#lessons in grace and decorum

[froidefille]

Day 3: a fic not on AO3

📚 Lessons in Grace and Decorum by GallaPlacidia

Draco/Harry, 49k, Not rated*

Summary:

In Azkaban, Narcissa Malfoy gives Draco lessons in how to manipulate people into loving him. When Draco is released on the condition that he is bonded to Harry as his prisoner, he finally has a chance to put his newfound skills into practice.

Forced bonding, eighth year (eventually), a Draco driven slightly mad by grief, a furious, self-destructive Harry, a whole lot of angst and a proportionate amount of comfort.

Inspired by an excellent story called Unexpected Consequences by Lauren3210.

I was thinking long and hard about this one because since the discovery of AO3 it’s been one way street for me. So now, what fics I’ve read that are not on AO3 (of which I have exactly 89 pages opened on my phone)? And then it clicked – some I listened to! Then tried to read them only to find out they were taken down because author has published a real book no less. And so, one google later I was head over heels with the amazing universes and characters created by GallaPlacidia.

I had a hard time choosing my favourite baby of Galla's, but since Lessons in Grace and Decorum broke my h/c loving heart so beautfully, I’ve decided to gush about this one. Today, that is ;)

I mean, just look at the opening lines:

“I wish you had been a girl,” said Narcissa Malfoy. Draco laughed. It was so cold in Azkaban. The number of dementors had been greatly reduced, but there were enough of them for Draco’s head to feel cloudy and light, as if he hadn’t slept in days. Perhaps he hadn’t. “That’s a new one,” he said. “Why?” “We raised you to command respect. If you had been a girl, we would have raised you to be loved,” said his mother.

Which instantly made me think about Daisy’s words in The Great Gatsby:

"It'll show you how I've gotten to feel about—things. Well, she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling, and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. 'All right,' I said, 'I'm glad it's a girl. And I hope she'll be a fool—that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.'"

By which point I am trying so hard not to rant about toxic masculinity and gender norms.

This is one of the stories where the characters are both broken in sort of matching ways so one’s cracks are perfect for the other’s empty spaces. And as corny as it sounds, this is exactly what happens here – Harry desperately needs to love someone that would be just his to care for and Draco needs someone who would cherish him unconditionally.

Plus it has some quotes that have not left my head for months now, which you can see under the cut below <3

Thanks for today @hprecfest and see you tomorrow (hopefully) !

*Regarding the rating – I would say mind the tags if you’re in a vulnerable place but if you decide you’re up for it – you’re in for a brilliant h/c treat <3

They had compatible needs. Perhaps that was all friendship was. An emotional transaction.

“He wants to be friends,” said Draco, managing to keep his voice low despite his excitement. But his mother didn’t look excited back. “He likes how you make him feel,” she said. “It doesn’t mean he likes you.” “No, I… I know that,” said Draco, although it hadn’t really occurred to him. It sounded so obvious when she put it like that.

“I don’t love him,” said Harry, automatically. “Oh, all right then,” sighed Hermione. “Wait until after the bond is broken to tell him that you think about him all the time, and want to hold his hand and stroke his pretty blonde hair and keep him safe for all eternity. Is that better?” “A bit,” said Harry, sulkily. “Yeah.”

But he understood, now. He knew that part of the anger he felt when he looked at Malfoy was because he wanted to touch him so badly, but couldn’t.

[theserpens]

Drarry Fic Rec: Set Eight

Grounds For Divorce by @tepre 122,217 words, E

Malfoy finds a coin. Harry finds a letter. A story about histories, a story about families. A story about a lemon tree somewhere in Upper Egypt.

That Old Black Magic by @bixgirl1 77,777 words, E

Centuries ago, marriage contracts were the norm — ready-made alliances between families, expected and complied with, without complaint. But norms have a way of changing, and when a long-dormant contract flares to life, Harry has to navigate an unexpected splintering of the path he'd thought would be easy after the war… with Draco Malfoy.

Stain of Silence by Brummell 28,356 words, E

After the war, Draco serves out his sentence in Harry Potter's house.

Lessons in Grace and Decorum by GallaPlacidia 48,977 words, NR

In Azkaban, Narcissa Malfoy gives Draco lessons in how to manipulate people into loving him. When Draco is released on the condition that he is bonded to Harry as his prisoner, he finally has a chance to put his newfound skills into practice.

This set includes stories where Harry and Draco are bound together - either magically or by circumstance. All of them feature the boys being forced into closeness, one way or another. This, of course, contains all the angst you would expect from that premise. Here, you'll find emotional distance, disconnected realities, startling intimacy, and tragic love, seemingly rooted in rot. I also noticed that in all of these stories, the two of them are somehow confined together at Grimmauld Place for a while. So, if you are a fan of that creepy old house, these might be for you!

All of them begin shortly after the war, with Harry and Draco still raw and exhausted and with no empathy for the other. These stories each illustrate their changing understanding, helped along by compulsory proximity.

'Grounds for Divorce' is probably the most mellow story in this set. It starts off pretty angsty, but their relationship grows and blossoms into something kinder over time. It's also carefully crafted, and the (magical) bond between Harry and Draco is described so tangibly, I sometimes felt it in my own toes.

'That Old Black Magic' starts off with a toxic and antagonistic physical dynamic. It has a gripping, fucked-up, and charged relationship between the two boys and handles the implications of a forced magical marriage wonderfully.

'Stain of Silence' doesn't include a bond or marriage of any sort; instead, Draco is bound to Harry by the law. This leads to an uneven power dynamic between the two of them, which gives the whole story a gloomy tinge. It is beautifully written, painful, and sharp. Ginny is portrayed as especially hostile towards Draco. So if you are in need of a good Draco/Ginny bromance afterwards, I suggest you scour the internet for 'Lessons in Grace and Decorum' — which also includes bonded Drarry due to Draco's sentence, lots of sadness and an uneven power dynamics. But a fun friendship between Draco and Ginny. So, Enjoy!

[bubu0h]

The Prisoner by Joseph Wright of Derby

[hyacinthsdiamonds]

I wrote this after Charles got fined for using a singular swear word. Even more true because Charles got fined what George got (for a technical infringement) and what Lando got (for starting an unsafe lap when the aborted lap signs were shown) COMBINED

[algrenion]

Megan Thee Stallion earns more respect from me on the daily

[celestisdivinitusinsaniavero]

That one time, Charles had a slip-up.

[Listen, I watched Apocalypse again, and this has been on my mind ever since. I love this man so much, it hurts.]

young!Charles Xavier (Wheelchair) x Reader TW: Oral (f!receiving), dirty telepathy.

You're pacing the front of the classroom in Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, chalk in hand, as you sketch out Mendelian genetics on the blackboard. The familiar screech of chalk against the slate is comforting. You're in your element here, explaining the logic of dominant and recessive genes with an enthusiasm that hopefully borders on infectious.

"Any questions so far?" you ask, facing the class. But it's not their faces you seek; it's not them you crave validation from. No, if you're honest with yourself, you're playing to an audience of one—the one who's not even here today: Charles.

Of course, you've seen him around the mansion—how could you not? Charles Xavier, with his sharp wit and sharper suits, his intense eyes. Even seated in his wheelchair, he carries himself with a grace and confidence that sets your heart racing. His presence lingers like in the study halls, and every so often, when your paths cross, his warm eyes seem to twinkle just for you.

"Miss?" A student's voice pulls you back to reality, and you shake off the daydream with a laugh that you hope sounds more professional than flustered.

"Sorry, I got lost in thought. What's your question, Jamie?"

As you navigate the minefield of mutant teenage curiosity, something shifts within you—a sudden invasion of vivid and unexpected images almost knocks you off-balance. There you are in your mind's eye, but not as you are now. Instead, you're perched on the edge of Charles' desk, the mahogany surface cool beneath your fingertips, the ambient light dancing across your—

No. Stop that. This is neither the time nor the place for such fantasies. You cough to dispel the inappropriate mirage and refocus on the lesson. It must be the pollen of spring air wafting through the open windows, you tell yourself, or perhaps the strain of teaching genetics has finally cracked your decorum.

You walk back to the front of the class, your mind still reeling from the vivid images that seem to have hijacked your thoughts. You clear your throat, attempting to regain composure as you refocus on the genetic intricacies of Punnett squares. But it's difficult—oh, so difficult—when you think of Charles's mahogany desk, your body is there, on top of documents and pens, spread like a sacrifice for him.

"Adenine pairs with thymine," you recite, your voice a little too breathy. You fumble slightly with the chalk, and it drops to the floor. Bending to retrieve it, you're hit with another wave of those illicit thoughts. 

You’re sprawled across that desk now, papers fluttering to the floor like they’re too shy to watch. Your thighs are parted, your panties soaked through, and Charles stares at you like you are his favorite meal. His breath is hot against your skin, puffing out in little gusts that make your core throb like it’s got its own heartbeat.

“You’ve been thinking about this for weeks, haven’t you?” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, like gravel soaked in whiskey. His tongue darts out, tracing the crease where your thigh meets your swollen center. 

He doesn’t stop there. Oh no, he is just getting started. He’s kissing his way up the inside of your thigh, his lips soft and wet, a hint of teeth scraping against your skin in the best kind of way. And then he’s there, right on your hot flesh, his tongue brushing against your clit.

“Charles,” you gasp, your fingers clawing at the edge of the desk as his tongue slips between your folds, lapping at your juices. He’s good at this—too good—and you know why: He can read your thoughts and understands precisely what drives you wild. You’re already shaking, your hips jerking up to meet his mouth as he sucks your clit into his mouth, rolling it between his lips. 

“Oh god,” you moan, your voice cracking as he slips two fingers into your dripping wetness, curling them, hitting that sweet spot inside you like he’s got a roadmap. Your thighs are trembling and you can feel the heat building in your core, white-hot and unstoppable.

“I want to hear you,” he growls against you, his breath hot and wet, and then he’s devouring you again, his tongue flicking against you in hard strokes while his fingers move at that delicious pace.

And that’s when you feel that sweet, soul-crushing wave of pleasure that starts in your toes and rips through your body like a hurricane. You’re coming, hard, your heat clamping down on his fingers as he licks and sucks you through it, drawing every last drop of ecstasy out of you until you’re a quivering, sobbing mess on his desk.

It's like being jolted awake, and suddenly, you're back in the classroom. The daydream bursts like a balloon, and you're aware of your surroundings. You're standing in the middle of the classroom, giving a lecture about... wait, what was the topic again?

"Guanytosine... cytosine..." The words are suddenly foreign on your tongue, a tangled mess of syllables. You shake your head, trying to dispel the imagined orgasm, but it clings with a tenacity that makes your knees weak.

"Any questions?" you ask, more out of need to break the spell than actual inquiry. A sea of blank teenage faces stares back at you.

"Alright, then." You manage a smile as the bell finally chimes. "Don't forget to review chapters five and six. We'll be discussing mutations next class."

The students file out, their chatter and laughter a welcome distraction. Once the last one leaves, you lean heavily against the doorframe, taking in the now-empty classroom.

Fresh air. You need fresh air. Stepping outside into the crisp morning, you embrace the solace of the estate's gardens. The manicured lawns stretch out before you. You close your eyes, taking in deep lungfuls of the verdant fragrance to push out the scent of Charles that you can’t shake.

The soft sound of wheels on gravel draws your attention. The sunlight catches in his hair, giving him an almost ethereal glow that's hard not to notice.

"Hello, darling," he greets you warmly, those expressive eyes meeting yours with a depth that always seems to see right through you. "How were your classes today?"

You open your mouth to reply, aiming for nonchalance. "Good," you manage, but it comes out more as a question than a statement. A blush creeps up your neck as flashes from that earlier inappropriate fantasy flicker behind your eyelids. You can feel the heat of your cheeks matching the roses beside you.

"Is everything alright?" he asks, his tone laced with concern.

Before you can fabricate some form of reassurance, his hand brushes against yours, a simple touch that sends a jolt of energy through you. His thoughts unexpectedly merge with yours, revealing the image you've been dreaming about—now seen from his perspective. 

Your cheeks flush crimson. You either revealed your secret fantasies about him or... those vivid images were actually his, projected directly into your mind.

"Charles," you breathe, looking up at him with wide eyes

"Ah, I'm sorry about that," he says, his voice tinged with embarrassment and a playful undertone suggesting he's not entirely repentant. "I suppose my thoughts were... louder than intended."

"Your thoughts..." you begin, feeling heat rise to your cheeks again. "They weren't... "

"I projected," Charles admits with a small smile. "A slip-up. I apologize if I made you uncomfortable."

Uncomfortable isn't quite the word for it; more like overwhelmed and flustered beyond belief.

"Seriously?" you ask. "That happened unintentionally?"

"Well, not entirely," he replies with a grin. "It was bound to slip out eventually. But..." He chuckles alongside you, the sound mixing with the rustling leaves and distant chatter from the mansion. "Next time, I'll endeavor to keep my dirtiest daydreams to myself," he promises, though the twinkle in his eye makes you wonder if he truly intends to.

"Well, you could at least take me out to dinner first," you jokingly reply.

"I'll be by your door at seven." Charles smiles, his eyes twinkling with mischief. 

You blink, caught off guard by his swift response. "I... wait, really?"

Charles' lips curl into a playful smirk. "Unless you'd prefer to skip straight to the desk?"

Your cheeks flush an even deeper shade of crimson. "Dinner sounds lovely," you manage to say, your voice a touch higher than usual.

"Until then," he says softly, bringing your hand to his lips for a gentle kiss. The gesture is so charmingly old-fashioned that you can't help but smile as he rolls away.

[notablenotions]

Masks of Nobility – Chapter 18

Henry was sore, bloodied, and bruised—again. His muscles ached from too many days chasing game through bramble and forest, and his tunic was crusted with blood—his own and that of various animals. Hans looked no better, limping slightly, a bandage around one arm, but his expression was content, smug even. It had been two weeks of hunting, drinking, and more, and for once, Henry felt something like peace. Even the pig—that cursed pig—was oddly quiet in the cart behind them, perhaps as exhausted as they were.

Hans nudged Henry as they neared Rattay’s estate. “Think she’ll notice we’re late?”

“She will,” Henry answered dryly.

Hans sighed theatrically, adjusting the bundle of books strapped to his saddle. “I’m grateful, you know. To have a lady wife who prefers the company of books over me. Makes disappearing for just a week—”

“Two,” Henry corrected.

“—less troublesome. With any luck, she’s been too busy reading to tell Hanush anything.”

Henry gave him a look. “She’s covered for you. You know it.”

Hans grinned. “Saint Jikta, patron of fools.”

---

As they dismounted in the courtyard, servants rushed forward, eyes darting to the pig. Hans waved them off, tossing orders with the ease of a man who had no intention of doing any of the work himself. Henry followed him into the great hall, hauling a crate of books, half-listening as Hans muttered about Jikta’s embroidery lessons and “needing a distraction from assaulting my honour with thread.”

And there she was. Jikta, seated with poise, sipping wine. Across from her sat a “lady guest” Hans had encouraged her to invite. Henry froze the moment he stepped inside. His heart dropped to his boots.

That was no lady.

That was Black Bartosch.

“Ah, if it isn’t our noble adventurers,” Bartosch drawled, not rising, not using Hans’ title—deliberately. His gaze flicked to Jikta. “Kitty, your husband’s returned.”

Kitty. Henry braced himself.

Hans’ face darkened instantly. “It’s Lady Capon, and I am Sir Hans Capon, Lord of Rattay. I’d thank you to use our proper titles, Bartosch.”

Bartosch sipped his wine, utterly calm. “Titles are such formalities, Hans. We’re all friends here.”

“I don’t know you,” Hans snapped.

Henry sighed. Here we go.

The bickering began—courtly, at first. Thinly veiled comments about “guests overstaying,” “proper decorum,” “respect for one’s hosts.” Bartosch parried each barb with infuriating ease, never raising his voice, his smugness radiating from every movement. Hans, meanwhile, became progressively more unhinged, his “noble grace” slipping with every exchange.

“You encouraged me to invite a friend,” Jikta said calmly, clearly confused by the tension. “You didn’t ask who. You presumed. I never told you their name.”

Henry added, “You did say it’d be good for her. ”

Hans turned on him. “Traitor.”

Jikta’s voice turned sharp. “Hans, you are being rude to my guest.”

Hans forced a smile, but it was more teeth than charm. “Yes, well, some guests need reminding of their place.”

Bartosch’s eyes glinted. “It’s been a while since I saw you, Henry. Taught you well, I hope I'm sure Hans is happy with the skills in...swordplay I taught you”

Henry choked on air.

Jikta, curious: “Oh? You taught Henry the sword, then?”

Bartosch’s lips curled. “Something like that.”

Hans’ knuckles turned white.

Bartosch, still calm, leaned back. “Hans, you’ve such a beautiful wife. One would think you’d be too busy to go hunting for two weeks. Poor Kitty”

Henry winced. Hans looked ready to explode.

Jikta’s brow furrowed. She wasn’t stupid—she knew Bartosch was insulting something, but not what. She rose, cutting through the air with icy authority.

“Enough. Whatever childish display this is, I won’t have it. If you two are determined to measure swords, do it outside my hall.”

"Henry is more than aware of whose sword is better LADY CAPON"

Hans stormed out without a word.

Henry followed, because if left unchecked, Hans might burn something.

---

Outside, Hans raged.

“He’s comfortable, Henry. Smug. In my home, in my chair, with my wife—using pet names!”

“You told her to invite her friend!”

“He’s a bastard! I hate him. I hate him.”

Henry sighed. “He’s not done anything.”

“He breathed. Incorrectly.”

Henry stared. “You’re naming the pig after him, aren’t you?”

Hans stormed into the study, scribbled a decree, and bellowed for Mags. “This pig shall henceforth be known as Sir Bartosch, Hog of Rattay.”

Mags stared. “As you wish, milord.”

Henry rubbed his temples.

Hans muttered, “Insufferable bastard.”

Henry agreed—with both of them.

[lokideservesahug]

A Whole New World

Part of the 𝓕1 𝓕𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓼𝔂 𝓒𝓸𝓵𝓵𝓮𝓬𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷

-°•°•°•°•--•°•°•°•°--°•°•°•°•--•°•°•°•°-

Pairings: Lando Norris x fem!reader (Aladdin AU)

Warnings: No descriptions of reader except she has hair, sexism, Abu is actually Max Fewtrell

Notes: Here is the first of two parts for the Lando/Aladdin au. I hope you enjoy!

Summary: Princess Y/N has turned down many suitors over the years. So why is it that a certain 'Street rat' has captured her attention?

Word Count: 4.1 k

Part 2

-°•°•°•°•--•°•°•°•°--°•°•°•°•--•°•°•°•°-

Throughout your entire life, all you have known is the confinement of the Palace walls you were raised in. You understand why you were kept in the grounds of the palace but it didn't make things any more exciting.

So with that train of thought, you devise a cunning plan one morning. No one could let you leave the Palace... but practically,  could leave if no one knew. So that's what you did. You waited until the right day came (when the guards that always fell asleep were on rotation).

For a place that was wanted to be so "heavily guarded", it was surprisingly easy to sneak out. All it took was a moth-bitten, aged brown robe of your mother's, may she rest in peace, and a calculated amount of agility (that was all but taught to you in your lessons of grace and decorum as a child). When you finally step foot outside the Palace for the first time in your life, you are left awestruck.

Colossal warm-toned pillars towered over you; despite your power in the country, they make you feel insignificant.

Despite this foreign territory, you find that the city is easy enough to navigate, just as long as you remember the way you came. City life was unsurprisingly bustling yet the unfamiliar loud noises make you smile rather than wince. It truly was a nice contrast to your regular surroundings.  When you eventually reach the centermost part of the town, a plethora of market stands decorated in all sorts of attention-catching fabrics line every corner. As you trek further, someone runs past you, pushing you slightly to the side. When you turn to berate them, however, you see that it's only one of many children playing - by running slightly too fast.

Your heart warms at the sight. However, your attention was drawn to a pair of boys, no older than about 8 standing in place, longingly staring at the baker's cart. You crouch down to their level and think about how best to approach this interaction with the first stranger you've spoken to in years.

"Oh gosh. Are you hungry?" You ask the scrawny boys. The taller of the two looks at you and the wordless answering his eyes is enough to act. You grab a loaf of bread from the cart to your side and hold it to the boy staring at you in what now appears to be awe. "Here. Take some bread." At your actions, the pair light up like children on Christmas day and proceed to run off with a newfound pep in their steps.

As you watch them run off, you hear a new voice begin to shout. "Hey! You are stealing from me?" Left dumbfounded at his words, you try and utter a response. "Stealing? No, I was just-" The man doesn't even begin to let you explain your actions as he cuts across you "Well you have not paid!" You see his eyes give you a quick one over as he continues "You either pay, or I take your bracelet."

Once more, you try and explain your predicament. "Sir I don't have any money" At your words, he grabs your bracelet-clad arm and begins to try and pry your jewelry from you. "Let go of me!" Despite your words, the man does not stop his attempts at removing your accessory. Your aggressor once more goes to shout in your face when suddenly, someone steps between you and the vendor. "Woah, take it easy man."

"Kalil walks away from the stall and she" The added emphasis on the pronouns makes you shrink into yourself "steals the bread." "Those children were hungry" This man's behaviour was outrageous. How can he be so cruel to those so unfortunate?

"Those children were starting. I did no-"

"OK. Just give me a second" After he speaks, your 'saviour' turns to you as the man behind him says "Keep your street rat nose out of my business! Huh?" The younger man turns to you again and asks in a soft, quiet tone "Do you have any money?" "No!" Your response comes as his hands easily find a place around your bracelet-clad wrist. "OK," His look becomes much more determined as he says his next words "Alright. Just trust me."

Before you can fully register his words he has turned around and you notice your bare wrist as he speaks to the vendor once more. "Here you go" You don't even have any time to protest. "This is what you wanted right?" He holds up your bracelet almost like a trophy and his actions make you sick to your stomach. The street vendor then sports a massive grin as he resounds to the man you thought was your Knight in shining armor. "Yes. Thank you." The younger man adds "Oh and an apple for your troubles."

By the time the fruit has left his hands, he has already turned and grabbed your wrist to swiftly guide you away. "Hey! That was my-" You let out a frustrated huff " I think not leaving without my bracelet." "You mean this bracelet?" The younger man all but huffs lowly. "Come on."

His actions leave you starstruck but as you hear the vendor shout, you begin to worry. "Lando. Thief! Lando." "Are we in trouble?" You turn to the man to your left. "Only if we get caught."

"Lando!" "Down that alley. The monkey knows the way." You'd been so wrapped up in the unwilling events that you had somehow managed to miss the monkey sitting on the man's (Lando you assume) shoulder. You can hear the vendor shout in the background but you're more focused on the freaking monkey moving from his shoulder to yours.

You go to protest but his gentle murder of reassurance that "You'll be fine" leaves you with no room to argue. As promised, the monkey really does know the way. You find yourself darting over and under places you never would have dreamed existed as you can hear the distant shouts and murmurs of the so-called "street rat's" escape.

As you dart around yet another corner, the man almost runs into you. Damn, he's good at this. You watch in amusement at his theatrics covering his elution of the guards. After kicking over some scaffolding with some Kingdom guards on, he turns to you. "Together on three." You repeat his words back to him to show your understanding. "We jump." "We jump?" There isn't much time for your confusion before he smiles and leans down. "There's no need to repeat everything I say"

He begins his counting and as he reaches the final "three!" He leaps from beside you. You look down at his safe landing but when he notices your absence and whips around to find you, you can't help but apologize. "I'm sorry. But I just can't do this." His eyes never leave yours despite the increasing volume of shouts "Look at me. You can do this." You spare a glance at the guards. Well, you have nothing to lose if you jump (aside from your life).

You aren't even fully aware of your feet leaving the ground or even your body in the air. Yet you certainly notice when you land tangled up with your savior. You glance nervously at the man and quickly detach yourself as he stands up and begins to run away. With no choice but to follow him, you find yourself running along rooftops and jumping (albeit smaller gaps) once again.

You lose sight of him for a moment but when you see the monkey from before look over and squeak at the edge, you begin to worry. That disputes when you see the man stick his head above the edge. "Let's go. I know somewhere where we'll be safe."

He leads you down to the ground once more. You can't help but stop and ask "Where are we?" His only response response "You'll see" as he grabs a rope. Suddenly, the sound of mechanical wiring fills your ears and in front of you where there used to be nothing, a set of stairs appears.

"Woah. Is this where you live?" He smiles in response to your words. "Yep. Just me and Max who come and go as we please." So Max is the name of his monkey you note. When you reach the top of the stairs, your eyes are greeted by a tremendous sight.

A giant cloth roof hangs over the brick space with smaller paper lamps hanging off the material. Your attention however is caught by the balcony on the far side of the space that you instantly rush to. You take in the city skyline for the first time properly. You shed your cloak as you began "I can't believe..." "What?" "I can't believe that we just did that. That we're even alive. With that chase and all of the running and jumping. It was amazing." "Tea?" He asks yet you don't focus on his words.

"Thank you. And thank you for getting me out of there... Lando? Was it?"

"Uhm You're welcome..." At his silence, you try and rack your brain for a quick lie. "Dalia! I... am Dalia" "Dalia. From the Palace?" Your eyes widen at his words. Oh no. "How could you tell?" "Well only someone from the palace would ever be able to afford a bracelet like that. Oh obviously and that silk lining is imported as well. It goes from the merchants at the Dock straight to the Palace. You look down as if you've been caught.

"At least not to servants" Oh no. He really was good. "Well, not to most servants. Meaning you must be a handmaiden to the princess!" You let out a sigh of relief at his words. "Impressive." "If you think that's impressive, you need to see the city from up there." He points to a ledge above the balcony and you turn in excitement to view more of this spectacle. You climb up and look upon your city in awe. It truly is beautiful. You mumble to yourself about how you should get out more (the irony not being lost in your mind) but Lando overhears your words.

"You should tell the princess to get out more. No one has seen her in years." "They won't let her. Ever since my-" You catch yourself before eyes dully slip up "the queen was killed in cold blood the sultan has been terrified for the safety of his daughter. So she's kept locked away." "It seems everyone has been afraid since then. But the people really had nothing to do with it. The people truly loved her." You can't help yourself smiling "They did, didn't they?"

You pick up a small, guitar leaned up against the wall. "Is this yours?" Lando doesn't look you directly in the eyes as he responds. "Sort of, it's borrowed." You then begin to play a tune of your past. "My mother taught me that song" He sounds almost sorrowful as he says it. "Mine too.: "It's all I can remember of her." You frown at his words. "You say you live alone? What happened to your father?"  "I lost them both when I was extremely young. I've been on my own ever since. It's alright it's just..." "What?" He begins to make his way up the stairs to your level as he continues "It's a little sad. Having a monkey be the only authority figure in your life." His words cause you to laugh slightly. And for the first time since your meeting, you finally have the time to take in his features.

His brown hair juts out in many directions with one curl in the centre hanging over his forehead. His blue eyes staring at you are enchanting. As you look down during your chuckle, you can't but notice that (unsurprisingly with his lifestyle) his physicality isn't bad on the eyes either. His words bring you back to reality as he continues.

"It's just... sometimes I feel like I'm" "Trapped." You finish his words off, knowing exactly the feeling. You continue as his gaze fixes on you again "Like you can't escape what you were born into?" He murmurs a quiet "yes" whilst nodding. The two of you continue to stare into each other's eyes when you both hear the shouts of sailors coming to Dock. "Welcome Prince Anders" the guards exclaim. A giant extravagant ship, carrying a royal crest on the sail shatters your brief, calm fantasy.

"I have to get back to the Palace!" "This way." Lando nods to the way you came. And once again, you did yourself blindly following the man (after you pick up your cloak of course). You begin to gravel the way you came but with increased pace. Lando smiles behind you at your urgency. "It's just another prince coming to try and court the princess." You stop briefly. "Yes. And I need to prepare her... Oh! Do you have my bracelet?" "Yeah," He rummaged in his pocket whilst you scan the horizon to gauge how much time you have. "I'm sure I put I in here." His movements become more frantic as he tries to search for your lost jewelry. "Somewhere... Max, did you take it?" The monkey stares at him and just scratches his head.

"That was my mother's bracelet..." You feel almost, lost. "Yes. And it's truly beautiful." You suddenly come to a realization. "You are a thief." "Yes but-" "And I am so naïve" You quickly then away from him and begin to rush towards the Palace as a mix of disappointment and sadness swirl in your gut. You hear his shouts behind you but you can't even bring yourself to turn around and look at him.

☆-☆-☆-☆-☆

"Welcome Prince Anders" Your father's words become a blur as you stand at the top of the palace stairwell. You began to descend the stairs as you pondered. Your patience was growing thin with the amount of suitors coming to court you. It wasn't that you had an issue with marriage, it was just that you had an issue with the suitors that kept coming. Every single one was here for power (which you understood you suppose) but all had fatal character flaws. They were either too involved with the patriarchy or wanted 15 children or some other outlandish thing. You hadn't found the perfect suitor yet. You couldn't even think of what this perfect man would be like but you knew that you would just know. Your brain drifts momentarily to the blue eyes from earlier and you don't have any time to ponder on it before your father's words cut through your thoughts.

"Prince Anders, this is my daughter Y/N." You hear a gasp from the man now standing opposite you. "Wow. Why did no one tell me of your beauty?" "No one mentions yours either." Your words (arguably a jab) at the man only make him chuckle. " Oh! Thank you. They say that in Skånland. Yeah. Right?" He turns to his men behind him. They laugh with the prince but if it's genuinely funny to them or just to amuse their leader, you're unsure. "It is very amusing." "Is it?" Your words cut him off slightly. "We have the exact same title yet are never described the same way." Your father clears his throat and mutters your name as a warning.

The prince awkwardly nods his head in agreeance with your words when he suddenly spots your tiger growling slightly. "Oh! What is that? Wait, don't tell me. It is a cat... with stripes." A distant voice calls to the prince "He likes you." Once more, the prince continues to talk of his greatness by adding "Oh yeah! In Skånland, cats love me. Here kitty. Pst pst." He begins to approach your four-legged companion and with this, the tiger to your side begins to growl with increased volume. You aren't even looking at either of them when you hear a scream followed by many sets of laughter.

☆-☆-☆-☆-☆

After you kindly dismissed the prince with soft apologies and promises of friendship. You find yourself wandering the halls of the palace in search of your father. You assume that he is in his regular place in his office. But as you walk down the corridor, you hear shouts that you can't quite make out and then two murmurs of "Invading Shiribad is the" You cut across your father's words "Invade Shiribad?" You turn and look at the man accompanying your father. Jafar, your father's second in command and a true thorn in your kingdom's side sometimes. "Why on Earth would we invade the kingdom of my mother?" "We would never, ever invade Shiribad" At your father's agreement, you opt for a sharper glare to give Jafar. "But an ally I'm Skånland would improve our situation." You brush off his accusatory tone as your father answers him. "Yes. If you consider giving Prince Anders a chance-" "To rule? Father that man is power-hungry and clearly only cares about his own image. Even Rajah would make a better leader than him!" You point to the tiger sitting beside you. "My dear, I am not getting any younger and as more time passes, the urgency of finding you a husband increases. And we are running out of kingdoms."

At his chuckles you roll your eyes. "What...foreign prince could care for our people as I do? I could lead if..." "My dear, you can not be sultan. It has never been done in the 1,000-year history of our Kingdom." "I have been preparing for this my entire life. I have read every book possible, I have-" "Books?" Jafar finds a way to weasel know your conversation. "You can not read experience. Inexperience is lethal. People left unchecked will revolt. Both walls and borders will be attacked if left unguarded."

"Jafar is right. One day, you will understand. You can leave now." Your father's words cause you to huff in frustration but flee the room.

As you exit with Rajah following closely behind you, you hear footsteps pacing towards you. Rajah growls as Jafar says softly yet condescendingly "Life would be kinder to you princess. If you were to accept these traditions and understand that it is better for you to be seen rather than heard."

You refused to meet his eyes and after he was clearly done with his demeaning speech, you walked away to your Chambers.

☆-☆-☆-☆-☆

"Surely there is something I can do." You speak to your handmaiden, Dalia (the real handmaiden Dalia) as she rubs your shoulders. "Oh, what a hard life you lead. I wish I would have the struggle of having to choose which prince to marry. Oh, the tall and clever one or the clever and handsome one. A handsome prince wants to marry you, when will life get easier." You disregard her sarcastic tone "It's not that I don't want to marry. It's just... "You want to be sultan. But why would you with  life like yours?" You turn and smile at her. "Do you remember remember my mother used to say? We would only ever be as happy as" Dalia choruses the last few words as you say them " our least favorite subject." You paused. "If she saw what I did today she'd be shattered." Dalia takes your hands and gives you a sympathetic smile. "She would also want you to be safe. And clean, I'll draw a bath"

"Jafar's guards on every corner? What kind of dystopia are we living in? I can help." You then look at the woman now behind you. "I know I can. I was born for so much more determined just marrying some useless prince!" "If you had to marry a useless prince prince could certainly do much, much worse than this one. Who's tall and dreamy? And he may be a little bit dim but you're only getting married. It's not like you'd have to talk to him." You furrow your brows at her. "But you'd much prefer that boy from the market." You feel your cheeks heat up. She laughs as she walks off and you can't seem to find it in you to disagree with her words.

As promised, she leaves to go to the adjacent room and draw a bath for you. Suddenly, a loud knock cuts through the quiet night breeze. That's odd. There aren't usually visitors coming to see you at this time of night. You open the tall door (that is surprisingly light) and you are met with the same blue eyes that have been plaguing your thoughts all afternoon. You don't even register your gasp before he is asking the same thing as he asked you this afternoon. "Tea?" He smiles warmly at you. "You... You! What on Earth are you doing here?" The sound of guards growing nearer fills your ears. "Get in here." You grab him and push him into the room whilst also surveying the corridor.

"I needed to come and return your bracelet." You freeze momentarily at his words. "What? Where is it?" You can hear his subtle smirk as he says "Already on your wrist." You glance down and as promised, your mother's bracelet once more on your arm. You can hear Lando compliment your interior design choices but your biggest worry is "How did you slip past the palace guards?" He turns to look at you, tray of tea and saucers still in hand. "I'll admit, that was challenging. But I have my ways." Once more, an accomplished smile finds its way on his face.

"Whilst the princess is out, would you perhaps like to go on a stroll?" You almost forgot about the Alias you adopted later... "Have a little chat?" "You are unbelievable. You can't just break into a palace and begin to walk around like you own the place!" Despite your reprimanding him, you feel a slight smile tug on your lips at his sheer boldness. "Well, you have to act like you own everything if you own nothing... So what do you say? I did find your bracelet after all." "Find it? You were the one that stole it!" "Actually, the monkey stole it." "He's your monkey!" "He smirks and says "Still a monkey." His words make you laugh and you can't remember the last time someone made you this happy.

"Who ordered the tea?" You didn't even notice your handmaiden return but at Dalia's words, you both quickly spin to look at her. All Lando can muster is a simple "Uh..." Before you cut across him " I did!" You go to move behind Lando so you can subtly communicate with Dalia. "For you, Princess Y/N."  "Your majesty" Lando bows as Dalia shoots you a very confused look.  but you respond by pointing to your returned bracelet. "Why are you being weird?" Dalia's confusion annoys you. You were trying to keep this storyline up!

Lando turns and gives you an awkward smile in almost support of what he thought your predicament was. You try again. You point to your bracelet and then to Lando. As if by magic, her eyes light up in realization of what you were attempting to do. "Oh, I'm the princess...Yes" Her recovery isn't the best but it works "And it truly is good to be me with all of my fancy dresses, one for each minute of the day and my giant karts of gold things and palaces." You gesture at her to wrap up her truly painful attempt at a lie. "Now it is time for my cat to be cleaned. She walks away and you can't wait to laugh at her display later.

"She doesn't get out much." Lando just hums in agreement as he places the tea tray down. "Clearly." Your tiger then begins to growl at him. "Aren't you supposed to be in the bath?" Lando shoots you an uneasy look as the cat sniffs his hand. Before you can think on it too much, Dalia's voice is heard once again. "Oh servant girl, this cat isn't going to clean itself." "Don't cats clean themselves?" You turn to Lando, eyes wide "You have to go." "Alright. But I'm coming back tomorrow." You go to protest but he continues. "Meet me in the middle of the tea courtyard by the giant tree when the moon is above the highest branches. To return this." He pulls out your hairclip and he brushes a strand of hair away from your face. "I promise." You see him walk off and can't help but smile at him and his antics.

Unbeknownst to the both of you, a certain second in command to your father was alerted as Lando entered the palace and the guards had finally caught up to Lando. He looks at the head guard as the man gruffly speaks. "Evening." Lando can hear his voice break as he replies. "Even- good evening." He doesn't even need to ask to know that there are more guards behind him and he feels well and truly stuffed.

-°•°•°•°•--•°•°•°•°--°•°•°•°•--•°•°•°•°-

I hope you enjoyed this! As always, likes, reblogs and especially feedback is always welcome!

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[maryaandmorevna]

A Song of Swan and Dragons VII.

VII. Sīkuda (ao3 link)

Summary: Arianne's offer of truce is rebuffed, war is declared, and Aemond reaches a conclusion after a sleepless night.

Tw: There is explicit content in this chapter in Aemond's POV.

Words:88,263

Links to previous chapters: I., II., III., IV., V., VI.

Tagging @kyonkyon69, who is my most wonderful beta, and @lacebvnny, who got me into Aemond haha.

Love and war are the same thing, and stratagems and policy are as allowable in the one as in the other. - Miguel de Cervantes.

(Arianne)

Her face was burning.

Arianne dug her heels into the dirt, solidly on the ground at last. She breathed a sigh of relief before realizing one very problematic thing.

Her fingers were still clutching his tunic.

Aemond's hands were still on her waist.

Their warmth permeated through her silks, sending peculiar frissons up her ribs.

Frowning, she quickly let go of him, cradling her arms to herself. Aemond had seemingly watched her for a few seconds before tilting his head and sneering.

"You are the clumsiest woman I have ever met."

Arianne blinked, unable to ascribe any importance to the insult because he still held her, gods — and grasped his left wrist.

It was...utterly improper, touching his bare, warm skin. Yet, she had no choice, because he'd either forgotten to release her or did not want to.

She tugged on the sinewy thing to peel it away from herself.

His jaw tensed, and that sole, blue eye of his dragged down to where his hands were.

Abruptly, Aemond pulled back, as if astounded by his lack of decorum, setting her free from his hold.

For several moments, they just stared at each other, and her embarrassment finally caught up with her. Arianne straightened her spine and wiped her awfully clammy palms against her skirts.

She could not think about who saw her almost tumbling down like a sack of turnips, and she refused to admit Aemond Targaryen saved her from a rather humiliating experience. No, not because it had been Aemond, the insufferable boor, but because he could've released her immediately, as the propriety demanded!

He did not need to...hold her.

What if someone saw it as more than what it was? Arianne could not afford such a scandal. The facetious slander was one thing, but being seen so close to a man was another thing entirely.

She needed to be above suspicion.

Was he trying to ruin her life again?

Her eyes darted toward the dusty ground. The pebbles scattered around the courtyard mocked her — silent, impassive, but still somehow complicit in her humiliation.

Arianne crossed her arms.

"I merely...I would've found my footing. The ground was uneven." Her lips pressed into a tight pout as she pointedly avoided Aemond's gaze.

He hummed, the sound reverberating low from his throat.

"You could try swinging a sword at it, little swan. Teach it a lesson."

She narrowed her eyes.

Was he making a jab at her attempt to strike him or at her stumble?

Yet, there was something off about his voice; it was brittle, almost as if he too was struggling to keep composure. Arianne dug her fingers into the sleeves, trying to suppress the annoying buzzing beneath her skin.

The sickening flush encasing her neck.

Mother above! He IS a Stygian monster to make me ill with fever!

"I told you not to call me that! Have the common decency to respect it, Your Grace." She hissed.

Aemond was quick to respond. Almost as if he were glad she attacked him, rather than thanking him demurely.

"My lack of common decency is nothing compared to the treason that spills so freely from your lovely lips. I assure you, you'd not fare well down in the black cells, little swan." His shapely mouth twisted with scorn.

"Treason?!"

"Is it not treason to insult the honor of the King's son? To call a Prince, how was it?" He tapped his right temple with a long index finger, as if recalling a fine verse.

"—a vile liar,"

Arianne swallowed. Now, wait a moment!

"—a malevolent arse,"

Paled.

"—a prejudiced twat."

She shook her head. Not because the words were wrong, but because she’d said them aloud. And worse, he remembered.

All of it.

Arianne stared at him, utterly horrified because even a fool knew the mortal danger they would find themselves in should a Targaryen prince insist they were prancing around tossing insults his way. Her stomach dropped like a stone in water.

Aemond blinked, predatorily still.

His mouth curved at the right edge as if he were wholly amused at her dawning dread. She counted thirty pulses while he seemed to pore over her expression, savoring it.

Drawing out her loss like a fine wine.

Vintage Arbor gold.

"Some might find it a jest. Alas, I am a wretched, stodgy bore, am I not?" He finally asked, almost gently.

The sound made her shudder.

"Those were—" she began, but halted abruptly. Those were not insults, but descriptions, sounded like something treasonous too.

Arianne wanted to yank at her hair. Why was he so —

Why was he so unfair?

"I was defending myself! It is not as if I deliberately... You always start first! I was practically forced to behave in such a manner."

His brow arched.

"I forced you to insult me?"

"I merely responded in kind —"

"Oh, so now you appeal to reciprocity?" His tone was dry as old parchment.

Arianne grasped at her skirts, her heart drumming like a downpour.

"Offense begets defense. The first blow thus invokes the law of return. D-did you never read Thyrne?" She stammered, surprised that she even thought of that.

Something tumultuous flashed inside Aemond's sole eye.

His brief silence spurred Arianne to continue, as nervousness always made an expert blabberer of her.

"N-no? Well, tit for tat principle is older than the Hightower, or even the Old Pyramid of Ghis. It explains the behavior of men quite accurately, I'd say. He who strikes first, which would be you, my Prince, teaches his foe to sharpen their sword. I don't have a sword, but well, one must use what they have — and why should I suffer your cruel jabs like a castle under siege, and not fire back? The law of equivalent retaliation grants me the right to be as rude as you are. "

"Citing An Inquiry into Retribution grants you nothing!" Aemond snapped, appearing more offended than usual.

Arianne pursed her lips.

Oh, so he did read it. Was there anything he did not read?

Her fingers curled into her fists, nails digging into the softness of her palms.

"So, now you dispute —"

"Thyrne wrote about duels, matters between men." He stated levelly, much to her growing irritation. Her cheeks were burning, both from anger and something else that remained on her skin from when he'd caught her.

She should get away from him, lest she truly end up in the sickbed with butterfly fever. Mayhap, Aemond was not a demon at all, but some form of Naathi butterfly, spreading illness while appearing so...so wrongly handsome.

"Fine." Arianne bit out, loathing him with the might of a thousand storms.

"Do you want me to apologize? I am truly sorry for offending your delicate sensibilities, my prince."

She held his icy stare for several seconds.

“Mhm,” he hummed again, unimpressed. “Somehow, I find myself not believing you, Lady Arianne.”

Aemond brought his arm to rest idly on the pommel of a dagger sheathed at his side.

"Believe what you want." She hissed, squeezing her fists at her sides. "I have better things to do than converse with you. Go away."

He blinked.

Then again.

Her gaffe would not go unnoticed.

"You want me to vacate my own yard for your sake?" The condescension in his tone was laid so thick, he might as well called her a simpleton.

"No." Arianne shook her head. The command had slipped out from sheer frustration, not from any foolish hope that he would ever do the gallant thing and deprive her of his company.

"No, I will leave, of course."

She dipped into a low curtsy and headed towards the stone stairway. Well, this morning had been a colossal waste of time.

A thought struck her, as sudden and annoying as the man behind her.

Arianne could not possibly continue wasting so much time arguing with him when there were so many vital matters to attend to, including preparing Rhaenyra's banquet for Rhaenys, reading through scrolls on fund management Ser Tyland recommended, and, most importantly, making Jace jealous.

That required better planning, clearly, as Jace was nowhere to be seen, and she was stuck under the scorching sun with his malicious uncle.

Again.

If she were to avoid the training courtyard and Rhaenyra's drawing rooms, of course, she'd have to consider some different approach.

Maiden Day's ball, then. Just what on earth was she going to wear? And worse, she could not go with Myles Motoon, now that he had fled from her, so her options were either faking an illness or finding someone else. It was going to be a disappointment either way. In Stonehelm, she was always among the selected few ladies who recited the prayers and sang the hymns, preening in the centre of the castle's grand hall of white and black stone. 

Rhaena also mentioned something about the newest lady Wylde organizing a cyvasse tournament together with her husband, Master of Laws, which was something Arianne was most excited about.

She could not afford more social blunders, more failures, just because Aemond Targaryen had a penchant for targeting her! Not to mention the most important woman in the Realm just happened to be his mother, unfortunately, and it was the Queen's whim that decided one's standing with the Court.

More so for a young, unwed lady.

Especially so, for those who wished to marry someone from the royal family.

It would be prudent to settle this...this pointless animosity, because somehow the One-eyed Prince's mere presence kept ruining her carefully concocted schemes.

She pivoted abruptly, purposefully — her crimson skirts swishing around her.

"I propose a bargain."

Arianne declared, resolved to end this. End him — not literally, of course, though the thought was tempting.

Aemond, still lingering by the wooden rack, merely lifted one silvery brow.

"I will stay away from your precious courtyard." She offered, voice sugar-laced spite. His lack of reaction would not daunt her this time.

“No more… nefarious schemes, as you so charmingly put it.” Her hand gestured to herself with a mock flourish.

“I vow never to insult you again. In fact, I will do my utmost to avoid you altogether.”

Arianne inhaled, trying to read anything off the steely edges that made his face.

"In return, you'll leave me be. We needn't ever speak again."

The One-eyed Prince cocked his head, like one might when considering things, before he clicked his tongue.

"Daor." (No.)

She was already halfway to a nod, expecting a curt fine.

No!?

“B-but—” Arianne sputtered, irritation bubbling up her throat. “It would be a mutually beneficial agreement. You find me contemptible! You can even draw up a list of places I must avoid for your sacred peace!”

“A list?” Aemond drawled, lazily intrigued.

“Of places? Like my Keep?”

“It is the King’s Keep! Must you be so needlessly aggravating—?”

That damned smirk tugged at his mouth. Vain and wicked both, a testament to his enjoyment of her frustration.

She scowled.

“Why in the Seven Hells would you not accept a simple truce?” Arianne demanded, her voice rising an entire octave.

“Why indeed?” The One-eyed Targaryen gazed somewhere far off, a painting of genuine wonder.

“Is it because dragons don’t make bargains with songbirds?” His baritone dipped low.

“Or is it because you amuse me, Lady Arianne?”

Her nostrils flared.

"So, you'd scorn my peace offering and rather be my enemy?!"

Embers shimmered inside his sole eye.

“Your enemy,” Aemond echoed, rolling the word over his tongue, tasting it.

“And how do you plan to end me? Will you take up swordsmanship to challenge me in a single combat?”

He took three slow, deliberate steps toward her, each one heavier than the last.

“Or command armies from your solar? You have enough witless admirers for a battalion, I’ll give you that.”

Arianne had to tip her chin to meet his gaze now. Gods, he was tall.

Unfairly, so.

"Princess Nymeria commanded her army even if she never lifted a sword herself. It is a matter of strategy and tactics, not of brute strength."

“Nymeria,” Aemond scoffed. “A coward who fled and lost half her people during voyages.”

“Retreat is not cowardice!” she shouted, fire finally flaring.

“Am I to assume you’d have stayed and let yourself be scorched alive?”

He grinned, cocksure and a tad self-indulgent.

"Why, lady Swann, I'd be on the back of a dragon, doing the scorching."

Of course. Of course, he would be. How utterly foolish of her to ask.

"Charming..." Arianne muttered with a healthy dose of sarcasm. "But since I don't have a dragon, my solar will do just fine."

"War is not your domain," Aemond remarked flatly, gesturing to the toppled shield rack she'd stumbled into as if it proved something.

She stiffened.

"You are meant for comfort. For adorning a hall. For bearing sons. You've read Thyrne, so what was it that he wrote of your kind?"

Her jaw locked.

"Unlike you, I think for myself, so I do not agree with everything he wrote." Arianne recited frostily.

He didn’t even flinch at the insult — callowly pressing on.

“I agree with nothing that old fool wrote. Thyrne was a Septon who never fought, never bled. Nine scrolls on combat, not one scratch earned. Yet, you are the one who cited him, Lady Arianne.”

"What is your point?"

"That if you intend to use his words to defend your schemes, then I will use them to remind you of your place. As per Thyrne, you, my lady Swann, are in the wrong." Aemond was practically purring from satisfaction that he'd outmaneuvered her with this.

"It does not matter if you're as comely as Maris the Maid or as clever as Alysanne, because you are just a lord's spoiled daughter with a sly mouth and too many ideas above your station. And frankly," he drawled, glancing deliberately to the hem of her crimson skirts before slowly dragging his gaze back to her face.

"Why are you even reading so much? Thyrne would chastise you for it, you know."

Arianne’s mouth opened, stunned, ready to lash back, but he continued before she could inhale fully.

"He'd say you were made to be looked at, not argued with." Aemond added, deceptively mellow.

Wait a moment!

She squinted.

Arianne had read that particular scroll thrice, as Thyrne hailed from a village near Blackhaven, so her grandsire on her mother's side had all of his works. “The gods gifted beauty that it might be admired, not questioned. A woman’s loveliness is her highest art.”

Well, that did not make any sense; it didn't even sound like an insult or critique. It sounded...

She scrutinized the marble-like plains of his face for a sign of an incoming rude jape. Did he...did he just imply that she was beautiful? HIM?!

Arianne’s mouth went dry. Her palms itched, damp with rising heat.

"Forget the bloody Thyrne." She bit out.

 "As I've said, that law is older than anything. I read because it is useful to know things, and it is expected that one should know plenty if they find themselves serving on the Council —"

"You are a woman, no such thing is expected of you." Aemond interrupted, voice cold like the winter night.

"Nothing is, except to be a docile broodmare for your husband."

Arianne's eyes widened, his words landing like a strike. Worse. Like a lashing with a birch branch over her palms, which her Septa employed often while she was younger. It was an insult. It was dismissal.

"I do not expect you to know every single sigil of noble houses. Robb must, but you need not."

"Question me again, father, I know them now. Truly! Better than Robb."

Lord Donnel sighed.

A searing, hollow ache bloomed in her chest, pulsating in time with her rabbity heartbeat. How could he know? The secret grudges and pains she'd kept close.

Her lungs seized, a hot flash of humiliation laving her throat.

A docile broodmare?!

Arianne slammed her palm against the wooden rack beside her, fingers grazing the hilt of a nearby blade.

"Nothing is expected of you either." She bellowed, fury scorching her vocal cords like wildfire.

"It does not matter if you're The Perfect Knight come again, or as accomplished as Aegon the Conqueror, because you are just a spare. You will never inherit. You will never rule!"

The last sentence tumbled from her full lips with mundane cruelty.

He would strike her for this, she was certain, but found herself not caring because at least his reputation would be in tatters as well.

Aemond’s eye darkened — iris shifting from pale cerulean into Cape Wrath.

Storm-surge grey, violent, and vast.

His hand fell upon hers, caging it against the wood.

The callouses decorating his palm, warm and firm and unyielding, scraped the thin skin over her knuckles.

Aemond flexed his fingers — it sent disconcerting tingling up her arm, like the stabbing of pins and needles from a sewing cushion.

He'd done it almost eerily calm, a gesture of restraint rather than aggression.

Unmistakably deliberate.

The closeness of him reminded her of her stumble earlier. Right into his arms.

Arianne's face reddened to her hair, because the truth of the matter was very troubling. He'd touched her more than any man ever did.

Brushed his thumb over her knuckles while speaking of Lorath in flawless Valyrian, and that was...she'd explained it by some odd courtliness, but then he'd seized her wrist like it belonged to him, and just minutes ago held her waist, and now...

And now, this. This.

How was it that he, the haughtiest, most infuriating creature the gods had ever allowed to exist, was the one she engaged in this strange skinship with? Did he think himself above the rules and laws of propriety?!

No, no, the only gossip she'd heard about the Queen's middle son was that he was boringly committed to rules and duties. A voice from the sunken gorge in the back of her mind taunted her with utter nonsense — he wanted to touch her more than he cared for propriety.

Arianne fought the urge to yank her hand away and run. Something in his darkened gaze told her that he would enjoy it.

That if she ran, he would follow.

And worse still, that he would catch her.

So she bit into the inside of her cheek and willed her hand to remain where it was. Trapped underneath his larger one.

Willed her thoughts into order, and willed her feverish skin into forgetting how he'd held her earlier.

This was —had to be — some contest of will. She could not lose. How could she hope to rule a court if she allowed herself to be cowed by Aemond Targaryen?

He made her cry several times, but Arianne would be damned if she was going to let him do it again! So she merely batted her lashes and stared at him.

At last, Aemond spoke, his tone thrumming with warning.

"Thread carefully, my lady." He leaned down until she felt his breath graze her cheeks.

 "You cannot win a quarrel with me."

The words slithered down her ribs, soft, because no, Aemond had not raised his voice at all.

She did not...She did not want to quarrel with him in the first place!

"I do not need to." Arianne replied tightly, following the deep scar splitting his left cheek. "As you've poetically put it, I am only expected to marry a man who will."

She felt silly for vocalizing it, because now he had another thing to humiliate her with. Her affection for Jace. But something else passed over his sharp face.

A surprise, perhaps.

Aemond released a low, dry laugh.

"There is no such man for you."

His brief stupefaction morphed into reverence.

"I am a Targaryen." He murmured, filled with ancestral vanity. "We are closer to gods than men, little swan."

Arianne spoke before she could think it through.

"There is." Her voice rang clear, all righteous fury. She could no longer control the torrent pressing against her teeth.

"It is you who should take care to treat me kindly, because I will outrank you one day."

That jolted him.

His shoulders went rigid, and Aemond's infuriating little lip tilt vanished, mere inches from her face.

She lifted her chin, pressing the momentary advantage of his surprise.

"When Princess Rhaenyra is Queen, Jace will be Prince of Dragonstone, and I will marry him." Her blood was boiling, thundering through her vessels like it wanted to erupt out of her skin. She could not... could not stop, even if his unnatural stillness prompted the cautious voice inside her mind into urging her to retreat and run far and wide.

Arianne stood on her tiptoes instead, so enjoying the tensing of his jaw and the way his pale eye widened. The way something brackish and furious was sizzling beneath his skin.

His hand was still wrapped around hers, a furnace of flesh.

"So that day, when he is King and I his Queen," She spat, reckless and heedless of the darkening grimace on Aemond's terribly close face.

If she moved any closer, she'd hit his nose with her own.

"— will come, and you’ll regret all this. I’ll have you exiled to Mossovy! To Cannibal Sands!"

Aemond did not move, but his fingers tightened, their shared warmth burgeoning between them.

It thrilled her that, for once, he was at a loss for words. If only she could think of how to utter it in the High Valyrian he cherished so — What’s the matter, Prince Aemond? Nothing to say?

The chink in his armor now crystallized in her mind, a path that led under his steel skin, just how his scathing comments always burrowed under hers, a tit for tat.

He clearly loathed being reminded of his unfortunate birth order. Behind Rhaenyra, behind Aegon. Not even second, because even his sister came before him, and all of her children...

Suddenly, Arianne had all these new ideas wanting to tear from her throat.

"And I will give him sons." She sang, swearing it like an oath.

"Many, many sons. And if you're still here, you can watch how my brood sits on the Iron Throne before you ever do."

Aemond blinked, just once, but his countenance altered subtly, horribly.

Suddenly, it was as if every ounce of vitriol from moments before was flushed away, carried by the violent stream of her declaration, to be replaced by equal parts astonishment and fascination.

His single eye widened almost imperceptibly, something volcanic shifting behind it. Something endless and consuming, permeating his gaze and burning through her heavy silks to settle low in her abdomen.

He looked at her as if he had never truly seen her before.

As if only now did her shape make sense to him.

Arianne shivered, waiting for the rude retort she had expected — venom, a sneer, the insufferable boor's usual arsenal of weaponized wit.

Yet, Aemond seemed engrossed in the movement of her face, like one might be in reading a fine scroll. Like her mouth was a particularly interesting paragraph. Like she was a riddle to be unraveled, made specifically for him.

A muscle in his jaw ticked.

Then, he somehow drew even closer, sending her heart into a frenzied spiral.

Her breath slammed against her sternum.

Surely not—he wouldn’t dare touch her like that—!

Unbidden, the idea that he truly would kiss her took sudden, tyrannical root, like weeds in her skull.

A treasonous thrill cascaded down her spine.

She squashed the errant thought like an irritating bug.

He hated her. He'd never.

Such perfectly shaped lips wasted on Aemond Targaryen, she mused wildly, stupidly, blasphemously — a soft lower lip, a parabolic curve of the upper bow.

Swallowing, Arianne lifted her gaze.

A mistake.

His eye gleamed like wildfire hidden behind glass.

"No. Bargain." Aemond hissed flatly, the words reverberating inside her skull.

Silence fell, and the air congealed between them. She could see the pulse in his neck thrashing vehemently, leashed underneath the ivory skin.

Then, so painstakingly slowly, Aemond pulled away.

His hand lifted, and the warmth vanished.

He glared at her for a moment longer before turning and heading towards the stone staircase, his long, silver hair snapping behind him like a war banner.

Arianne swallowed again, felt the strain in her throat.

Flushed and breathless and stunned, she realized one horrible truth:

She made a colossal, disastrous mistake.

A blunder of match-ending proportions.

She'd just set herself, a lone elephant, against the opposing dragon.

Aemond Targaryen now knew of her dream, of her wicked, covetous heart, and he would not let her be.

.

.

.

Arianne marched straight to her chambers from the yard, just so she could scream while holding a pillow over her face.

“Wretch!” she seethed into the feathers.

“Horrid, despicable dragon—”

She kicked her legs against the bedding like an angry child, the silks tangling around her ankles.

Aemond Targaryen accused her of scheming, and she told him...

How could she have told him those things?! Gone so close to his sharp, cold face, too close, improper, improper, contemptible — and told him she would be Queen one day. It was...unseemly.

He provoked her into behaving unbefitting of her station.

Seven take him!

What if he tells? It was enough that cruel tongues lashed at her about Saera Targaryen and Johanna Swann, now they would gossip about her complete lack of scruples and denounce her as a profligate grasper from the Marches.

The bed was too soft.

Too stifling. She threw herself off it and seized a chair with a sharp scrape across the stone floor, the sound grating in her ears.

Aemond Targaryen was going to kill her.

Or worse.

Her chest rose and fell in unsteady bursts.

He held her. Gods, he held her, like he had the right.

The heat suffused her face just remembering it, not just from humiliation, but from something molten, muddled, unwelcome.

Arianne furiously opened the scrolls on the variable tax that Ser Tyland Lannister lent her. Something, anything, to banish the image of him. Numbers and footnotes.

Structure.

Order.

Aemond Targaryen, with his insufferably fast reflexes. With those unbearably corded forearms that flexed every time he handled a blade...or her...

She scowled at the parchment.

How dare he?! State all those awful things and use Thyrne against her!

That old Septon might’ve been daft and entirely mistaken about some matters, but he was hers — a fool of the Red Mountains! Blackhaven’s library held his original texts. Her grandfather brimmed with pride when her mother brought her there to be presented to him, just shy of her fifth birthday and already reading! Of course, she was not reading An Inquiry into Retribution back then.

Some coddled princeling could not have outargued her like that!

Establishing regular markets increases trade, and once prosperous, the lord might levy fees on the passing traders. Stall rents are usually set from 2 to 20 percent, though gate fees could be used instead...

Despite the sheer amount of work she had to plow through, it was impossible to quiet her mind. It buzzed like a hive, stuffed full of wasps and that voice of his.

Arianne had to read the same line three times.

Her vision blurred, not from tears, but from rage.

You told that Stygian fiend that you would be Queen, what if he —

Arianne shoved the scrolls to the side and glared at the notes about market tolls she had made from them, a judgmental chorus of 'stupid, stupid, foolish girl' ringing behind her eyes.

Stonehelm sorely lacks markets. Also, legal protections for smallfolk should be placed in case of overzealous tax collectors.

She yanked at her hair.

How could she trip right in front of him?!

Seven, the indignity.

She’d touched his chest, she remembered, all lean muscle and heat beneath that black tunic, and now that knowledge lived inside her, terrible and permanent.

Arianne leapt to her feet again.

Her skin prickled. It felt too tight. Too small. Like it didn’t fit her anymore.

She couldn’t get comfortable inside herself.

The air was irritatingly warm. It was unbearable all around her, and even worse, she'd felt something shift underneath her ribs. The entire day it had simmered, pooling low in her spine.

Now it fluttered, sharp and aching, like the unfurling of wings.

Ever since she watched those damned duels. Watched him move in equal parts violence and grace. Observed how he carved through men, trained and twice her size, with the almost bored precision. War lived in Aemond's limbs.

And in the way he looked at her.

Arianne bit the flesh around her thumbnail, remembering the press of a calloused palm against her knuckles. Not gentle. Not overly firm. Just...there, claiming.

She loathed it, how he only flexed his fingers, and her entire body shuddered.

He could've easily hurt her.

She thought he had wanted to. But he only hovered too near, his heated breath ghosting across her cheek like a caress.

Her words rattled him; she saw it in the tensing of his jaw, in the tick of his cheek, in the whirlpool of his eye.

After several unsuccessful attempts, she managed to undo the lacing at her back, shimmying out of the constricting silk.

Why had she even worn it? Jace clearly cared not if she wore fine red gowns or the simplest woolen frock. Why hadn't he done what Aunt Johanna wrote about?

Why had Aemond done it?

Did he really have to hold her like that, long enough to be gossiped about?!

He was her enemy now; that much had become evident.

Arianne sat on the edge of her bed and pressed her hands to her cheeks.

She flinched.

Her face was hypersensitive, like it was sunburnt.

It had to be some kind of illness.

A food poisoning or a late summer's fever.

She plopped down, ignoring how even her shift and smallclothes felt off, and drew her legs to her belly. Her thighs squeezed together unwittingly, wishing for some elusive pressure.

Arianne thought again of Aemond's hand, the weight of it, the intent of it, how it steadied her, how —

The audacity! How dare he touch her and insult her!

Her pulse fluttered wildly, pounding all the way to the tips of her ears. Her chest ached.

Speak to her of the vilest things!

He'd said men imagined undressing her. Deflowering her.

Gods.

Gods.

The words were like teeth at her throat. Aemond was a man, wasn't he? Did he —?

Arianne gulped in air, horrified at the thought.  Horrified at herself.

What was wrong with her?

She shifted restlessly, one thigh crossing over the other, then uncrossing, then crossing again, as if there were an itch she couldn't quite scratch.

How dare he catch her like a chivalrous knight from a story, then lean so improperly close...as if, as if...

Her fingers splayed wide across her belly in an attempt to press the strange sensation down, to tame it into stillness.

Yet, her skin did not wish for stillness, no, it thrummed like it couldn't wait to chase after something.

Was she ill?

Or—

Arianne whimpered in horror.

Was it a sin?!

The one her Septa screeched about, a sin beautiful men inspire in maidens who aren't careful and pure of thought. The one that led Saera astray. The sin of wantonness.

No.

No, no, gods no.

She needed to be above such vile matters if she were to become Queen one day.

Arianne had done everything that was required and expected of her. She might have skipped a prayer here or there, but she went to the Sept regularly, feted every Holy Day of the Seven, she obeyed her parents and did her needlework, even if it was poor and ugly.

She prayed for a husband and spent no time entertaining debaucheries. Her refuge from idleness had always been books and games, cyvasse most often, but sometimes tiles and dice too. Though she disliked dice, her brother's favorite, as it was horribly unpredictable.

How did this illness come her way?!

She was overwrought. Delirious. Her shift stuck to her back from the sweat.

It was Aemond's work.

She should notify Her Grace Alicent Hightower that her son was spreading illness around the Keep. Perhaps she would send him away to be purified.

He was something sinful, of the valyrian variety — long limbed, and sharp-tongued sin, with tresses of moondust silver and hands as splendid and beautiful as the marble ones on the statue of a Warrior in the Royal Sept.

Or maybe he poisoned her?

Enchanted her?

There were some weird tomes she found in the library on Dragonstone, and it was a commonly told legend that Queen Visenya dabbled in dark rites and sorcery.

Prince Aemond had her dragon.

Maybe he had her potions too.

Arianne swallowed and attempted to pray, but her hands wandered without asking for permission — over her thin shift, down the slope of her stomach, pausing just at the edge of the shameful, tingling place.

A small sound escaped her throat when her fingers darted too low.

What in the Seven...?

She moved again. Slower. Curious.

It was...pleasant.

Arianne mused about being held, the heat on the small of her back, just above the lacing, what if Aemond had...?

He had looked at her like that, with that sole eye, that bottomless, tumultuous piece of the Sunset Sea — like she was a woman, something alive and volitant that might disappear if he didn't grasp firmly.

Like he was plagued by the same, dark reveries, he accused Myles Motoon of.

The suggestion was preposterous, and dangerous, and disgusting, and Aemond loathed her.

Yet, it thrilled her.

Would he kneel like bodies woven into those tapestries, if she let him undress her? Would he kiss her? He said that she was made to be looked at, so would he look? She imagined his shapely mouth would hiss and denounce her as a shameless courtesan, even as his gaze drank every bared inch. So, who would really be without shame, her, or the prideful prince on his knees?

Arianne bit into her plump lower lip.

Would he curve those long, shapely fingers around the line of her waist to steady her? Would he kiss her...there? Like the kneeling man in the tapestry...

Would he be gentle? Or would he devour her whole like that ravenous glimmer in his eye promised?

She pressed the heel of her hand between her legs. And gasped, actually gasped, as a pulse bloomed there, white-hot and maddening.

Arianne bolted upright like a flame had licked her.

Gods.

She couldn't —

It was a sin.

A maiden must be clean of mind and body. Chaste in thought and conduct.

At first, she debated whether she ought to find a branch and whip her own palms, but then Arianne hurried to find something to wear, one of the simple, woolen dresses she could put on herself without Miriam's help.

Honest work is the best way to keep demons at bay, or so her Septa would say.

Her ankles were tangling more than usual.

She felt...ductile.

Unsteady.

Like a fawn learning to walk.

"Or is it because you amuse me?"

Hadn't Johanna mentioned in her letter that —

No.

She gritted her teeth.

She would forget it happened at all. From now on, she would avoid Aemond Targaryen at all costs.

.

.

.

Arianne was in far better spirits now.

She'd found the seneschal presiding over the kitchens and, after some careful haggling, secured the exact meats, sauces, and dishes she wanted for Rhaenyra's banquet with Princess Rhaenys.

She had brought her coin pouch, of course, as she did not have much faith in her charms. Gold was a universal charmer, however.

So was competency.

Perhaps that was why she was so thoroughly, so foolishly infatuated with Jace — handsome, yes, and second in line to the throne, but above all capable. When Rhaenyra had tasked him to resolve a squabble between two stubborn tavern owners in the village below Dragonmont, he’d done it in a single day.

Aemond —

No! Don't even think it!

He...

He read, almost as much as she did, he spoke High Valyrian effortlessly, and he moved so gracefully, tunics clinging to the broad shoulders and narrow waist, that unfair body she’d only accidentally touched for a second...

Prince Aemond fought so well. But only...only because he cheated! In a way... His mentor was of the Marches, and only marchers fought like that.

Scowling at herself, Arianne pushed the thought aside and hurried to not miss the evening meal. She had successfully bribed the seneschal, though she loathed to use that word.

Bribery was a sin, of course. She'd never do it, and the seneschal agreed her gift was most welcome.

For all the hard effort.

If he just happened to serve Rhaenyra's banquet hall with the suckling pig Lady Baela supposedly enjoyed, well so be it. It was not a feast by any means, no, of course not, they couldn't be hosted in the Keep, without the Queen's leave, under her nose.

The princess, and heir to the Iron Throne, Arianne insisted, was great with child and simply ravenous for meat, even though the Queen wanted poultry served for the days preceding the Maiden's Day, as it was the custom.

Rosey helped her, vouching that the lady was kind and discreet, truly! Of course, when someone helps you, you ought to help them back, so Arianne pressed two silver stags into her hand. She added a few copper groats once the woman mentioned her children had outgrown their clothes.

Absently, she wondered if she could bribe someone from the kitchens to serve Aemond a tray of strawberry tarts...laced with just a whisper of greycap. Enough to tie him to his privy for three miserable days. Nothing serious. She did, after all, like having her head firmly attached to her shoulders.

Grand Maester Aethelmure states the poisoner is beneath contempt, though.

The One-eyed twat had declared war upon her! What courtesy did he deserve?! The problem was that him being a member of the royal family meant she could not do anything to him.

Gods, she could not do away with him on her own!

She thought about telling Jace what had happened.

Decided against it a moment later, because Jace was already overwhelmed with reading on the previous inheritance disputes and perusing his family tree for dark hair.

As if hair were enough to declare someone baseborn!

Swanns were known for their green eyes and nigh-raven hair, which, she supposed, was how Johanna got the moniker — the black swan of Lys, for her dark curls, yet one Saera Targaryen was enough to ruin that. Her father was pale-haired, and though her mother had thick, dark auburn tresses, both Arianne and Robb ended somewhere in between.

All her cousins appeared more Swann than her.

For one madcap moment, she thought her father had liked Jace because their children could be born dark-haired and green-eyed, not like Targaryens at all, but perfect, little Swanns.

But, if Jace were truly... no, no she would not dare think that. Bastards were a treacherous lot, sired in sin. Jace was nothing like that.

Arianne shook her head, focusing on the problem at hand. She could not tell Jace, because there was nothing to tell, really. How would it even sound?

"Save me, my prince, from your loathsome uncle who thinks me a scheming tart?"

And anyway...What was Jace doing this morning? Why hadn't he approached her?

She had wanted him to interrupt her idle flirtation with Myles Motoon and...

Gods be good, why did Aemond?

It should have been Jace who pulled her aside, who glowered and chastised and looked at her like she mattered. Not his uncle.

If he held such a low opinion of her, why did he not just accept her bargain?

Arianne hated not knowing, hated all the little gnawing questions that wormed into her mind. So instead of forgetting, she tucked the matter away, neatly boxed and shelved for another day. As well as one other thing Aemond had mentioned that bothered her, concerning her grandmother.

She had to report to Rhaenyra about her success. Truly, the most wonderful of duties, Arianne thought morosely while crossing the drawbridge to the Holdfast, ensuring that Lady Baela feels comfortable while she flies off with my prince into the happily ever after.

"It would solve everything!" Arianne heard Prince Daemon shout before she even entered the solar. Rhaenyra touched his shoulder and hissed something quietly.

Arianne made herself useful, helping Lady Mathilda herd the younger children to table.

"Are they arguing?" she whispered, glancing sidelong as Rhaenyra swept after Daemon to the adjacent chambers, her skirts twinkling from all the rubies sewn into them.

Mathilda Strong shrugged.

"Prince Daemon wants to fly to Driftmark and behead Ser Vaemond before he can open his mouth in Court."

Arianne blinked.

That would be... unlawful?

"Oh, he also wants to behead the Hand after that." Mathilda added, tone laced with grim amusement.

Arianne, trying not to look as horrified as she felt, sat stiffly beside little Aegon and began cutting his honeyed turkey into neat, manageable bites.

She'd heard that Prince Daemon and Ser Otto Hightower were bitter rivals while they both served Viserys, but the Hand speaks with the King's voice and builds what the King dreams. Surely, the King does not want his grandson to be disinherited?

"Do you know...if the King has an opinion on all this?" Arianne asked carefully. "The Queen was presiding over the Council when they decided to hear Ser Vaemond's petition."

Mathilda shook her head.

"I don't. The princess thinks to bring Maester Gerardys here to help him...she does not trust the Hightowers. Or their maester."

Arianne was exerting considerable effort not to glance up as soon as she heard Jace and Luke arrive, Rhaena with her two ladies in tow. Tonight, she concluded irately, I am writing to Johanna and begging for some other advice. This ignoring thing is driving me mad!

Rhaenyra and Daemon had not returned, so she tried to nod along to Rhaena's excited monologue about seeing her sister after three whole months.

But her eyes followed how Jace cut into his venison — too tightly, his knuckles white. Those thick, inky curls were in disarray, one grazing his left cheekbone.

"You’re very daft sometimes," He snapped after Luke suggested they race their dragons against Baela above King’s Landing, and Rhaena's happy disposition melted away.

Oh.

How terrible that must be, to be the only one without a dragon.

"You’re just sour because you ended up wet earlier," Luke said cheerfully.

The girls looked up in confusion.

"A page tripped in the yard," He explained, grinning.

"Spilled a bucket of water right over him."

Arianne blanched.

Mathilda Strong giggled into her hand.

So that was why he hadn’t come to her.

Some clumsy boy, some fool boy with a sloshing pail, had ruined everything she had so carefully laid out.

Was it a jest from the gods? As a flash of animosity passed through her chest, she almost asked if the page had been punished for his stupidity.

Yet, there was something incredibly funny about Jace now, pouting and glaring at his younger brother.

Arianne met Jace's long-lashed, brown eyes and fought a girlish laughter on the brink of her throat. He was so princely handsome, even when seething.

She turned to Rhaena instead, inquiring about the writings of Elysar, who had been the Conciliator's Grand Maester. More importantly, he wrote a detailed account of her grandmother's scandal.

A topic always forbidden in her household, and Arianne had always respected that and her father's rules, but...something that Aemond had said tormented her, like a minuscule itch behind her ear.

"... everyone knows what happened the last time a Swann, a Motoon, and Saera played their games in Court."

No, that had to have been a deliberate slander on his part, because her grandfather was not at Court during that time! Her father might have been strict and hard to please, but he was no liar. He'd always insisted her grandmother was the corrupting, nefarious blight forced upon their family, a testament to the depravity and arrogance of the dragons.

Well, not that Arianne could blame him for hating her, she'd abandoned him before he could walk.

Her grandfather was an honorable man, a true Marcher, made of steel, stone, and war, and...

"I must know, Rhaena." She muttered, glancing at Jace, who was already staring at them.

Did he hear her?

"Perhaps you should ask Myles." Her prince declared acidly.

Rhaena blinked, and Arianne flushed.

Jace stood, plucking a goblet from the table, and lifted it in a mocking salute, his eyes trained on her.

"But I'd wager he can't even read."

 .

.

.

 (Aemond)

Aemond had returned to the Holdfast perfectly composed. His gait had been measured, his mind numbed from how wonderfully calm he had been, his breathing even.

He had answered a letter from Daeron, musing on how rare their correspondence had become. More strangers than brothers.

He had gone to check on Helaena after, and got roped by the twins into playing monsters-and-maidens with them. Even Aegon, bleary-eyed and reeking faintly of wine, had participated, tottering about the Queen's Ballroom as a shrieking maiden while Jaehaerys chased him.

His sister laughed at them, embroidering large, fat, black spiders. One of her ladies bounced little Maelor on her knee.

It had been a pleasant afternoon, in the way afternoons could sometimes be.

Aemond had had enough once he was relegated to playing monster five times in a row.

It suited him, perhaps. He was neither kind nor charming, and after that bastard had a go at his face, he thought he could no longer be called handsome either. Without all those blessings working in his favor, it was rather obvious why any courtly lady would chase after him.

Ambition.

Which she seemed to have in spades.

That sinful, dark glint in her eyes when she declared that she'd have sons — many, many sons — and sit them on the Iron Throne before he ever climbed there ignited something terrible and ruinous in his lower back.

He should have struck her for it.

He wanted to strike something for it.

Aemond grimaced.

But it had been a pleasant afternoon nonetheless because he was calm, and his mind was clear, and he did not have unwelcome thoughts about Arianne Swann, the sort that rarely plagued him.

Once he had returned to his chambers, he unbuckled his sword belt haphazardly, letting it hit the floor with a resounding clang.

So now that he was alone, lying on the chaise and perusing The Battles and Sieges of the Century of Blood, Aemond was focused and did not abandon the book five pages in, because he realized he had no clue what he'd just read.

How dare she say those words to him!

He paced his chambers in agitated circles.

Poured himself a cup of dry Arbor red and didn't drink it.

He should've let her tumble. Let her scrape her elbows bloody. Let her crack her obstinate, unreasonable skull.

Let her split open her pretty lip or muddy her ornate silks.

Instead, she fell into his arms — soft, warm, delicate —  and he held her. Steadied her. Felt her waist, the fine edge of her corseted spine, the heat of her breath on his neck.

The distractingly decadent scent that clung to her, jasmine or something else so flowery, something like woods after rain, when everything is wildly, unapologetically green. Yet, there was warmth underneath it that was obnoxiously soothing and made him want to bury his nose into her neck. Her hair.

He shouldn't have ever tread so close to feel any of those.

Now he was tormented by imaginings that should've forced him into prayer, had he found solace in the gods like his mother did.

Aemond was not calm, and he could not tear the memory of her nearness from his mind, no matter how savagely he tried.

It clung like barnacles down in the Blackwater Bay. It festered.

Sickening sweet and vile.

"...when he is King and I, his Queen."

Aemond ceased his relentless pacing and slumped into the chaise. The table before him was filled with books, scrolls, and a half-empty inkpot from his earlier correspondence.

At least it made sense. She made sense now. It was not some fleeting infatuation that fixed her so firmly to the eldest bastard's side, it was determination. Hunger.

Aemond realized why his japes struck so deeply. He'd told her the court would never accept her and Jacaerys as rulers when they conversed during the second banquet for his whore of a half-sister, and she practically trembled. Now it was clear, she took it personally.

It finally dawned on him why Arianne had lashed at him, even at the cost of her own lady's manners.

Not that she had any, he corrected himself.

She did not want comfort, docility, song, and dance — good for her, truly, since she was completely left-footed and clumsy as Seven Hells.

Seemingly, she did not even wish to pretend at swordsmanship, or play at some woman-warrior tripe, or freedom, or a grand, law-defying affair, or any such thing ill-behaved women often sought.

No.

Aemond exhaled through his nose.

She wanted queenship.

She wanted legacy.

Perhaps, lady Arianne was much more astute than he gave her credit for.

She was driven, like him.

There was something irresistible in her spirit, something that called to the black-blooded part of him, the dragon in his marrow.

She wanted power. He needed it.

She meant to rise. He would.

Perhaps she was like him. Not!

He hated the thought. Refused it.

A Queen.

She dared to say it out loud, without so much as a tremble in her voice. The audacity struck him like an open palm to the cheek. She stood on her fucking tiptoes to spit it at his face. Infuriating little wench.

Aemond removed the eyepatch, twirling the leather between his hands.

Did she plan to kiss him?! To ensnare him, rope him in with her considerable wiles so that he too, was her ally while she climbed. A co-conspirator of her ambition?

He tossed it onto the table.

The idea was preposterous, yet he found it easier to stomach than the alternative—that she completely dismissed him and did not look at him the way women looked at men when they wanted something.

The spare.

That she was mocking his forever-crownless brow.

Second son.

Gods, how he loathed her!

Aemond wanted to grab her shoulders and give her a good shake.

There was the third alternative, more preferable than the second. Less than first.

She saw him as a threat. He supposed that was fine, he was a threat to his half-sister and her brood of bastards.

Aemond's fingers drummed against the wood, restless and agitated.

"Many, many sons."

She'd spoken as if they were already nestled in her womb. It positively angered him. Because...she was right. Shall his half-sister be crowned, Jacaerys Strong-Targaryen would be King after her, and then those sons. Her sons.

Bastard's little bastards to steal the Iron Throne from the King's trueborn sons and grandsons. Aegon. Jaehaerys. Maelor. HIM. Daeron.

Him most of all.

Because he was deserving of it!

He should've laughed and told her to keep dreaming. He should've seized that insolent, lovely curl that always fell out of her braid and given it a good yank.

Or he should've turned away. A small, buried part of him almost wanted to tell her to be careful with her words and bold, little statements like the one she'd just thrown at him, because someone was going to do away with her. If not his Hightower grandsire, then his uncle.

No, Daemon fucking Targaryen would absolutely not stand for his wife passing the throne to her Strong whelp and Saera's granddaugher.

So, there had been plenty of responses Aemond could've used to take her down a peg.

But in that damned, cursed, utterly despicable moment, he just stood like a complete, horsebrained fool, positively riveted.

Thinking that she'd look even more defiant with his son inside her.

More queenly.

Beautiful while she writhes and moans underneath him, and parts her thighs for him.

His eye stung, pinpricks burrowing through his left temple.

Her sharp little mouth, tamed by pleasure.

His left hand had ached from restraint. From not crushing her bones underneath it.

His cock — Seven Hells — had throbbed like it had a mind of its own.

Aemond had to leave and extricate himself from that humiliating experience. It was disappointing that the best he could come up with was that he'd not give her that silly bargain she concocted. There was nothing in it for him.

His fingers stilled.

What had he done to deserve this torment?!

Aemond's jaw clicked. He bit into his lower lip until he tasted copper.

There was an illness in him, he thought. Some acrid, festering wound between his ribs that always opened, craving for what eluded him.

That inconsequential, infuriating lady Swann meant to provoke him — oh, and she had. Just not in the way she had expected.

Aemond cursed low in his throat, dragging a hand through his hair, tugging on it until his scalp prickled. He untied the ribbon at the back of his head and let it fall loosely, haloing his face.

He could now see her.

Proud, venomous, clever. And ripe.

He could imagine her fat with child. His child.

There was something so deliciously perverse in the idea. Corrupting her plans, taking what she meant for another, and making it his. Twisting her ambition until it was coiled around his. 

Him.

Arianne Swann hated him, or at least she claimed so. It would be a challenge. Aemond enjoyed challenges like one does a fine plate of snails in honey and garlic. Harsh ones, painful ones, difficult ones, grueling practice, and endless studying...and the greatest challenge of them all, approaching the largest dragon in the world in the middle of the night.

The adversity only made the triumph sweeter.

He gave up reading on the struggles plaguing Western Essos after the Doom and smoothed his palm over the cover of the book once more, tracing the title absentmindedly.

Aemond groaned irritably, the events from earlier playing in his mind over and over in seemingly an endless loop. He would have been pleased to say that it was her declaration of war he was lingering on, dissecting and scheming on how to best deal with her, insignificant as she was.

The truth was far, far worse.

His empty hands curled into fists. Then uncurled.

It was the sight of her lying helplessly in his arms that kept harassing his mind. Full, heart-shaped lips slightly parted, soft cheeks rosy, green, green, the greenest eyes wide and resplendent.

That daringly low neckline revealed the elegant line of her collarbones and the shallow hollow between them, a space just begging to be kissed. And lower...The valley of her breasts peeked above the dip in the center of her bodice. Pert and infuriatingly perfect, and, gods, he fought men with less effort than it took to keep his gaze from slipping below her throat.

The delightful curve of her lower back he'd touched.

The soft curve of her arse he hadn't touched.

The lissom curve of her waist she intended to ruin with bastard's whelps.

I should...I should kill her, Aemond nodded to no one in particular.

I should have her.

He tore at the clasps of his tight-laced leather doublet, yanking it off with far less decorum than he usually allowed himself. His tunic and breeches soon followed, as did his smallclothes, and Aemond found himself bare.

Kill her.

He threw himself onto the cool sheets, willing them to douse the surge through him. But his hips twitched of their own will. His cock ached, insistent and shameless.

His skin burned, even in the comfort of his bed.

Have her.

His good eye snapped shut.

No, it would be best if he could just ignore her entire existence.

Aemond rolled onto his stomach, wondering if he could just smother his arousal into the mattress.

He needed sleep.

Unfortunately, the One-eyed Prince had woken several times throughout the night and all of his attempts to discipline his body into obedience fell through, his cock throbbing harder and making it clear he would need to address the...issue the next time he woke.

He never had much qualm with pleasuring himself. It was perfunctory and kept him focused and away from female snare. Until now.

His...carnal musings had never been fixated on someone, but now this bastard-loving, whore-serving annoyance named Arianne Swann violently inserted herself into them.

He should really kill her.

It was not the first time he'd found release with her image in mind. He'd done it after that infernal dream in which they played cyvasse, on his bed, and lacking any form of clothing.

At the hour of the wolf, Aemond gave up and rolled onto his back. He glared at the canopy while concentrating on the lines the pads of his fingers left on his skin while they slid down his abdomen. His hand hesitated once he felt the sparse, pale curls.

Shutting his sole eye, Aemond felt the last shreds of his resolve vanish into thin air. What did it matter, truly? It was just mundane physicality.

His cock was terribly warm when he gripped himself, rubbing over the tip to spread the dampness around his length.

He thought about her full, bottom lip quivering with fury before she slammed her small hand onto the wooden rack. He thought of preventing her from ever opening her mouth to call him a spare, by kissing her.

Not gently.

But she'd like it.

Aemond moved along his length in firm, languid strokes, musing on how wroth and flushed she might've been then. She'd accuse him of stealing her first kiss with that shrill voice of hers, but they'd both know she would've been lying.

Because she wanted him to dare.

She was practically baiting him with that damned curl-twirl around her index finger. It was a simple law of reciprocity, which Arianne seemed to enjoy using to her advantage.

Then he'd dare more.

Until he had her bent over the wood, flipping those ridiculously heavy skirts up.

He'd remove her undergarments without much effort and hear her whine as the cold air tickled her bare skin. What a lovely sound that would be.

Perhaps he'd yank her stockings down and grip those shapely hips of hers. Perhaps he'd leave fingertip-shaped bruises, so she'd remember him whenever she dressed.

Aemond bit his lower lip as his pulse quickened, his breaths growing more shallow.

He would not take her immediately. During those few times, years ago, when Aegon pressured him to copulate with whores, he'd learned it was much better if a woman was wet. Sometimes, he loathed Aegon for that because he could scarcely recall a more humiliating moment than one of those visits.

Sometimes, he wondered if Aegon had truly thought he was doing him a favor, because he had called it a gift. A rite of passage. Laughing even as some unnamed woman, old enough to have birthed both of them, attempted to make him stiff with her hand. It would've been easier if his brother hadn't been right there, downing wine and attempting to cheer him on.

Horrendous.

At least he left knowing how cunts looked like and how it felt to fuck one. Warm and wet, and he wished to fuck one right now.

Not some paid whore's.

Hers.

Aemond bucked slightly into his hand, exchanging full strokes for shorter, firmer touches around his tip.

Arianne would shiver once he rubbed his clothed groin over her womanly flower, letting her feel everything that she was going to take. He would use his hands, too, if he felt generous.

And then —

Once his breeches were damp with her arousal, a darkened, wet spot right above the outline of his hardened cock she rutted against, he'd pull them down and —

Inch by agonizing inch he'd split her tight cunt open.

Perhaps she'd cry out and whine so sweetly, and shiver from being ruined so vulgarly.

Her precious maidenhead, taken by the second son.

Perhaps she'd curse him, Aemond, Aemond, Aemond you vile twat!

But he'd scarcely care. He tightened his grip, imagining how her untouched cunt would clamp around his cock.

Perhaps she'd ask him for more.

Aemond moaned, seeing one of his hands grasping at her hair, his fingers finding purchase in those thick, wild locks, the other digging into the soft, plush thigh to keep her in place.

The pinpricks of pleasure, molten, scorching, began to tighten the muscles in his legs, his abdomen, his loins.

Perhaps, she'd beg him for mercy.

Just a sliver of mercy for the undeserving, grasping girl from her dragon prince. She'd finally realize her place and beseech him while he tasted the creamy skin beneath her ear as he thrust into her.

"Kostilus, ñuhys zaldrīzes." (Please, my dragon.) Aemond almost, almost, wished he could imagine himself saying yes, why, when she begged so sweetly in his native tongue.

When he coaxed such exquisite, breathless whines from her obstinate mouth.

But no —

No, he'd conclude darkly as he ravished her. She was the offender, the uninvited scoundrel, she deserved no salvation from what she brought upon herself.

But he'd be kind. Kinder than he's ever been.

He'd give her his precious seed, every last drop of it, until it trickled out of her full, bruised cunny.

Aemond's lips parted as the pumping rhythm he'd set deteriorated. His hips stuttered, quick, jolting thrusts into his calloused palm.

Then, she'd turn around, glaring at him with those large, thick-lashed eyes, brimming with tears — from pleasure and desperation both, and admit he'd won.

His head snapped to his right, and the One-eyed Prince bit into his pillow to prevent guttural, completely crude sounds from escaping his throat. The near-constant pressure that was building up as he stroked himself erratically capped, and the rolling, violent waves of spasms crashed through his groin and thighs.

Aemond spent himself immensely all along the back of his hand and across his abdomen.

His cock pulsed for an embarrassingly long time and the tingles he felt all the way down to his feet.

He opened his eye, breath still shuddering.

For a few silent moments, he wallowed in self-loathing and the puddle of his own sweat and seed.

Aemond gritted his teeth and profaned all of the Seven and all of the Valyrian deities he knew for forcing this weakness of flesh onto him.

Then he cleaned himself and slammed the door to his chambers open, barking at a frightened guard to have someone fetch him water for the bath. The coldest water they could find.

"Yes, now!" The prince shouted. Must he truly repeat himself just because it was the middle of the night?!

.

.

.

Aemond felt much better today.

He'd never gone back to sleep after his bath, so he was up at the hour of the nightingale, striding out of the Holdfast to complete his drills.

At last, his mind was clear. It seemed all he needed was to release the pent-up frustration.

Yes, yes, obviously, now he was safe from Arianne Swann's nefarious designs.

Immaculate.

All focus and precise strikes as he parried.

"You're doing well, my Prince." Ser Criston nodded as he observed him.

"How did your sparring yesterday go?" The older man inquired, and Aemond muttered a response. He couldn't say much because Criston would notice. The man knew him better than his own father.

He was the only fixed male presence in his life, though the One-eyed Prince did not complain much about that. Criston Cole was the best sword in the Seven Kingdoms and fiercely loyal to his mother and family.

Aemond adjusted his stance and motioned for squires to change. He'd tired out this one, he could tell by the boy's profuse sweating. A shield was up again for him to strike.

"So, a lady did not fall into your arms as I've heard the first thing in the morning?"

Aemond blanched.

His grip faltered, and he missed the target completely.

Single cerulean eye snapping to Cole, he scowled.

"You are the last person I'd expect to gossip like a fishwife." His lips peeled back from his teeth.

Ser Criston merely observed him, arms crossed underneath his padded gambeson.

Gossip. Gossip! He loathed gossip, and now that wicked little swan had made him the victim of it.

"Easy, Aemond." The tone of the older man's voice was not judgmental, at least, which helped his temper.

"It is a good thing, helping a damsel in distress. The Seven encourage us to protect the weak. The celebration for the Maiden's Day is approaching, and she looks favorably upon those who offer protection."

Aemond was not sure Criston was mocking him, unlikely though as Criston was as much of a bore as he apparently was, or was he simply spending too much time with his mother to spring into the sermon whenever it was needed?

He even considered, very briefly though, asking Cole to give him advice on how to deal with Arianne Swann. It had been Cole who took him in after the loss of his eye. Cole, who hadn't given up on him and who trained him despite his glaring weakness.

When he ran to the Keep, crying, after that horrifying night on his thirteenth name day, it had been Cole who had found him slumped outside the empty council chamber, curled in on himself like a child. The whore, or another one, had taken his eyepatch. His cheeks were raw with shame and anger, like someone had welted him across them.

Cole, who never murmured useless comforts or pretended his half-sister and Daemon weren't coming for their heads. Aemond trusted him in a way he trusted few others, but asking him about Arianne felt like breaching some sacred line.

Cole would tell him to stay away from her altogether.

Or worse —

To be honest, decent, pious, and a load of other useless things.

If he were honest, Arianne would have won.

She asked him whom she had seduced, with that defiantly raised chin, and honesty would've forced Aemond to name himself.

Then she'd laugh at him, all the while twirling that infuriating curl.

No.

Absolutely not.

He must prevail over everything.

.

.

.

"Mother." Aemond's voice carried into the drawing room just after the midday meal. Alicent Hightower was perched on a comfortable oval settee, an array of tomes scattered on the low table in front of her.

She seemed deep in thought, glancing alarmingly up at the intrusion.

"Aemond. Have you eaten?" The Queen closed the Great Code of Septon Barth, which she had been scrtutinizing.

He furrowed his brow.

Amongst the tomes, he recognized several books of law and legal commentaries, The Seven-pointed Star, The Book of Holy Prayer, and a few crisp scrolls that smelled faintly of fresh ink and Oldtown.

"Yes." He answered, sitting across her.

"What is all this?" Aemond asked, gesturing toward the mess. Alicent released a sigh so tired it worried him.

Now that he truly looked, his mother did seem paler than usual.

She must've been exhausted and restless this past week. It had to be the presence of that cantankerous whore of his half-sister.

"Just...I need to be certain that I am doing the right thing. The just thing." He heard a mild tremble of vacillation in her tone.

What?

"Mother, are you referring to the petition for the Driftwood Throne?" He asked, incredulous. Aemond had assumed everything was set up to strip Rhaenyra's bastard of it.

Alicent nodded slowly, reaching for the scroll closest to her.

"Lord Corlys may still recover, and if he does..."

"Then the truth remains unchanged. Rhaenyra's sons are bastards." Aemond snapped, much harsher than he had intended.

"It is not the truth that disturbs me, it is the punishments for treason." She explained, her large, light-brown eyes scanning the parchment she had just unrolled.

Aemond leaned back in his chair, frowning. Those who committed the crime should think about the repercussions. Not his gentle mother. Hadn't she suffered enough already? 

"You haven't slept." He observed flatly.

Alicent waved the comment away.

"Mercy is the highest form of virtue. Would the gods want us to condemn Rhaenyra's children to exile or worse?"

"The gods are cruel," Aemond responded, thinking of his eye he lost, the scorn he bore.

"I thought that to be a requirement of godhood."

Alicent gave him a look that denoted she did not wish to debate the nature of divinity with him.

He bit the inside of his cheek before continuing.

"Besides, do we truly want a child loyal to my uncle at the command of the greatest fleet in Westeros?"

Alicent smiled wryly.

"Ser Tyland and Lord Wylde have already voiced such concerns. And your grandsire, too." She returned to her reading, and Aemond idly reached for the Great Code, flipping through its pages.

His thoughts, unwittingly, came back to Lady Swann and her irritating arguments. Perhaps he should write her a detailed refutation explaining why she was the offending party, and why, then, the law of equivalent retaliation did not apply.

She was utterly ludicrous if she thought to best him with shallow snippets of child-level philosophy. He was not some barely literate nonentity from Maidenpool.

Like the Motoon squire she touched and laughed with.

Aemond scoffed under his breath.

He hated that he stewed while watching them talk, his fingers gripping the balustrade. He hated that her little declaration affected him and that he'd spilled in his hand with her name in his throat.

"Why are you scowling so much?" His mother interrupted his spiraling thoughts. Alicent had lowered her scrolls, studying him now with narrowed eyes.

Aemond blinked, clearing his mind.

"Because I loathe to see you losing sleep over them." He stated, smoothing his expression into one of dutiful concern.

Our enemies.

.

.

.

Aemond was furious.

After leaving the Holdfast, he was inspired to find a solution for his Arianne Swann problem. He debated visiting Septon Eustace, his mother's confessor, and baring his soul to the gods. He had plenty to complain about.

Perhaps, he could find a refuge in the Seven. Perhaps, there were things the Hightowers did better than the blood of the dragon.

Because his Targaryen blood surged through his veins, thick and sizzling and frenetic.

Arianne.

He hated her name. It sounded a lot like Alysanne, and it only brought back her bold declaration to the front of his mind.

Aemond wondered if she felt as fevered as he was, because they did share blood. Exactly through their great-grandmother, The Good Queen.

Or if she was as cold, calculating, and smug as he imagined.

He realized that if the Great Council his great-grandfather assembled had somehow decided on her father, as Saera's child, not that it ever could've happened as he was from the female and youngest line both, Arianne would've been a princess.

Aemond also remembered that she mentioned a brother who got bored with trying to destroy her defensive cyvasse formation. Tough luck, he grinned, there goes your crown, little swan.

Unless she wed her brother and bore him many, many sons —

Why did she sound as if she imagined spending days in his bastard nephew's bed?

The One-eyed Prince scowled.

Enough.

He was becoming vexingly fixated.

Aemond had long been obsessive. He was aware of it.

As a child, he could not stop himself from attempting to claim a dragon. Even Dreamfyre, who had already been bonded with his sister. Rationally, he knew it was futile, but Helaena flew less than Aegon, and she was perfectly happy while collecting bugs.

He was miserable on the ground.

Aemond crossed the yard toward the tall, round building. The Royal Sept was notably smaller than the Grand Sept atop Visenya's Hill.

He had forgotten how crowded it would become now that the Maiden's Day was almost here. Dozens of women had begun to visit for daily prayers, carrying candles and flowers for the offering.

Then, the worst thing that could have happened, happened.

There, among two dark-haired women who held more resemblance to his nephews than Velaryons, walked the object of his ire, dressed in a simple, gray frock, carrying a white candle.

Aemond stilled.

Her hair was down.

Unadorned.

She giggled at something one of the women had said and plucked a flower from the other's basket to add it to her candle.

It was a pretty, girlish sound.

Aemond had quite the mortifying awakening — He wanted her. Even when she was dressed modestly, and when she did the most mundane thing in the world, like laughing.

And he didn't know how to stop.

It was not even her beauty, though she was truly lovely. The court was filled with comely maids. Perhaps it was not even her clever mouth, though he quite enjoyed that too.

It was her raw, brazen desire to matter.

Once he was at the threshold of the Sept, he realized he was irreparably fucked.

Arianne was kneeling before the altar of the Maiden, head bowed low, arms raised in prayer. He couldn't hear her over the many others, but it was evident she knew it well.

She appeared...prim and proper.

Pious, little offering.

He couldn't find anything to criticize. 

Aemond turned on his heel and left before someone questioned him being there.

There goes that, he concluded irritably, he couldn't even have the gods because she got to them first.

He didn't need gods.

There was no conclusive proof of their interference on anyone's behalf, and besides...Aemond was no craven to seek refuge from anything. 

Retreat was cowardice.

Losing was unacceptable.

And he would have her.

.

*For my show-only readers: Blackhaven is the seat of House Dondarrion, so Arianne's mother is a Dondarrion. They are also from the marches, and funny thing, Criston Cole's father is/was a steward for House Dondarrion.

Maelor is Helaena and Aegon's younger son. For some reason, he doesn't exist in the show.

**just to answer one of the prior questions: Arianne calls Johanna "aunt", but Johanna is not her aunt, as her father is an only child. Johanna in canon was a niece of Lord Swann when she was enslaved. That Lord Swann in this story is Arianne's now deceased grandfather, so Johanna is more like...her second aunt/grand-aunt?. I do not want to get too verbose with describing Arianne's family tree, but her grandfather had brothers/sisters, so she has Swann cousins.

[lostdrarryfics]

I’m looking for a fic after the war and they are headed back to hogwarts. I believe it was multi-chaptered and complete. It was a pretty long fic I believe. Harry strikes a deal (and is too stubborn to retract it) so that Draco can go back to school (and not to Azkaban if I remember right(?)) But as a repercussion, the magical government(?), spelled him so that Draco had to obey every one of Harry’s demand statements - that was the main plot point. Harry didn’t really want Draco to obey his words (mainly because he would say statement sentences on accident and Draco would have to answer etc) so he mainly avoided phrases like that. I believe Draco also had to be near him(??). BUT there was another male character (I thought it was an original character but idk anymore) who hated Draco and found like a loophole and made it so that Draco had to listen to him too. He would take him to this bathroom and beat him up (he might have used an illegal curse too - crucio probs). Also, Draco would study at the library with Harry’s friends and became closer to his friends too - mentionably, Ginny and Hermione too. The guy who hated Draco made Draco not be able to tell anyone else what he was doing and he had to get ‘defensive’ if anyone questioned him on it. Harry is a little sad because he was growing to really like Draco and now he’s distancing himself and being rude, but whenever they avoid mean guy discussion Draco is really sweet and Draco would melancholy lean on him to act as an apology (I think?). Mean guy also makes Draco search Harry’s room so that Mean guy could publish dirt on Harry in the newspaper, but Draco doesn’t find anything. Also Harry would walk him to class. And the mean guy would use the time it took Harry to walk over and get him from class to beat him up. Also, one scene was Harry walked into the bathroom trying to find Draco and the mean guy made it seem like Draco and him were in a romantic relationship. I remember liking the fic a lot, but I can’t find it! Please help :(

We believe you’re looking for Lessons in Grace and Decorum by GallaPlacidia, which has been deleted. You can find an archive of Galla’s works approved by the author here.

[33max]

dear lord, what a sad little life, george. you ruined my night, completely, so you could have the pole, but I hope now you spend it on getting some lessons in grace and decorum because you have all the grace of a reversing dump truck without any tyres on.

[piastri]

You won, Lando. Enjoy the pole, I hope it makes you happy. Dear lord, what a sad little life, Lando. You ruined my night completely so you could have the pole and I hope now you can spend it on lessons in grace and decorum. Because you have all the grace of a reversing dump truck without any tyres on. So Lando, take your pole and get off my property

[live-laugh-lando]

Dear lord, what a sad little life, McLaren. You ruined my night completely so you could have the money and I hope now you can spend it on lessons in grace and decorum. Because you have all the grace of a reversing dump truck without any tyres on.

[hyacinthsdiamonds]

Dear Lord, what a sad little life, mclaren. You ruined my night and Oscar's race, completely, so you could hand Lando an unearned win, but I hope now you spend it on getting some lessons in grace and decorum because you have all the grace of a reversing dump truck without any tyres on

[forzaferrari]

You won, Max. Enjoy the pole, I hope it makes you happy. Dear lord, what a sad little life, Max. You ruined my evening completely so you could have the pole and I hope now you can spend your time on lessons in grace and decorum. Because you have all the grace of a reversing dump truck without any tyres on. So Max, take your pole and get off my screen

[mortallyclassypizza]

The thunderous roars outside were deafening, powerful enough to make the castle's walls shake as if they were about to close in on me.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves to no avail. No amount of stirring back and forth was going to be able to restore me to my sleep. If I had to die, I would have rather it be while deep in slumber but that kindness was well out of my reach.

So this was it, my final day. I had long known it would come eventually, but to be face to face with it so soon was sobering. I hadn't even gotten coronated yet, and my reign was to be unceremoniously cut short and I along with it. I thought I'd have more time. To make decisions, to meet with my people, to show them that I could be a just and compassionate ruler.

But the people clamored for revolution, drunk on vain promises of freedom and equality fed to them by some unknown hero of the poor. I ignored the growing rumors, hoping to not have my first decree stained with stench of death, and that had proven to be a fatal mistake. Their numbers grew until I could no longer quell them, and now they gathered outside the gates, calling for my blood to spill. For the end of our noble line and our Divine right to power.

*KNOCK KNOCK*

The sound of a fist rapping on wood shook me from my anxious stupor, causing me to hurriedly sit back up on my bed. I tried to call out, yet only managing a choked croak. I prayed that whoever was on the other side was a friendly face.

The door swung open, and a beautiful woman clad in armor barged in. I sighed in relief, recognizing her.

"My most faithful knight, what news do you bring?" I pushed through the hoarse feeling in my throat. I needed to know.

"Your Grace, the rioters have taken control of the city. I'm afraid this is the last holdout." She kneeled while addressing me.

I fought back the urge to correct her use of honorifics. This was not the time for a lesson in etiquette after all, and at least she had the decorum to gaze down at her feet while speaking to her betters.

"And our defenses?"

"Holding for now, but it's only a matter of time."

Those damn ungrateful peasants, after all my family had done for the kingdom. I wished I could behead the lot of them, but revenge would have to come later. For now I had to survive.

"Can you escort me out undetected?"

"Yes, my lady. The tunnels 'neath the castle should lead us to safety with no one the wiser." Her lips curled into a smile. A small comfort.

I rose from my soft bed, smoothing out my nightgown. I didn't want to risk changing and delaying our escape, so this would have to do.

"Very well. Rise, my knight, and lead me to safety." I stretched my hand out for her to take.

She stood up, accepting my hand in hers, and turned her face away. No doubt she was blushing, overjoyed to be so close to her princess, so I could forgive the temporary indecency.

We began walking out.

"After I am out of harm's way, you will return here and bring me the head of this so called hero." Having someone with me restored my confidence. I was going to be okay.

But then her fingers tightened on my hand, the cool steel of her gauntlet digging into my skin, and we came to a halt.

"That, princess, I'm afraid I can't do."

"What do you mean? I'm giving you an order!" I rose my voice, trying to sound firm despite the sudden and intense unease.

She faced me and finally looked into my eyes. There was a darkness to her look, danger lying beneath the surface. I tried to struggle against her grip, but she did not budge an inch, her metal-clad fingers offering no way out.

"You see, princess... I can't very well bring you my own head, now can I?"

"You..."

Before I could finish either sentence or thought, my captor unsheathed her sword. I watched in horror as she pressed it against my neck.

"Even more foolish than I thought. Did you really never think that there was a traitor? After all your advisor's plans failed and the revolutionaries knew your every move?"

"A...are you going to kill me?" I held my breath, afraid that any movement, however minuscule, would plunge the blade's edge into my flesh.

"Kill you? No, no, no, you are of no use to me dead. The people outside want you dead, to see the tyrant felled. But I have no intention of handing you over. You're my trophy to claim."