse down the street, and in the labyrinth of sweltering pools and swirling steam you scrub yourself all over until your skin is tender to the touch. You use perfumed soaps and luxurious floral oils, not for healing but for vanity, so strange men will imagine you to be an intoxicating fantasy, so any human imperfections can be ignored. You pluck some stray hairs and trim others. You inspect each other for bruises or scratches or bitemarks that will need to be covered. No one mentions how they got them. Everybody knows.

Back in the brothel, the women show you how to wear your hair and do your makeup: black kohl on the eyes, beeswax dyed with berry juice on the lips, powder on the face to even out your complexion. Servants flit around fussing over hairstyles and switching ripped seams on dresses. Your silk gown—the one you will be raped in—is a soft, helpless, feminine lavender. You are shown to a bedchamber: flickering candles, a mountain of pillows and jewel-toned throw blankets, harp music and fresh air breathing in through the windows. You sit on the edge of the bed wringing your hands. You are waiting to be rescued. You are waiting to be harmed.

The door opens, and he enters. The madam was truthful: she has found you a slight, benign-looking young man. He smiles shyly, clanging in his light armor. He is indeed a soldier on leave from the front. He wears the crest of his family as the clasp for his cape, a white shield with a black cross. He is a Norcross, the same as the dying boy you were tending when Aemond pulled you off the battlefield at Rook’s Rest. How easy it would have been for you to not be here right now; a difference of a few minutes, a few meters, and Aemond never would have found you.

“Hello,” the man says pleasantly. He is yanking off his boots.

“Hello.” You are still sitting on the edge of the massive bed, big enough for four or five occupants. This is not a coincidence, you’re certain. But that will come later, once you have been sufficiently broken in. Your stomach lurches; you try not to show it.

Now he is taking off his cape. “You’re nervous,” he observes. There is a pitcher of wine on the table in the middle of the room. He pours two cups and hands one to you. You take it—intending to be dignified, ladylike—and then gulp it down. The Norcross laughs. “You needn’t fear me, maiden,” he says. “I am here for pleasure, not pain. I have paid a considerable price for you. You are a piece of treasure, a rare gem, and I will handle you accordingly.”

Then he reaches out to stroke your cheek, and something in you shatters, splits open, screams. I don’t know this man. I don’t trust this man. You shrink away from him and retreat to the center of the vast bed. The Norcross blinks at you, a little amused, a bit bewildered. “Sir, you have stumbled upon a great opportunity,” you tell him. “I am no ordinary woman.”

“No?” he says. But he is smirking beneath gleaming eyes, like this is a joke; and he is removing his armor as well.

“I am here as the result of a dreadful misunderstanding. You see, I have actually already been claimed. There is another man who has the right to take my innocence if he so chooses.”

“Oh?” the Norcross says. He is unbuttoning his white cotton shirt. “Who?”

“King Aegon.”

He throws his head back and guffaws, dark hair long enough to cover his ears and brush against the nape of his neck. “This is a very charming jape. Me? Getting to deflower the king’s chosen whore? Yes, yes, very good. Delightful. Delicious.” He crawls onto the bed; the mattress shifts beneath your palms. A cold sweat slicks across your skin. Goosebumps rise on your arms. He doesn’t hear me. He doesn’t want to.

“I’m not joking,” you implore the Norcross. “I am well-acquainted with King Aegon, he cares for me. I was brought here by mistake and against his knowledge. If you assist me in returning to him, I’m sure you will be generously compensated for your trouble—”

The man’s hand juts out, snags in your hair, yanks and tears at it. You yelp and struggle as he wrestles you down onto the mattress and settles his weight on top of you. “You’re mine, all mine,” he growls, smiling, playing along with what he has chosen to believe is a fantasy. “Not the king’s whore. The king has plenty of those already, he probably has thousands. But you’re all mine.”

“Get off me,” you order him, as if you are still the daughter of one of the wealthiest houses in Westeros and not some powerless, penniless woman imprisoned in ornate walls and perfumed silk; and isn’t this where you always would have ended up anyway? Flinching on some stranger’s bed as he tried to claim you, subdue you, force pieces of himself inside you?

“I will show you, maiden. The king is a cripple now. He could not satisfy you anyway. I will give you what he could not. And I’ll give it to you more than once, if you ask nicely.” He presses his lips to yours, a sickening mockery of a kiss, all flesh and no heat. He is wearing only his trousers; they could be gone in an instant. He is tugging your sleeves off your shoulders to get to your breasts.

“Please don’t do this, please stop, I’ll give you anything—”

“Everything I want is right here.”

Just let him do it, you think. I can’t leave this place, I can’t fight him off. There’s no way out. Just let him do it, and live to see if freedom will arrive tomorrow.

Aemond’s words fill your skull like flashes of lighting: If she tries to escape, kill her.

The Norcross man is pulling off his trousers. It strikes you like a closed fist: the terror, the injustice, the rage. You swing at his face, your knuckles rapping against his cheekbones. “Get off of me—!”

There is a tremendous fracturing noise, and at first you think the man must have snapped one of your bones, your radius or your tibia or your clavicle. But no: it was the bedchamber door being thrown open so violently it hit the wall behind it and cracked down the middle. And now there are footsteps, and now there are guards pouring into the room, and now the point of a blade bursts through the Norcross man’s windpipe splattering blood across the bed, the walls, the wood boards of the floor. You are shrieking; scarlet rain peppers your face, chest, hands.

“You’d take an unwilling woman?!” Aegon demands of the dying man, who gapes at him with rapidly fading eyes and a mouth hemorrhaging dark, lethal red. The king is wearing all black, tunic, trousers, boots. Half of his hair is pulled back from his face and secured with a black ribbon. You have never seen him like this before. You have never seen him brutal, formidable, furious. “You fucking animal. Enjoy drowning in your own blood.”

Aegon wrenches his sword free from the dying man’s throat and he falls face-down onto the mattress as you scramble away. And then Aegon falls too: his legs give out and he collapses to his knees, kneeling in a pool of the Norcross man’s blood, the hilt of his sword tumbling out of his grasp. You bolt off the bed and drop down onto the floor beside him.

“Aegon?!”

“Are you okay?” He takes your face in his hands—they’re shaking, they’re weak again, but just strong enough to cradle the slope of your jaw—and looks at you, turning your face one way and then the other, his eyes searching for bruises, lacerations, more fuel for the vengeful fire that blazes in him. The burn on his own right cheek is inflamed, blistering. He does not seem to notice.

“I’m okay, I promise.”

“Did they hurt you?”

“No, no, you got here just in time.”

And Aegon—this so-called monster, this alleged beast, this man who the Blacks swear is a villain and a degenerate and soulless—slips the sleeves of your silk lavender gown back up over your shoulders so your chest is covered. “If it’s any consolation, you’re fucking beautiful.”

“Of course you would prefer me dressed like a prostitute.”

He laughs, embraces you, holds you to him, the first time he ever has. Your arms link around the back of his neck, your fingers knot in his hair. You are so close, yet not nearly close enough; you want him completely, always. You can’t claw your way back up the cliff you’ve fallen down.

There is a commotion as the guards that accompanied Aegon to the brothel part to allow two new arrivals into the bedchamber. Aemond and Criston now stand just inside the doorway, breathing heavily from their sprint across the city. Your gaze meets Aemond’s and you clutch Aegon tighter. The king kisses your temple—so quickly and unceremoniously it feels like a habit, something instinctual, something innately right—and reluctantly unravels himself from you. He grabs the nearest bedpost and hauls himself to his feet, wincing, groaning, bracing himself against it with both hands.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Aemond shouts at his brother.

“You will not harm her! You will not take her from me!”

“Aegon, she’s not a Thorne, she’s a Celtigar! Her father sits on Rhaenyra’s council, he funds her war effort, when our men are killed it’s with arrows and steel that he paid for—!”

“We’re all different people now!” Aegon roars. “All of us! You were some pathetic runt, I was useless, Daeron was a child, Helaena was happy, Criston was devoted to Rhaenyra, Mother was her closest friend, all of us have been changed by this world and its endless goddamn misery! So she was born a Celtigar, is she to be eternally condemned for that? Is she truly irredeemable? Can no acts of service to the Greens’ king convince you of her loyalty? She saved my life!”

“Are you insane?! We can’t trust her!”

“I am the king!” Aegon bellows. “I am still the one who gets to make these decisions, no matter how unworthy you think I am!”

“She lied to you, to me, to everyone, that cannot go unpunished!”

And then Aegon responds, but not in the Common Tongue. He says something—laboriously, haltingly—in a language you recognize only from hearing Daemon and Rhaenyra converse in it. You were not aware that Aegon knew High Valyrian well enough to carry a conversation. Perhaps Aemond and Criston weren’t either; they exchange a brief, astonished glance. The guards’ eyes dart between the king and the prince regent.

Aemond replies, his tone cutting but his words swift, seamless, graceful, fluent. Aegon stumbles his way through a sentence or two, pausing several times to conjure the correct word. Aemond says something else, an effortless litany of syllables your forebears shared. Aegon forces out one last plea. It sounds painful; it sounds like a confession. Aemond stares at his brother, perhaps scandalized, perhaps merely stunned.

“Alright?” Aegon pants, in anguish now. His hands are like talons on the bedpost, the force of his fingernails leaving white scratches in the wood. “You get it? You understand?”

“Fine,” Aemond says, low and bitter.

“You will not harm her. She stays in the Red Keep. Promise me, Aemond. I cannot rest until you do.”

Aemond nods, glaring down at the floor.

“Criston?” Aegon presses. “Promise me. If he breaks his word, you will stop him. I command this. I am your king.”

“I promise, Aegon,” Criston agrees, willingly enough.

“Good,” Aegon says. “Good.” And then he blacks out and crumples to the floor. The guards rush for him, but Criston tells them to stand back. He stoops low, lifts the king, throws him over one shoulder and carries him. Aemond fetches his brother’s fallen sword. You follow them out of the brothel, staying as far away from Aemond as you can. You pause just long enough to peek into the kitchen.

“Autumn?” you call, and she looks up from the chicken she’s been coating with herbs and butter. “I’m leaving now. You’re coming with me. Get your things.”

“What things?” she says, grinning. She cleans her hands and trots after you, one palm resting on the swell of her belly, her copper sea of hair streaming out behind her.

Inside the Red Keep, you inform the servants that Autumn will be staying as a guest of the royal family and that she is to have a room near yours. Then you hurry to Aegon’s chamber. He is sprawled across the bed, writhing and moaning. Grand Maester Orwyle is administering milk of the poppy. Criston is stripping him, heaving off Aegon’s boots and trousers before gingerly removing his tunic to reveal bandages red with blood around his shoulders. He has torn the half-mended flesh there. He suffers, he heals, he suffers again.

“Angel?” Aegon chokes out, reaching for you with tears flooding from his eyes.

“I’m here.” You take his hand. “What hurts, Aegon?”

“Everywhere,” he gasps.

You tell Orwyle: “Give him another dose.” And a second goblet of milk of the poppy is emptied down the king’s throat. Within a minute, he is mercifully unconscious again.

Criston looks at you. “What’s wrong with his face?”

“Sunlight. The rest of his burns were covered, but not the one on his cheek. Fresh burns must be kept out of the sun. He knows that.” You unwrap Aegon’s bandages; his wounds need to be cleaned and re-dressed.

“Oh, seven hells,” Criston whispers, covering his mouth with one hand. There are four or five ruptures around each shoulder, thin bleeding crevices that branch out like the legs of a red spider. Grand Maester Orwyle ambles off to order servants to fetch water, vinegar, honey, linen, more milk of the poppy.

“I should have done better,” you say, and your voice breaks. “I should have used more rose oil on his shoulders. I should have made him stretch three or four times a day.”

“You’ve tended to him tirelessly,” Criston says gently.

“I shouldn’t have lied about who I was.”

“I don’t see how you could have saved his life otherwise.”

“Go find Alicent,” you say. “Explain what’s happened, but don’t bring her to visit him yet. It will only upset her.”

“Yes,” Criston agrees, and leaves.

Outside, the sun is setting, and all the world is the color of dragonfire. Grand Maester Orwyle returns with servants and supplies. As you are dabbing at Aegon’s wounds with cloths dripping with water and vinegar, Daeron appears in the bedchamber doorway. His eyes—large and expressive like Aegon’s, but more crystalline, less dark—are shimmering and wider than you’ve ever seen them.

“Is he dying?” Daeron asks, sounding fearful and very young.

“No more than usual,” Aegon rasps; and that’s how you know he is awake again.

When Aegon is cleaned, bandaged, and soothed once again with milk of the poppy, the two of you are left alone. You perch on the edge of the mattress and can’t stop touching him, his left hand where his dragon ring glints in the flickering candlelight, his disheveled silver hair that still has that little braid you made for him. You don’t know what to say. You worry that if you begin talking, everything will spill out like a monsoon or a rogue wave, things you can’t take back, things you don’t fully understand yourself.

“House Celtigar, huh?” Aegon murmurs drowsily, smiling. “I’ve never been so happy to see a crab in my bed.”

And it hits you all at once: I would take every last drop of pain for this man. I would slit him open and drain him of it, swallow it down, assume the debt. I would carry every burden, every red flare of agony and ache in his bones. I would learn the art of self-loathing if he could forget it. I would trade fates with him, threads cut and crossed and burned to ash.

“What?” Aegon asks. He’s watching you with those storm-blue eyes, glassy with pain and poison.

Why wouldn’t you send someone else in your place? Why would you go yourself? Why would you injure yourself so grievously, so senselessly? “Why would you do this for me?”

“You are the only person I’ve never disappointed. I’d like to keep that going if I can.” He takes your hand and laces his fingers through yours. “You’re so far away.”

You lie down on the bed and curl up beside him, careful not to put pressure on his fresh wounds. You place one palm on the center of his bandaged chest, the other against his unburned cheek. Aegon pulls you in closer until your noses are nearly touching and you swing one leg up to rest on top of his; even then, he keeps a hand on your thigh, as if to make sure you don’t leave. The other twists into your hair and stays there. Aegon dives into a deep, starless sleep and you doze next to him. When you catch wisps of dreams like fireflies in a child’s grasp, you hear crashing waves and see dragons pitching into the sea: Vermax at the Gullet, Arrax into Shipbreaker Bay.

Why did Aemond have to murder Luke? Why did he have to start this war?

Something wakes you, a sound, an indescribable shift in the room. You open your eyes and turn to see Aemond, arms crossed and back propped against the opposite wall. You rise as carefully as you can so you don’t disturb Aegon, untangling yourself from him like he’s something catastrophically fragile, a spider’s web, a splintering pane of glass.

You stand and take several steps towards Aemond, only so you can speak without waking Aegon. “What do you want?”

“I fear I did not conduct myself particularly well yesterday,” he says. “I may have acted…impulsively. Unwisely.”

“Your capacity for self-reflection is truly inspiring.”

Aemond frowns. “I’m being serious.”

“I’m not interested.”

“If we are to be on the same side of this war, we should learn to understand each other.”

“I don’t want to understand you. Your mind must be a horrible place to live.”

He stares at you with his sole remaining eye, cold and hurt and wrathful and hopeless.

You ask softly, knowing that only Aemond can tell you: “What did he say? Back at the brothel?”

Aemond does not answer for so long that you convince yourself he’s not going to. At last, he decides to extend a peace offering. “He said that he cannot live without you. Or that he wouldn’t want to. I’m not certain which he meant. His High Valyrian has always been terrible.”

Then Aemond walks out of the room without another word.

[dewdropdinosaur]

The Whole Being Dead Thing

LUCIFER X READER (PLATONIC) Summary: Lucifer is your father and to say you have been distant the past 7 years would be an understatement. Being the sarcastic owner of a murder business doesn't exactly make the family reunion even more enjoyable. Warnings: Some cuss words and a gun --> Reader is similar to Blitz from Helluva Boss. Rating: PG-13 Can't remember who requested this but here you go!

In the bustling streets of Pentagram City, where sin and redemption intertwined in a chaotic dance, there lurked a figure shrouded in darkness. Y/N, the eldest daughter of Lucifer Morningstar, once roamed. Born into a lineage of darkness and power, she was destined for greatness—or so it seemed.The disappearance of her mother, Lilith, shattered the fragile bonds that tied Y/N to her family. Amidst the turmoil and whispers of betrayal, she made a choice that would alter her destiny forever. With a heart heavy with unresolved pain, Y/N turned her back on her kin and vanished into the shadows, leaving behind her legacy and her birthright.

Long had it been since Y/N departed from the opulent corridors of her father's domain. With her heart heavy and her resolve unyielding, Y/N ventured into the abyss of uncertainty, carving her path through the crimson-lit alleyways of Pentagram City.

In the shadows, she found her solace, her purpose. She became a legend whispered in hushed tones—a silent specter weaving through the fabric of the city, a master of the art of assassination. With meticulous precision and deadly grace, she built her empire, brick by blood-soaked brick, until her name became synonymous with fear itself. Starting her own business built on assassination both inside Hell and up on Earth, Y/N essentially ruled the criminal underworld of Hell. Her own kingdom, not given to her by birthright, but by hard work and a penchant for blowing shit up. 

Years passed, and Lucifer, the fallen angel turned proprietor of the infamous Hazbin Hotel, watched over his kingdom with a heavy heart. The absence of his daughter weighed upon him like an anchor, a constant reminder of the rift that had torn their family asunder. After the disappearance of his eldest, Lucifer then distanced himself from his youngest; believing himself the one to blame for everything leaving.  He missed his daughter, though he would never admit it openly. The pain of her absence lingered like a wound that refused to heal, a constant reminder of his failure as a father.

 However, as time wore on and Hazbin Hotel grew - Lucifer reintroduced himself into Charlie’s life and they became reconnected and virtually inseparable. Charlie, being the optimistic being that she was, decided that if one family reunion was going so well, another should follow. Drafting out a letter to her older sister in bright pink ink, the note was mailed and received. 

After weeks of debate, Y/N finally relented. Maybe seeing Charlie after all would be nice, just the two of them. Putting on her normal outfit: white tank top, black leather jacket, and black jeans along with combat boots; Y/N marched to the hotel. Knocking on the door, Y/N straightened her top. However, what greeted her was not her energetic sister but instead Lucifer, who stood with wide eyes. 

Time seemed to stand still as father and daughter locked eyes, a thousand unspoken words hanging heavy in the air between them. For a moment, the world faded away, leaving only the echo of their shared past and the weight of their estrangement.

Charlie, the ever-optimistic princess of Hell, stood beside Lucifer, her gaze shifting between the two with a mixture of curiosity and concern. Sensing the tension thickening in the air, she stepped forward, a beacon of warmth amidst the shadows.

"Y/N," Charlie finally spoke, voice high pitched as she reached to embrace her sister. "It's been too long."

Y/N's expression remained impassive, her mask of stoicism betraying no hint of the emotions that roiled within her. She nodded, acknowledging her words with a silent understanding.

Y/N's gaze was steely, her demeanor guarded as she faced the father she had long forsaken. The awkwardness between them was palpable, a tangible barrier separating them even as they stood mere feet apart.

"Y/N," Lucifer finally spoke, his voice a mix of longing and regret, "it's been... too long."

A flicker of emotion crossed Y/N's face—a fleeting vulnerability that was quickly masked behind a facade of indifference. “Hi, dad.” 

Lucifer shifted uncomfortably, sensing the palpable tension hanging in the air. "How have you been?"

Y/N's lips twisted into a bitter smirk. "Oh, you know, same old, same old. Just running a famous murder stick in the depths of Hell. How about you?"

Lucifer winced at the reminder of his daughter's chosen path, a pang of ick gnawing at his insides. "I've been... managing," he replied evasively, unable to meet her gaze.

“So after 7 years that is all you have to say to me? 'How have you been'?” 

“Well, I--is that a gun!?"

Sighing and tapping the glock strapped to her thigh, Y/N spoke “Yes, dad. it's a gun. Sheesh, for sin incarnate you really are such a downer. Get it? Downer, cause like you go down on people...oh whatever.

Charlie, you got a bartender in this place right? Cause I am gonna need a shitty drink if y'all are gonna be a tough crowd."

Charlie, sensing the awkwardness and unable to get sex jokes thickening, attempted to lighten the mood. "Well, uh, why don't we sit down and catch up? I'm sure there's plenty to talk about and yeah…we have a bartender.!"

Y/N's laugh was hollow, devoid of mirth, completely avoiding her father in favor for his sister. "Sure, why not? I've always wanted to hear about the latest happenings in the Hotel for lost souls. So tell me sis, how’s life been mhmm?” 

The reunion was awkward, fraught with the weight of unresolved grievances and unspoken apologies. Yet, amidst the awkwardness, there lingered a glimmer of hope—a flicker of light amidst the darkness that had shrouded their relationship for so long. Alcohol made Y/N much friendlier anyway.

[starlostseungmin]

EMPYREAN PRINCE CASCADES, KSM.

✰ summary: “i am yours even if this is meant to be a loveless marriage between us. no feelings involved, just politics.” — it started with a diplomatic agreement between two kingdoms to stop a war but ended up cascading to a love-driven affinity.

✰ pairing: prince!seungmin x afab!reader (princess)

✰ genre: slow burn, strangers-to-lovers, fixed marriage, mediocre angst, romance.

✰ warnings: profanity, mentions of war, wounds, kissing, not proofread, let me know if i missed something.

✰ word count: 10.2k

✰ playlist — war of hearts (until kingdom come) masterlist collab. ♡

✰ notes: thank you so much @hyunverse for making this collab possible! i enjoyed writing for seungmo’s entry and i hope everyone will love reading each member’s endjng. as much as i want to write this longer than 10k, it is what it is for me tho T-T but i’m really happy that i am part of it! once again, thank you so much. and to the readers, i hope you’ll enjoy the rollercoaster ride! don’t forget to leave feedbacks and reblog! <333

✰ tags: @writerracha @princelingperfect @ggundeuri @orithyia-eriphyle @vumiixlyy @luvrhyune @hopeladybug @misitmoonlight @baldi-2 @baddecisionsworld @thetaytayray @midsoulz @hyunverse @realbangchan @hafsa-hoofsa-heefs @rachabreathing @nixtape-foryou @ameliesaysshoo @jisungsdaydreamer @https-skzology @day6andetcetera @linonyang @hgema @seoli-16 @bokk-minnie @foliea @amagumorii @nhyunn @ravyaryn @ink-spilled-stars @himarose @sherryblossom @shakalakaboomboo @r-arrh @siriusly1 @catwonwoo @suebinn @foxinnie8

Seungmin stood at the altar, hands clasped below his waist as he watched you walk down the aisle. The Empyrean cathedral was packed with the elites and other royals from the neighboring kingdoms to witness the Princess of Noctifer betrothed to the Prince of Empyreanーeven the townsmen. A sigh escaped your lips as your hands tightened their grip on your bouquet. This marriage was too soon and both kingdoms wanted to rush the celebration. And for what? Treaties of peace, stronger alliance, preventing wars, and improving bilateral agreementsーjust for the sake of politics perhaps?

You were sick of it but at the same time, you were left with no choice but to stand for your kingdom’s well-being. And the smiles your parents are drawing on their faces hold the triumph and success while letting their daughter falls into the hands of someone they don’t know. 

The wedding march just comes in and out of your ears. A traditional sound you always hear when you were invited to all the wedding events that happened in the past. They were all arranged marriages, nothing has done it out of love. Royals would say love is an inconvenience to your duties, yours even, but you’ve never been in love. You were just another bookworm who loved to bury their nose between the pages of romance novels hoping for those stories to become your reality. But now that you are stuck with Seungmin for life, your fate started to change the moment you took a step toward the altar. 

You don’t know Seungmin, you don’t know a lot of things about him, you may have heard rumors that he is a snob and doesn’t-give-a-fuck type of prince but he is less or more than that. This marriage was made to strengthen the two kingdoms' alliances and fight together in matters of war. These reasons are not new anymore, they are always the excuse to gather wealth and a repulsive sense of power. But you were too independent to be the wife of someone you barely know. Two months wasn’t enough to get to know each other, but you know Seungmin isn’t as bad as what you heard from baseless rumors yet you could feel how cold he is. 

“It takes time,” They said. “The Prince is kind,” They said. “The Queen wanted him to marry to have grandchildren,” It made no sense at all. 

You don’t hate him, you don’t like him either and nothing is going on even if the priest asked him to kiss the bride. No spark and passion. That kiss you shared on the altar was just for show. A way to fool everyone that you were good and Seungmin felt the same. Nothing. Both of you admit that it was hard to pretend and force yourself to follow the things you were and weren’t supposed to do. He couldn’t even flash a smile or hold your hand unless necessary. It hurts your pride and ego to stand beside him, but who are you to complain? Both of you agreed to do this in the first place anyway. 

The candles burned as the black smoke escalated in the air—quiet. Sounds of crickets from the open garden outside and the wind casually enter your shared bedroom. You sat quietly as Seungmin was reading a letter from the parliament. He should be paying attention to you as a husband and wife, but there he is, covered with focus and thoughts as the words echo inside his head from the paper. It was hard to pretend that you are not hurt when you are not heard. You believed that ignoring each other would be easy in the sense that you’ve got no romantic feelings involved, but the fact that he is supposed to be a loving husband who pays attention to his wife. At least getting to know each other more. 

“It’s already bedtime, Your Highness,” You spoke as Seungmin sighed, rolling the paper. 

“Let’s not do this,” He said, sitting beside you on your shared bed for the first night. “I know you are not comfortable,” He added. 

“It doesn’t matter how I feel,” You said, looking at him but Seungmin couldn’t even spare you a look. “Can you at least lay with me?” You asked. 

“No need,” He sighed. “We’ll get a divorce after 2 years anyway, you won’t have to pretend that you care.” 

“Because we’re in this situation? I’m still your wife, I have the very right to care.” You retorted but your husband just shook his head in response. 

“Good night Y/N,” 

Seungmin left the room leaving you dumbfounded. It was supposed to be your honeymoon right after the wedding celebration. The royal servants have prepared a place of your privacy and expected a night full of passion and love, yet both of you loved to disappoint everyone else and listen to your feelings. But still, you were going to try, for the sake of this agreement. And there he disappeared. He doesn’t care and you just heard the doors of the room shut as his footsteps faded in the hallway. Only a sigh escaped from your lips and took the candlestick from the table, blowing the flame away. 

Being distant from each other cascaded almost every day. You are often found in the library reading books, sometimes in the garden taking strolls with your maids tailing you, and rarely at the study. Seungmin doesn’t pay attention, maybe he trusts you a bit with intelligence and is dependent when it comes to politics. But who cares about politics when your husband wanted a divorce after 2 years? This marriage is also political from whatever angle you may want to look at. 

Many people believe that falling in love in this type of situation is accurate but dealing with this is the opposite of being written in a fairytale. You believe that they only exist in books and are never written in real life. People consider themselves lucky when they get to experience what falling in love feels like in a genuine manner. But risking your freedom for a loveless and political marriage is a whole different story. 

It holds the agreement: “I am yours even if this is meant to be a loveless marriage between us. No feelings involved, just politics.” You admit that it hurts your ego to jump into the well. The possibility of falling in love is crucial in this type of scenario especially when Seungmin doesn’t give a shit and you just try to be what you are supposed to be—the new Princess of the Empyrean kingdom and the wife of the only heir to the throne. But sometimes, you wish it was more than that. 

It was the usual Thursday afternoon where you are sitting on the couch inside the library disregarding the fact that you have to study the negotiations of Seungmin’s kingdom. Reading novels is a force of habit and you are always entertained which is disregarding the fact that you need to study. 

The big windows allowed the afternoon sunlight to touch the marble floor as they reflected on the glass making rainbows and shapes. It was pretty to look at and it added to the mood of your imagination. You know Seungmin loves to read, but his interest in books is highly different from yours, from the genre to the authors and use of vocabulary. He’s a little bit picky about it. But then again, why would you care about the smallest detail about him when you don’t even matter from his perspective? 

Only a sigh escaped your lips as the thought of him crossed your mind. Living inside the Empyrean Chateau—where you decided to stay after the honeymoon—for the last couple of weeks seems heavy and dull. The routine keeps on repeating itself every day and you rarely see Seungmin around. He doesn’t share the same room with you anymore and at the same time, his duty is in the palace of the King and Queen. It’s peaceful, somehow but you would still feel the loneliness inside despite the presence of your maids and the other workers around. You weren’t supposed to think about Seungmin when he’s not around but as a wife, you need to mind your commitment. 

Flipping a page on the book, you heard a knock outside of the library which had caught your attention. It doesn’t happen every day, but then you sensed a familiar presence that envelopes the Chateau.

“Come in!” You said, placing the bookmark in between the pages and standing up to place it back on its respective shelf. 

“Your Highness,” Your maid greeted with a respectful bow. “The Prince has arrived,” 

“He’s home?” You asked. “For what reason?” 

“He wants to see you,” The maid answered. It is probably about business. You thought because that’s the only thing that runs this affinity. 

Dismissing the maid with a polite thank you, you headed outside to meet your husband at the hall. His hair is disheveled from the strong wind, gushing outside but his outfit remains neat. You stood a few meters away from him as his eyes darted on the big portrait of you and him wearing your wedding attires being displayed at the center part of the wall—it would be the first one to see the moment you enter inside the Chateau. He is dashing and debonair, the type of Prince who is pristine and has a good reputation, minus the attitude or maybe that’s how he is treating you differently than anyone else. 

“Your Highness,” You called and executed a bow as Seungmin turned to face you. 

“Y/n,” He said, monotonously. 

“How was your visit to town?” You asked, flashing the most patient smile you have. 

“Good,” He started. “How is everything in the Chateau?” He asked out of nowhere which is not his manner when it comes to you. 

“Good,” You answered vaguely as he gave a nod in response. But to be very honest, Seungmin doesn’t know what else to say. Maybe he decided to come home to inform you about the news he had heard this morning from the court or not. He probably wanted to see you out of nowhere, well, he doesn’t know. 

“Would you spare me a minute? I have something to say,” He said. 

“I am listening, Your Highness,” You said. 

“Stop with the formalities, just call me Seungmin,” He answered as you smiled gently. 

“If that is fine with you?” You asked as he shake his head. 

“I insist,” He answered again. “It will be a little odd for a wife to call their husband so formally. This will stay for quite a while, Y/n,” It was weird.  

“Alright,” You smiled as you go along with it. “What are you going to tell me?” 

“Shall we take a stroll by the garden first?” It was new. 

For the past two weeks of almost ignoring each other, Seungmin’s attitude today seems different. The next thing you knew, you were both walking on the aisle watching the flowers bloom in the middle of summer. Roses are red, the lavender swayed with the air, sunflowers are standing tall and others made it healthy and lively. Seungmin fell silent as his hands were placed behind his back as he walked with you. No words were exchanged as you waited for him to speak up. 

You tried to observe him more as you indulge the silence you’d shared. His side profile is so beautiful, and how much more if you get to see the wholeness of his beautiful face? You don’t want to fall for his physical beauty yet you can’t help but admire him. It is dangerous to fall for looks but you admit you like the fact that he is a bookworm too. And as you had thought a while ago, getting to know Seungmin for the past two months wasn’t enough. 

“There’s chaos happening at the Western border of Empyrean. Terrorists from the Seraphina Empire wanted to cross our borders and raided a part of the town.” He started. “My father wanted me to go with him to settle a negotiation but I think I will be fighting for the war.” 

“Didn’t Noctifer deployed enough soldiers to assist?” You asked. You knew the chaos in the Western border but Seungmin coming with the King to fight for peace is should be not surprising but you felt the opposite. There is a part of you that you don’t want him to leave even if you barely see him around. 

“Your kingdom has deployed enough,” He answered. “But I still need to go. I have to provide aid and temporary homes for the victims. Might as well learn something to expand my knowledge and combatting skills.” He sighs in between. “It’s a hustle,” 

Your eyes didn’t leave his face. The expression he’s been giving is a serious one which made you hooked while listening. 

“When are you leaving?” You asked, studying his features. 

“In four days,” He sighed again. “I need to stay here to think. Will you be alright?” He asked, looking at you. It was your chance to look away and distract yourself from looking at the flowers. Yes, I will be fine, I am used to being alone in this place without your presence and why are you suddenly worried? You didn’t answer for a while, you don’t know what to say. Seungmin, leaving for a war? You don’t know when he will be back. 

“I will,” You smiled. 

“I mean, will you be fine having me around or when I’m gone?” He asked again, halting to look at you. 

“I mean, you don’t even care about me so what’s with the question?” That was rude. It was a straightforward question, but you were just being honest. How on earth would Seungmin ask about it? He never cared in the first place. You could clearly remember what he said the night after your wedding. Getting a divorce in 2 years after everything is just stupid nonsense. But Seungmin stood there in silence. 

“I just wanted to know,” He said after a few seconds. 

“It doesn’t matter Seungmin,” You said as he nodded in agreement. It was awkward for both of you. Getting married without feelings is already hard enough to deal with. The context is empty but with one purpose, politics. “We just have to deal with this and convince everyone we’re in love,” 

“It’s childish,” He smirked. “I’m not one for those,” 

“Me too,” You said. “But there’s nothing wrong with putting in some effort, right?” 

Seungmin looked at you as if you were a mad woman and you met his eyes. True he is not fond of the genre you love but he has a part to play for the sake of this marriage. But your husband shook his head at the statement and gave you a small smile, you didn’t know what for. He understands your point yet he doesn’t want to play pretend to fool everyone in the Kingdom, the fear of commitment is all he could think of. As a Prince, he has other commitments, but to you, it is different, the one that he is unsure of. Pretending to be in love. 

“You’re reading too much of that genre,” He said, shaking his head again. “There will be a gathering at the palace the night before I leave,” He said. “Everyone is expecting you to come,” 

“I will be there when you need me,” You smiled. 

“I guess you will have to deal with me in four days,” He smiled as you gave him a bow. 

“I wouldn’t mind,” You said. “So, what do you want to do?” 

Seungmin stood in front of his desk reading the reports of the chaos happening inside the Western border of the Empyrean kingdom. He remembered that this situation is quite familiar after rebel groups had messed up with the Kingdom’s sovereignty rights. Noctifer, however, has a large military capacity that the Empyrean needs to solidify their protection. Unfortunately, they were not on good terms. The King offered to marry his only son to the princess to make a peace treaty. The Prince thought it was unnecessary to build such a relationship when they only want an ally when war broke out. But it was basic tradition. Noctifer’s Princess needed a groom, as the higher-ups would say. 

It was confusing and hard at the same time. The plan flows for a year after several negotiations and proposals. The two newlyweds were given a couple of months to know each other, but as has been mentioned, it wasn’t enough. You denied it when they said you needed a groom to run Noctifer in the future but the parliament would always make questionable decisions for the sake of power and sovereign rights. It shouldn’t end up this way, but Seungmin agreed with no hesitation even if it was against his will. He didn’t think of any bad things about you. After having to choose Princesses from other Kingdoms to consider as the future queen of Empyrean, none of them tackled his interest. Maybe the thought of ‘need’ have made him impulsive to say ‘yes’ to you. 

Everything was awkward as he remembered your promise of loyalty; “I am yours even if this is meant to be a loveless marriage between us. No feelings involved, just politics.” There it goes again. He was amused at the same time, he doesn’t know you and he was curious as to why would you act as if you care about this marriage during the first night. Seungmin didn’t want to think about it but you keep on messing with his head. He learned that women are a distraction to his duties when he was young, he thought love doesn’t matter when it comes to politics, and he thought this marriage would be a waste of time just to preserve sovereign rights but you made an impact. 

“Your Highness, are you even listening?” Asked Jisung who happened to be inside his office, talking about the casualties that the invaders have made. 

“Pardon me,” He sighed. 

“You seemed distracted today,” Jisung added as Seungmin sat down behind his desk, frustrated about the King’s orders. “Is something wrong?” 

“Nothing,” Seungmin denied. “You are lucky you are not married,” Jisung smirked at the statement and chuckled. 

“Your Highness, if this is about the Princess, you two should talk it through,” He suggested as the Prince looked at him in disappointment. 

“Do you even know what I’m thinking about?” Seungmin said. “My father ordered me to stay here to spend some time with Y/n and asked if I could bring them to the gathering in three days. They also asked me what I wanted to do,” 

“So what did you do?” Jisung asked, intrigued. 

“I didn’t have something in mind yet,” Seungmin sighed. “But at the same time, I want to return the favor for saving my Kingdom’s demise,” 

“Love,” Jisung suggested as Seungmin gave him that look again. 

“Shut up,” Seungmin defended. 

“Oh please, it will eventually come your way,” Jisung smirked. “The Princess is brave enough to settle disagreements by marrying you,” 

“Y/n is your wife,” “You should spend some time with the Princess before you leave,” “Who knows when will the war ends,” It’s like a chore to follow orders, it has always been since the beginning. Maybe he is too distracted with his chores to forget about you, or maybe you were too busy to give him a chance to know you more. You don’t even treat him like a friend, both of you were just committed to doing your chores. “And who knows if you are going to come back alive?” Seungmin doesn’t want that. 

“It feels like I owe Y/n if we put it at that,” Seungmin said vaguely. 

“It’s actually you two owe each other for the sake of diplomacy,” Jisung answered. 

“You sound smart,” Seungmin said rolling his eyes as Jisung scoffed in disagreement. “Anyway, you are dismissed, say my regards to Hyunjin,” 

“Very well your Highness,” Jisung smiled as he stood up from his seat and executed a bow before leaving his office. After a few minutes, you saw Jisung walk past the hallway as you were seeing Seungmin to visit him. You as well received a report about the Noctiferian soldiers who deployed the other day to accommodate the inefficiency of Empyrean defenders. The war between Seraphinian terrorists and the Empyrean Kingdom has extended to the southwest border. Casualties expanded, lives were taken, and the scarcity of basic needsーit was getting worse by every minute. Victims of war have already fled to the South. 

You knocked at his door twice before you could hear a faint voice coming from inside. The door opened gently as you enter with grace. Seungmin seemed frustrated the moment you came in, probably because of the war going on or the thought that Jisung left. 

“Good morning, Your Highness,” You greeted. 

“Good morning, Y/n,” He greeted back. “Now what did I tell you about the formalities?” 

“I apologize,” You giggled. “But I’m here for the report,” 

“Jisung already told me,” Seungmin said. “Have a seat,” 

Nodding at him, you took the seat Jisung used earlier and examined his office as well as his condition. Worry is painted in his eyes and the troubled expression he carries made you wonder. 

“You seemed distressed,” You said as Seungmin ran his fingers through his hair. 

“You can tell?” He smirked. “I’m fine.” 

“Doesn’t seem to me,” You answered. “Are you okay?” 

“Yes,” Seungmin said firmly. 

“Alright,” You smiled. “Anyway, I was about to give you information about the situation at the Southwest border but I think Jisung beat me into it. Do you need some time alone? I happened to drop by quickly because I’m still preparing for the gathering in three days,” You continued as Seungmin looked at you. 

“You can ditch it today, enjoy yourself at least,” Seungmin said which made you tilt your head. 

“For someone who stands firm in his duty is giving me free time?” You smirked. 

“I don’t want to think about that right now,” He said. “Forget about it for a while,” 

“Seungmin, you need some time outside rather than staying in your office ever since yesterday and thinking about the casualties. I know it’s your duty but you’re leaving in three days, so you won’t be able to take a break starting from that,” You said as he sighs. 

“Why do you care so much?” Seungmin asked which made you stop in your tracks. But he does have a point. Why do you care so much to make this marriage valid? 

“I don’t know,” You answered. “Maybe I just care about you? I mean, you’re not home every day. You’re always thinking about business and politics and I feel so lonely in the study. You know why I’m here, I know why we’re doing this but I just can’t help it. You’re my husband, even if this is a loveless marriage, I’m loyal, and I don’t care about the divorce you were talking about the night after our wedding, just let me do my part. You just told me to ditch this topic so why can’t you? Go out with me.” If you ever did have feelings for Seungmin, it would be assumed that you were confessing your love for him. It will be weird and at the same time, you are trying to avoid the fact of falling for him. 

“Do you like me that much?” He asked as you scoffed in response. 

“How dare you say that?” You said rolling your eyes. “I just care okay? Do I need to fall for you just to care?” You defended. But fuck, I already did and I don’t know why or maybe I was just lovesick?

“Whatever Y/n,” He said shaking his head, and grabbed the scattered papers on his desk.  

“Is that a no?” You asked. 

“Yes, and you may leave,” He retorted as he sat on his chair, pretending to read the papers in his hand. 

“Fine,” You sighed in defeat. “But just tell the maids if you want my presence or whatever the fuck you want me,” You added rolling your eyes. 

“Words,” Seungmin warned. 

“Attitude,” You backfired and left his office making Seungmin smile to himself while shaking his head. 

The next day, you found yourself playing the harp in the middle of the hall. Seungmin is still hanging around his office while holding a meeting and you were out of the frame. But if you were being honest, you don’t want to mess up the small gathering even if you wanted to play a very important role in resolving this conflict. You already sent Jisung in to raise your concerns and suggestions, afraid of being disregarded. The parliament doesn’t usually listen but you were thankful that Jisung is always ready to take part in it. 

The sounds of the instrument traveled through the halls of the Chateau but remained inaudible in your husband’s office. But it was faint and gentle. The maids and other workers stopped by to listen. You were bored in this big household anyway and Seungmin doesn’t want to give any of his time to you even if you already said your purpose. Unsure about the conversation you had yesterday, it was true that you were lovesick and he’s leaving in two days. It would make you feel more lonely. You admit you’re not used to his presence for the past two days but it made the Chateau a little bit lively and made your heart pound for a bit. 

A sigh escaped your lips as you stopped playing and headed toward the garden. Seeing the flowers and the fountain in the middle made you feel relaxed other than thinking of your busy husband. You admit you were disappointed that he didn’t go out with you yesterday but you had to understand his situation. Seungmin has a priority and you are just hoping he won’t ruin your night at the gathering tomorrow. 

You sat on the flat surface surrounding the fountain as you indulge in the fresh breeze of the wind, admiring the view of the garden. It was wide enough for your brain to relax but the thought of Seungmin is locked inside. It’s not like he did something to make you fall for him, maybe caring about him too much has carried the feelings. You are not wrong basically or probably it’s because of his looks and how he portrays his expression and attitude to the point that you don’t even understand what you were thinking. 

Seungmin dismissed his company and asked the maids where have you gone. He just missed your musical performance. It was a hectic afternoon anyway and he needed the time to breathe. He had to fix his looks before taking a stroll to the wide garden and looking for you. Seungmin knew he have to be formal with the meeting, a white blazer, white polo inside, black pants, and belt around his waist, his bangs parted, and he looked dashing. But you didn’t see it after he was out looking for you. 

“Why is my wife alone?” You heard his voice. 

“Haha, funny,” You said rolling your eyes and turning around to face him. Dashing as always that it made your jaw drop. You didn’t want to be noticeable but that’s how Seungmin’s visuals affect you, other than his other qualities. He is smart you admit, yet the attitude is kind of snob and cold just like how he had treated you in his office yesterday. 

“What?” He asked, raising a brow. 

“Nothing,” You retorted. “You don’t have to be so formal in this household,” 

“I had a meeting with the parliament, Y/n,” He said as you shrugged your shoulders. 

“Why are you out here?” You asked. 

“To know if you were here, I asked the maids where you’ve been,” He said, taking a few steps and sitting beside you. “You should be inside the meeting instead of Jisung, your ideas would’ve been elaborated properly,” 

“I don’t like those gatherings and I already told Jisung what to do,” You defended. “How did you like them?” You asked, looking at him. Damn it, why is he so overwhelming? 

“Well since it’s about resolving the conflict, you suggested bilateral agreements and military support. I agree with the military support Y/n, but are you sure about the bilateral agreements? These are rebelsー” 

“Seungmin, you can always talk to the Seraphina Empire about that,” You said. “The rebels came from that kingdom and I’m sure they’re playing their part too, but for the sake of peace, you need diplomats to talk to them and make negotiations right?” Seungmin suddenly smiled as you gave him a puzzled look. “What?” 

“I told you, you should have gone inside instead of Jisung. I get your point, I’ll send diplomats tomorrow morning to Seraphina,” 

“You didn’t think of that earlier did you?” You smirked at him as Seungmin laughed. 

“I did. I’m not stupid,” He said. 

“I didn’t say you are,” You retorted. 

“Of course, you didn’t,” He answered. “Do you want to go somewhere? I don’t have schedules for the rest of the day so I thought we could spend some time together?” 

You looked at him once again smiling at the statement, “I thought you will never ask,” 

Seungmin smiled at you in return, “I gave it a thought of what you have said to me yesー” But before he could say something, you pulled right out of the garden and dragged him out of the Chateau. 

“I have something to show you,” You said. “It’s not much but it’s beautiful as if you are inside a book. It’s so calm in there,” Seungmin stayed quiet but he is amused by how adventurous this was even if it was just inside the kingdom. It was a bit far from the town and you, holding his hand felt so special. He admits it was the very first time you agreed on something, the time where he gets to spend with you that it’s not about politics and marriage. It felt easier to breathe this time and maybe all you need is to get close to disregard the tension caused by this arrangement. 

Walking with you away from the crowd and headed towards the hills had him thinking. Seungmin knows every place around the kingdom but never the secluded ones. He may have missed the beauty of what’s beyond the mountains. You stopped walking when you reached the grass field with small purple and yellow flowers growing in wide spaces. Tall trees cascaded to the slope. The view of the mountains is visible from afar and he could identify the north and eastern borders. It was beautiful scenery and the sun setting adds to its beauty. Seungmin was fascinated. 

“How did you find a place like this?” He asked. “I thought you like to stay inside the Chateau,” 

“Just because I don’t go out that much I have a limited knowledge of these kinds of places,” You retorted. “Besides, I found it even before our wedding, I just didn’t get the time to come back,” 

“It’s beautiful,” He smiled. 

“You haven’t been here before?” You asked, looking at him not realizing you were still holding his hand. 

“Maybe I did, I just don’t remember,” He said. “And now that you showed it to me, I guess I have a reason to come back here often,” 

“I’ll take that as a thank you,” You scoffed. “You’re welcome by the way. Do you want to take a walk?” 

“Yes, but please let go of my hand now,” Seungmin smirked as you panicked, quickly shoving his hand back to him and leaving to a blushing mess. 

“I’m sorry!” You said, turning away because of the embarrassment but Seungmin just giggled in return. How on earth did this cold and snob prince become warm? He wasn’t the prince you were talking to about the divorce. Maybe he’s slowly opening up to become friends? He doesn’t have the choice to be mean to you because of this marriage but that doesn’t mean he’s forced when he likes you. And as what has been mentioned, it is easier to breathe now. 

“It’s okay,” He said as he sat down on the grass. “Sit with me Y/n,” 

You took a deep breath before facing him again and smiled, taking the space beside him. It was warm and bright, the fresh breeze of the wind came gushing around as they played with your hair and swayed with the light materials of your clothes. Both of you sat in silence and admire the beauty of nature. Seungmin must’ve fallen into his deep thoughts while you wonder about him. You shouldn’t think about him too much but his presence and connection with you have pushed it in. 

“You’re leaving the day after tomorrow,” You said without looking at him. 

“What, are you going to miss me?” He smirked as you snorted in response. 

“Of course not,” You defended. “Well, maybe? I don’t know,” Seungmin just smiled and didn’t say anything after that. “I don’t want to decide selfishly but yes, I’ll probably miss you. I mean, we don’t see each other that much around the Kingdom because you are always busy, how much more if you are not here,” 

“Are you confessing to me?” Seungmin asked as you smacked his arm lightly. 

“Don’t be ridiculous!” But the prince just laughed as you jolted away, leaving the field. 

“Cute,” He smiled and stayed there for a while thinking about his fate. You took a stroll down, leaving him but the thought of what you just said to him made an impact. It was stupid, no, maybe it was or maybe not, what the actual fuckー. Shaking your head, you just went back to where he was and sat in silence, letting him have his moment. You know Seungmin has already a lot on his plate, you don’t want to mess him up more. 

“I thought you left?” He asked. 

“It was an impulsive reaction,” You answered. “Just don’t mind me here, I know you need some time to breathe,” 

“Thanks,” He smiled. “Thank you for caring,” You didn’t know what to say after that but it made your heart warm. 

The night of the gathering arrived, and only the elites and royals were invited for the send-off. Seungmin was already there, waiting for his wife to arrive. They were enjoying the buffet and champagne, the music was played by an orchestra and the place has an elegant decorations for the occasion. You decided to wear a beige ball puffy gown that shows your bare shoulders, the hems of the silk cloth fall gently on the floor as the person enveloped with it carries grace. It had flowers and spiral patterns designed on it and gems that glow when it captures the light from the chandelier. Everyone was left in awe and mesmerized the moment you arrived at the entrance. 

Seungmin's jaw dropped. 

He never felt this way during the wedding and never appreciated anything from you except that your efforts of marrying him are relevant to the purpose of why. The Queen had to push his son to approach you after being stunned and wasn’t able to function for a minute. You have welcomed with warm greetings as a waiter offered a glass of champagne. 

“Y/n, my dear, good evening!” The Queen greeted you as you bowed at her. 

“Good evening Your Highness,” You smiled and looked at Seungmin who was behind her. 

“Beautiful as always, my Dear,” Seungmin said, taking your hand before kissing it. It was new to both of you, but it was heart-fluttering and painted blush on your cheeks. You wanted to drink every glass of champagne to lower the panic. He’s been giving mixed signals or maybe it is part of the act of pretending to be in love. 

“Dashing as always, Your Highness,” You greeted back. 

“Let me steal your wife for a while, I missed their presence in the palace,” The Queen said hooking her arm around yours as she take you away. Seungmin was hesitating but his mother and you already emerged through the crowd. The King is even busier with his allies at the moment and the Prince is left with no one but Jisung, his assistant who also became your close friend. 

“Stop staring at Y/n, they’re going to melt in no time,” Jisung scoffed as he took a sip of his glass of champagne. 

“I am not staring,” Seungmin defended.

“Liar,” Jisung retorted as Seungmin glared at him. 

“Words,” The Prince said as the latter raised his hands in surrender. But it was a fact, he is indeed staring at you. Any Prince will stare at you at how you showed up this evening. Seungmin already acknowledged your beauty but never paid attention to the details until now. You are beautiful. 

“Attitude,” Jisung said rolling his eyes. 

“What’s with my attitude?” Seungmin scoffed as Jisung sighed in response. 

“An asshole,”

“Get out of my sight, stupid,” Seungmin said as Jisung just shrugged his shoulders. 

“I bet my position that you are falling in love, but if not, you can fire me,” 

“You need to convince me first,” Seungmin deadpanned as Jisung shake his head. 

“Whatever, Your Highness,” This was his cue to leave and Seungmin stood there with a glass of champagne in one hand. 

You were distracted with his mother and didn’t realize how many glasses of that strong drink you had taken. Maybe five or six? You are willing to have another one or more for sure even if you are already starting to get dizzy at the moment. The conversation is all about Seungmin and how she is going to miss him when he leaves tomorrow, not knowing when he will be back. You wanted to say that you would feel the same with his absence but you hesitated. Even learned that he is having a hard time expressing himself so you had to deal with it for a while. Maybe everyone assumed that this is a love-driven affinity but you two are still trying to build something. Maybe friendship first? 

You stood there with the seventh empty glass of champagne and placed it gently on the tray to the waiter who walk passed. “Seungmin is a responsible kid, he is smart, kind, and loving,” “Sometimes you can’t read him and he doesn’t know how to express himself,” “Understand him more,” But you are, he knows that you care and now look at him staring at you from across the hall. His black suit shines with the silver epaulettes adorning his broad shoulders and a white sash that adds to the elegance. He stood tall and firm with that gorgeous face of his. You want to blame the champagne for having weird thoughts and dizziness ーyou shouldn’t have drank too much. 

“I’m going to check on my husband first,” The Queen said excusing herself as you smiled in response. 

The busy crowd of royals and elites was filled with conversation about politics and relationships. Even the occurring war in the South and Western borders of Empyrean. It is quite weird to impose a gathering about sending off when his men are struggling to fight for the kingdom’s sovereignty. But of course, that is none of your business to mess up with this party. This is for a cause anyway. 

You stare at him as you slowly walk in his direction. He couldn’t stop looking at you either and he didn’t know why. Maybe because of how you look or was it the glass of champagne he had or was it Jisung’s words that struck him? He must’ve been drunk, no, he wasn’t, it was just you. You didn’t know what came all over you that you suddenly wrapped your arms around his neck as he pulled you closer by the waist in response as your lips met his. It was impulsive but eventually, he kissed you back. A lot has happened, over two months and the past three days, maybe he will miss you. 

Yes, he will. His lips tasted the same as yours. The champagne took all over your mouths as you deepened the kiss. It doesn’t matter who saw it, you didn’t care but Seungmin suddenly pulled away as he grabbed your hand, took you out from the hall, and headed upstairs to the balcony where no one could see you. He closed the curtains and the door before turning back and kissing you again. It felt so exclusive when everyone knew about the affair. You pulled him closer as he hugged you tightly to kiss you properly. His head is tilted to the side, indulging the gentleness of your soft lips while tasting the lingering flavor of champagne. Seungmin bit your lower lip, slowly sucking it. A soft sound escaped your lips as he smirked in between taking your lips as a whole. Of course, it is different from the kiss you shared at the altar and this is on another level. 

“You had too much champagne, my Love,” Seungmin said, giving you a peck on the lips before pulling away. 

“No,” You smiled sheepishly, feeling the dizziness that causes you to lose balance. “I don’t know but—” You paused, almost fainting in Seungmin’s arms but he was quick to catch you. “I think I’m going to miss you,” The prince smiled, pulling you for a hug and burying his face in the crook of your neck. It’s probably because of the champagne. “Can I sleep with you tonight?” 

“Yes,” He said, looking at you before placing a kiss on your forehead. 

It’s probably because of the champagne… 

“You should be careful with your alcohol intake,” You heard him say as he assisted you on his bed, carrying you in bridal style. 

“For your information, Your Highness, champagne has only 12% alcohol—” 

“How many glasses did you have?” He asked, placing you gently on his bed. 

“I forgot,” You answered, feeling drowsy. “The bubbles had me drunk,” But Seungmin couldn’t stop smiling. “You look so cute, I’m going to miss that pretty face of yours,” He just sat beside you as he continued to listen to your babbling. It was cute, he admits. Your hands cupped his cheeks and smiled cheekily as he felt the redness of his face. “I’m starting to feel sleepy,” 

“You should go to sleep,” Seungmin said. “You have to send me off tomorrow morning,” 

“I don’t want to,” You pouted. 

“You’re drunk, Y/n,” Seungmin insisted as you chuckled in response. “Get some sleep,” 

“Give me a kiss first,” You said. He did not hesitate to lean closer and gave you a long kiss, making you play with his hair, but it didn’t last long. 

“Good night,” He said, pulling away and that’s when you fell asleep. Seungmin stayed awake for a while. The thought of leaving you tomorrow will make him miss you even if your bond only lasted for a few days. It is impulsive, everything happened in a rush, did you happen to fall in love already? Or you were just under the influence of that drink? Seungmin doesn’t know. 

He kissed your forehead for the last time before laying on the other side of the bed, anticipating what will happen tomorrow. 

You woke up with a headache the next morning and were curious as to why you are in an unfamiliar bedroom. Maybe you have been here before but a hangover struck you like lightning. Seungmin is nowhere to be found, he probably just left and flashbacks started to flood from last night the moment you sat up. You forgot the sunlight that peeks through the thin curtains that drape the tall windows to the floor. All you could think about was the thing that happened last night. I shouldn’t have several glasses of champagne, I don’t have a high tolerance, fuck!

“Your Highness?” You heard a maid knock as she enters the room. 

“Good morning?” You greeted. 

“Good morning,” She bowed. “The Prince is expecting you in an hour, we need to get you ready,” Then it suddenly sinks in… Seungmin’s leaving this morning. 

“Fuck,” You murmured. 

“Shall we fix you up?” She asked as you stood up. 

“Do what you must,” You said. 

An hour passed, and you rushed outside the room and headed towards the hall where the gathering was being held last night. Carrying your dress, you saw Seungmin talking with the Queen as the King stood beside him. All eyes turned to you as they heard your footsteps tapping the steps of the stairs and a smile formed on the Prince’s lips. He remembered what happened last night and probably it was nothing to you. But the impact it left made him feel weird. 

“You’re awake,” Seungmin beamed. 

“Am I late?” You asked. 

“I was about to leave,” He said taking a few steps and offering his hand to assist you. 

“Did you sleep together?” The Queen asked. 

“Mother, don’t,” Seungmin defended. 

“Just slept?” The King smirked. “My son doesn’t want to leave without saying goodbye,” 

“Father,” Seungmin called as the King shrugged his shoulders. 

“I must go to the carriage first,” The King said as he excused himself and bowed before exiting the hall, followed by the Queen. 

“Excuse my parents,” Seungmin sighed. “Were you in a rush?” 

“I was afraid you’d leave without seeing me,” You smiled. 

“Was this because of last night?” Seungmin chuckled. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” He smiled. “Will you be okay?” 

“I guess,” You frowned. “But I will wait for your return,” 

“As you should,” He smiled again and kissed your forehead. “I will be back in no time,” 

The sounds of the horses from the carriage whine at the sight of the King and Queen made Seungmin look outside as you stared at the floor. A sign of hurry and immediate time. The King already settled inside as the Queen talked to him about a few reminders and the royal guards on standby on their horses both front and back of the carriage for security. Meanwhile, Seungmin examined the scenery outside as you took a deep breath before earning his attention again. You shouldn’t be feeling this way. But then again, the scenarios from last night have changed the shared feelings among each other. From loveless to a slow burn. You may have fallen first for your impulsiveness and the lack of thinking about your actions first. And yet Seungmin can’t blame you. Even if this was a loveless marriage, you had to agree about Jisung’s opinions about falling in love in between. Eventually. 

Everyone was waiting for the Prince to hop inside the carriage. He smiled at you and bowed. Neither said a word as he left the hall. You followed him to his vehicle and stood a few meters behind the Queen, unknown of how you should feel on his departure. Seungmin smiled one last time and greeted his mother goodbye but you couldn’t just stand there and watch him leave without giving affection. You ran towards him and gave the most endearing hug, a sign that you would miss his presence around the palace and the Chateau. His promise to come back immediately will remain and you promised to wait for him even if it would take months. The war already reached its worse. Murder and arson, invasion of the town in the West and South, it is dangerous. May God protect your people and the King and most especially the Prince. 

“Don’t miss me too much, Y/n,” Seungmin said. 

“I already do,” You smiled bitterly as he let out a small chuckle. 

“I will write to you, I promise,” He said. “And please handle the parliament for me?” 

You could only give him a nod in response before giving a peck on his lips. This is not about a loveless marriage anymore. It may have changed over a few days and you are willing to help him go through this war and wait for him to come back, no matter how long. 

“Keep safe,” You smiled and that was the last time you saw him before he disappeared from your sight. 

And for the first week, you never heard of him and never stayed in the Chateau often as you used to. You learned to ride a horse during his absence and raise to the field alone, studying more about diplomacy and war. The Queen ruled in her husband’s place and has gotten busier by his efforts. Novels and other fairytales were forgotten in your interest but the thoughts of your husband remained when you arrive home. The emptiness of your place is the same as you walk inside their palace. Distraction never helps, archery doesn’t do either, and studying makes it worse. 

You heard from a messenger that Seungmin is doing well in his duty. His intelligent mind is used efficiently on how to stop this chaos, unarmed or with the presence of weapons. He took your advice diligently and sent diplomats to Seraphina to further discuss the matter. The second week has been the same, no letter arrived that conceived your sadness. You miss him. You think of him. The bond that you created just then is enough to feel this way but you don’t know about Seungmin. Does he ever feel the same? Or has he forgotten everything about you? 

It’s every afternoon you visit the field with your horse to think about him, despite the responsibilities he left to you alongside Jisung. The latter seems to be more annoying than usual. But the comfort of his words that are devoted to the love of His Royal Highness to you gives you hope. You wanted to hear more than an expected letter to arrive. Yet you still miss him, dearly. Especially when he sent some poppies to your Chateau’s garden as a symbol of remembrance and hope. How could you not fall for such a man? His letter arrived three weeks later and it painted a smile on your face. It made you feel alive for once in the past few weeks, and time flies fast ever since he left for war. A month and a week and counting. 

You sat on the flat surface of the fountain in the middle of the garden as you opened the very first letter he sent. Hyunjin arrived just this afternoon, fresh from the five-hour horse ride from the Western border of Empyrean. The man was exhausted as he rested in your chamber and the maids left you alone. Jisung was nowhere to be found since this morning but you are thankful not to listen to his babbling and gossip from town. But it doesn’t matter for now. 

My beloved Princess,

It’s been a while since I left home and I miss you dearly. I think about you every day and never miss taking at least an hour to think about what to write. I apologize for taking my time to compose myself and send you a message of my love. A lot has happened in the borders of war but I guarantee my safe return home. 

How are the poppies that I have sent? I am sure they bloomed beautifully just like you. The garden probably looks more pleasing with you around. And I cannot wait to see them grow and take care of them with you. 

The sunset is lovely today but it will be much better to see it in the field that you showed me the last time and I wish to not worry you as I am doing fine. The Seraphinian rebels have made huge casualties in the Empyrean borders and my men and I are doing our best to protect our home. The war has taken many lives of our people including our man and has abused the sovereignty of our state. It might take a while before I can go home and hug you. I hope you are doing much better than me, my Love and I cannot wait to see you. 

Please wait for me. 

Sincerely yours, Prince Seungmin

Tears left your eyes upon closing the stationary on your hands. The envelope smells like him and it made you miss him even more and how much more on his side when you are the only one he could think of. Your husband made efforts and fought with his men and his father. He thought that you will be furious when you finds out he brought bruises and cuts to his beautiful face as well as the injuries for being brave. But he knows you are proud. And you always are. 

The second letter arrived after almost a month and your hair got longer, got busier and wiser. But the habit of coming to the field every afternoon still remains as well as the war. You worry about Seungmin every day and you wish him to come home. The letters he sent are the only ones who kept your faith stronger than ever. This loveless marriage has already climbed to a love-driven affinity and you wanted to feel more about it once the war is over. Hyunjin has been your messenger and he is always delighted to bring good news that the terrorists from Seraphina are slowly raising the white flag. The Prince might come home soon. 

The third letter came two weeks after the second one. You thought he is finally coming home but an ambush happened when they finally invaded the camping site of the terrorists on the Seraphinian border. It will hold him there for a little while. Jisung must’ve sensed your disappointment that he stopped sending a few reports for you to settle with the parliament for a few days. Instead, you went back to reading the novels of your interest in the library but Seungmin keeps messing with your head. You tossed the book on your desk and went out to the stables to fetch your horse. A little afternoon stroll would help you calm down. 

It has been days since you read the letter that brought your disappointment and you miss your husband dearly. Nothing beats this feeling of worry when he decided to stay back for another while. And to count the time he’s not around, it has already reached months. The full moon has passed, some of the flowers in the garden have wilted, the sunset that you witness in the field has changed, and the skies suddenly turned gloomy than those days that you are with him. The two months of pre-marriage weren’t enough and even the few weeks after that, the few days before he left and the night when you got drunk and kissed him for the sake of your impulsive feelings. 

You sat on the grass as your horse stood a few meters away to feed himself. It made you fall into your deep thoughts and how you miss him so much. The cold breeze of the afternoon had added to the solemn feeling that you felt at the moment. And just like every other afternoon you had spent in the field, Seungmin’s presence never came. You stared at the horizon and admired the mountains as the sun started to set slowly but it is still bright to go back to the Chateau and drown yourself in the study again. Never in a day do you miss him. 

A sigh escaped your lips as you straighten the lower part of your sage green gown on the cool grass to sit properly as your hair swayed with the moderate gushing of wind. The flowers that grew around bowed and some of the petals flew south. It was beautiful that you wish that Seungmin could see this. The view had stopped you from reading between the pages of a thick book that tells a story about a widowed queen who lost her husband in a war. You didn’t want that to happen to you too. The angsty vibe it gave made you sullen and hopeless. You know Seungmin will come home any day now and you hope that the war will end at dawn. Patience and prayers are all you have now. It was his promise. The Queen has been as restless as you but she encourages you to be strong. It happened once before you came to be his son’s wife and she is firm that her husband and the Prince will come home safe and sound. 

You closed the book and placed it gently on the side as your eyes focused on the view again. It didn’t matter how beautiful it was and all you did is lay on the grass in boredom. You looked at the blue sky as the clouds passed by in a rush. It is probably because of the wind. You grew tired of blaming other things for what is happening in everything and wish to the heavens for your husband to come home. Tired of studying, tired of reading, tired of archery and fencing, tired of expecting his presence, tired of showing fake smiles, tired of being alone, one more bit of this will make you go crazy and stuff. 

I will be home soon. 

That’s what he said in the last letter you got from Hyunjin. 

“Fuck, when will the war ends?” You asked the heavens. 

“It just did,” You flinched at the familiar voice coming from behind that made you sit up immediately and look. “Empyrean and Noctifer won the war Sweetheart, I’m home,” 

“Seungmin!” You cried as you stood up and dragged your gown, running towards him. His hair grew longer and his wounds are already healed but it didn’t downgrade his beauty. He was wearing his white satin polo and black pants with his belt that carries his sword. Seungmin is breathtaking as always. Your arms wrapped around his neck as he pulled you by the waist to press on his body. His scent is built with fresh flowers and cinnamon. Tears formed in your eyes as they cascaded to your cheeks, the same with Seungmin who missed you so much. His lips captured yours to show how eager he is to be with you again and he couldn’t wait to spend his days with you. The war finally ended. He’s home now and you are happy. “I was worried that it will take you a while to go home,” You cried, pulling away. 

“I had dealt with Seraphina to execute the terrorists, we took over the ambush and captured themー” But Seungmin didn’t get to finish his sentence when you kissed him again. Your lips molded together as he deepened the kiss, desperate for more until you were out of breath. “Fuck, I missed you so much,” 

“Me too,” You answered in between your sobs. Seungmin’s hands reached your cheeks and wiped your tears away, with his forehead connected with yours. “Don’t leave me again,” 

“No, no, I won’t,” He said, kissing your forehead before holding your hands as he intertwined your fingers together. “I’m here now,” 

“How did you know I was here?” You asked. 

“Jisung told me but I always knew you come here,” He smirked. “You always think of me don’t you?” He asked, fixing your hair. 

“I always do. Every day, every morning until I sleep,” You confessed. “I don’t know, I think I have fallen in love with you, even before the night we kissed, Iー” He didn’t let you finish that now and captured your lips again, desperate, again, after the longingness he felt when he was at war. 

“I love you,” He said in between the kiss. 

“I love you too,” You smiled as he gave you a peck on the lips before pulling away and coming for an embrace, caressing your hair. 

“I can’t wait to spend my time with you, Y/n,” Hugging him felt so comforting as you close your eyes, hugging him tightly not wanting to let him go again. Seungmin felt the same. Maybe it is time to make another start where two people fall in love. The end of the war has sent them to their homes and find comfort. Desperate and excited to spend the rest of their lives together is something to look forward to. The Princess has fallen first, but the Prince has fallen more deeply. 

Seungmin placed a poppy in your hair before giving you another peck on the lips and smiled. “You’re so beautiful,” He said. 

“You’re beautiful too, so breathtaking,” You answered. 

“You’re only mine, right?” Seungmin asked before hugging you again. You wrapped your arms around his neck and smiled. 

“I’m yours,” You said and kissed him again. 

Maybe it was because of a drunken kiss that happened the night before left or the way he loves your attitude toward him. There are a lot of reasons to fall in love. Some may happen impulsively but they take time to form into something serious just like how your situation is with Seungmin. But sometimes there are unknown reasons. Maybe you two belong there. It may be confusing, but one thing’s for sure with Seungmin; the Empyrean prince cascades. 

all rights reserved by starlostseungmin.

[envy-of-the-apple]

I'm 99% sure it was called "Forever Yours" and it was a yandere oneshot series basically of a ton of popular anime boys from the time. The ones I remember were the Tokyo Ghoul dude, there were some Death Note guy chapters, there was the ML from Kamisama kiss, OH and the white haired guy from Psycho-Pass. There were like 50 chapters. It had probably a million likes or something it was INSANELY popular.

Ryntymy also had some other ongoing fics (and a ryntymny/reader crack fic, god, love them for that), but god it's soooo hard to remember.

i DID find a post about one of the fics i knew of that was actually REALLY GOOD that you would have LOVED (it was very similar to saltburn although it's quotev so this yandere was ofc pretty tame):

https://www.reddit.com/r/Quotev/comments/1b652gu/trying_to_find_old_x_reader_fic/

as for what's still up... hm. i do remember parallel ink, and also psychadelic peanut (they had this really trippy izaya fic):

https://www.quotev.com/story/9754667/Unfortunate-YandereIzaya-Orihara-x-Reader/1

AH parallel ink wrote kingdom of possession, which i DO remember:

https://www.quotev.com/story/6759314/Kingdom-of-Possession-Yandere-King-x-Reader

and there was this one series that was ACTUALLY quizzes, which was neat:

https://www.quotev.com/quiz/8085561/Out-of-Sight-Out-of-Mind

this one was a pretty fun sort of mystery style thing:

https://www.quotev.com/story/11260294/Seesaw/1

and this one was like. formative for my longing for pathetic masochistic men. i wasn't super into it back then but THE SEEDS WERE PLANTED:

https://www.quotev.com/story/8901227/Then-Came-You-Sadistic-Reader-x-Yandere-Character-One-Shots/2

SEESAW????? I lovedddd that fic so so much ahhhh it was amazing!!! the fic put me in so much denial cuz i was like 'its him! wait no its not him? wait it IS him? no wait-' very very entertaining

speaking of murder mystery yandere fics...there was this one where the reader was isekaid onto a train and quickly pieces together that all of the passengers resemble ppl from this book they read years ago...except they cant remember the ending aka they dont know who the murderer is. pretty sure the author deleted it but it was good!

its so funny you mention psychedelic peanut cuz i remember they got canceled???? actually...pretty sure parallel ink did too...as well the rest of their clique....and thats why i zipped outta the quotev yandere community!

actually that one aot isekai i was talking about was hosted on quotev! pretty much the height of literature, there's no competition. if i dont find it im just tempted to just rewrite it.

Curse of a Broken Promise is still up there and i think it still holds up! its a yandere kaneki ken fic and the writing is so....whimsical? idk how to explain it but it whenever i read it i always felt so sad. good read!

Imperishable affection (yandere!mafioso x reader) is ALSO written by the same author. basically yandere mafia boss guy threatens you into loving him or else your family dies yada yada so ofc the mc does. for a quotev yandere fic its pretty dark actually.

You Need Me (Yandere Manipulator x reader) THIS was the fic that brought me into the yandere thing. and the author used to update EVERY day so this whole this was an event. and the TWIST i remember being 14 and gasping like 'omg he did EVERYTHING???' very very good

If you want a izayax reader fic whos author WASNT wierd might i suggest Twisted Obsession. Beautiful writing. Its better than most ao3 writing actually and wayyy above mine. I love the way this author characterizes Izaya in this and the backstory for why hes so strange is pretty believable. like i fully believe it should be canon.

Savior Complex is an aot isekai where the mc gets whisked into a yandere sim where Petra is the love interest and the rest of the aot cast is obsessed with her. but we can all guess what happens. pretty good tho!!!

BUT EVERYONE GO READ PRETTY its a gojo x LATINA READER AHHHHHH YESSSS. i just LOVE LOVE LOVE the way this author writes. its so poetic and there's so much left up for interpretation.

[iiseult]

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝐹𝑜𝓊𝓇: 𝑀𝓎 𝒟𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝐿𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝒲𝒾𝒻𝑒

CWs →  BALDWIN OILS HIMSELF UP, angst, love letters, themes of war and death, historical inaccuracies, slow burn, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, eventual smut (once reader and baldwin are both over 18), leprosy, time-period accurate sexism

Wordcount: 3.3k

Note: This might be my favorite chapter. Please let me know your thoughts, and pay special attention to the cross necklace. You'll see what I mean. <3

It was not so dramatic, the way his illness progressed, but progress it did. The Holy Disease was inevitable, and he’d always known that. Six months and he was losing sight in his left eye, his peripheral vision effectively ceasing to exist. Twelve months and the eye was becoming clouded and sapped of its color, like something bleached by the sun, only a baby blue now when it used to be so much deeper. Eighteen months and everything through the eye was covered in an indispersable layer of silver mist. And then there was his little finger, the poor little finger on his left hand which he could no longer feel, and when he commanded it to move, it was as if a phantom were possessing it. If it weren’t for the fact that he could see it moving, wiggling back and forth, he likely wouldn’t have any idea whether or not it was really happening. Often he frowned at it in concentration, exercising his will over it and forcing it to move, desperately trying to feel something. Every time he was forced to give up, frustrated. However, the majority of his skin and all of his features were still perfectly intact, and for that he was grateful. 

That September he fell ill with fever. Forty-two days and nights he laid in bed, watching drowsily as the sun made its daily voyage across the heavens, warming his too-warm skin and blinding his aching eyes. In periods of occasional lucidity his thoughts lingered only on you. He would see a flash; then the fullness of your lips, the sweet curve of your neck, the shape of your back, and were you wearing your sapphire today? He could picture it clearly, lying against the firm softness of your full bosom, gleaming like a winking eye. Ah, sick mind. Shameful thoughts. He redirected them. What of the kingdom, his kingdom? What of his sister Sybilla, and her son, his baby nephew Baldwin V? They did not come to visit because Sybilla claimed she couldn’t bear the sight of her beloved brother in so much pain. And then his mother was dead, a few months buried. Nobody left to come visit.

He continued to read during this time. He was brought books on war and strategy, classic and ancient tales of love and romance, history, and Greek literature, of which he had always been very fond. Perhaps it was these such books that gave him his next brilliant idea. 

He sent for ink and parchment, lots of parchment, and when he felt well enough he sat up in bed and took up his supplies and got to work. Pages upon pages he produced, many times rambling and repetitive in nature because of his fever-addled mind, but always strikingly sincere. From his very heart he wrote, hours each day, and he didn’t share his work with anyone. When Raymond visited he would conceal everything under the covers, or else slide them under the bed. 

It was a woman, always the same woman, that he wrote about or wrote to or described in as much detail as he could. Each time he painted a picture of her with his words, a new facet of her beauty was revealed, a new angle, a new reason to love her. And he knew that he did love her. Completely enchanted. Utterly enraptured. Such tender feelings, such longing! He found himself writing cliches while trying to adequately express the extent of his feelings. And each one of these pieces of writing was addressed to you. 

“By chance, I met you in the library. I was playing chess. Raymond likes to cheat when I look away from the chessboard because he says the battlefield is just like a game of chess, and in a real battle you must never look away because your opponent does not always play fair. But I would forfeit all my knights and rooks for you, so I looked away from him and towards you instead. 

“And when you looked at me, my heart leapt in my chest and a feeling like warm water cascading down my shoulders overtook me and I could not speak. I held my hand out to you and did your bidding, and then I could stand it no longer so I went away. The warmth was becoming unbearable. I was overcome. As if I were a cauldron of boiling water, I burned and then softened and turned pink as something bubbled up inside me. I know all this happened for you. And when ever I thought of you and your exquisite beauty for the rest of the day the same feeling came, tingling in all my nerves. I thought then that it was not unlike having a fever. 

“But now I know better, and now that I know with refreshed memory what fever is like, I can say that it’s nothing like you. This fever is harsh and unrelenting. This fever is painful, not pleasurable. There is a heat threatening to overtake me so that I never cool down. But what is this feeling that comes when ever I see you? Dearest Lady, I suspect that this must be love.”

But those were the good days. Those days he could think clearly and articulate properly. So many more of his days were spent too sick to stay awake, drifting in and out of this mortal plane, tangled up in a haze of confusion and stale bedsheets, having long since sweated through them. 

His birthday passed. Sixteen, finally, but he didn’t know it until days later, when came his next period of lucidity. His sister sent a gift– fresh, new robes made of silk to soothe his raw skin, embroidered in rich, gold thread. Raymond brought him a quill made from a peacock feather, blue and green and shimmering. It made him laugh when he saw it. Raymond was referencing a joke between the two of them, where the peacocks in the garden often interrupted their conversations with their awful, hideous squawking (for such magnificent looking creatures, their calls were surprisingly grating). And from you, lying on the bedside table, was a parcel of brown parchment tied with a thick white ribbon. He knew that ribbon, for he had seen you wear it in your hair once. 

He pulled it loose and placed it aside, intending on keeping it on his person at all times so he might always carry a piece of you wherever may go. He peeled back the paper, sliding it off to reveal a mahogany box. It was unremarkable, but his heart was beating wildly in his throat as he flipped up the delixate metal latch and opened the sleek lid. Resting against the silk-lined interior were two things; a large glass jar full of an amber-colored liquid, sealed with a cork; and a delicate chain with a plain gold cross hanging from it. And then, under the jar, he saw something else– the corner of a folded piece of parchment. A note! He snatched it up and unfolded it hungrily. It was written in your pretty feminine hand, which sent a fiery gust of heat blasting through his veins. 

“Your Majesty, happy sixteenth birthday. I know this is but a meager gift for a king, but I fear I cannot match your wealth or creativity. The necklace is one of the only things I brought from home. I wore it round my own neck every day then, and I do believe it has served me quite well, given my current position as queen. I am giving it to you in hopes that, God willing, your condition might improve. The oil is what I use after my baths to soothe dry skin, especially in these coming winter months. Perhaps it will help you in a more practical sense. Many birthday wishes, and prayers for a speedy recovery. Sincerely, your wife, Y/N.” 

He pressed the letter to his chest, almost as if he were trying to become one with it. Then he took the delicate gold chain between his fingers and unclasped it, draping it across his neck and securing it again. It fell against his collarbones and glistened handsomely, feeling very cold against his feverish skin, and yet his heart warmed when he thought of you wearing this very chain, day in and day out. What had touched your skin was now touching his. The very notion was enough to make him shiver. 

He did not take the necklace off again, not even for his bath that evening, or after it when he retired to his chambers for the remainder of the night. 

Baldwin shrugged off his bathrobe and layed, completely nude, on his silk sheets, where the jar of oil from you was waiting. He savored the feeling of its cool glass against his hands, still rife with fever, and then pressed his cheek to its surface, deeply inhaling the rich scent of the night air which drifted through the open window. To know that your hands had touched that very jar made him pulse with excitement. That you had thought of him with some amount of tenderness, that you had thought of him at all, touched him. 

Carefully he pulled the cork from the mouth of the jar with a gentle “pop,” and set it aside. He brought the jar up to his nose. It smelled sweet and flowery, very fresh. Clean. Comforting. Smelled like you. He sucked in another deep breath through his nose, letting the gentle fragrance wash over him and sink into his pores. Then he dipped two fingers into the jar and spread the thick liquid along his forearm, coating the skin there thoroughly. It was silky and cool and left a gloss in its wake. His dry, parched skin drank it up greedily, plumping up almost immediately. It was delicious. 

He poured a dollop of the stuff into his hands and rubbed them together, relishing the feeling of his slick palms sliding against each other. Languidly he massaged it into his chest, his arms, and his robust shoulders. He threw back his head and slowly worked the pads of his fingers into his delicate neck, feeling the tendons there roll beneach his touch. A small sound escaped his throat. Then he moved his hands lower, not neglecting a single inch of flesh. He splayed his fingers out over the white planes of his thighs, well-toned as they were, and then slid lower, past his knees and to his ankles. It was pure bliss. 

Once he was satisfied, he popped the cork back in the jar and leaned over, placing it on the side table, then blew out the candle, laying down finally with a sigh. His body sunk into the cloud of his mattress, his aching limbs met with instant relief. Beneath his pillow was your letter and ribbon. He slid his hand under it to feel for them, just to make sure they were still there, and once he was convinced, he slipped right under into a dreamless sleep. 

The very next morning, he woke to find that his fever had miraculously relented, leaving his forehead cool and dry. Amelia immediately informed you of his recovery, and though you were relieved, feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from your shoulders, you couldn’t help but wonder how he had recovered literally overnight. It seemed nobody knew the answer, not even the physicians that came to examine him throughout the rest of the day. But perhaps it was better not to question it. 

Baldwin had but a few days to enjoy his renewed health before he thrust himself urgently back into work. During his prolonged illness, the ever-fickle political state of Jerusalem had become alarmingly unstable. The Saracens were threatening to wage war, led by the wise and formidable Saladin and his army, rumored to be made up of some 20,000 men. So Baldwin was faced with a harrowing decision, with thousands of lives hanging in the balance. Should he send his men to battle despite their meager numbers, where they would inevitably be met with death and destruction? Most of his knights had already been laid to waste, leaving behind largely unskilled fighters, and only 4,000 of them at that. And could he fulfill his kingly duty to fight alongside them, or would his frail body betray him? Such questions made him wonder if he was even worthy of his title. 

Self-loathing ate at him over the coming week until finally, he was forced to take action. Reynald de Châtillon had been pressuring him incessantly to fight, no matter the risk, arguing that it is God’s will and therefore Jerusalem could never fall. Baldwin wasn’t so sure. But deep in his heart, he knew he had no more time left to waste. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

The morning was fair and the early sunlight mild, falling through the trees in pale yellow streaks. The trees had been turning all shades of red and orange for the past month, and now they were withering brown, falling, falling. The smell of smoke and chill was perpetual, and very pleasant. The month of November. Autumn in its prime. You woke up that morning not to the melodic calling of birds, which you had become accustomed to, nor the gentle rustling of leaves stirred by the wind, but the muffled cries of Amelia as she came to rouse you from your slumber. Though she had stuffed a handkerchief against her mouth to dampen the sounds, it was no use, and she could not stop it. You had woken up before she even made it to your bedside.

“Oh Amelia, whatever is the matter?” you asked, sitting up in bed with alarm and looking at her, concern heavy in your gaze. You’d seen her upset before, and it wasn’t an uncommon thing to see, but never had she been so outwardly aggrieved in your presence. The poor girl’s shoulders shook with every breath she took. As gently as you could, you got out of bed and guided her to sit on the edge of your mattress, where she promptly collapsed. 

“Oh, Your Majesty,” she wailed, looking up at you through tear-filled eyes, “the most awful, terrible thing has happened!”

Her bottom lip trembled, and her cheeks seemed to be flushing darker by the second. In fact, she seemed on the verge of hyperventilating, sensitive soul that she was. 

“What? What’s happened, dear girl?” you urged, wiping a runaway tear from her chin. An anticipatory panic had begun to build up inside you. All you could think was that somebody must be dead. Suddenly you were very worried for Matilda, whose frail, brittle bones would likely not survive an accident, which was a very real possibility. In her line of work, what with all the manual labor, you often feared for her health, though she always insisted on being fine. But those thoughts were soon completely dashed from your mind. 

“The Saracens…they’ve come! They’re here to take Jerusalem!” 

You were stunned into speechlessness. You did not quite know the full gravity of such a thing, of how dire this could be for your whole way of life, and that of your mother before you and of her mother before her. How much would change, were the crusaders to fall! But Amelia’s next words gave you a relative idea. 

“They say they’ve brought 20,000 men to Montisgard, to match our army of 4,000. Oh, Your Majesty, we are lost, lost!” she wailed, burying her tear-stained face in your shoulder. For a moment after that she continued talking, uttering those same words over and over again, “lost, lost,” as if trying to understand the meaning of them. But to you the message had been clear enough, and your heart dropped all the way down to your bowels and all you could think was; Baldwin. 

Baldwin, the sweet fair-haired boy who’d kissed your hand like it was a holy relic on your wedding day; the one who’d known you well enough from a scant few glimpses here and there to know which gifts to buy for your birthday– and, for the record, they had been the most thoughtful gifts you’d ever received; the one who, unbeknownst to you, prayed for you every night and every morning; the one who had loved you since the beginning. That one, going to fight in a war he was doomed to lose. 

And then you were crying too. Great, fat, burning tears glided down your cheeks and into your mouth and onto yours and Amelia’s dresses as you clutched her to you. Your breath could come only in heaving gasps, ripping through your chest painfully. So great was your pain! You could not see that boy die. Then came an image of his broken body lying alone on the muddy battlefield, indistinguishable from all the others in death. Snot dripped down your nose. You cared not. 

Matilda opened the door and came in quietly. Your eyes pleaded with her not to deliver to you any more bad news. Her face, drawn into a solid, impassible mask, revealed nothing, except that it looked wan and much older. In her hands was a towering stack of parchment, so tall that it obscured her entire chest from your view. 

“Your Majesty,” she called demurely, much softer than usual, “before his departure this morning the King instructed me to bring these for you.” 

Rather violently, you wiped the tears from your eyes and wordlessly took the stack into your own hands, taking great care not to drop any. Everything was blurry but you flipped through the pages nonetheless, sinking further and further into a state of hysteria as you did so, realizing with a pang of horror that each and every sheet was a letter from Baldwin, addressed to you. There must have been a thousand of them, enough for one every day since your marriage.

Three years worth of love letters. 

You clamped a hand over your mouth, trying in vain to abate the new volley of tears welling up inside you. Never had you known such love and devotion from another human being, and you couldn’t even say thank you.

Or goodbye.

As you flipped through the pages, you became grave and still. 

“My Dear Little Wife, you were beautiful today. I could smell your rose-scented oil from down the corridor. How I love that good smell…”

“My Dear Little Wife, would that I could take you out to the city on my horse, that your beloved arms could wrap tightly around me as we gallop across the orange earth…”

“My Dear Little Wife, as the imminence of war falls upon me, I know that my time may soon come to an end. If I could wish for one thing in all the world, it would not be to cure myself of this accursed affliction, but to have more days to spend living in bliss under the same roof as you. To know you is to love you, my dear. I am sorry if we lose this battle and you are stripped of your queenly title. I am sorry for all that might happen then. Understand that I fight for you, ma cherie. With all the love and tenderness one man can hold in his heart, I bid you goodnight, as your faithful husband, Baldwin IV.”

Yes, that was it, the last letter in the stack, dated only yesterday, and presumably at night. You promised to yourself, and whatever else was listening, that in the event that he did not return, you would read and cherish each and every letter. But you could not dwell on that thought. He would come back. He must. Because you needed him. 

“Heavenly father, if you would bring him back to me, I swear I will spend every last day by his darling side.” 

//taglist: @lzsia @eatmeandbirthmeagain @likeanecho344 @lunargraveyard @yoursoulisinyourkeepingalone @stickparrot

if anyone else would like to be added, please comment to let me know!

[branwyn-the-half-witch]

Comparative Mythologies of the Long Night: Part Two – Azor Ahai and The Red Sword

In part one, we looked at the origin story of the Long Night, and the ways in which it is reflected in the main series. Now, we shall move on to discuss the heroes who seemingly saved the world.

The most notable of these heroes, with whom you are likely aware, is the one most commonly known as Azor Ahai; emerging from Asshai, this is the hand that wields the flaming sword Lightbringer. They are also known as Hyrkoon the Hero, Yin Tar, Neferion, and Eldric Shadowchaser.

As a brief aside, it is interesting to note that all of these names can be related to specific places in Essos; the Patrimony of Hyrkoon is an ancient nation, Yin is a city in Yi Ti that has often been its capital, ‘Nefer’ is the last city in the distant kingdom of N’ghai, ‘the Shadow’, or the ‘Shadow Lands’ are a region in the furthest east, with AssHAI in the southwest, serving as something of a gateway to them – and it is the Shadow, as we will later learn, from whence the dragons may have first originated; tamed by an ancient, unnamed people.

Whether this solid anchoring of these heroic aliases in various places means anything more than a suggestion that the hero – or heroes – may have come from there, or were perhaps claimed by those peoples, I will leave you to ponder. For now, we shall turn to Azor Ahai’s legend.

Of Azor Ahai (AA), we have the most available information of all of the legends we shall discuss. He is also the only one explicitly prophesied to return again, and the manner in which AA shall return and be heralded is very clearly laid out for us from multiple sources.

AA is described as a leader, wielding a burning sword that radiates heat and light. He gave ‘courage to […] men and [led] the virtuous into battle’, returning ‘light and love’ to the world. So we should account for these aspects, as well as the finer points of the prophecy.

Much has been said about who AA reborn might be, with many candidates proposed. I will not be spilling that ink here; it’s Daenerys. Born on Dragonstone, a smoking isle in the great salt sea, she arose when darkness gathered and, beneath a bleeding star, awoke dragons from stone.

I would also point out that even Jon Snow, upon hearing of the Prophecy in the context of Mel’s candidate Stannis, zeroes on the importance of Stannis not being born on Dragonstone. One can almost hear the author himself tapping his fingers impatiently, no?

If you favour another candidate, a more abstract interpretation of the prophecy, feel free to do your own research and present it elsewhere; I am interested primarily in exploring the myths, not arguing. However, I do hope you will let me expand on my case and consider it fairly.

Dany becomes a leader, bringing hope and courage to mankind and returning light and love to those lost in the darkness. Moreover, she inspires them to fight for themselves, for their lives and loves; leading them into battle, but not doing their fighting for them.

I would also briefly highlight this echo of command from Quaithe, in light of one of AA’s names being ‘Shadowchaser’ – and that Quaithe wishes Dany to go to Asshai, from whence the myths of AA were born and the prophecy was written.

Going back here may mean in a temporal sense, revisiting the origins of AA and learning who he was, what he did, and most notably for Daenerys, why it was needed. She is, as present, unaware of the encroaching darkness that threatens the world, on any level except subconsciously through her dreams. A revelation is needed.

To add to this, we have the ‘Prince that was Promised’ title; these are used interchangeably with AA by Mel and by Maester Aemon and seem to often refer to the same person; in light of GRRM’s addition of Aegon’s dream to the canon, my interpretation is that they do refer to the same person, but by accident. Though we do not yet have it in GRRM’s words, Aegon saw the return of the Long Night and a Targaryen fighting against it. This is tPtwP, Aegon’s name for this leader who happens to also be the one who woke the dragons from stone to fight the cold.

And it is Aegon’s dream that dream-driven Targaryens have stumbled across in their scrolls – what Rhaegar to become a warrior and thence to confer the promise he initially saw in himself upon his newborn son. The Red Priests who herald Dany speak only of AA; Mel may have discovered tPtwP on Dragonstone itself. All other sources for the Promised Prince title seem to be either Targaryen or Targaryen adjacent – such as Barristan, who himself speaks of Jenny of Oldstones’ witch friend, presumably close to certain Targaryens.

But what of Lightbringer? Daenerys is not trained in arms, so how can she wield a sword? Recall that AA reborn is marked by waking dragons from stone and wielding Lightbringer. There is no separate mention of forging/reforging a sword. Perhaps there is more to the tale than that?

So let us examine Lightbringer and its forging; AA makes three attempts to forge the blade, quenching it in water, lion’s blood and, in his successful forging, the living heart of his wife, Nissa Nissa. The blade is described, by the Jade Compendium, as making its own fiery heat.

The blade never being cold, but being warm as Nissa Nissa was warm, is very alike to the description of dragons being ‘fire made flesh’; and the description of Lightbringer in action resembles nothing so much as the affect of Drogon’s flames. Lightbringer, Red Sword of Heroes, is not a blade; it is the dragons awoken from stone. But what of the three forgings? The exact arrangement of the forgings is sometimes debated, but the one I favour is this arrangement: the first forging in ‘water’.

The second in the ‘heart of a lion’; note that this moment is so important it appears again in the dreams that guide Dany’s steps to her eventual success.

And the third, successful forging – in the ‘sacred flames’ of a funeral pyre, fed by the blood of heart’s beloved. Note the proximity of the water/lion/heart imagery on each occasion, and that the conversations following the first scenes are about dragons, and then about war.

In the chapter prior to the pyre, Dany has dreams haunted by a pursuing cold, and by ghosts urging her on, with very familiar gemstone eyes; this links Dany and the dragons explicitly to the Great Empire of the Dawn and thus to the Long Night that followed the Blood Betrayal.

These dreams also link the dragons to sacrifice, just as Lightbringer is linked to Nissa Nissa’s sacrifice. Dany’s dreams show us the lives lost in her journey to that point (though Drogo is not yet entirely lost to her); those she has lost will lend their names to the dragons.

Blood sacrifice is a deeply potent power, both within ASOIAF and without. Many characters tell us of the potency of shed blood; of kin, king, and of holy men. Within many cultures in our own world, blood sacrifice was a holy act, to ward off catastrophe, as payment – and penance.

In Aztec mythology, for instance, it is now generally understood that blood sacrifice, both of slain captives but also one’s own blood on a daily basis, was both a fuel offered up to the gods for their daily labours, and as repayment for the debt owed by the living to the gods for their sacrifices made when creating the fifth sun, and so all human life. The dreams emphasise Dany’s own shed blood from the beginning; in her bloody footsteps, the burning in her womb, and the burning blood from her torn open back, which ultimately grants her wings.

When the time comes, she offers up her own blood by walking unafraid into the sacred flames of the funeral pyre, to bleed with her fallen beloved. Dany alone, among all Targaryens who have attempted to bring back dragons, took the last and most important step of self-sacrifice.

But if we understand blood sacrificed to be offered up, not just for power but for payment of debt, what debt is Dany paying here? Moreover, have we strayed from AA in this talk of blood magic and penance? I would argue not; for just as Dany’s Lightbringer is living dragons, so too do I believe that AA’s red sword was no literal blade, but dragons also.

I would here posit that Azor Ahai, in the coldest, darkest night, sought to bind fire made flesh to humankind. I propose that he tried and failed twice, before binding dragons to the fate of men.

I implore you to consider that Nissa Nissa was a dragon.

This concludes Part Two. Part Three shall answer the question, ‘what in the world did she mean by that last comment?’, by examining sacrifice, necessity, and the long, sad history of House Targaryen’s ritual offerings of innocence as payment.

[odyssean-flower]

The Winding Path of Fate Masterpost

Pairing: Neuvillette x Female Reader

Status: Ongoing

Summary: As the plain daughter of a poor noble family, you knew that there were very few prospects for you. However, your carefully laid plans for your future are completely upended when you somehow find yourself in a marriage with the Chief Justice. What will become of you two?

Rating: Teen

Content: Slow (medium probably) burn, strangers to lovers, marriage of convenience, eventual happy ending

Warnings: None except restrictive gender roles i guess?

Note: I first update this fic on AO3 every friday and then update here the next day I got no schedule anymore.

Feel free to leave a comment on this post or message me to be added to the taglist! You will be updated every time i post a new chapter here!

AO3 link

🌸 Spring: The Garden Meeting

🌸 Spring: Three Meetings and a Proposal

🌸 Spring: An Agreeable Marriage

🌸 Spring: Moving In

🌸 Spring: Long-Distance Observation

🌸 End of Spring: When a Planted Seed Sprouts

🌻 Summer: Paintings and Sunflowers

->🌻Bonus Chapter: The Kingdom of Sunflowers

🌻 Summer: Honeymoon Prelude

🌻 Summer: The Honeymoon (Part 1)

🌻 Summer: The Honeymoon (Part 2)

🌻 Summer: The Honeymoon (Part 3)

🌻 Summer: Photos

🌻 Summer: Nighttime Perils

🌻 Summer: The Art of Pretending

🌻 Summer: The Meeting

Taglist: @just-simping-over-genshin, @xalphafox, @jqnehr, @favficdump, @thetwinkims, @cielclassy, @the-mxs-of-many, @mxyarylla, @lynettezz, @rosedpetal, @blue-sapphire-ink, @cringeycookies, @cherie-soup, @rilllvri, @anyaeuh

[emilykaldwen]

The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter Nineteen

Rating: Explicit

Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

Tropes: Childhood Sweethearts/Friends to Lovers, Generational Trauma and Cycles of Abuse, It's All About the Character Development, Unreliable Narrators, Multi-POV, Canon Divergent, Bisexual Aegon II Targaryen, Book/Show Mash Up, Fix-It Of Sorts, Stopping the Cycle of Abuse before it gets us all killed, Team Neutral, fairy tale vibes meets victorian medievalism meets grrm

No tag list. please follow @emkald-fic and turn on post notifications for updates or subscribe on AO3

Tumblr Masterpost

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen | Chapter Seventeen | Chapter Eighteen

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Author's Note: It's been a really hard month, ya'll, but here we are! We made it. Agonizing over this chapter positively drove me mad, but so many thanks to @vampire-exgirlfriend and @darkwolf76 for their love, support, and eyes on this to help me feel a little less insane. Go give them both some love!

CHAPTER NINETEEN - When It's Pulling Me Under

Alicent breaks and tries to mend. Jace tries to find Helaena. A twist within the thread.

“Cassandra Baratheon has bled.”

The queen’s rooms were quiet. Rich green and black drapes hung open as wide as they could to allow the light in, but the panes were closed to the cool fall breeze. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, dancing along the decorative stone swirls along the mantle. The usual gaggle of women that occupied the room had been absent these past few days - her court having dispersed to deal with multiple assignments for the daily running of the castle and the wedding. Alicent looked up from the parchment before her, releasing her lower lip from the intensity of her gnawing teeth. Her gaze met Lady Lysa’s from where the elder woman looked up from her own sheaf of parchment.

“I will go and speak with Lord Beesbury on these matters, Your Grace,” she said softly, rising in a whisper of apple red silk, her usual caul replaced by a barbette and veil given the cooler weather. The way the woman turned her head, reaching for her papers, reminded Alicent of her own mother in such a swift and sharply unexpected moment, that Alicent’s chest clenched and stole her breath. Lysa Fossoway was her beacon of normalcy over the past years, but she was not her mother.

How desperately she wished her mother was here. How keenly that feeling sharpened as the other woman left and Alicent remained here, alone, with Lord Larys Strong.

His firefly-handled cane thumped softly against the rich rugs scattered about her solar and he took a seat on the chaise, settling himself down like a vulture, waiting to feast. On her secrets, on her thoughts, on wherever his tightly guarded whims struck him. Yet, she had few that she could call confidant, even if she dare not call him friend.

“Good.” The snap of the wooden pen box punctuated the single word as Alicent put away her ink and tucked away the parchments that Larys so curiously watched. “Lord Borros insisted that we have this engagement sealed before the new year and the wedding.”

It felt like when Viserys dragged himself to High Tide to present himself to Lord Corlys to beg his heir’s hand in marriage for a sullied Rhaenyra . It was beneath him, it was unbecoming, and it was exactly why, Alicent felt, Lord Borros felt he could demand the way he did.

‘I am not beholden to my father’s oaths, but I will not be taken for a fool’, the man had said. No sons of his own yet, Alicent knew that it was not his fear of being taken for a fool that had brought him blustering and demanding, but the fact that his sister, his only sibling, had sons. Both, to Alicent’s knowledge, were unwed. There existed a possibility for Helaena, one she would have to revisit later.

For now, her attention focused on the fact that it appeared Borros Baratheon thought that Vhagar would be enough of a deterrent for his sister’s sons to claim the Storm Throne from his own children.

“So that is what is to be then? Aemond to the storm, to match the tempest inside of him.” Larys tilted his head in the thoughtful way he had, his hands folded along the top of his cane. “Better, maybe, than risk quenching his fire in the snows perhaps.”

Alicent furrowed her brow. “Snows?”

“Only a turn of phrase, Your Grace. There are many eligible women in the realm to tie our Prince to. The Stormlands keep him close, rather than the cliffs of Casterly Rock or even the isolated northern houses. Northern houses, such as House Karstark offer little, while Storm’s End grants you a realm. Better than his sister as well, although I have not heard Prince Aemond express those wishes in some time.”

Alicent rolled her eyes and went to pour herself some of the mulled wine from the carafe by her window. “House Karstark, or any of the other Northern Houses, would do little for Aemond.” As for Helaena, she too had noticed her son’s waning insistence over the past few months in regards to such a betrothal. She hoped that he too realized the futility of such an endeavor.

“And it isn’t as if Lord Borros could not take another wife should-”

The clatter of her goblet on the table cut off the direction of Larys’ ponderings, and she turned on him, a sick and ugly feeling in his chest. “It is unseemly to speculate or wish for such things, my Lord Confessor,” she said tightly. “My son will marry Lady Floris. Aemond will have a position and income here at court, regardless of what the future holds,” she whispered. “He will make a fine Hand.” When her father could no longer be Hand to Aegon, Aemond would be an ideal successor.

“And Daeron could serve the crown much like Ser Criston. Now everyone is taken care of.” A soft chuckle filtered into the room and sent a shiver up Alicent’s spine. “You have done well for your children, Your Grace. It is good that they at least have a mother who cares for them so.”

“Someone has to. If my son is not his father’s heir, then he should be taken care of. The realm knows too well the idleness of second sons and unhappy brothers.” She shook her head, unflinchingly meeting Larys’ disquieting gaze and the amused curl of his mouth. “If the king would not even be amenable to the idea of Aegon being his sister’s heir, then something must be done.”

A pulse of a headache thrummed behind her eye. Aemond chafed already beneath his brother, beneath the duty that had spurred him to his lessons, to his training, but she knew Aemond would want more. He hungered for more and she could not give it to him. Would her ambitious boy be content with his child married to Cassandra’s heir? ‘He would have to,’ she thought, though her fear persisted. This was the cost of duty.

“Have you only come to speak of Lady Cassandra’s state of non-pregnancy, or have you come to drop news that Helaena is with child.” The pointed non-question was sharper than she might have normally intended but the onset of having to tell Aemond, her angry, precious son, would give her a fit the way anything difficult aggravated her husband and king.

“All goes accordingly, my Queen,” Larys said, nonplussed, and if anything, the amusement was lingering there. Alicent hated the small feeling it gave her. No, not small, she realized; not small as how her father or even Viserys made her feel.

Larys made her feel trapped.

“Very good then. If there’s nothing else, Lord Larys-” The sharp, heavy knock on the door mercifully broke into the tension and Alicent could barely contain her desperate tone. “Enter!”

Gwayne was the most welcome sight behind the door, his doublet so deep green as to be almost black, the fabric of his gray shirt poking between the ties of his sleeves. The silver buttons were stamped with the High Tower and the flames atop it. The angles of his face reminded her so much of Aemond, but she could see all of her boys in that face. The sharpening of Aegon’s jaw, Daeron’s nose. Warm, brown eyes took her in before looking over her shoulder as Larys scraped his way to standing.

“Ser Gwayne,” the lord greeted and she felt, more than saw, her brother stiffen slightly. Gwayne had not been here long, but his dislike of the Master of Whispers had been a decisive one. Her brother was firm in his manner, much like their father; once lost, no good favor could be regained.

“Lord Larys. I’ve come to pull our Queen from these shady interiors to take a turn in the fresh air. I’m sure you also have much to attend to.” Not that the solar itself wasn’t brightly illuminated, stained glass windows sending streaks of colored light about the room, and Theraxis, Abby’s cat, was sprawled in a patch of warm light that the stained glass windows turned his gray fur purple and orange.

“Who would I be if I kept her Grace from spending time with her much missed brother,” Larys said, inclined slightly to Alicent. “I shall take my leave then. Good day to you both.”

As soon as the door shut, Gwayne’s blue eyes, their mother’s eyes, pinned her.

“I mislike you having private conference with that man. Where is Lady Lysa? Or Cole?”

Alicent raised an eyebrow. “You mislike.”

“I do.” He seized an apple from the basket on the table. Brown hair, once sandy blonde as Daeron’s in youth, fell into his eyes. He kept it short, as Aegon, and the sight of him had her wonder if things would be easier had her eldest looked more like her. “He is a foul man, and I do not like the way he watches you.”

She rolled her eyes at her brother’s protestation. Touched as she was by his protectiveness, it was too many years too late. “Well, Lord Larys is the Master of Whispers for a reason. There is a certain unsettling that comes with the position.”

Gwayne rolled his eyes this time and bit into the apple, the fruit crunching loudly. “I still do not like it.”

“You do not have permission to pass judgment and disapproval as you made the choice to leave.” Resentment rose ugly in her throat, her voice not her own; a fragile thing, a girlish cry. Her nails scraped along her wrist as she turned away from him to her desk, eyes unseeing as she reached for the first paper. “I had to make my own protection.”

“Ali-”

“No,” she snapped, shaking her head. “You left.” Then I lost Rhaenyra. “And do not claim it was your injury. You couldn’t wait to flee back to Uncle Rodrik. How sad it must have been for you to instead be sent back to the Tower.” Instead of staying there, with her, so she would not be alone, so their father would not be so bold as to push and press and bear down upon her. Bitterness dripped from her voice and the sound of tearing filled her ears. Alicent looked down to see how she’d torn the acceptance from Dragonstone for their presence at the wedding.

She felt like she would be sick.

A strange sound escaped her throat. It sounded like a growl or a wounded whine. Alicent could not be certain. What she was certain of was Gwayne’s arms wrapping around her from behind, holding her bones together as she felt like she would shatter. Her brother said nothing and for that she was grateful.

Fear tangled between her ribs, pulling them apart and compressing them just as tightly so she felt like she couldn’t breathe no matter what. Gwayne held her tightly, held her bones together, kept her body from bursting into a thousand shards. She gasped for air, tears hot in her eyes but refusing to fall. At some point, they ended up on the floor, the deep green of her skirts pooled around them as she leaned into her brother and he rocked her much as he did when she was young, when they would play knights and dragonriders in the gardens, when mother was there, and she’d fall and scrape her knee, or he had whacked her too hard with the stick, or Rhaenyra was angry when her moods got the better of her.

“I’m sorry,” Gwayne said softly, so softly she could barely hear it and her nails bit into the thick fabric of his doublet.

“You could have stayed,” she cried, her fist hitting his bicep. “You could have stayed, I needed you!” Her brother had nothing to say to that, he only squeezed her tighter as she finally wept, her fears tumbling out of her. “Why did he do this to me if they do not matter to him? They’re his blood too and he never cared, he never cared. He begged for sons! He begged for them and I gave him sons and it didn’t matter so what was it for?”

Alicent wept bitter tears, pushing and biting her fingers into her brother, who sat there, quiet and unmoving as she tore into him. The months, the years bubbled up in her, all the shattered dreams and the fear and the confusion, the immeasurable pain that had stripped away everything inside of her until she was whatever she was now, a stranger to herself. “They’ll kill them, Daemon or whomever seeks to curry favor with Rhaneyra, and he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care and they treat me as if I’m mad.”

She wasn’t mad. She knew that she wasn’t, everyone knew that she wasn’t, but much like the king never put Lord Corlys in his place all the times the man stormed out of the Small Council, Daemon perched as a vulture on Dragonstone for months without recourse until he stole an egg, Rhaenyra escaping recourse and being covered for her indiscretions. Had Alicent’s own children be fathered by Ser Criston, to pass off as trueborn children, her own fate would not be so kind.

Why had no one sought to protect her, the way the king, mercurial in his affections towards his eldest child to begin with, still protected Rhaenyra?

Alicent did not know how long they sat there, the gasping and the tears, the undulating pressure around her middle ebbing and increasing until it finally started to fade. Gwayne’s hand slowly stroked her back in soothing motions, his cheek resting upon her head. As the silence grew and her sobbing eased, her brother finally spoke.

“I’m here now,” he said. “And if you wish me to stay with you instead of accompanying the boys to Harrenhal, I will.”

She shook her head. “Aegon will need you. Guide him, help him. He’s doing so well, I’m so afraid that he will slip…”

“You are afraid of everything, aren’t you?”

Alicent scoffed, wet and stuffy nosed. “I am being realistic. I need someone there who will tell me if I need to intervene-”

“Alicent.” Gwayne shifted, his voice sharp enough to draw her attention and she looked up at her brother, meeting his blue eyes with her own brown. Gwayne had their mother’s eyes, the Reyne eyes. Would her grandchildren hold those eyes as well? Or would Aegon’s Valryian gaze overpower them? “Let him grow. Let him have a chance away from here.”

“And if something happens to him?” Her lower lip trembled and she bit down on it so hard it hurt. Her brother’s mouth twitched in a smile. Sad, fond.

“He cannot thrive if you are tangled around him like a choke vine.”

“And what of father?” she whispered, harsh and unnerved.

“I’ll handle father,” Gwayne reassured, or attempted to do so, but Alicent felt the fear pulse inside of her, the uncertainty at what felt like a foolish promise. His eyes searched her face for several moments and Alicent, unnerved, reached up to wipe her eyes with her handkerchief and tried to gather her wits. “Alicent? Do… do you want your son to be king?”

Alicent’s heartbeat thundered in her ears and she pulled back from her brother to stare at him. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out and she shut it with a click of her teeth that longed to nash and rend those around her. A fresh wave of tears burned in her eyes but did not fall this time. She pressed her handkerchief into her eyes, took a deep breath, and felt in her bones.

“Aegon may not want it, but it is the only way to protect us. Viserys will not. Rhaenyra will not. I tried. I did, and I never thought she would hurt the children but…” Alicent shook her head, the fear still there, still acrid and painful. “Her callous disregard of my son, her brother’s maiming. And what they did to Laenor?” Her voice was a whisper, the fear, the shock of it that still stuck with her. “It was Daemon, to be sure, but Rhaenyra knew. And it’s that which terrifies me. Rhaenyra doesn’t have to give the command, or even raise the blade or-or bring Syrax to exact her justice. Daemon and whatever other lords seek to curry her favor will do what they think needs to be done, and that is to keep my children from being a threat, from being beacons of rebellion regardless of them being part of it or not. And if none do it for her, she will be forced to do it.”

Aegon may not want his sister’s throne, but Aemond? Her precious boy had received a grievous injury, but his sire, his father and king meant to protect him, had not cared. That night on Driftmark showed the court how utterly vulnerable Alicent and her children were, and her father had been right. She had to fight for them in a way she never had before. Aemond had risen to the challenge beside his mother, a protector, but also quiet and feral in ways that frightened her, in ways that sometimes reminded her of the way Daemon Targaryen used to stride about - a siren song of strength compared to his elder brother.

If to truly protect them meant putting her first boy, precious in his own ways, her little Aegon who was finally smiling again, on the throne? To protect them? Then so be it.

Let all they’d been through, let all she had been through, be worth it, let it mean something. Mother and Father above, please just let it have been for something.

“They speak of the great insults done to our House,” Gwayne said softly, leaning against the foot of her bed, one long leg sprawled out before him, the other bent to lean his arm on. “To not name your son heir, then why take his Hightower bride?”

“I wonder, had he married Laena Velaryon, if he would have named her son heir,” Alicent said, frustration edging into her voice. “Corlys Velaryon would not tolerate his grandson not on the Iron Throne-”

“Which is why House Velaryon has not broken with Rhaenyra,” Gwayne finished with a snort, but there was no amusement in it. “The Sea Snake wants to make a name for his house. These Valyrian politics - but what man doesn’t?”

“Viserys doesn’t,” Alicent rolled her eyes and Gwayne met her gaze, the pair of them snickering like children. She felt the tension in her chest ease with the laughter, better than tears, and pushed at her brother’s knee. “It’s guilt over Aemma Arryn’s death and the king is a stubborn man. He is easily run roughshod but when his mind is made…” She shook her head. “Had father not pushed, maybe it would have changed. But father made him feel like a fool, and Viserys cannot abide that.”

“It was not just father, though,” Gwayne pointed out. “Our house pushed for it, yes, but whispers and confusion have run rampant through this realm since Aegon was born. Women do not sit the Iron Throne. Seven Hells, Jaehaerys held a council because he could not decide between a granddaughter or grandson. What power does House Targaryen truly have if they must beg the lords of the realm to decide their succession when it should be clear, the way the rest of the realm does?”

“Dragons,” Alicent pointed out softly. There were so many dragons now, many from Vhagar, a few from eggs that Meraxes had laid - she recalled from Aemond’s excited speeches, a thick tome of dragon lineages clutched in his arms. “They have dragons.”

Gwayne’s hand reached up, fingers warm against her forehead as he pushed away a loose curl. “You are just as fierce,” he told her. “If not more.”

“Stop,” she muttered and pushed at his knee before they rose and she smoothed the wrinkles of her skirt.

The children were scattered that morning. Helaena was in the gardens with little Floris and likely Jacaerys skulking after her as he’d taken to doing when council meetings weren’t in session. He had behaved well enough, from what she had seen and what had been reported to her. Bastard born he may truly be, Jacaerys had always treated her daughter kindly. There was frustratingly little she could do with the boy now, for word would trickle back to Viserys, who would feel like he needed to roar to make himself feel in control before retreating back to his lair.

She knew that Aemond kept watch, although her boy as of late had been distracted. When not in his studies or the training yard, he was hardly to be found. Which left Aegon and Abrogail, and at least she knew precisely where they would be then.

The weeks following the festivities had seen a change in her son, and one that Alicent wasn’t sure how to feel. The dalliance with the Lefford girl aside (no bastard had taken root, and the girl had been given a place in her household until such a time a match could be made), as well as whatever foolishness he’d engaged in with Cassandra Baratheon, Aegon had performed admirably. His spectacle making tried her patience, but won admiration through the court. No longer her little boy, her first son, Aegon had come into himself in a way that Alicent had not thought him capable of, and feared that it would not last.

For all the pain that ached and clawed inside her ribs at the sight of them, the displays of affection between her son and Abrogail had also proven fruitful, and she did not sense any facet of artifice between them. When her son smiled down at his betrothed, an easing sensation coursed through her, as if the tightly spooled coil inside of her was able to release gently.

Relief. Relief that this might, in fact, work out better than she hoped.

Perhaps the girl had been right in defending Aegon, yet Alicent still held her breath, did not let her relief grow unbound. Aegon often threw himself into new pursuits, at least once upon a time. He’d let it consume him and just as she thought she found what he needed to truly take responsibility, the novelty wore off and then there they were, back where things began, her son drunk and dunked in a horse trough to sober him up.

They found the children in the small, family dining hall. Abrogail’s ladies were clustered on a set of low chairs and chaises that had been brought in. Lady Desmara Crane and Lady Merei Thorne sat on either side of Lady Wylla, silk and lace across all their laps as they worked on Abrogail’s trousseau. The Riverlands girls that Abby had taken for ladies had returned home in order to get their own things and order, and would meet the wedding party at Harrenhal. Alicent regarded their dresses - all different, and made a mental note to ensure that uniforms denoting their statuses as ladies-in-waiting were taken care of when the seamstress came for the next wedding gown fitting.

The dancing master stood at the edge of the parquet floor where her son and cousin stood, the minstrels in the corner with the Targaryen drum and other instruments. The room was cool in the early afternoon, the torches out, the curtains fluttering gently in the fall breeze. Samwell was sweet voiced, and had been in court since her wedding a score ago. He was not a particularly tall man, still plump, but the years had sharpened the roundness of his face. He still composed, but now served as a dance master, leading the court in new dances. Samwell had taught the children as well, and as Alicent watched him, his feathered cap of red and black striping bobbing in time with the music, it felt as if she were transported to a godswood and a song she never wanted to hear again.

Samwell’s exasperation was palpable, and Alicent could see the pink flushed along Abrogail’s face all the way up to her hairline.

“You go left,” he instructed her sharply, the cane he held to keep the tempo cracking loud enough to cause the children and herself to jump. “The prince turns right, as the flow of air. You are receiving him, my lady.”

“Left,” Abrogail repeated, fingers twitching in the pale blue damask of her gown. Aegon gestured in the direction she was meant to go in and the music resumed. Aegon had the steps down, but Abrogail struggled to follow the beat that was so different to the normal court dances. Alicent wondered if it was some memory of Old Valyria that thumped through her son’s veins, for she recalled that Rhaenyra and Laenor’s rehearsals had gone quickly. Alicent had mercifully been saved from such a dance, for the king had not wanted to perform it again.

A short ‘Ow!’ escaped Aegon and he jumped away as Abby apologized for stepping on his feet. Alicent sucked in her lips to hold in a laugh as Abby glared at him, snipping at him, “You are ridiculous.” Alicent clapped her hands and the music stopped, bows and curtsies from those gathered before her.

“Thank you, Master Samwell. I think that’s enough for today,” she said, watching Abrogail’s shoulders sag in relief. “You may resume on the morrow. No progress can be made when one is so frustrated.” She watched the girl open her mouth and then shut it quickly, eyes downcast. As the minstrels gathered their instruments, Alicent released her brother and approached the pair. Aegon had moved closer to Abrogail, curling a long, red curl around his finger.

Whatever her son was saying to her, Alicent could not hear, but she took the time to appreciate their closeness in a way she had not allowed herself to before. They had behaved themselves admirably in the weeks of festivities. Even as jealousy curled in her gut from the shattered dreams of her girlhood, the worries that had plagued Alicent’s days had eased as she saw how well they had gotten on, how favorably many in the realm looked upon them. Many had come to her, speaking highly of the match, how clear the pair were fond of one another.

How rare that very thing was in so many unions across the realm.

Alicent feared. She feared from the moment her eyes opened to past the time her eyes closed, feared for the safety of her children, and their happiness, unfairly, she knew, was not at the top of her concerns. To know that this might keep her son safe, to know that for the first time in years too many to count on her own hands, her son looked happy…

“I am half convinced the dance only makes sense to those with Valyrian blood,” Alicent said, a small smile crossing her face as she attempted to reassure her cousin. Abrogail’s features scrunched up uncertainty.

“Should we also not do a Riverlands dance as well?” The uncertainty left her, a small curl of a mischievous smile crossed the girl’s face as she eyed Aegon. “I’d like to see how well you perform that.”

Alicent pursed her lips at her son’s indignant look. Abrogail was not pregnant, there had been no scandals, no whispers. Whatever the girl had done to influence her son appeared to be working, the words she had said in such anger had taken root as Alicent had hoped. Aegon had thrown himself into good presentation, regardless of whatever dalliances her son had engaged in with Lady Cassandra.

“You are marrying a Targaryen, and with that comes certain expectations and obligations,” Alicent said carefully, her fingers running along the deep sleeves of her deep green gown, fingers tracing along the golden embroidery of the cuffs. “The might of the Targaryen House will be on display.” The girl nodded, eyes averted respectfully and Alicent watched her son continue to wind one of the long, red curls around his finger. He tugged on it, drawing her attention.

Alicent looked away to watch the minstrels leave the hall, the door closing with a soft thud behind them, the ladies continuing to work on their sewing. “Your brother is not here? Nor Helaena?”

“Daeron is with Helaena in the gardens. He has no interest in dancing,” Aegon rolled his eyes as Gwayne did. “He’s twelve.”

“Aemond is in the training yard with Ser Criston,” came Abrogail’s soft addition, reaching up to bat Aegon’s hand away from her hair. “He’s training for the wedding tourney.”

Aegon snorted. “Even though he complains how tourneys are nothing to real war.”

“Do not think you’ll escape the training yard with me,” Gwayne teased him. “Just be grateful I won’t have you out at sunup, given your newlywed status.”

Abrogail flushed. “Is-is everything alright, your Grace? Did something happen?” Aegon’s eyes swiveled curiously from the girl to her and Alicent smoothed her hands over her skirt.

“We would announce it at dinner, but I had hoped to speak to Floris.” she shook her head. “Lord Borros has agreed to the betrothal between Aemond and her. Obviously not for a few years - she is only a girl, but it will at least give time for her and Aemond to get to know one another.”

‘You had been only a girl’, Alicent thought. It was why she had fought so hard against her father to wait just a little longer before betrothing Aegon and Abrogail. To give the girl more time, the way her mother would have wanted, the way that it had not been afforded to her. She would do what she could for Floris.

And hopefully give Aemond time to come around to the idea.

Alicent sighed. Hopefully, her second son would be in a more receptive mood after hours having Ser Criston exhaust him with drills. “I shall go find your brother and hopefully catch him before he flees for Vhagar. Floris will be easy enough to speak to, if her sister hasn’t found her already.” She reached out, stroking Aegon’s hair, pushing the silver strands out of his eyes. The way he stiffened did not go unnoticed, and her heart ached with guilt. Her hand dropped, her smile tight and Aegon gave her a slight bow, Abrogail bobbing her own curtsy, a murmured ‘Your Grace’ whisper soft.

The moment Jace saw Aemond dominating the training yard, he felt his stomach drop and promptly went right and through the tunnel towards the gardens. While things with his uncle had been only filled with tension, Jace knew when to pick his battles and that was one he did not need to dive into.

The terraced gardens of King’s Landing featured in some of his earliest memories, when things were simpler, when the animosity and the tension hadn’t suffocated them all. In the gardens, the rest of the world fell away, much like how he felt when he rode Vermax, his jade wings skimming the waves of the sea, the salt wind in his face. The suffocating stench of King’s Landing was not so bad here, and while one was never alone - too many servants, too many lingering lords and ladies, all to ever truly be hidden - it was still a reprieve and Jace made his way down to the third terrace where the fountains were. With the fountains were mud, and he knew that Helaena would be there with her jar to dig up little things to feed her collection.

The first thing Jace heard was the laughter of children, and he spied Floris Baratheon swinging a stick rather aggressively at Daeron, whose eyes were wide in shock at the battle cry she let out. A grin broke out across his face as he gathered himself, and swung his stick back with equal fervor. Baela’s ladies - minus his step-sister who was still at High Tide - were gathered on the stone terrace along with Helaena’s new lady, eating cakes and gossiping.

Helaena herself crouched beside some of the large stones, a jar beside her as she rolled over one of the stones. Her hair was bound in a simple silver braid hung over one shoulder, her deep green gown embroidered with silver moths turned muddy and damp from the wet ground. Jace watched her pick a worm from where it clung to the stone and set it carefully away.

“Fish with feathered fins,” she said as Jace approached and he noticed her gaze was focused on her work, fingers twitching, the words nonsensical. He had not seen the expression on her face in years, had thought, mayhaps, her moments had abated over time as she grew older.

It was not the case. It was not something the princess had grown out of, and he remembered with clarity of a frantic, sobbing fit she’d had when they were children. Helaena was meant to be handled gently - Jace remembered his mother saying as much when they were young, not long after Daeron had been born. He should treat Helaena kindly, and respect when she did not want to be touched, and be mindful of loud noises. And so he did, stern with Luke when he would screech in excitement or indignation, snap at Aegon when he raised his voice. It had been the two of them playing in the halls of the Red Keep, playing a game of hide and seek, and he’d found Helaena, frozen in the hallway to his mother’s room, tears streaking down her face, clutching something to her. It had been nothing, but she would not drop her arms, and not knowing what to do, Jace had gotten his mother. Belly round with Joffrey, she’d come out, concern etched on her features and together they sat on the ground with Helaena, his mother not touching her but speaking to her in calm tones.

“The rats, the rats, the rats are coming,” Helaena had whispered in a frantic mantra.

“The rats will not hurt you, hāedus. I will go to Lord Lyonel and we will ensure there are more ratcatchers employed. I promise.” His mother said firmly and clearly, not dismissing the concern, her gaze towards him.

“And if we find a rat, we will get Abby’s cat to help catch them,” Jace had promised with a nod.

She was not crying here. She was distant from the world around them, and focused on something that wasn’t the little bugs she was dropping into the jar. Helaena was so far away and Jace kneeled beside her. The ground was wet and cold and promptly began soaking into the wool of his trousers. He ignored the uncomfortable sensation and remained beside her, curls in his eyes and reached for the scurrying little bugs to drop in the jar.

“Fish with feathered fins and storms of ivy,” she whispered. “Not that one. The red ones get ignored.”

Jace started when he realized she had addressed him in the middle of her whispers and dropped the red pill bug back onto the soft earth. It eagerly burrowed back into the soil, vanishing without a trace.

“Shall we find you a fish with feathered fins?” he asked her softly, a slight jest in his voice as he attempted to draw her back into the present moment. Helaena did not reply to him but shifted the jar better between them and he went about pulling up the next large stone to pull the bugs from beneath it.

“Promises shatter in ice,” Helaena said.

“What?”

Heleana drew back to sit on her heels, the rock falling back in place and her hands covered in mud. Her gaze appeared to fix on them and Jace watched her quietly, the sounds of Daeron and Floris’ laughter filling the garden. It felt ominous to him, the feeling rushing in like water behind a broken dam.

Tentatively, Jace lifted a hand to rest on her shoulder. “Helaena, come back to me,” he urged gently, thumb stroking against the soft wool. “You’re going somewhere and I haven’t any idea how to follow you.” He would if he could, for he knew that whatever plagued Helaea was a frightening place that she should not traverse alone, even tethered to Dreamfyre as she was.

All he could do was reach for her, and hope that she heard him.

Helaena slowly blinked, as if the act itself was something she had to remind herself or force herself to do. Jace swallowed and chanced a glance over his shoulder. Daeron and Floris were still chasing one another with their sticks, and the ladies were occupied with their chatting. He frowned with an uncertain feeling. Should her ladies not be attending her? Or did they think it best to leave her be? A sharp inhale of breath drew his focus back to Helaena. She pulled away awkwardly, hands fluttering and fingers flexing.

“I…” Helaena looked lost, confused, and she stared at him but did not meet his eyes, mouth opening and closing, words unable to escape her. Jace shook his head and kept his hand to himself in her clarity of not wanting the touch.

“You’re alright. You’re safe here.”

“Helaena?”

Abrogail’s voice carried past the hedge and she came around the bed, mouth tight, gripping tightly to Wylla Karstark’s hand. The dark haired woman looked pale, face tense as she followed.

“See?” Jace said, hoping it would comfort the princess. “Abrogail’s here.” Would that help? He felt impotent, helpless, useless in the worst possible way.

Abrogail and Wylla dropped to the other side of Helaena, the mud and damp soaking into the hems of their skirts. “How long has she been like this?” Abrogail asked, voice quiet but firm, blue eyes searching the princess’ face before looking at him.

“Since before I came.” Abrogail reached for one of Helaena’s hands, spreading her fingers out and gently stroking each of them to keep them from bending back into the anxious claws they had been. The ease of the motion spoke to how often they’d done it, Abrogail pressing her thumb gently into Helaena’s palm to ease the rigidity.

“Helaena? What is the matter?” Abrogail leaned in and Helaena did not meet her gaze but drew back, pulling her hand away and clutching both to her chest. A sound escaped her throat, small, a growl perhaps? Or a whimper? Helaena’s silver braid swung and she sharply changed direction, shifting to her knees to grab Wylla’s hand.

“Silence doesn’t mean the grave,” Helaena hissed. Wylla’s gray eyes were wide, brow furrowed in confusion as Helaena leaned in, pinning Wylla in place like a moth on one of her boards. Jace could see how tightly she gripped the other’s hand.

“Your Grace?” Wylla whispered and Helaena grabbed her now with both hands, shaking her head. Abrogail met Jace’s eyes, confused, before her gaze went to the ladies sitting on the terrace. The confusion turned to incredulity.

“Have they been sitting here this whole time?” she asked him in a calm voice, and the familiarity of it hit him in the chest. Her voice was calm, but there was nothing calm in the words. There was a quiet anger simmering beneath those words, brightening her gaze, and it reminded him so much of Ser Harwin that it took his breath away. Gentle and fierce.

Jace knew immediately that she meant, and he felt his own jaw tick as his understanding of the situation shifted. He nodded, holding her gaze, feeling a tempest inside of his chest. “I’ll stay here,” he promised and Abrogail’s gaze softened along the edges, her hand reaching out as if she meant to cup his cheek before she stopped herself. Hand still in the air, her fingers curled and with another nod, she gathered herself up to do whatever it was she meant to do.

“Don’t.”

Abrogail stilled, awkwardly half standing, Helaena’s fingers gripping her wrist. “What?”

The princess dropped a hand from Wylla to reach for Abrogail’s wrist. “Don’t,” she repeated, her head tilting, her mouth pursed in annoyance. “Don’t do that.”

“But, Helaena-”

Helaena yanked Abrogail’s arm hard enough that the unbalanced girl toppled over with a wet slap and Abrogail grimaced as the mud and wet soaked into her more uncomfortably. “They are supposed to be tending you.”

“And they are. I sent Margaery away before Jace came by.” Helaena sounded more exasperated than the annoyance that filled her actions and she gestured for Jace to hand her the jar of bugs. “You mustn’t lecture them.”

“I-” Helaena gave her a look and Abrogail shut her mouth, chastened. “I’m sorry.” In the quiet after the words, Daeron gave a shout and Jace saw him hit the ground hard, his stick sword flung out of his hand as Floris Baratheon stood over him, her own sword pointing right into his face. The ladies cheered and clapped for Floris, and offered their sympathies to Daeron. Helaena huffed and let go of Abrogail’s wrist.

“Jace was here and I was fine. Thank you, Jacaerys.” His cheeks flushed beneath her unblinking gaze, chest warm, even as the confusion of what had all happened still stormed inside of him. “He came exactly when I needed. Not too early, nor too late. I am capable of expressing my own needs.” Abrogail flushed for different reasons, fingers twisting. “What is it?”

Abrogail looked to Wylla. “The queen came to our dancing lessons-”

“Was it about how you keep stepping on Aegon’s feet?”

“I didn’t step - No!” Abrogail’s nose wrinkled with annoyance. “‘Tis not my fault dances are so complicated and that my feet do not behave. No.” A deep breath, another look, this time in the direction of Floris and Daeron. “She said that Aemond and Floris are now betrothed, she was going to find Aemond and then you.”

The silence held. Then, “Even though Wylla and Aemond have been kissing everywhere?” Helaena asked.

“But she’s eleven,” Jace protested.

The words hung in the air while it was Wylla’s turns for her cheeks to flush and Abrogail to stare at her. Jace also looked at her, surprised that Lady Wylla would even want to voluntarily get that close to Aemond, let alone kiss him.

“You’ve been kissing Aemond? And you didn’t tell me?” Abrogail’s incredulous voice was hushed so as not to pull the attention of the others.

Wylla shrugged helplessly. “It hasn’t been everywhere,” she muttered beneath the attention. “And this isn’t the point. I…” Wylla shook her head. “Prince Jacaerys is right, Floris is a little girl, does she mean to send them both to Storm’s End?”

“At least it isn’t Cassandra,” Helaena said with a frown. “No, they will not be sent to Storm’s End. Floris is my ward. She will stay with me for as long as I can keep her.” A sigh. “Floris has many years before she is to be married. Who's to say the betrothal will even last?”

Wylla looked uncertain. “You sound sure of yourself.”

Helaena looked at her. “I’m not. But Lord Borros is feckless and mercurial, he may change his mind if it means he cannot betroth Cassandra, or if he has a son.” Jace did not know if those were truly Helaena’s opinions on the matter, or if she was mimicking what her mother had said.

“Can you not break it as you did yours?” Abrogail asked. Helaena shook her head.

“Breaking my betrothal to Aegon should never have worked, and it was because our grandfather already found it distasteful that he convinced our father to break it on the eventual promise that Aemond and I might marry, and that also isn’t happening. Obviously.”

The look on Wylla’s face was one of confused near-disgust, one that Jace had seen in many outside of their family. Most found it objectionable to imagine kissing their own siblings, and Jace himself could not imagine kissing Luke if his brother had been born a girl, so he perhaps understood that.

Besides, none would find it strange if Helaena was only his cousin, for the blood they shared was the same in that regard.

“Floris will not mind if you keep kissing Aemond, Wylla, do not fear that,” Helaena continued, tightening the lid on her jar.

Wylla sputtered, glaring at Helaena. “Respectfully, Helaena,” she said, not even giving her the proper title, and Helaena looked up from her jar. “I do mind. I will not be some paramour, or continue some ill-fated dalliance with your brother just because Floris doesn’t mind. Floris is eleven and she deserves to be treated respectfully, not to mention I deserve it. I will not be shamed, or the newest subject for court gossip.” She sniffed, and Jace could not tell if she was trying not to cry, or if she was so angry she could spit. Abrogail rested a hand on Wylla’s back, lower lip caught between her teeth. Helaena shut her mouth, brow furrowed, and looked at her jar of bugs. “If Aemond suggests such a thing, I will cease everything. I will not allow him to do that to me, nor anyone else. I will push him out of a window for such a thing.”

Jace smothered his laugh into a cough at the imagery of such a threat, and had to keep from offering to assist the lady.

Helaena pressed her lips together, a little snort escaping her. “I would like to see that. He does need it sometimes,” she allowed. “I will see what mother says when she comes.” Her fingers drummed against the jar, and still, Helaena did not meet anyone’s eyes, still caught in whatever in between space that plagued her, but her words were more present, and that was truly what mattered.

Sitting there on the cold, wet ground, Jace wondered what his mother would say about all this. He had been sent to King’s Landing not just to serve on grandfather’s small council, but to be her eyes and ears amongst the viper’s nest. Any piece of information, no matter how small, could possibly become crucial to her cause. But as he sat there, Helaena’s hand drifting to rest near him, it felt like a further betrayal to reveal the conversation, even though he had, more or less, been a part of this. It wasn’t as if it had been overheard and none of the women knew he was there. They had none, and spoken openly regardless.

He could put off writing. At least for now.

AND WITH THAT! We are on our way to Harrenhal! I'd love to know what you loved about this chapter, and what you're looking forward to! Any questions or curiosities? ALSO! WE are sooooo taking bets on what (if anything?) is going to go wrong at this epic Westerosi Royal Wedding. And if you aren't sure what to say, drop a dragon emoji in the comments so I know you were here <3 and as always, thank you for being here. I appreciate each and every one of you.

[Next Chapter]

[arcielee]

the salver & the sword

paring: Suguru Geto x reader summary: Prince Satoru Gojo sends his trusted general, and friend, across the kingdom to retrieve the girl who saved him when he was a boy. You loathe the idea of having your life uprooted on the whim of some faraway prince, and General Suguru Geto is determined to see through his prince's command, by whatever means. word count: 4.9k+ warnings: AFAB reader, violence in graphic detail, character death, kissing, implied sexual situations, angst and more angst author's note: Thank you to @sassypossumm for the moodboard you made for this story. It had me a grinning fool. Also, Runa is an OC that belongs to @itbmojojoejo that I ship with Nanami. Anyway, I was trying to get this chonky chapter up before I left town (I have a work trip this week). I hope you enjoy!

Chapter VIII - Looming Threat

The prince towered alongside Suguru, a gleam of recognition in his endless ocean eyes once they settled back onto you. He tilted his head to the side and you saw the same flicker of boyish charm from that fateful day, his smile wide across his jaw. 

“I remember you,” Gojo said in an almost singsong voice. 

Your agitation bristled over. “How fortunate for me that you recall your ‘betrothed’,” –you exaggerated the word, emphasizing each syllable with disdain– “that you had summoned to be dragged across the kingdom!” Your tone boiled through your gritted teeth. 

He was not fazed in the slightest. “Still do not have a hold on that tongue of yours.” Gojo laughed and looked back at Suguru. “Did you really have to drag her? It would not surprise me if you did.” 

“And you are still as impertinent as ever,” you snapped. 

Gojo shrugged as if he agreed with you. “Forgive me if I only assumed you would be a bit more… grateful to be removed from your life of squalor.” 

Suguru groaned, but you ignored him. “I actually enjoyed my life of squalor,” –you stepped closer, your words pouring hot from your lips and your eyes flashing– “I was perfectly content and now I can never return to it because of you.”

That struck him and his brow furrowed. “Wait. What do you mean you cannot return?” 

Before you could answer, you felt Suguru touch you, the warmth of his palm through the fabric grounding you. It halted the venom poised on your tongue and you reigned it back into your throat where it burned. 

“Satoru,” his voice was low, his same quiet command that seemed to work on royalty as well, “I will fill you in on whatever details Haibara did not know, but first we must speak with the queen.” 

Gojo pulled his eyes away from you and they flitted back to Suguru, the tonal change pulling his attention. His demeanor shifted, a severity settling into his handsome features. “Is Haibara not with you?” 

+ + + +

You struggled to keep pace with the long strides of the prince and Suguru, an urgency to their steps with the news that rattled throughout the corridors: a head had been delivered to her majesty, the queen. 

A head that once belonged to the knight named Haibara. 

It struck out in the elegant room that you entered, and you were nauseous from the sight. His skin was mottled and bruised, a musky gray that swallowed his big, brown eyes. There were crude stitches across his mouth and someone ordered for them to be cut open. Inside was a capsule with a scroll, the simple message scrawled:

The Ryomen Empire will be built on blood. 

There was no declaration, no summons to the throne room that followed, but just a grief gathered in the room you now found yourself in. The ceilings were arched with a veranda that overlooked the gardens. It held personal touches of paintings of past regality, of the crowned prince as a boy, with shelves filled with literature, lit by the tapers placed on gilded holders.

An oak table was centered and a few courtiers settled around. At the end was half a cup of tea, some books and papers, ink and quill laid out, untouched since the abrupt arrival. The queen remained poised at that end, a refined shadow cast over and draped in pastel silks and lace, her white hair knotted at the nape of her neck and her jeweled crown resting on top; it held the physical weight of what had been placed in front of her, of what was coming next. 

Yaga removed the head, his hushed command to the staff to send for Haibara’s family, for a proper burial to be prepared for the knight. The crowned prince had his grief displayed, knotting between his silver brows and his ire bright in his eyes, while Suguru had a quiet fury that blackened his amethyst eyes. 

The queen watched them carefully. Her eyes were as kind as you remembered–the same cosmic blue of her son–but now they were withdrawn, wearied, with lines that cut through with her palpable worry. 

“It seems that I have misjudged the king of Ryomen.” She looked over the rapt attention she called, absorbing the weight of each word she spoke. 

It was a flurried reaction at first, a ghastly disgust, a sorrow that echoed with a call for vengeance. The death of Haibara plainly displayed unleashed a succession of information to pour over the queen and it was a moment for you to serve as the face of the northern faction of Tengen. You felt shy under the same familiar gleam that sparked in her features, and you watched her shift to sorrow as she learned of what happened to your father, what was happening still at the borders. 

Suguru continued about what had happened in the caves outside of Shiba, the men who had been sent to kill you. 

As the other confidents continued about the growing boldness of the Ryomen king and his army, you fell to Suguru’s shadow, standing behind him to watch the tension that lined in his shoulders. While most of the eyes at the table remained downcast unless they spoke directly to the queen, you noticed that he and the prince watched their liege, along with one other. 

The other being Princess Utahime. 

She had been seated next to the queen when you entered, her dark and severe eyes processing what was being said, looking over what was being displayed. Her dark hair was pulled from her face which showed a scar that cut from her cheek across to the bridge of her nose, fresh pink skin knitting itself together again. 

You saw her flinch when Suguru spoke and were stunned to learn that her scar was also the result of men who had been sent by Sukuna.  

Her empathy ebbed, an unspoken kinship forming between you and the princess as Suguru finished. She looked at Gojo, scowling, her tone dry when she said. “How fortunate that you continue to select such resilient women.” 

The prince stayed quiet, a pink dusting sweeping across his features. 

You learned that the attempt on the princess’ life had allowed her and Gojo to reconcile, but that relief was crushed under the head of Haibara. A heavy grief rippled over and settled into the bones of those who knew him; you saw it in Suguru’s posture, your fingers itching to touch him but you kept your fists balled at your sides. 

You mourned Haibara, remembering how the knight watched you, his eyes wide with his disbelief that you did not throw yourself in his arms to be whisked away to Hoshi at once. His loyalty was something that burned bright and you now saw how it was reciprocated tenfold in this room. 

“I foolishly believed that after I spoke with him, detailing the equal loss of life on both our sides, that it would stay with him. I hoped with the time that passed, maturity would flourish.” The queen began again after every piece was said and shared. “But I now understand it has only grown into an insatiable bloodlust that can not be contained.” 

She looked at her son, her eyes shining with a wet remorse that sparkled under her silver lashes; Prince Gojo straightened his posture under her gaze, shelving his own grief. “I also understand their militant growth,” her tone continued, even, heavy with the facts, “and I was a fool to treat the fatalities the north faced as skirmishes by miscreants from Ryomen, and not something that is evidently intentional.” 

The wind rustled outside, flickering the tapers lit as dusk became night with amber pooling around the somber table. She swallowed. “I am ashamed of how I have been handling this. After the Battle of Hoshi, after the lives that were lost, I could not bring myself to repeat that, but I can no longer ignore Sukuna’s intention.” 

Heartbeats of silence followed before Yaga cleared his throat. “What is your command, my queen?” 

“Satoru.” She spoke to the prince as if they were alone in the room and not royalty posted in front of the small audience who watched with bated breath. Your hands moved to touch the top of Suguru’s chair, anchoring the idle itch to card them through his hair, to feel the warmth beneath your palms. 

Gojo looked at his mother, his jaw ticking with tension, with restraint. The queen reached to place her hand in front of him, not to touch but to hold his attention. “You once told me that a great king is determined by the resilience that he wields with every daunting task he faces,” –your breath hitched with the echo of your father’s words– “and to say daunting would undersell the severity of what is happening and what is to come.” 

He searched to understand, his tongue wetting his lips. “What are you saying?” 

“I am asking for your judgment as I no longer trust my own,” she sighed with a sad smile. “I will back whatever choices you decide are best for Tengen from this moment forward.” 

The shift of power stunned the room and eyes fell from the queen to the crowned prince. Gojo was shocked, but now seemed taller in his seat, looking over the faces that now bore through him, awaiting his next words; his rose tones darkened his features. 

He turned towards Suguru, his eyes flickering up to you for a moment before returning to him. “My first thought is that we send word for Nanami, to bring him and his family to Hoshi at once. We should also call for the reserves that are stationed at each faction of Tengen, a call of arms…” he pursed his lips, his tone certain and uncertain at the same time. He watched Suguru carefully. “I also believe a king is as good as his council, so tell me your thoughts, general.” 

There was the subtle shift of the man whose side you had not left since he arrived in the north, turning into the renowned General Suguru Geto. Nanako was propped against his chair, her gemstone glinting as if she saw this change. 

“That is a good idea, my prince.” His tone did not falter, steady and commanding, low and thoughtful as he worked through what had been thrumming inside his head. “There is hope the coming winter could push back the Ryomen army, but I would advise we send scouts to watch them. We should also send out enlistment flyers. We will not have enough time to train them to fight, but to defend and replenish the reserves.” 

You fell back a step, watching the war strategy with chairs scratching against the cobblestone as tasks were set into motion, the room emptying. The queen watched with a prideful glow for her son and an admiration for Suguru before they fell back to you. You balked under her gaze. “Your father was a good man. I am sorry for your loss.”

It caught in your throat–his death was something still ever present, though had been tucked away with what had happened. Hearing the queen say it out loud brought it back, not a fevered rush, but a warmth to know that she remembered him. “Thank you, your grace.” 

“I know it cannot amend for has happened, but I will personally fund wherever you wish to go next.” 

That very freedom you claimed choked you. You blinked, your tongue withering away to ash in your mouth. Before, you would have your bold response waiting, spilling without hesitation to claim what you swore you desired–to return, to build again. 

But this had been before. 

Before you met Suguru, a life outside of the home your father built was not fathomable. You had pride in your work, but you also clung to the life you had with him. The fire stripped away that comfort, that complacency you were enslaved to, and it showed you a world beyond. 

A simple kiss from Suguru unraveled you in a way that you did not think possible and now you wanted nothing more than to remain at his side, if only to serve as his shadow. 

But you could not say this. 

“Your grace, I feel she would be useful to remain in Hoshi for the time being and help the doctor. She would be a valuable asset.” You looked to see Suguru looking at the queen; he did not look back at you, he did not see how you watched him. “She has a natural skillset and even saved my life.”

His praise made you blush, burning through you. You looked back at the queen and a small smile touched her lips again, but she stayed quiet.

“But only if my lady wishes to stay,” Suguru was quick to add, and you looked to see the red tones touching the tips of his ears. 

It made your heart sore. “I would like to stay and do my part, your grace,” your voice was soft to answer and some of the tension rolled from his shoulders.

“Very well then.” The queen called for the princess who had been watching with a renewed interest. “Princess Utahime, I know it grows late, but would you see her to the infirmary–we both know that she is still awake. Perhaps you can show her the way,” –she gave a knowing smile that prickled your skin– “since she will be staying.” 

You did not dare take another glance at Suguru, though your side eye saw he remained seated, his attention returning to Gojo–but instead you allowed your numb feet to follow after the princess. Your eyes trained to her dark hair that flowed with her steps, your footfalls echoing in

You did not dare to take another glance at Suguru–who remained seated, his attention returning to Gojo–but instead allowed your numb feet to follow after the princess. Your eyes trained to her dark hair that flowed with her steps, your footfalls echoing in synchrony as you weaved through the palace. The princess pointed out pieces, ancient relics from dynasty’s past that she noted for her personal navigation when she first came to Hoshi. 

You were overwhelmed, but grateful. “Thank you, princess.” 

“I was mad, at first,” she said instead. “I have always known Gojo to be impertinent,” –you could not help your grin with her word choice– “and he is rash, sometimes annoyingly reckless. When the rumors about the assassins the king hired to kill whoever the crowned prince was to wed, he was the one who called off our engagement.” 

You said nothing, your blood heating beneath your skin, afraid to even exhale as the princess stopped to turn and look at you. “I did not fear rumors, but I was mad when I learned he sent Geto to find you.” There was no fury behind her story, but a retrospective kindness that lilted. “I was not mad at you,” she clarified, “I was mad at the damn man that I cannot help but love.” 

It was soft, a secret shared. You burned with her confession as the princess continued. “I returned to Hoshi and demanded that he face me. We fought and I left just as mad… and that’s when they found me.” 

That was something that settled over you both. You watched as she gestured with her finger, touching the outline of the scar that cut across her face. “Did they… hurt you?” 

It was a tentative question, which you could understand. That night left you the moment Suguru had woken up, the warmth of his embrace soothing away what happened. It lingered on the edges of your mind, with the blotches of greens and purples still on your jawline. Her words settled heavy in your stomach, and you wondered what had happened to the princess.

“They tried, but Suguru came back,” you said. 

“Gojo and Yaga came after me.” She grimaced with the memory. “I had my knife and I managed to carve one of them deep enough, but there were too many to fight off.” You understood the kindness she showed, the unspoken kinship that bloomed. “If they had not come back for me…”

You dared to touch royalty, your fingertips pressing into her silk sleeve with a soft squeeze to bring her mind back into the hallway. “You are brave, princess,” you said and she looked at you. “We cannot dwell on what could have happened.” We would go crazy with the thought, you did not finish. 

Princess Utahime nodded, her face tight. You asked another question to draw her mind away. “When did you and the prince reconcile?” 

Her smile relieved the tension that had been building, a touch of pink to her cheeks with the memory. “Would you believe he proposed after?” She laughed and it was musical. “I was covered in blood when he asked. I thought he was mad. I mean, he is, but I love him regardless. I trust he will be a good king.” 

Her adoration humanized the prince and you saw Gojo in a different light. “The prince said a king is as good as his council,” you parroted. “But I believe a king is as good as his queen, so I trust the fate of Tengen.” 

The princess said nothing, but you saw her smile. 

She left you in the infirmary, which had once served as an oratory. It had been gutted to bring in shelves that were filled with books and jars and vials that shimmered with different salves and elixirs. The stain glassed window was muted with the night, only reflecting the candles that had been lit and placed around.

You were pleased to meet the doctor, a woman named Shoko Ieiri. She was seated at her desk, smoke curling upwards from her kiseru, her eyes bright when she looked at you, recognizing your name, already aware of your father, your lineage. She was gleeful when you showed her Atsumeru from your satchel. 

You did not notice the time until you heard a throat clearing, catching your attention. Suguru leaned against the doorframe, watching you both, shadows stretching across his sharp features and his signature smirk posted. “I had a feeling the two of you would get along.”

“Suguru, where have you been keeping this one?” Shoko chastised, flipping to the next page that detailed toxins–-hemlock and pokeweed and maidenhair and more. 

He looked at you until your blood rose and pooled into your cheeks. “Close to me,” he said, stepping into the room. “I came to escort you to your quarters. The queen also advises that you should try to sleep, Shoko.” 

She tsked, picking out the blackened tobacco to pack in new. “I will sleep when I am dead. Right now, we have much to prepare for.” She looked at you, her fingertips pressing the corners of the pages. “May I keep this for tonight?”

“Of course. I will be back in the morning,” you told her as Suguru took your hand to place into the crook of his arm. You fell alongside him with slow steps as you made your way back through the sleeping palace. 

The long day was finally catching up on you and exhaustion was dragging your movements. You focused on the warmth of Suguru with your close proximity, his low tone murmuring markers he used to find his way. “It was how I mapped this maze when I was younger,” he whispered to you, leaning close enough for his lips to graze your ear, his heat bleeding through to you. 

Your fingers tightened, anchoring him. He stopped walking and looked at you, his brow furrowing. “Suguru, I–” you choked on the moment, struggling to pull the boldness you had before you kissed him, before the intimacy that you shared with him that now furled into your bloodstream, pumping your heart until it bruised against your bones. 

You took a breath. “I do not want to sleep by myself.” 

He looked past you, the silky spill of his dark hair as he turned to check both ends of the hallway before pressing closer, catching your chin with his thumb and forefinger to tilt your head up for a kiss that was soft and sweet. It seared through you, rooting you to the stones, your heart thudding against your chest that you swore you heard it. Your fingers bruised to hold him, but he pulled back for another kiss on your forehead. 

“I do not wish to sleep without you tonight,” he confessed, his smirk returning as he took your satchel and pulled it over his shoulder. “Or the next, for that matter.”

It fluttered through you, his careful touch to lace his fingers with your own, pulling you after as he moved outside into the crisp autumn night. The black that swallowed the grounds was punctuated with torches lit, with guards posted, their armor gleaming. A pathway followed towards the barracks close towards the wall to fortify, weaving away towards a stone cottage set aside. 

Suguru left you in the doorway as he moved to start a fire, an amber crackle that cast its glow for you to see his home. It was humble, it was practical. There were notches by the door to hang his coat, a kitchenette attached to the main room where the hearth burned, and a second room for his bed. Everything smelled of him, earthy and fresh, complemented with the oak pieces of furniture placed. 

He seemed shy to look at you, almost uneasy on his feet. “It is not much, but you are welcome to stay as long as you would like.”

He is beautiful, came the thought as you watched the golden glow of the growing flames pour over him. It illuminated his obsidian hair and showed the crimson stains on his cheeks. You moved to close the space between you, your fingers grabbing his shirt and pulling him closer, pouring yourself into your kiss. 

Suguru hummed and it trilled throughout, and he was set in motion to pull you back towards the bed. 

+ + + +

Suguru had been correct about the weather.

The first snowfall came the following day and lasted, a heavy white coat that pushed the Ryomen army backwards into their kingdom again. It allowed ample time for the call of arms to gather in Hoshi, for word of the enlistment to spread out to the regions of Tengen. 

Kento arrived soon after, tracking through the snow with Runa and the children bundled. They were moved back into a royal apartment, and he seemed eager to don his militant title, to his future king. 

They came through the great hall, shaking off the snowflakes. The crowned prince greeted him with a sad smile, falling into a brotherly embrace that even Kento softened into. “I hate why you are here, but it is good to see you, Nanamin,” he said; Kento pulled away with a rosy complexion that he swore was from the cold. 

The little ones squealed their own delight, their cheeks pink as they demanded to be lifted up. You swooped Nobu into your arms as he giggled, while Suguru tossed Hana up high before catching her. 

Runa only watched, wearing the same knowing smile you saw on the queen. 

Routine soon fell into place. Your days were spent with Princess Utahime and Shoko mostly, though you often brought along Nobu and Hana. You poured over the scrolls and compared notes, taking the time to show the children the difference between herbal remedies though it was obvious that Nobu was more interested than his sister.

Hana wished for a sword of her own, to be able to fight alongside her mother. 

Princess Utahime adored the little girl. “Ask your mother when you are older.” 

Outside the infirmary, you knew that Runa and Kento helped train the new recruits while Suguru oversaw. When evening came, you would reconvene together to dine, to collaborate on the day’s events with good-natured bets placed on the new militant blood.

Suguru learned over to you with a staged whisper. “Satoru is very keen on a boy named Yuta, but Runa and I have faith that it will be Maki who will rise in ranks.” 

“And what does Kento think?” You played into it, a grinning fool.

The prince guffawed from across the table. “He says his faith will be placed in whoever is left alive.” 

A chorus of groans echoed and Runa shook her head, a smirk curling on her lips. “Oh Kento,” she nudged his shoulder and he was quick to catch her hand, his own smile hinting at his lips, “your pessimism never ceases to amaze me.” 

Kento brought the back of her hand for a kiss, his eyes never leaving his wife. “If it were you enlisted, I would have said differently,” he countered sweetly, and more groans rose above the clinking cutlery. 

The meal finished and everyone was dismissed. You were always eager for the nighttime, to return back to the intimate abode that you were sharing with Suguru. 

He made sure to carve a niche for you to fit into his life, another chair for the table for morning meals and shelving on the walls where you could hang winter herbs to dry, a place for your mortar–the very same he sought out from your satchel to have gilded together again. 

Here you could become the vessel that Suguru poured his passion into. You craved his touch, the euphoria that he pulled from you with his mouth and his tongue, with the slow grind of his hips against the cradle of your own. Your fingers would flit over him, following along the scars etched into his skin and touching the sharp contours of his jawline, committing everything to memory. 

And after, he would grab to pull you to fit against his chest, his hands tracing abstract patterns onto your bare skin. You nestled to the slow rise and fall with his breath, gooseflesh rippling from his touch, pressing your lips for lingering kisses on his chest and drinking in the bare scent of his skin. 

In these quiet moments you would bare your soul to him, stories unearthed that you never thought to share before. With Suguru, it felt so easy to talk to him. He was the confident that your heart had longed for. 

There were still things you could not say, the unspoken twisting in the back of your throat. Instead, you relished every night and every morning you spent curled into his arms, all while the knowing thought gnawing away that winter would soon thaw and the spring would bring war. 

You tried to mask your unease, but Suguru saw through you. He did not press for more and you could not ask him what your heart truly desired. 

“We are leaving in the morning.”

You stayed quiet, curled against his chest. You knew it was coming. The winter holidays had a somber tone and the weeks rolled away with the season, the heavy snow that once served as a barrier was beginning to melt away. Scouts alerted that the Ryomen army was moving again, crossing over the battle line. 

It was selfish, but you wanted him to stay but you would never say it out loud. Nothing would keep him as you knew Suguru to be loyal and devoted, the very traits you had fallen in love with. 

The thought struck you. It was a word that had been rattling around in your mind, caged behind your teeth for weeks. It repeated itself, begging to be free, but whenever you felt it threatening to spill, you would pause to collect yourself, to cradle his jaw in your hands and kiss him with the same tenderness he showed you; and an unaware Suguru would reciprocate in kind. 

It was something that happened often over the last several days. There were now so many moments spent with him that you could no longer pinpoint the moment your heart knew it belonged to him, but you were aware that when he had to go, he would take it with him. 

Suguru was quiet, his amethyst eyes dark with the night, searching over your silhouette curled at his side. “I would not expect you to stay,” he continued, clearing his throat of the sleep that pressed, “I would not ask you to stay, to deprive you of the freedom that you–” 

“Suguru.”

For him, it was the sweetest sound, and he stopped, his breath caught in his chest as he waited for you. 

You twisted to touch his cheek, to kiss him, softly, sweetly. “I need you to come back to me, safe,” you whispered against his lips, “because I will be waiting for you.” 

Suguru captured your mouth, swallowing this promise. “Do you want me to wake you before I go?” 

You shook your head no, moving to climb back on top of him. “I do not want to say goodbye,” you leaned forward with another kiss and his hands grabbed into the softness of your hips. “I just want you to come back to me.” 

It was hushed, it was passionate. He moved you until you were underneath him, his tongue trailing your curves he knew intimately, his teeth nipping at your pulse. Your hands followed down the hard planes of his chest, pulling him to fit against you, to kiss him again and again. 

The morning came gray and dreary. You opened your eyes and saw the bed was empty, that Suguru had woken before the dawn.

Your chest felt carved open and you curled into the linen that still held his scent, silent prayers to whatever gods were listening. 

taglist: @sugurubabe @elliesndg @paprikaquinn @yeehawbrothers @witchbybirth

@thenameswinter99 @maskedpacific @schioedtei

arcie's navi | jjk masterlist the salver & the sword masterlist

[thefallennightmare]

Mercy-two

gif created by me. feel free to use, simply give credit*

Pairings: Noah Sebastian x Fallen Angel!OC

Warnings: swearing, angst, fluff, smut, mythological talk, violence.

Summary: "Blinded by a fear of feeling, these are the kings we chose. Lost and looking for the meaning, I've been searching high and low" It came crashing down on him. This is the story of the highest banished angel from where she came only to find home in the arms of a mortal man. This mortal realizing he'd face Lucifer himself to keep her.

Lethia: Archangelus Oneironaut also known as Archangel of Dream Walking. Across worlds and dimensions, she walks within. Uncovering dangerous secrets, leaving her cast out, isolated- that is until she begins to learn what it means to feel.

Authors Notes: I hope you all enjoy what I have planned for this story because it's going to be amazing!

Tags[OPEN]: @thescarlettvvitch @blackveilomens @crimson-calligraphyx @cookiesupplier @lyschko666 @shilohrosechicken @thebadchic @iknownothingpeople @sammyjoeee @malice-ov-mercy @kaelyn-lobrutto24

LETHIA

I stood before the old, cracked, mirror, completely bare, and a scowl stared back at me as I took in my new appearance. I felt off; wrong, and despised the darkness that encompassed the room. I held my hand out in front of me to look at the long black nails; sharp as knives. My gaze then took in the sight of the wings that protruded from my shoulder blades and a sob left my lips when I realized that I didn’t look like myself. The ink that covered my arms had no true meaning or designs but one held my gaze longer than the others. 

It was on my ribs and the design was of a snake wrapping around a hand that held an apple. I titled my head in confusion at it, unsure as to why this design was the one that stood out to me so much. 

Up in the kingdom, my hair was down to my back in golden waves, my nails were short nubs, and my skin was pure with no ink. But I wasn’t sure what I was more afraid of, my wings or my eyes. 

My eyes were blood red as I stared at myself in the mirror. It was as if pure evil was in my presence.

The devil. 

My body shook at the thought, not knowing where that word came from, and the noise my wings made echoed throughout the abandoned building I was holed up in. The wings that I felt disgusted by. Angels were known by their wings and everyone knew of my bright golden ones. But now, the darkness that caused my fall had taken over every aspect of my form. 

My wings were black as the night sky but seemed to almost glow in the darkness of the building. What used to be soft and weightless was now heavy and jagged as it felt like a crushing weight against my back. I wrapped them around myself, hiding underneath the dark feathers, and I let out a shuddering breath. I despised the way I looked now and turned my back to the mirror, refusing to look at myself any longer. 

During my time in the Kingdom, I never was present when angels fell but I heard many stories. In all of them, an angel never changed during their fall. They lost their wings but their looks remained the same. Throughout the entire history of angels and the Kingdom, as far as I knew, I was the only angel that drastically changed. 

Was it because I went against the King? Was it because of who I found myself in bed with before my fall?

I didn’t know where I went from here, unsure of the path I needed to follow. Since creation, I followed some sort of leader or order but now my purpose didn’t matter. 

Through all the doubt and confusion, there was one thing I knew I needed to do. I sat with my legs crossed and took a deep breath while letting my eyes flutter shut. I’d been in this place for the last few days, hiding away from the outside world, as I tried to center myself. Even though I was upset with the way my appearance changed from the fall, I was glad that my powers remained; especially the fact that I was able to become aware of my surroundings. I was in a different time period and while at first, I felt different, an outcast among mortals, with hours spent dream walking I was able to learn more about where I fell.

The cool air brushed along my bare skin, my nipples perking, as I let out a long breath, finally feeling weightless when the scene in front of me changed. No longer was I sitting in the abandoned building but instead, I was standing in front of yet another mirror, still naked. I looked in the reflection of the glass seeing a bed behind me with orange lights glowing from behind it. There was a figure sitting at the edge of it with a piece of fabric wrapped around his waist and water dripped from the long strands of his hair. 

The window to the bedroom was open and a crow perched itself on the sill of it, cawing when our gazes locked. I’d seen this crow many times before when I dreamed walked, almost as if it was my familiar. 

With another caw from the bird, the man on the bed snapped his head, brown eyes drinking me in as I shifted on my feet and when his hand extended towards me, I studied the tattoos that seemed to cover every inch of skin. 

“Lethia.” 

I twitched as if hearing my name on his lips awoke something within me. 

“Come here.” 

Instantly, he pulled me into his lap and my hands rested on his shoulders. It wasn’t only his hands that were tattooed, almost every inch of his chest, stomach, and arms were as well. 

He brushed the hair from my face but I kept my gaze cast away from him, not wanting him to see the darkness behind them. 

“Don’t hide from me, Lethia. I want to see those eyes.” 

A finger lifted my chin where briefly our gazes locked and my heart beat widely in my chest. His name weighed heavy on my tongue but I refused to say it. He licked his lips before they pressed delicate kisses along my jawline, down to my neck, and I sucked in a breath when he used his grip on my hips to move me back and forth on his lap. The fabric that covered his bottom half did nothing to hide the outline of his cock as it pressed against my heated core. 

“Say my name,” he rasped in the crook of my neck leaving bites against the skin. 

I did my best to shake my head as a moan fell from my lips. Unlike outside of the dream state, I was able to feel his touch; his fingers gripping my hips, his teeth scraping along the pulse point of my neck, and the head of his cock breaking free from the fabric and sliding against my folds. 

There were many times in the kingdom that I found myself intimate with other angels, my most recent lover the reason for my fall, but something with him was different. The way my heart pounded so hard in my chest, I could hear it in my ears. Or the way my stomach burned with desire and spread through my entire essence. 

“Say it,” he poised the head of his cock at my entrance. 

I shook my head. “No.” 

A grunt sounded from the back of his throat before he switched our positions so he was leaning over me while I lay beneath him. My fingers quickly worked through the long strands of his still-damp hair, marveling at the softness of them. Intense eyes stared down at me, lip caught between his teeth. 

“You’re an angel.” 

“Shit,” I mewled when he finally pressed his cock between my folds, filling me up completely. 

Not giving me a second to breathe, he began slamming into me with such force I scratched my nails down the tattoos of his chest and stomach to try and grab onto something. 

“Say. It.” He punctuated each word with a hard snap of his hips. 

His fingers linked through mine and held our intertwined hands above my head. The fire burning from his eyes was almost too much to take so I dropped my gaze lower to his neck and I sucked in a breath at the tattoo. 

A snake wrapped around a hand that held an apple. 

The pad of his thumb brushed against my swollen clit in fast circles and my toes curled as the orgasm washed over me in a tidal wave, his name finally falling from my lips. 

“Noah.” 

My eyes snapped open with a choked breath as I nearly stumbled over in my position on the floor. I was back in the abandoned building, alone, and quickly rose to my feet while trying to gain my composure. When I dreamwalked in the past, there never was a set destination, only going where my brain and heart guided me. I wasn't sure why it led me to the man who saved me a few nights ago. 

My skin prickled with desire, the feel of Noah still heavy on my senses, and I squeezed my legs together hoping it would kill the ache in my core. It wasn’t uncommon for angels to lay with other angels; I had before, more recently with Lucifer. Which, some above in the Kingdom would say that’s the reason why I fell. 

But with this mortal, Noah, something felt different inside of me. An unknown heat burned my entire soul at the mere thought of him. Although I couldn’t feel his physical touch, his emotional touch hindered me in the most confusing ways. 

With a deep breath and a roll of my shoulders, my wings sank into my back while I reached for the jeans and shirt I stole from the store around the block. I quickly got dressed and slipped into my black boots. I tried not to let the thoughts of those brown eyes and the tattoo on his neck hinder me from my current mission. 

I needed to find a church. 

NOAH

My feet pounded lightly against the pavement as I left my car parked in the street, ready to meet up with the guys for a late lunch. I’d been in the studio most of the day and when Jolly called about getting something to eat, my stomach growled in agreement before I could. 

“You need to get out of the house, Noah. You’ve been locked in the studio the last three days.” 

I didn’t bother arguing with Jolly because it was true. The old, battered, notebook I used to write my lyrics never left my side the last few days, my current page being bookmarked by the long black feather; the one Lethia left behind in her wake. The image, the thought of her taking over every part of me. Even in my dreams, she felt so real. The touch of her, the scent of her, and her sweet sounds especially the dream I had mere hours ago felt so fucking real. Even the crow that watched us from my window. 

I was still perplexed as to why for the last few weeks I kept dreaming of Lethia, long before even meeting her. And why ever since I did meet her, the dreams felt more intense; real. 

Running a hand through my hair, I rounded the block and pushed past the large crowds of people that poured out from the bar, stumbling into the streets; dressed to the nines in costume. With Halloween a couple of weeks away, some of the local bars were having Costume Nights, hence what I was seeing right now. There was a sudden commotion just past the group of people and I stopped at what I saw.

“What the fuck,” I muttered the curse into my hand as I rubbed my jaw. 

Lethia was standing at the corner of the block with her hands wrapped around a man's wrist. 

“What gives you the right to say those vulgar words to me?” the anger in her voice radiated down the block. 

The man, dressed in a white toga and golden leaf crown, tried to rip his arm from Lethia’s grip but hissed out in pain. 

“Those jeans do wonders for your ass, sweetheart. Those tits are begging to be grabbed.” 

A scowl pulled on her lips. “Mortals. You’re disgusting. You all think you’re owed anything you desire.” 

“I’ll give you whatever you desire,” the man traced a finger down her face. 

Jealousy stabbed my chest seeing how close he was to Lethia but before I could step in, she had twisted his arm over her head, causing him to flip over onto his back, slamming into the pavement below. He tried to fight it but Lethia simply stepped on his chest, keeping him locked in place with her boot. 

“What the fuck,” he struggled. 

Lethia pressed the heel of her boot harder into his chest. “I should eviscerate you, right here. In front of your friends who simply can’t stand up for you. How pathetic.” 

One of the guys’ friends snuck up behind Lethia to try and wrap an arm around her neck to pull her away but she must have heard or sensed him because she whipped around, knocking him back with elbow. 

“Fucking bitch!” The second guy cried out, clutching his bloody nose.

Toga guy scrambled to his feet but Lethia was two steps ahead of him and kicked him in the nose, knocking him back down. 

“How is she so strong?” Toga guy spat out blood. 

Hearing the crowd next to me muttering something about calling the police, I cursed and pushed my way through, knowing that if I didn’t do something soon, Lethia would be in a position she couldn’t fight her way out of. 

“What the fuck!” She screamed as I quickly scooped her up, tossing her over my shoulder. “Unhand me! NOW!” 

Her hands smacked against my back but not wanting to risk staying around the mess of bodies at my feet, I quickly ran back down the block toward my car. 

“Can you stop smacking me?” I grunted while shifting her position on my shoulder. 

“LET ME GO!” Lethia tried to knee me in the gut but I wrapped my arm tighter around her legs, keeping her locked in place. 

It took a bit of trouble but I managed to reach for my keys to unlock my car just as I walked up. Yanking the door open, I gently dropped Lethia into the front seat, her feet kicking widely at me. 

“I swear to gods if you don’t stop kicking me, I’m going to leave you here to deal with those assholes on your own,” I said with agitation. 

It was a lie. I had zero intentions of leaving her here with them, even if she could handle herself. 

Lethia halted her thrashing for a moment, tilting her head up towards me as I leaned over the car. 

“Gods? What Gods? There is only one King,” she said. 

Sudden commotion from where we just came from caught my attention and I saw Toga guy and friend frantically looking around. 

“Shit,” I cursed while quickly buckling Letha into her seat. 

“What is this contraption? Why can’t I move?” 

Ignoring her shouts, I shut the door and ran across to the driver's side, easily slipping behind the wheel. Thankfully I was able to drive away without the two guys noticing Lethia was in my front seat.

“What the hell was that about?” I asked, glancing at her briefly. 

She kept pulling on her seatbelt. “Those men said such vulgar things. I couldn’t allow them to get away with it. 

The sound of the blinker echoed in my car as I turned left, our destination unknown. 

“I’m pretty sure you broke both of their noses,” I chuckled. 

“I would have done more if you didn’t pull me away,” Lethia grumbled under her breath, the seatbelt snapping against her chest. 

She didn’t even flinch. 

“You need to let me out of whatever this thing is.” 

I raised a brow. “Have plans?” 

Her red eyes assessed every inch of my car before her gaze fell on the side of my face. 

“None that concern you,” Lethia replied flatly. 

I hummed while pulling the car to a stop at a red light. My fingers drummed against the steering wheel as silence filled the tiny space between us. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as Lethia stared straight out through the windshield of the car. 

“Do all mortal men have staring problems?” Her lips were pulled in a tight line. 

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep my smirk away. “I’ve never seen eyes your color before.” 

When the light turned green, I began driving again, hoping Lethia would give me an inclination on where she wanted to go. 

“There’s quite a lot you don’t know about me, Noah,” she clicked her tongue on her teeth. 

My cock twitched in my jeans at the way my name sounded on her lips and I shifted in the seat, my knuckles turning white from how hard I was grasping the steering wheel. 

I cleared my throat. “I’m glad to see your injuries healed up nicely.” 

“I said they would, didn’t I?” Lethia smugly smiled. 

Ignoring her witty remark, I pulled into a parking lot. She gazed up out of the window at the large yellow M sign. 

“Mephistopheles?” 

“No,” I shook my head with furrowed brows. “Mcdonalds. I thought you might be hungry.” 

She fell back into her seat. “I don’t eat.” 

I continued to stare at her, confusion etched in my bones. This was only our second meeting and every time she either said or did something that made me question where she came from. 

“I know you said you weren’t hungry but what if-.” 

Lethia suddenly sat forward. “Is that a church” 

With narrowed eyes, I followed her finger as she pointed to a building across the street. 

“Uh-yeah?” I answered with hesitation. 

“Thank you,” she gave a curt nod then all but scrambled out of my car. 

“Wait,” I followed her movements by walking in front of the car. 

But it was too late, Lethia was already halfway down the block. 

“Where are you going?” I called after her. 

“I need to talk to the King!” She waved a hand over her shoulder and then slipped into the sudden darkness that encased the church. 

I never pegged her to be the religious type, needing to talk to her king this late in the evening but then again, I didn’t know much about her to begin with. 

My feet went to follow but the buzzing from my pocket halted me and when I peered at the screen, I knew I couldn’t ignore this. With a long sigh, I got back into my car, Lethia still heavy on my mind. 

LETHIA

I sat in the long, beaten, pew, and stared up at the altar where a lone statue of Jesus stood. His arms spread wide as if it was accepting everyone’s sin with a stone face; literally. A low scowl pulled on my lips as I glared at the statue. 

“I don’t understand why your creation was more important than ours. The King always favored you more than us.” 

An ear-ringing silence filled the large space of the church as I continued to sit there, waiting for any kind of sign from above. 

“I’ve followed you since my creation. I was your number one for as long as I can remember. However, you cast me out because I loved someone other than you? We were all your children but didn’t think twice about turning your back on me.” 

I sat forward with a start, hands gripping the pew in front of me and my long black nails dug into the wood. 

“Why did you cast me in a different time? Is this punishment?” 

The only noise in the church was the sound of the old building creaking with the blowing wind from outside. 

“Fuck, give me some sort of answer!” I bellowed, my voice echoing. 

More silence and that’s what finally made me rise to my feet with a start and I spat on the floor. 

“Why did I think I’d get any answers from you? I’ll figure this out on my own.” 

Turning my back to the altar, my footsteps bounced off the marble walls as I pushed open the doors of the church, bounding down the steps with newfound adrenaline. It was foolish of me to think I’d get the answers I deserved in a building that was built for two things; worship and greed. 

My fire eyes stared straight ahead as I pushed my way through the bodies of mortals whose problems paled in comparison to mine. My mind was filled with so many different things, that I hadn’t realized I walked straight into a body, never feeling his touch, until my voice was called; quite loudly. 

“Lethia!” 

My gaze snapped up towards those familiar brown eyes, filled with warmth and concern. 

I was wrapped in one of his arms, although I couldn’t feel it, I knew his fingers were grazing over my lower back; I felt it in my heart. 

“Are you alright? You look pretty upset,” Noah asked. 

His scent tickled my nose and it brought back memories of when I walked in his dream earlier. I was able to feel everything in his dream; his touch, his lips on my skin, his cock as it buried deep inside of me, and my orgasm as it ripped through me. 

But here, in the flesh, I couldn’t feel any part of him on my skin. My lip quivered because out of all the confusion on where my life went moving forward, what dug the knife deeper into my chest was the fact I couldn’t feel him. 

He’s a mortal! Why does my heart yearn for him in ways I don’t understand?

“Are you following me? It seems like everywhere I turn, you’re there!” I snapped, ripping myself from his embrace. 

Something flashed in his eyes. “I promise you, I’m not.” 

The tattoo on his neck caught my attention as it peaked through the hood of his black sweater and I felt my hands twitch at my sides. My long nails practically begged me to dig into the bright-colored ink because it mirrored the one on my ribs. There had to be some kind of connection between us, hence why I thought of Noah when I fell and how easily it was to walk into his dream earlier. Not to mention our matching tattoos. 

His long hair was pulled back, only a few strands falling into the soft features of his face, and it was then that I noticed the large bag on his shoulder. 

“What’s that?” I motioned towards it.

“My guitar,” Noah shifted it on his back. 

“Guitar?” 

“Yeah,” he nodded with a faint smile. “You know, for music.” 

Music. 

“You play- music?” I spoke slowly. 

“Yeah, I have a band. Bad Omens.” 

The proud smile on his face made something flutter in the pits of my stomach and I shifted on my feet at the uncomfortable and unknown feeling. 

“Do you know Luce, then? He used to play music all the time for me.” I wondered. 

If the King couldn’t give me the answers I sought, I knew Lucifer would if I found him. 

Noah’s brows furrowed. “The name doesn't sound familiar, sorry.” 

Cursing, I ran a hand through my hair, it still shocked me that my hands smacked my shoulder instead of continuing to run through long longs. The short length would take time to get used to.

“Why don’t you let me take you home? It’s getting kind of late.” He suggested. 

I waved him off. “I was kicked out of my home.” 

Noah’s jaw dropped slightly. “So, where are you staying then?” 

Movement over his shoulder caught my eyes and I sucked in a breath; familiar emerald eyes staring back at me. They were calling me in, pulling my soul back to his. Black strands of his hair were combed back, further showcasing those bright eyes. His olive-colored skin I spent many nights in the Kingdom kissing sparkled under the moonlight. 

“Lethia, come home.” His deep rich voice spoke to me. 

“Lucifer,” I breathed. 

Noah’s face twitched. “What?” 

Ignoring him, I pushed past him and through the sea of people, trying to reach Lucifer until his form vanished with the blowing wind.