#light the pyres |rise|

[jetii]

Event Horizon

Pairing: Rex x Jedi!Reader / Rex x fem!reader

Tags/Warnings: romance, angst, action/adventure, hurt/comfort, themes of grief/death/mourning, strangers to friends to lovers, mutual pining, forbidden romance, eventual smut, named!reader, minor Obi-Wan x Reader

Summary: Your entire life, you’ve struggled to be the perfect Jedi your Master saw in you. When the rumored rise of the Sith threatens to throw the entire galaxy into turmoil, you’re left scrambling to hold onto the teachings that have begun to feel increasingly hollow. It isn’t until a fateful encounter with a clone soldier called Rex, and the feelings that he stirs within you, that you begin to question everything you’ve ever known. (Post!TPM → Post!Order 66)

A/N: This is definitely a first for me, but I’ve been obsessed with this idea for a while and needed to get it out. I have about 22 chapters written so far, and I think it’ll be 40ish total? Plenty of drama, action, yearning, and some humor to come. Rex will show up soon, gotta set the stage a little first.

If you’d like to be notified when I post new chapters please join my taglist or leave a comment. There’s a new question for tag preferences now. 💙

Chapter One: Everything Burns

Chapter WC: 3,741

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Naboo, 32 BBY

They waited until nightfall to light the pyre.

The light, the heat of it, was nearly too much to bear, but you forced yourself to keep your eyes forward. To watch as the flames climbed higher and higher, smoke licking the top of the dome, ash and embers drifting like the stars overhead, as the body of Master Qui-Gon Jinn turned to dust.

You feel something burning within your own chest and press a fist against it. The pain of losing a friend, of watching his body go up in smoke and flame, was one you'd known too well before, and would likely know again, many times over.

It still hurts.

Through the flames, you can just make out the shape of the young man across from you. Obi-Wan. He'd barely spoken since his Master's death at the hands of that Sith. Had barely even met your eyes. It's as if he's shut down completely, his emotions all carefully tucked away, locked behind a door, hidden deep beneath the surface.

Your eyes meet briefly, and you can see the tears on his cheeks, glistening in the firelight.

A part of you aches for him, and for yourself, too. For the pain of the loss, and the uncertainty of what would come next. You knew from your Master that Qui-Gon had tried to warn the Council about the Sith, but that they had refused to listen. What will happen now, you wonder, that the Sith had returned? Will the Jedi accept the truth?

As you look away, you see Obi-Wan do the same. His gaze drifts to the ground, his hands curled into fists at his sides. The boy standing silent next to him notices and puts a hand on his arm. Anakin Skywalker, Qui-Gon's new Padawan, now Obi-Wan's responsibility.

When you hear Obi-Wan sniffle, you force your feet to move. Ignoring the watchful eyes of the Council members in attendance, your own noticeably absent, you slowly round the pyre until you're on his other side where he can't see you. You stand there, close enough to feel the heat from the flames, but not so close as to be uncomfortable.

"It wasn't your fault," you tell him quietly.

Your fingers brush his. You don’t expect him to return the gesture, and he doesn’t. Not for several long, agonizing moments. And then you feel it, his fingertips, brushing yours.

Your eyes dart toward him, but he's still looking away. Still, his hand shifts, his palm pressing against yours. The only sign that he is acknowledging your presence at all, the only sign he feels anything beyond the nothingness he forces himself to affect.

You’d always believed Obi-Wan to be infallible, perfect in the eyes of the Order, the perfect student. The perfect Jedi. He's always been two steps ahead of you, two steps ahead of everyone, always a witty quip at the ready, always knew the answer when called on, always followed the rules, always the one you admired the most. Even now, he's trying so hard to stay calm, to be the perfect Jedi.

You’d argued about it, before he left for Naboo. He had accused you of being jealous. He'd been right.

You envied his natural skill, his ability to stay cool and collected even when you couldn't. He was so calm, so rational, everything a Jedi was supposed to be, everything you were not, and you had let it get in the way. You had let it push you further apart, until you had lost the closeness you'd once shared.

It wasn’t until he left, until you heard about the death of his Master, that you realized just how badly you'd misjudged him. He is not infallible. He is not the perfect Jedi. He is not, despite all appearances, the ideal of calm. He is only a man, doing his best, doing what he believes is right, and failing, just like the rest of you. And though you had tried, you had never really succeeded at staying mad at him, either.

Now, standing beside him, you want to comfort him, to hold him and tell him that everything will be okay. But it isn't true. It won't be. Because nothing will ever be okay again, not after this.

So instead, you just stand there, letting your hand rest in his, and you try to think of anything else you could say.

The funeral comes to an end, and the pyre is left to burn itself out. You allow yourself to watch as the fire dies down, until nothing remains but a pile of ashes. The others are leaving, the Council members going off together to no doubt discuss what was to come next. You don’t see your Master among them. Her small form is nowhere to be seen, and you can't help the pang of betrayal you feel at her absence.

Where was she? Yaddle had told you she'd be here. She'd promised.

As the last of the flames flickered out, Obi-Wan takes a shuddering breath, and slowly, reluctantly, lets go of your hand.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs.

"For what?"

"I didn't mean what I said, before," he says, finally turning his head to look at you. His eyes are red, and his cheeks are tear-stained, and you wish more than anything that he didn’t have to go through this. "About...about you."

You turn to face him, surprised. You hadn't expected an apology, especially not after so much time had passed. And after what he'd been through.

"Oh." You hesitate, unsure how to respond.

Obi-Wan is already looking away, his eyes on the ashes of the pyre.

"It's fine," you assure him, reaching out to brush his arm, trying to draw his attention back to you. "I shouldn't have...I mean, I did say some things I didn't really mean either."

Obi-Wan looks like he wants to argue, but the words die on his lips. Instead, he nods, and looks away, his expression unreadable.

“I’m sorry about Qui-Gon,” you say quietly.

He flinches. You can see his jaw working, the muscles tensing and releasing, as he clenches his teeth. When he finally speaks, his voice is strained.

"Thank you," he replies, his voice thick with emotion. “He’s part of the living Force now.”

You nod, and look away, down at the ashes. You try to remember Qui-Gon, the light in his eyes, the warmth of his smile, the sound of his voice. You wonder if, somewhere, he is smiling down at his former Padawan. You hope, for Obi-Wan's sake, that he is.

A breeze picks up, rustling the leaves in the trees. Obi-Wan's gaze goes unfocused as he stares into the distance. After a moment, he clears his throat, and looks over at Anakin. The boy is staring into the remains of the fire, a blank look on his face. He must have felt Obi-Wan looking at him, because he turns and meets his eyes.

"We should go," Obi-Wan says, glancing back at you. "Anakin needs rest."

"And so do you," you say, looking pointedly at him.

His lips twitch, not quite a smile, but a hint of one. It fades as quickly as it comes, and he is once again the picture of stoicism, his expression blank and distant.

"Yes, well, I'll rest when I can," he replies. "But not before I see to Anakin."

"I can help, if you need."

Obi-Wan's eyebrows raise, and for a moment you worry you've overstepped. You'd barely spoken in months, and the last thing you want is for him to think you're trying to push yourself back into his life, especially after all the arguing.

But then, to your surprise, he nods.

"That would be appreciated," he says. "Thank you."

The tension between you dissipates. You can see his shoulders relax a bit, his expression soften. For the first time, you can see the fatigue etched on his features, the bags under his eyes, the lines around his mouth. You want to tell him to get some rest, but you can tell by the look in his eyes that it's not going to happen.

"It's no problem," you assure him instead. “I may not be great at being a Jedi, but younglings I can handle."

His mouth quirks upward, but there's a sadness in his eyes, a weariness, that gives you pause.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He shakes his head and sighs. "It's just...I wish we could have talked like this, before."

You watch as the last of the ashes blow away on the breeze, and then look over to Obi-Wan.

"I know. I'm sorry. I was..." You pause for a moment, choosing your words carefully, then you shrug a shoulder. "Well, I wasn't very nice."

"No, you weren't," he agrees. "But I wasn't, either."

You glance over, and catch him smiling faintly, a hint of the Obi-Wan you'd grown up with peeking through the facade. You find yourself smiling, too, a small, sad little smile.

"I suppose we'll just have to be better in the future, won't we?"

Obi-Wan hums.

"Perhaps," he replies, but he doesn't seem convinced.

"Master Yaddle said the Council is going to discuss the matter of the Sith," you say. "Maybe we'll know more soon."

Obi-Wan nods, but doesn't say anything. There's a heavy weight on his shoulders, and the lines of his face are drawn tight, as if he is trying very hard to hold himself together.

You feel the urge to reach out, to take his hand and hold it. You can't, of course, not in front of Anakin. It wouldn't be proper. And Obi-Wan, despite the fact that he's only just a few years older than you, is technically a Master now. And not just to a Padawan, but the Chosen One, a prophesized being destined to bring balance to the Force.

So you just stand there, feeling helpless, and wishing you could do something, anything, to make him feel better.

“Where is Master Yaddle, by the way?" Obi-Wan asks, frowning. It's a question you've been asking yourself for hours, and you have no answer.

"I don't know," you admit. "She said she'd be here, but I haven't seen her. She never got on the transport, as far as I know."

Obi-Wan's expression darkens, and he frowns, his brows furrowing. "That's odd."

"It is."

"I can ask Master Windu," Obi-Wan says, nodding in the direction the Council had gone. "Come."

He leads the way through the palace grounds, heading toward the gardens, where the Jedi had been staying since their arrival. You follow, struggling to keeping pace with his long strides. You don't speak, unsure what to say, afraid that anything you might say will ruin the fragile truce between the two of you. 

Anakin falls into step beside you, walking a little faster to keep up. You glance over at him and smile, trying to reassure him. He looks up at you and smiles back.

"Hey," he says. "Who are you?"

"Oh," you glance at Obi-Wan, unsure whether you should answer or not.

"Anakin," Obi-Wan says sharply, looking back at him. "Have some respect."

You nearly smile. Obi-Wan has the authority of a Master, now. It's almost amusing.

"Sorry," Anakin says sheepishly.

"It's alright," you assure him. You tell him your name, and Obi-Wan glances back.

"She is a friend,” Obi-Wan tells Anakin.

"A friend?" Anakin repeats, looking back at you curiously.

"Yes," Obi-Wan says.

"Do friends touch hands, where you're from?"

Obi-Wan chokes, his stride faltering. He shoots a panicked look back at you, his cheeks turning bright red. You bite back a laugh.

"They can,” you say, smiling at Obi-Wan.

His eyes widen, and then narrow, a look of indignation crossing his face. He shakes his head, and looks away.

"Only sometimes," he mutters, and speeds up, his robes billowing out behind him.

You can't help but grin, and, seeing the look on your face, Anakin smiles too. You reach over and give his shoulder a squeeze.

"Welcome to the Order, Anakin."

"Thank you."

As the doors to the small chamber the Council has temporarily taken over comes into view, Obi-Wan finally slows down. You catch up easily, falling in step beside him. Anakin hangs back, staying just behind.

"I'm sorry about that," Obi-Wan says apologetically, glancing over. "He's still learning."

"Don't worry about it." You hesitate, but can't help but add, "Though I'm surprised you admitted we're friends."

He looks down, and clears his throat. "Well, we are."

"Are we?"

He glances at you.

"I'd like to think so," he says softly.

You smile. "Me, too."

He gives a little nod, his lips pursed, and then turns back to the door. It opens automatically, sliding apart with a hiss.

Inside, the Council members are seated in a circle, all facing the center of the room, where Obi-Wan and Anakin now enter. Master Yoda and Master Windu are among them, their faces serious. The conversation they were having stops immediately, and the attention of everyone in the room falls on the newcomers.

There are a few whispers, some of the Jedi leaning close together to discuss whatever they are about to say. Then, one by one, each member turns to look at you.

“Master Kenobi, Padawan Anathorn," Master Windu says, and his tone is not exactly welcoming. "To what do we owe this intrusion?"

"I apologize for the interruption, Masters," Obi-Wan begins, bowing his head. "But we were wondering if you had any information on Master Yaddle. We were told she'd be at the funeral, but we haven't seen her."

"Ah," Master Windu exchanges a look with Master Yoda, who leans forward, resting his elbows on his gimer stick.

"On Coruscant, Master Yaddle remains," the old master explains. "Resigned from the Council, and from the Order, she has."

You feel as though someone has just punched you in the stomach. Resigned? Why would she resign, without saying anything to you?

"What?"

The question escapes your lips before you can stop it, loud and unbidden, and every head in the room turns to look at you. You feel the blush rise on your cheeks, and quickly duck your head.

"Apologies," you say quickly before looking back up. "But...why?"

"Why, indeed," Yoda repeats. "Concerned, we all are. But the choice, Master Yaddle has made."

“She didn’t tell me,” you whisper, feeling your stomach twist. You can feel the eyes of the Council on you, judging, questioning, wondering why she would choose you as her apprentice, why she would even choose you, when the others were so much better suited.

And the truth was, you had asked yourself that very question many times.

Master Yaddle is the closest thing you have to a mother. You'd thought she'd believed in you, wanted you to take the trials to become a Knight. But if she'd left the Council, if she'd resigned without even telling you, perhaps she was tired of dealing with you, tired of the responsibility of raising you. Perhaps she was done.

"I see," Obi-Wan replies slowly, but his eyes are on you, watching you carefully.

"Anything else, have you, Master Kenobi?" Yoda asks.

"No, Masters," Obi-Wan answers. "Forgive us."

He bows, and takes a step back. You stay rooted to the spot, your feet unwilling to move.

"Master Yaddle did not come?" you ask, your eyes moving from Master Yoda, to Master Windu, and then to the rest of the Council, all watching you intently. You feel a sudden, irrational fear grip your chest, a feeling like ice water running down your spine. Something was wrong, you were sure of it. Something was terribly wrong.

“She cared for Master Jinn, she wouldn’t—“

“Her choice it was, Padawan. Her choice, it is. Accept her resignation, we will, and move on. No choice do you have, in this matter."

You swallow the lump in your throat, and bow, your eyes burning.

"Yes, Master," you manage. "Forgive me."

“Before her resignation, Master Yaddle put forth a recommendation for you to take the trials,” Master Plo Koon speaks up. Despite the modulator of his rebreather, you hear a note of concern in his voice, and it does nothing to alleviate your own.

Your heart skips a beat, and you turn to stare at him.

"She did?"

"Yes."

"Oh," you say, stunned. You hadn't known that. Yaddle had always said you weren't ready, that you weren't prepared. Why would she recommend that you take the trials now, if not to prove a point, to get you out of her hair, so she could leave in peace?

"The decision, the Council will make. Discuss the matter, we will, once matters with the Sith are settled. For now, your focus, keep on your training."

"Yes, Master."

"Master Kenobi, young Anakin," Master Yoda looks past you, to Obi-Wan and his new Padawan, "rest, the both of you must. A long day tomorrow, you have."

"Thank you, Master Yoda."

Obi-Wan glances at you, and then nods at the Council. His hand finds your shoulder and gently, but firmly, steers you toward the door. It opens automatically, and the three of you exit, back into the garden.

"Anakin, go on," Obi-Wan says, letting go of you as the door slides shut behind you. "Wait for me in our quarters, please. I need to speak with my friend."

"Okay."

The young boy nods, and trots off, leaving the two of you alone. As soon as he disappears from view, you slump against the wall, taking a deep, shuddering breath. Your thoughts are swirling, your emotions running rampant.

"Are you alright?" Obi-Wan asks, coming to stand in front of you.

"No," you say, shaking your head. "She didn't tell me, Obi-Wan. She didn't tell me anything."

"I'm sure there's a good reason."

"I don't care!"

You push off the wall and turn away, pacing back and forth, trying to work off some of the nervous energy. Your frustration is growing, and so is the pain, the betrayal, the hurt. You clench your fists at your sides, trying to control your breathing.

"Why would she leave without telling me? Why would she leave the Council now, when we need her the most? When I need her the most?"

"She must have had a reason," Obi-Wan insists, but you can tell he's not certain of his words.

"A reason?" You stop and turn to look at him, your anger suddenly turned toward him. "And what if that reason is that she's tired of me? What then?"

"That's not it," Obi-Wan says, frowning.

"How do you know?"

He hesitates.

"Well?"

"I..." He sighs, and runs a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his face. You can see the stress, the worry etched in the lines of his forehead. His eyes are bloodshot, and there are dark circles under them, and you suddenly realize that he's not in any better shape than you are.

"I know because I know her, and I know you," he says, his voice a little strained. "If Master Yaddle left the Council, there is a reason. And if she recommended you to take the trials, it's because she thinks you are ready."

"And how can I be, without her guidance? How can I do this, if she's not here?"

You take a shaky breath, and turn away again. You're on the verge of tears, and you're afraid if you look at him, you'll break down. You don’t want him to see you cry, not now, not when he's just lost his own Master, not when the whole galaxy seems to be going to shit.

"I can't do this alone," you whisper.

Obi-Wan crosses the distance between you, and puts his arms around you, pulling you against his chest.

"You're not alone," he says softly, and his words make the tears spill down your cheeks.

He holds you as you cry, his cheek pressed against the top of your head, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other cradling the back of your neck. You let yourself take comfort in the embrace, the warmth of him, his familiar scent, and his soothing voice, telling you over and over that it will be alright.

It's not true, but you let him say it, anyway.

When the tears have stopped, you pull back, and wipe at your face with the sleeve of your robes. Obi-Wan looks down at you, his expression filled with concern, his eyes filled with worry. You reach up, and brush the pad of your thumb across his cheek, wiping away the moisture there.

"Are you alright?" he asks, reaching up and putting his hand over yours.

"No."

"Would it help if I told you I was scared, too?"

You huff a laugh and pull your hand away, nodding.

"I'm serious," he says, and the smile fades from your lips. You can see the truth in his eyes, and your heart sinks.

"What are you scared of?"

"Of being a Master, of failing. Of disappointing everyone. Of...of the Sith. Of everything that's going to happen now."

"So am I," you admit. "I've never been so scared in my entire life."

"Then I suppose we'll just have to help each other get through it."

"How?"

"I'm not sure yet." He smiles, and reaches out, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. "But I'm willing to try, if you are."

You nod. "Okay."

Obi-Wan takes a step back, his hand falling away from your face. He hesitates, as if he wants to say something else, and then nods to himself, and turns to leave.

"Thank you," you call after him.

He pauses, and looks back, a smile on his face.

"You're welcome," he says, and then continues on his way, heading off to meet his new Padawan.

You watch him go, and hope that whatever happens, the two of you will be able to stick together. That the Sith will not destroy everything you hold dear. Because if they do, then what will be the point of any of it?

As the sun begins to set, painting the sky above the temple red, you turn and head in the direction of your own quarters. Tomorrow, you will train, and hope that the next time the Council meets, they will allow you to take the Trials.

You will train, and meditate, and focus.

Because despite what the Council would lead you and the galaxy to believe, this is far from over.

[tremendum]

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Me and the Devil; iii

(not my gif) .·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·: Paul Atreides x fem!reader previous next series masterlist

word count: 9.5k

summary:  Perhaps it is not polite to admit to your betrothed that you loathe the idea of wedding them, but Paul knows the feeling is more than mutual. 

warnings: canon-typical threats, violence, getting stabbed, etc. also smut - brief oral (f receiving), fingering, light choking, biting, very brief dubcon (Feyd), unprotected PiV, rough-ish, outdoor sex, fantasizing, hair pulling. sharing food, discussion of alcohol (?), and religious trauma/defiance

notes: a bit of a long chapter for this one - with smut as well as some probably boring politics! sorry LOL but as always please please leave comments or feedback, i love hearing reader's thoughts and takeaways!! :) thanks for all the love on the story, i hope yall are enjoying it. new update on AO3 coming soon as well so keep your eyes peeled for that xx

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Concerns Rise Over Destabilization of Sabberon

In the wake of the unseating of House Bourbon and the resulting power vacuum on Planet Sabberon, concerns are mounting over the potential for destabilization within the region. Situated on a crucial part of the galactic trade route, Sabberon's turmoil could have far-reaching implications for the economic prosperity of the Landsraad's trade routes.

With no governing body to maintain order, rising insurgent groups throughout the planet threaten to plunge Sabberon into chaos. The potential for conflict and upheaval remains a significant concern for the wider galactic community - but there has been no comment by the Emperor at this time. 

This all comes to head a month before the Imperium's Annual Referendum, wherein new negotiations on Space Trade Routes will be drawn, along with the final Arraignment of the House Bourbon. 

- Collected Galactic News report sent to Duke Leto Atreides, 10191. Caladan. 

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On the planet Sabberon, there is a trail that leads through the forest.

Past the Castle Bourbon, it winds up the slope of a mountain - and in the springtime, when the snow thaws and the glacier pours its icy veins into the rivers that trickle through the woods, the ground becomes spongy with wild grass. 

You crane your head to take in the towering mountains in the distance; They dominate over your vision, the caps bald with white snow reflecting so sharply that you have to squint. Those distant mountains never lose their ice even in the warm months, unlike the one you walk now. 

your hand reaches back across the soft fabric of the dress that covers your body, the sunlight shy and spring-like upon your exposed skin. Your feet are bare; cold, the tips of your toes stained with the dirt of the earthy soil as you pull a weight of warmth behind you. 

The trees rustle, bushes smacking gently against your bare arms as you make your way to a small, secluded clearing - protected by tall trees laden with chiffon ribbons of green; there are candles upon an offering pyre, loomed only by the Pine that grows tall and thick, towering so high that it disappears in the clouds. 

You're at peace. 

The sheet that lies beneath the safety of the Pine's branches welcomes your body as you lie, the sky streaking as the sun shoots pink and orange overhead. 

A body lies next to you; your eyes closed, you feel hands run up the side of your arm, caressing your side. Heat follows; your arm raises goosebumps but they're soothed over when a mouth lands on yours. 

His lips are eager, passionate, calm. You sigh into the kiss, hands reaching to the chest of your husband to find him bare; Skin hot, willing - desiring. 

Your breath catches; Try as you might, you cannot bring your eyelids to open, even as his fingers sneak up your bare thigh, slipping gently under your skirt to graze along your heat. pleasure follows his hand as you keen under his touch. 

Swallowing a gasp with his lips, your husband's fingers slip agonizingly slow into you; tingling with anticipation and desire, you let out a short moan. Your fingers clutch his shoulders; muscles strain underneath your nails as a phantom tickle graces across your forehead - you're unsure if it's yours, or his. 

His forearm is strong, his other hand cupping your neck as he slowly moves his fingers, stirring arousal and pleasure from the deepest pits of your memory. You'd expect to smell fresh forest, perhaps lustful sweat; yet you instead inhale and nearly choke on the tinny air that surrounds you. There is a vague, hazy observation somewhere in your mind: he smells different here, on the ground of the Sacred Pine. Not like the fresh, sea-salty clean of Caladan's soaps. Any thoughts of confusion at the metallic scent wash away as his hot lips trail down your throat, nipping at your heady skin when your head falls back onto the white sheet.

Following the soft moan you let out is a shush from his lips, gentle as the breeze through the needles of the trees; Ecstasy dances through you, lighting a fire of desire that has your legs squirming to close as your husband slides his lithe body between your thighs.

His presence is warm, thick - eager from the scent of you, the taste of you, the feel of you. 

Your eyes flutter open just a moment when his hands push, bunching your dress over your hips. The Pine stands tall above you; upside-down, you stare curiously as it sways, licks of heat igniting the top of it from the sky. The streaks in the sky look bizarre; almost unnatural, and a vague sense of unease strikes you before washing away.

The sun is dipping below the ridged peaks in the distance, but in the evening light, you frown as you stare upwards. It almost looks as if the branches of the Pine are... on fire; Before you can think too hard on it, his lips soothe over yours, pressing his own hardness against your eager heat. Your eyes roll back as a moan leaves your lips; the sound is warbled, as if fallen through a lake.

Your hands slide up his back, feeling the ridges of his spine as you go, gasping at the length pressing against your aching core. 

A wind whistles through the trees. In the quiet of the forest, you whisper softly, "I love you."

The words barely a breath against his lips as you fight against a smile of bliss. His hand snakes up to tug at your hair, exposing your neck to him as you hum, your eyes still shut in bliss. Your vision is blurry as lips find your throat, biting down and making you gasp harshly. 

The chill breeze flutters over your bare core, goosebumps cascading over every curve and fold of your body. But the more your husband bites down, the stronger the foreign smell on your him becomes. In a grunt of discomfort, you shove his mouth away from your throat - but his lips slide up to your ear, instead: 

"I know, pet."

A whisper - cold and sinister. A chill runs down your spine. Fear grips you tighter than a vice as you pull back in alarm, your heart pounding in your chest. 

Then it happens; a sharp pain punctures through you. 

With searing agony, you let out a blood-curdling scream, voice cracking as your eyes fly open. 

But as you look into your husband's eyes, you realize with horror that it's not Paul at all.

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen smiles cruelly, watching with a hunger in his eyes as he pushes; but it isn't him, it's something else - your hand flies up to the pain between your ribs, gasping a choked breath as your grip covers his own, feeling the sickeningly familiar hilt protruding from you.

You look down in your terror.

In his hand, he holds your own nameday knife, the exposed part of its blade glinting in the dim light of the ceremonial candles that surround you. With a coldness in his gaze, Feyd leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead, his breath hot against you and making your skin crawl.

Blood slowly seeps over your body, covering your dress and soaking the sheet below you, tainting the ritual in crimson. You cannot move, gasping in shock. 

"You're mine," he whispers, his voice possessive and malicious, his hand turning the blade deeper, smiling as you scream. "My wife." 

With a gasp, you jolt awake.

Your heart races as you struggle to catch your breath, the sensation of his touch still haunting you; a face hovers before you, and you lash out, fighting to get the body away from you. Your fist swings wildly from where you sit up, throwing as much power as you can in your blind haze. 

A hand catches your wrist mid-swing, effectively jerking you to the side as a gasp fills the room. For a moment, as your heart pounds, you consider how many moves it'd take to disarm your attacker - but when you blink yourself into focus, your stomach drops. 

Hestia, cheeks red as she breathes, her round eyes wide; her grip is firm, gentle, but her brows are knit with worry.

"-My lady," Her voice is airy, eyes searching your panicked gaze. "You were only dreaming."

Your breath comes in ragged gasps as you blink rapidly, attempting to dispel the lingering tendrils of the nightmare that still cling to your consciousness. Dread fills you instantly, regret clasping your ribs in a deadly embrace. "My god," You whisper, eyes filling with unwilling tears, "I-I'm sorry," you stammer, the weight of your actions crashing down upon you as you realize what you've done. "Are you okay? Hestia, I didn't mean to-"

Her expression softens and she gives your hand a gentle squeeze, offering you a reassuring smile, her voice is soft with compassion. "It's alright, my lady," she says, "You were frightened. Anyone would react the same way."

You know she's lying to be nice. Guilt gnaws at your insides as you realize the harm you could have caused, and you feel a lump form in your throat. "I wouldn't hurt you," you say firmly, your voice barely audible above the pounding of your heart. She blinks, noticing the absence that must linger in your stare. 

Hestia's smile remains unwavering as she shakes her head gently. "I know, my Lady," she says, her tone filled with understanding. "And you didn't. I'm just glad you're alright."

The bruises and marks from your old life took several days to fade after your arrival on Caladan, but she, nor the other maids, ever said anything when they'd smoothed makeup over the bitemark on your neck, slipped a tunic over the jagged scar on your ribs, or pulled the mourning veil over your face. Each of them are soft in their own way - kind, loving, talkative, and loyal to their House; and Hestia is your favorite. You never found this kind of humanity on Giedi Prime. 

Even after you and Hestia finish your breakfast, and she helps you dress, she doesn't ask about the dream. And you don't tell her. 

It is certainly not the first of these dreams you've had - yes, you've been dreaming of that place nearly every night since you arrived here; the mountains, the hills, the pathway to the open clearing with the large tree. Each night, it calls to you, singing a song you cannot hear; but never, not until now, had there been a man with you. 

Never had Paul nor Feyd-Rautha found you in those dreams.

A sharp pain to your side reminds you of that phantom knife stuck through your ribs, of the cold stare of the man you once thought you’d be with forever. You'd woken in fear from the nightmare, but the beginning of the dream had been... pleasant, extremely so - and it was because of... 

Paul, your mind reminds you, as you swallow the unease in your stomach.

No doubt in your mind, it is Sabberon in your dreams - you'd know those trees, that Pine, anywhere. But the sheet on the ground, the altar, the chiffon ribbons in the trees, the candles- it felt almost like a ritual. You've never seen nor heard of such a place in all your years. 

Dressing you is a solemn affair this morning. The worst moment of hesitation comes when Hestia holds up the necklace; it shines in the rays of sunlight, glistening with the precious stone that carves out the emblem of the Atreides hawk. Your jaw tightens when you back your head away from her slightly. 

She's not unused to this; it's been half a week since it was given to you, and each day you have bared your teeth as she clasps it around your neck - yet still, you wear it. Her eyes find yours, swimming; she can tell where your mind's gone so easily.

"You said he apologized?" She asks tentatively, and you huff a short laugh. "Yes. Only after I told on him to his parents, like a child. He probably hates me more, now." 

She gives you an incredulous look as she clasps the necklace over your neckline.

"He gifted you a family heirloom - my lady, look at it! This thing is older than the two of us combined." She is lighthearted, but it does not quell your distress. 

Your teeth worry into your bottom lip as you hum gently. "It's not as simple as that." You say with a shrug. Your eyes cast down, where your bare feet stand against the floor. For a minute, you see wild grass under them; a white sheet, blood seeping through it and onto your toes. Averting your gaze, you clear your throat. "I think he wants me to remember who holds the reins." 

A hand on your shoulder snaps you back into your own bedchambers and you swallow thickly. Her face holds nothing but honesty. "Or, it's his way of trying to welcome you as a part of House Atreides. He is not sinister, I promise, just slow to trust." 

You send her a look, "You seem to know Lord Paul quite well, Hestia." you say, not accusatory, but teasing.  

She, as expected, flushes red; you have to hide your smirk. "Nothing-nothing like that, my Lady." she insists, shaking her head. "My mother was the handmaiden to Lady Jessica. He is just a few years older than I - In some ways, though I am but a servant, Paul and I were reared almost as siblings." 

You nod gently, watching her face contort into something very warm, less embarrassed, "I've got no siblings of my own, but sometimes I think he is exactly what a brother should be." She shrugs. "Kind, thoughtful, always willing to lend an ear. Quite loyal, always standing up for what he believes is right, no matter the cost - and, if you'd believe it, he can be quite funny sometimes."

No matter the cost - like ruining a betrothal to a woman he thinks is a Harkonnen spy? You hide your grimace, knowing Hestia is only wishing to soothe your mind. Instead you force a smile, hoping it appears more brilliant than you feel.

"I always seemed to fight with my siblings." Your voice is melancholy - the idea of having someone so close, so familiar, feels like a distant dream now. "But they were my favorite people in this entire universe." You smile wistfully, clearing your throat as you slide on the hand jewelry she offers to you. She doesn't say anything, and you're grateful for it. 

"Family, by blood or bond, is a precious thing." You reason, pulling up your trousers and slipping on your shoes. 

Hestia nods in agreement, her own wistful smile playing on her lips. "Indeed, my lady."

You eye your reflection in the mirror on the wall; You stare sullenly back at yourself- beautiful, yes - but miserable. A dog with a collar for the Atreides leash. 

She claps, "Now, let's get you to this War Council." 

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Paul lets out a sharp sigh.

An aseptic scent pierces his nostrils, contaminating his brain; Distracting him. The castle can become very sterile, deep in the more secluded chambers - the air has a chill to it, sharp with some kind of disinfectant.

"Concentrate, Paul.” His mother’s voice is low but commanding, "Project your will."

He can’t bring himself to look up - his mother stands just a few paces away, her eyes boring into him. Focus. He needs to focus.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he hums gently - flames flicker up the sides of his vision, though he pushes through - a large tree, smoke leaking from somewhere above where it pierces the clouds. A sigh of his name in his ear, hands tugging the curls at the nape of his neck. His nostrils flare as he shakes his head, letting out a small groan of irritation. Focus.

Within him, an energy builds; But as he begins to speak, a strange sense of trepidation washes over his spine, a nagging suspicion of unease. He falters in his words for a moment, confidence waning as doubts crept into his mind.

It's silent for a moment, before she sighs from across the room. “You’re distracted this morning, Paul." she states, her tone neutral. He bites back a sharp I know - instead he sighs, his shoulders dropping. “I didn’t sleep well.” He excuses, pacing towards the water pitcher. She follows, reaching for the glass he offers to her as she hums in thought. 

“Dreams?” She reads him so well. 

He pauses; Frankly, there is a giving degree to which he understands the Bene Gesserit’s plans for him, and this alone is cause for hesitation. He remembers the sheer pain from that box all those years ago, just after he'd heard the Reverend Mother tell his own lady mother that there were two candidates - for what, he still doesn't know - and that Paul may one day be one of them. 

He isn't sure what it meant, but there is a very sick feeling in his stomach that perhaps these dreams have to do with it. 

"Yes." He acquiesces, knowing she would have seen straight through any lie he'd fabricate. "I've been having dreams," he admits reluctantly, gaze drifting to the floor. He knows how it is about to sound. "Vivid dreams...of Sabberon." 

To an untrained eye, no one would be able to read his mother's emotions. But Paul's eyes are indeed quite trained; A flicker of concern passes through her. "Sabberon?" She echoes, her tone careful, the way it becomes when discussing matters of great import. "And what do you see in these dreams?"

Paul hesitates, the memory still fresh in his mind; in the beginning, it is always soft skin, toes imbued with the dirt. Soft whispers of his name from lips he has yet to truly see. 

And then there is your body, the skin of your thighs shaking as his lips move lower and lower. The gentleness of your sigh as he holds your hips down, the glint of a blade's hilt almost golden in the reddening sun. Your gown, thin and blowing in the breeze, the same color as the veil which still conceals your face from his wanting gaze even in the dying light; Streaks of color in the sky, snow falling around you. The soft fabric bunching by your hips, lying down softly on a white sheet. Your chest tremoring in the flickering light of ceremonial candles; Your own breath, warm and willing, upon his neck, hands moving lower towards his waistband. A soft moan, the smell of ash- 

He swallows thickly, staring at his mother with hesitation, jaw clenching.

He clears his throat, "I always see..." He chooses carefully the truths he will forgive, "a white blanket covering the ground," he murmurs, his words heavy with uncertainty. "Above, there's a great pine tree burning. Visions of...knives, and streaks through the sky; I think they are missiles. And we are there together... she and I."

"Lady Bourbon?" His mother repeats, her brow lifting. Paul nods, a sense of unease settling in the pit of his stomach. 

"I'm not sure why it's always the same dream," he admits, his voice barely audible. "Perhaps I've been reading about Sabberon too much."

He can't shake the feeling that there's something important waiting for him on Sabberon; It's true - you have become a frequent visitor in his dreams. Always there, always you - and somehow, he knows it's Sabberon. He sees it burning; he sees it up in flames, and sometimes, you with it. 

Lady Jessica sets her unused glass of water down on the table. "Be cautious with your dreams, Paul. Listen to them, learn from them." she urges, words leaving no sense of comfort in his chest. "Dreams are  messages from the deep."

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Though it was but late morning, the Strategy Council found you quite weary.

You sit, toying with your fingers as you drown in a sea of House Atreides; The only solace in the room is your shortsword, laid in front of you on the table for all to see. Certainly a warning, this time. 

Nearly everybody you've met of importance is in attendance - the table is large and long, so much so that you know you will have to project your voice to be heard by the dredges of your periphery. War masters, strategists, women and men with intense stares and the symbol of house Atreides upon their clothing. 

After the table is full, Duke Leto begins the discussion with a brief introduction - you have yet to meet a handful of these advisors, and in your own introduction you have to fight hard not to sound too sharp or calculating, your eyes skittering to observe the details of your listeners from behind the veil. Worse than this is the fight to stifle your yawn as the duke reviews intelligence reports; Gritting your teeth, you sit up straighter. Now is not the time for your body and mind to punish you for the lack of sound sleep.

In an unfortunate glance beside the duke, you're startled - Paul, who sits beside his father, stares at the pendant hanging from your neck. A wash of chills fall down your spine. 

Until now, there's lived a cold silence between the two of you that has not been broken since it began the night he gave you the necklace. Cordial nods or a tight-lipped smile from him in passing, whenever a house member is around; nothing more would dare be said. 

If you'd been less indulged in your studies and training, or he less prideful, perhaps it would not have gone on this long - but seeing as you've barely been in the same room once since that dreadful dinner several days ago, it's no different. You aren't to be wed until the end of this year, but you know sometime soon, you will have to learn to live with him. 

Paul does not notice your attention on him for some time as his father speaks beside him; He is seemingly in his own world, gazing intently at the necklace in a way that gives you a rush of unease.

Suddenly, green eyes flicker upwards to find your own; You're unsure how he does it each time, for you know your face is well concealed unless only a foot away from you. It shocks you to your core anyways, and images unwelcome fly into your mind's eye.

Curls that kiss your forehead as he tilts his head down; His hand snaking up the bareness of your thigh. 

You swallow thickly, shifting in your seat. It's bad enough to dream of Feyd-Rautha, but now you're flushing like a child each time you catch your husband-to-be's eyes - like some innocent maiden; catching those very same eyes which regard you as a pawn on the chessboard of his House, no less.

There is not a part of you so vain as to lie and say Paul is not extremely attractive. With his dark curls, sharp angles, plush lips, and that cool voice, anybody with eyes or ears can tell. But even just this innocent observation makes you fight the urge to rip off the necklace, to scream at him - I am not yours to keep like a pet!  But before you can do much of anything, his gaze is gone from you, turning his attention to the matter at hand.

Begrudgingly, you try to do the same. 

Your eyelids droop as you fight to stare at the duke, who speaks in what you can only perceive as background noise as your mind soldiers on against your own will.

"Lady Bourbon?"

Your eyes snap up, heart suddenly beating hard under the shockingly paternal stare of Duke Leto. In fact, through the silence, you observe that every eye is on you expectantly, including Paul. He's concerned, it seems, as you snap out of your reverie, the embarrassment flooding you; Paul's green eyes bore into you just from the Duke's left.

"Apologies, my Lord," you clear your throat, willing your cheeks to stop flushing from the attention. "I've been having trouble sleeping lately. I've been having some...odd dreams," you admit reluctantly under his gaze, "they've been keeping me awake at night. Can you repeat yourself?"  

You do not miss the way that Lady Jessica's eyes flick to her son; His own gaze casts suddenly downwards, as if deep within his own mind. Whatever she is thinking, he clearly is avoiding - there is but little pause from the rest of the council, thankfully. Thufir Hawat denotes a remedy in the form of an elixir you can take before sleep that should help you - the Duke orders a servant to have it brought to your quarters this evening, and you forget all about the look shared between Lady Jessica and Paul.

You're painfully alert after this, and when you are finally called upon to share your thoughts, it is by Gurney Halleck. He leans forward, "My lady, you mentioned certain endeavors during your time on Giedi Prime. What do you know of their Spice exploits?" 

Your jaw ticks when eyes across the room fall to you, wishing to rid yourself of the cursed veil that constricts your face. Sitting forward, you clear your throat. "I do not know much of their spice harvesting - and it must be said that what I know is mostly second-hand. I learned most of it through Feyd-Rautha."

A murmur from the end of the table, one you are quick to squash; "He is vicious, but he has his own weaknesses that the other Harkonnens lack." You refuse to drop the duke's stare as the implications of your words settle into everyone's minds. "Spice is not their only source of power."

Eyes watch you, captivated. Feeling for once like you hold power over them, you continue. "They have large petroleum reserves - I've seen them, they're never-ending."

This makes the duke shift in his seat; likewise, Paul's brows furrow in thought. 

"From what I can piece together, my family was recording Harkonnen reserves and monitoring their activity with the Spacing Guild - not just for spice, but petroleum. I was none the wiser until after they were caught, but of course, who is to believe me?" You eye Paul at your words. He looks away, something like guilt on his face, as you continue. "-Which is why the Great Houses likely allowed for me to be brought to Caladan. In case I know something." Your eyes fall to Duke Leto. "Am I right, my Lord?" You ask. The room is quiet as your information is absorbed. 

"Yes." He agrees, eyes filled with intrigue, "We were... concerned about any acts of retaliation to our house after this ruling, and though it hasn't come yet, we need to be prepared." 

You nod. "When the betrothal was annulled, they were distraught." you say honestly, catching the guarding of several glances, "Not for some attachment to me, mind you. Feyd-Rautha was the worst of them when it came to the dissolution of our engagement, but the truth is simply that Harkonnens do not like when their toys are taken away from them." 

At the silence, you push forward, "Thufir Hawat has been tutoring me; I understand that the majority of the trading exports from Caladan are agriculture - fine wine and rice?" 

"Yes." Paul speaks up from beside his father. You nod, the chain along your headdress chiming slightly as you hold his stare for a moment. You wet your lips, "The Baron could easily flood the galactic market with cheap petroleum with almost no externalities for himself. An influx of cheap fuel like that could disrupt the transportation networks - the market would be saturated by the Harkonnens within days."

A moment as the information is taken in. "This would disrupt our direct trade access from our system to most others without use of the Spacing Guild." Thufir adds. The duke still looks at you, urging you to continue. You do.

"What I fear," you clasp your hands, "Is the vacuum left on Sabberon. There is no governing body now that my family has been eliminated." Your voice is cold, blunt; unemotional. "If Harkonnen boots hit ground there, they could take control of the planet's resources and exports. Harkonnen battalions could easily squash the insurgent groups there."  

"Sabberon's industries are commercial fishing, fir, logging." Says a woman a few seats from you, leaning to find your gaze.

You turn, nodding, "Yes, perhaps, but I more mean the glacial deposits within our mountain ranges - they contain precious minerals and ores whose compounds are valuable for industrial applications." You say, clearing your throat as you set down the pneumatic tubes you'd prepared before the council, "I've documented, to the best of my ability, what I remember here. Feyd-Rautha knows about Sabberon; I believe it is fair to assume the Baron does, too." 

In the lull of the moment, you think back to those days ago - Feyd’s hand on your neck, his smile black - You're mine to keep. There's plenty of life left for you to serve.  

Paul leans forward, brows furrowed. "If that region is destabilized- or controlled by Harkonnens - we will lose our all our exports. Giving them access to the resources is bad enough, but an almost-monopoly on petroleum, spice, and the Space Trade Route?" His brows furrow and you fight the spark of intrigue that courses through you at his intelligence. 

You nod, finding his eyes once again. Gurney Halleck speaks from diagonal you. "We need to consider our options carefully. If the Harkonnens make a move, we must be ready to respond, but acting first could have larger consequences." 

Duke Leto nodded, his brow furrowed in thought. "Halleck's right. The Referendum is quickly approaching - the Landsraad will be redrawing the Trade negotiations then," his eyes flicker to you, "-and your arraignment is set for the same congress. We'll have to wait." 

Dread fills you; The meeting ends with a sense of urgency - plans are drawn out to set more strategy meetings before the Referendum, you are requested to record and attend them. Then you escape very narrowly by insisting to Duncan Idaho that you must rest today and postpone your weapons training, which he mercifully agrees with.

By the time you return to your chambers, you are much too exhausted to seek lunch. Instead, you are asleep within minutes. 

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Your name calls to you. 

You respond with a slight hum as you thread hands through hair; foggily, birds chirp in the distance, the sun setting as streaks fly across the sky. Flakes falls gently around you, but it does not smell of snowfall; a bonfire must be lit nearby - you can hear the crackling, smell the heady cedar embers.  

Your hair is tugged in a surprising manner and you gasp, catching the flicker in green eyes when you bring your eyes back to the body before you. "That hurt." You say, no real malice in your voice. 

The sound of your words is floating, faint, as a hand grips your jaw, tilting it up. "I'm very sorry," he says, not even trying to cover the lie, "Let me ease the pain.” A whisper, gentle against your lips. A faint chuckle when he nips down your exposed neck; His hands are incredibly daring, slipping your dress over your head until you're bare for him and the forest. The breeze of springtime is chill and disarming against your flesh as his fingers trace you. 

You feel nothing but arousal as he sinks lower, lips painting his way up your thighs, biting gently into the meat of your flesh; A swat to the top of his head and a short groan from him in response as you bite back a smile.

"Paul," you whisper, "come back to me." 

He listens, though he usually doesn't. His lips are replaced by his hips as he rolls them against your aching core; a gentle moan that echoes through the air. It is chilly, but his skin is warm. His lips are warm. 

"but I'm here, aren't I?" He asks, eyes staring into yours, "I'm always here." 

He slides into you with a groan, his fist thudding against the trunk of the tree behind your head. You let out a long whimper, arousal consuming you as your back arches.  Any semblance of chivalry is gone when he starts to move; A hand sneaking up from your hip, over your breasts, pinching a pert nipple before rising, fingers wanting, to grip around the necklace that lies on your chest. 

A finger traces over the emblem - a hawk, blue and shining, over your sweat-sheened, thundering chest. 

Barely a moment before he's ripping with force; the necklace breaks and falls apart, stones and pearls rolling over your bare torso and onto the sheet below you.

Muttering something about needing you bare for him - you can't quite catch it for all you know is pleasure as he starts to roll his hips into you. His hand snakes up further once having freed your neck; wrapping around your throat. He is not gentle, he is not slow; because he is your husband, and he knows you like the back of his hand. A groan from his lips as his hand squeezes over your neck, your gasp of ecstasy swallowed by his tongue. A whispered phrase, over and over, spilling from your lips and his - lulling you into a state of euphoria as his body rocks with yours. 

"I'm yours." 

Something rouses you from sleep, much quicker this time, and you wake with a start.   Broad daylight streams through your chamber windows when your eyes open, your heart thundering as you shift on the sheets. A blurry form comes into view, fluffing the untouched pillow beside you on the bed. 

"Bad dream again, my lady?" Hestia asks as she sets down a fresh set of clothing; you swallow your and wince at your dry throat, heart thudding. Bad dream... You can feel your face flood with embarrassment.

You'd rather be caught dead than admit what you'd just dreamt, so instead you push your hair from your face, fanning your cheeks. "Yes." You croak, accepting the glass of water she offers you. The sky is sunny - not a single raincloud - and suddenly your chambers feel heavy, tight. 

"I need some fresh air."  

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The midday sun casts a short shadow as Paul walks along the meadow.

The breeze is much more permanent down by the shore; he brushes strands away from his eyes. It's only a few hours until he should be back in the chambers with his father, helping draw plans for the upcoming Referendum, but he needs some fresh air. 

His mind is stuck high above him, recalling the Strategy Council meeting. Paul would be struck dead a liar if he were to say you were not one of the most intelligent women he's met; after this morning, there is nothing much else he has been able to think of. The growing bud of admiration sprouts in him, considering your predisposition to violence and solitude.

Paul almost feels foolish for how blinded he was - if war is really on the horizon, he supposes it's very lucky that House Atreides took you in. If not for your capabilities and sharp intellect, then for your claim to Sabberon; Harkonnen power in that region would be detrimental in a war. 

It’s now as important as ever that Paul ensures you remain on the Atreides’ side, should this war come; a burden to hold you should you somehow wish to return to the black embrace of Giedi Prime, but one he will have to keep. 

You are too valuable to his House to let you go over trivial things. Politics are often two way streets; you will help them with your insights and they will protect you. 

For a moment, he sees that lush green forest again; a woodpecker against bark, your hands sliding into his as you lean him back against the trunk of a tree, the smell of smoke, an explosion on the horizon.

Paul sighs harshly. 

He's not sure if it was a smart decision to tell his mother about these dreams instead of his father; skepticism rolls over him in droves as his feet trudge over the cliff and down, closer to the beach. Paul loves his mother, but he is not naive to the manipulative nature of the Bene Gesserit - indeed, his entire existence is a product of their breeding program, and he is almost certain it is again why the Houses were ordered for you to be spared and betrothed to him. 

A small whisper in the back of his mind, the sickly voice of that Reverend Mother those years ago: Two candidates... Paul may one day be one of them. 

The skittering of a rabbit through the grass and under a rock calls his attention to the path, his jaw clenched tight. 

There is a small alcove - one of many below the cliffs which hold a number of tidepools small and large - on his path to the beach that catches his eye, just on the left. A soft smile grows on his weary lips. When he was younger, he often times used to play in these alcoves with the few other children his age in the castle, swimming, playing hide-and-seek, sparring with wooden daggers. 

His feet take him into the alcove without any hesitation, and it isn't until he's into the shade that he sees the figure seated among the pools.

You're wearing the same clothing you'd donned at the Strategy Council, your feet dipped into the shallow waters, back rigid as you turn to him. Even through the waves that lap against the rocks in this alcove, the silence that has lingered between you since Paul had gifted you the heirloom is thick and taunting him. 

With a tentative swallow, Paul takes a few steps closer. "I hadn't expected to find you here." His voice is carefully neutral, honest.

You stare from somewhere beyond the gauzy veil; your fingers twitch towards the blade on your hip. "Nor I, you," you reply coolly. The silence is uneasy; Paul, for his pride, does not wish to stay and endure this kind of agony, but he knows better. 

He doesn't ask if you mind if he joins you, because he knows that you would mind. He sits down anyway, leaving a wide berth of space between you. 

He can see you bristle, stiffening as he lowers himself to sit across from you - he supposes he can’t blame you.

You cradle your hand peculiarly as you look over the tide pool that he slowly dips his feet into, discarding his shoes on his right. The pain is almost palpable in your silence as he looks down at where you rub the skin of your hand, swollen and red. 

“I assume you found the crabs.” He observes. There is a headdress of jewelry adorning your veil today that looks quite heavy when you move - the delicate metal pendants chime when you turn your head to look at him, a hint of surprise laced into your posture.

“I did.” You agree, showing him your blistered, irritated hand; He winces more for your sake than in true surprise before letting his eyes roam. Moss grows in clumps throughout the rocky pools, his eyes searching for the stalky root that grows naturally just outside the reach of the water- with a quick tug, the plant nearest to him is ripped out.

“You can use this plant here.” He hands you the root of the stalk, gesturing for you to take it. Hesitantly, as if sensing a trap, you do; He nods. “Chew it.” 

You do nothing but breathe at him for a moment - if he could see your eyes, he’s sure he would find disbelief. Skepticism.

”It soothes the itch and the pain. Chew it and spit it onto your palm.” He orders, losing patience. "It's not poisonous." He affirms, lifting a brow at you. I'm not trying to kill you, he almost says; but something in him stops the words before they leave his mouth. 

He swears he hears a huff before the root disappears under your veil; he can just make out the shape of your teeth, biting down apprehensively on the stalk, before starting to chew. Your eyes flicker to him and he watches expectantly - from years of habit, he is used to the milky taste, but he remembers how unpleasant it can be. 

When you spit it out onto your palm, your eyes flicker up to stare at him, as if questioning if you were doing it right. Barely seen through your veil, he almost feels his face heat up; A trail of spit falls from your lips slowly and he is harshly reminded of the dream he'd woken up from this very morning. 

He urges the thought away, feeling a sense of panic, as if you could read his mind. So instead, Paul turns to watch the waves lap idly against his feet as you rub the mixture into your palm.

"How did you know to do that?" You ask, your voice curious. Your fingers not occupied with the paste push against the spongy moss; he's reminded of that first day, when you'd mentioned never seeing plants like it. 

Squinting against the sunshine as he looks out onto the beach, his left shoulder shrugs. "I used to get pinched a lot when I was a kid." 

You don't necessarily laugh, but there's an exhalation from your nose that makes his own lips curve slightly. When you reach to rinse your hand in the pool before you, the angry skin has returned to its glowing health. In the moment of silence, waves crashing very quietly within the cove and he hears the unmistakable rumble of your stomach. 

He must learn to live with you, he reminds himself. Be kind, earn trust. 

"Are you hungry?" He asks suddenly, clearing his throat. Your hand has taken to drawing idle circles in the tidepool when you shrug, "I slept through lunch today."

A moment of hesitation before he looks over his shoulder at you. He pulls out the food that he'd taken from the kitchen - apples, crackers, some imported cheese, sparkling juice from the vineyards. 

"This was all for you?" You ask, incredulously. Paul bristles defensively, giving you a look, "I was hungry." 

There's something very foreign to him about what's happening; with a hard blink, he thinks back to the last week, when all he could see when he looked at you was red. The council meeting today left him with a few more questions than he'd expected - it could be true, what you said about your family and the Harkonnens. 

"If I may confess," Your voice is light as you look down sheepishly; Paul's attention falls to you. "The veils have never made it easy to enjoy a long supper. They tangle in my hair no matter how it's styled, anyways." 

Paul huffs a short laugh despite himself - a hint of a joke, from you? He has known many women in his life to wear veils, but never in a custom such as yours; to not remove it in front of anybody for months and months of mourning - He cannot fathom how bizarre a change it must be, even if it is how you were raised. 

So when your hands raise, he does not expect them to go towards the hem of the fabric.

And the moment the veil slides from your head, he's turning his head sharply away; What in the hell are you doing? His heart beats hard, despite himself. In his surprise, he cannot find words. 

"I don't mean to shock you." You say suddenly, and your voice seems very close. "Truth be told, I'm not sure if I'm supposed to wear these still." 

He stares down at the moss and dark rock that you sit upon; thoughts whirl in his head until you throw kindle to the fire. "You don't have to look away, my Lord. I'm still the same beast as before." 

He does look, after that. He stares at you - really you - no fabric to cover the slope of your nose, the curve of your chin, the round of your cheeks - the way your eyebrows move over the most expressive eyes he's ever seen. Your hair is much more beautiful like this - textured, uncovered, being blown gently by the sea breeze. He wonders if Feyd-Rautha enjoyed your hair, unique as it likely was on a planet full of hairless beings. 

He schools himself. Normally, he'd be truthfully ecstatic to see that he has such a beautiful bride-to-be; yet it just serves to wash over another pang in his stomach. I'm still the same beast as before.

There is some inevitability to your gaze - disfavored to him, but perceptive, knowing. The sound of a saw must be known by a tree, Dr. Yueh once told him. Perhaps that is true, and perhaps that is why Paul stares at you, the sense of mistrust having mingled with a new sense of dread, of regret. 

You are no beast to me, he should say, but he doesn't; he knows better than to lie. "Why did you take it off?" He asks instead, still slightly astonished. You blink; heavens, your lashes are long, they kiss your cheeks. 

"I can't eat with it on, and I'm quite hungry." you reason, reaching for some of the cheese between you. 

"I thought you wore them for seven months." He states, tilting his head, as you begin to eat, "The anthropologists in the video said-" 

"-Seven months?" You interrupt, voice more animated than he's ever heard; it nearly startles him, the youth in your voice, the life. "That's a very long time. It's only been three weeks and I'd already like to burn them." 

Confusion must paint his expression, for your face changes sheepishly. "Forgive me, I am not well-versed in my own customs." Your voice is stony, a quick change from your previous cadence. His brows furrow. 

"My family did not often uphold many of the old religion's traditions, from what I remember. I was educated by the Bene Gesserit as my mother wished when I was young, and our family adopted their ways in replacement of the heritage religion. I was eighteen when I left Sabberon, but our castle was so full of visitors that we would often forgo the customs of my father's family." 

This is certainly not what Paul expected - why, then, have you been wearing the veil so devotedly? Your voice is regretful and if he didn't know any better, your voice was wary when mentioning the Bene Gesserit. 

"I have a book," He clears his throat when you look at him, confused. "If you- if you want to read more about it." 

You fix him with a look, "A book?" 

"About your family's customs. We thought it would be pertinent to know what your courting traditions are." He reasons. "If we are to marry, it should be honorable for both of us." 

It's as if his words send you into your own mind; your eyes become distant, he can see it clearly now that the veil is gone. You're deep in thought for a few moments, but he's unsure how to pull you from those cold depths of your own thoughts. "Oh." you say, voice once again that blank, cold tone - as if a wall had been snapped up suddenly. " I only saw the women of my family wear the veils once, when my sister died. I can't remember how long they wore them." 

This is a surprise to him, as his eyes find the necklace you wear around your neck. They shoot up to you just as quick, searching your face for any emotion. He finds none. 

I shall wear it like a dog. 

"The veil was not your choice?" He breathes, surprised. You shake your head, "I just very recently found myself able to make choices for myself for the first time in many years," You gesture to the veil that lies with its adorning metal headpiece to your left, "taking it off is one of them. Feyd-Rautha did not wish for me to wear anything from my home, but I am making the choice for myself now." 

The reminder of your former home is almost jolting to Paul; when you arrived on Caladan, Duncan's arm still bleeding with the result of your fight, Paul had seen a Harkonnen. A wolf, in sheep's clothing. 

Now, perhaps the Caladan air has changed you; Though you do not look a bit well-rested, there are healing wounds on your arms - wounds that make his stomach turn when he wonders how you got them - and you are not so fervent or distrusting as you were those first few days. You walk with less wrath, more credence; You speak with your chambermaids freely, you take sparring lessons with Duncan after Paul's every day, and tutor in the mornings before he does. Your voice was strong, confident at the council this morning; as if born to take on such a role. He looks at you. You will make a good duchess one day. 

Your eyes are large - searching his face and it occurs to him that perhaps this is also the first time you have seen him unobstructed. He lets you stare, taking in the silence and relishing secretly in its change in demeanor; no longer excruciating with the sentiment of shared disdain and mistrust. Something shifted this morning at the meeting: Mutual respect, or the roots to it. Understanding.

"May I ask you something?" He asks gently, looking at you seriously. 

It is a beautiful collar. I shall wear it like a dog. Fatigued from his lessons, the council, the marriage, the prospect of war with the Harkonnens, of his dreams; his head feels like it's swimming. Your brows dip slightly, as if your hackles are rising. "Yes." 

He swallows, "Do you choose to wear that pendant?" 

You lick your lips in thought and he waits patiently. When you speak, it is careful, stoic. "Sometimes, we wear symbols not out of choice, but out of necessity."

This does not ease his conscience. 

You, shockingly, speak up again after a few minutes in which you and he both eat the food laid before you silently; it occurs to Paul that this is the most you and him have spoken without being plagued by tense silences or passive-aggression - or been mediated by his parents as they ask you both questions at the supper table. 

"Did you intend on drinking yourself drunk this afternoon?" You ask, brow lifted. He shakes his head, shrugging with one shoulder as he follows your gaze to the bottle that lies unopened in his bag. The whiplash you've given him switching subjects has left him unable to jest back. 

Intending to be alone, Paul had not grabbed a glass, let alone two; he grasps the bottle, twisting on the cage atop it to begin to open it. "It's sparkling tea." 

You hum, shrugging, "Shame. I've never tried wine." You say. Paul's eyes flicker to you in surprise; Had you not been offered wine at supper here? Had you never had it in your youth as a highborn? 

"Not even when you were young?" He asks, shocked. You shake your head, a wistful smile gracing your lips; your hair is glossy even in the shade - Paul didn't expect it to be such a color, but suits you. "Never," you reply, "Where I come from, our preferred drinks are mead or ale, usually served warm in the winter. And..." You trail off, clearing your throat, "On Giedi Prime they favor a kind of liquor made from anise - you know, the spice?" You ask. He nods. "It's much too bitter and strong," you continue, your voice tinged with a similar bitterness. "I tried not to drink it when I could."

Paul looks out to the ocean - clouds have started to roll in, and the air feels thicker. It'll rain this evening, then. "In the South, all that grows are fields and fields of vines," He explains, recalling the last trip with his father to the South. "They make all kinds of fine wine there. Sweet, sparkling, aged." 

You hum, looking out to the ocean as well, your eyes clouded with thought. 

The lunch passes by in intermediate silence after this: Both you and Paul are insatiable, and in minutes the food is nearly gone. Besides, he is well consumed with his own thoughts to give him the company you do not provide. 

Though as you continue on, clearly trying your hardest to remain amiable with him, a sense of regret bubbles in his chest. 

"I owe you an apology." He starts out of the blue, mouth dry. You jump slightly at his sudden voice, but he refuses to look at you as he continues, "I've been acting like a child." This causes a flicker of surprise through your features; in his peripheral, you turn to him.

"I didn't expect for it to happen like this." He lifts a corner of his mouth mirthlessly, emotionless as he stares out to the ocean- an understatement on his part, and surely in the eyes of you, but it's true.

Perhaps it is not polite to admit to your betrothed that you loathed the idea of wedding them, but he knows the feeling is more than mutual.

He's not usually one for so many words, but they come forth very easily in the quiet of the cove. "I was furious with how things worked out, and I was shocked, but- that doesn't excuse how I've treated you."  You don't say anything, but he can feel how tense you've grown - his own shoulders are tense, his jaw tight as he runs a hand over his face. 

You have every reason to hate the Harkonnens just as much as they do.

The thunderclouds loom in the horizon despite the sunny sky just outside the alcove.

In a moment of resignation, he says your first name; Never having said it out loud, it comes out as a murmur on his lips, a small hymn that makes your eyes snap to his immediately. "We didn't choose this path, but we can choose how we walk it together."

Your breathing is heavy with emotion, but he is not naive enough to believe it is tears - "Yes, we can." You finally say, your voice dispassionate, withdrawn. He looks out where your gaze hits the crashing waves, staring at the foamy white caps upon the ocean.

"I swear I won't disrespect you again." He says firmly. 

It's a beat before you decide to speak, during which you lift your feet from the water, curling them under you.

"Thank you." Your response is curt, eyes sullen, "But don't make promises you can't keep, Paul." He expected this much. "I've had my fill of broken vows." 

You aren't hostile in your words; instead they are melancholy, as if a dreary wind had snuck its way into the little alcove. Paul stares down at the rock, where another small crab treks across the terrain, rocking in the gentle water tides. 

He knows you’re right, and he's soon filled with the same sense of dread that he's felt after each dream; the same melancholy which enveloped you as you rise, preparing to walk back to the castle. 

You walk together sullenly, little more than a few words escaping either of you as you go. By the time you enter the main gates, fat raindrops are falling on Paul's face and sticking to his lashes. 

You, likewise, duck from the rain, your hair pelted with water and sliding over your face like the tears you'd never dare give. 

But you don't put the veil back on. 

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[normatural]

Echoes of Souls | A.T

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x f!reader

Summary: In the old, abandoned castle, she found a love letter addressed to her, written by someone who died a century ago.

Word Count: 2.328

A/N: It's been a while since I wrote something and my writing is a bit rusty so please bear with me :) Feedback is always welcome. I love to know your opinions and questions. English isn't my first language so excuse any mistakes but feel free to point them out to help me improve.

Aemond's masterlist

Chapter Two: Back to the Fire

As the first light of dawn filtered through the broken windows, you roused yourself from sleep. The dream's vivid fragments lingered in your mind, each scene suffused with an inexplicable emotion. A longing that you couldn’t quite understand. Determined to uncover more of these echoes of the past, you decided to explore the mansion's grounds. The repairs could wait another day.

The garden, though now overgrown and wild, still held a certain beauty of its past. Weeds mingled with the remnants of perennials that had once been meticulously tended. Ancient statues stood silhouetted against the rising sun, their stone faces weather-beaten but still graceful. You wandered through the garden, trying to trace the paths from your dream.

Every step seemed to draw you closer to something just out of reach, a secret waiting to be unveiled. You reached a wrought iron gate, barely hanging on its hinges, and carefully pushed it open. Beyond lay what seemed to be the castle's graveyard, shrouded in a somber stillness. Moss-covered statues stood as silent chronicles of lives long past. Like ghosts in a forgotten house. 

Your heart began to pound as your eyes scanned the names at the bottom of the figures. Graves. You moved through the rows, pausing occasionally to read a name or a date. Most of them passed really young. Just as expected when a war is looming. The royal name appearing over and over again. And then you saw it—an elaborately carved white stone, still pristine despite the years. The name etched into the stone made your breath catch in your throat: Aemond Targaryen.

You’ve studied in college that the royal family used to be burnt in pyres by their dragons so it was odd to see those statues in the field as some sort of graveyard. Perhaps it was a way to honor the royal family, just like a museum. A reminder of the past.

Overwhelmed with a mix of sorrow and wonder, you knelt before the grave. The inscription was simple but profound, speaking to a life of duty, passion, and an untimely end. You traced the letters with your fingers, feeling a sudden, overwhelming wave of emotion and recognition. The statue was almost a carbon copy of the man you had seen in your dream.

A rustling sound caught your attention. You looked up to see a black bird perched on Aemond’s shoulder, its dark eyes reflecting a startling intelligence as it seemed to stare deeply in your eyes. The bird regarded you for a moment, then took flight, its inky feathers stark against the morning sky. You watched as it flew to a massive tree, the only one still vibrant with life, its leaves a deep, blood-red hue. Unable to ignore the goosebumps in your skin.

Drawn by an invisible force, you rose and walked towards the tree. It seemed similar to the one you had seen earlier. Its red leaves stand proudly against the soft breeze. The tree's bark was rough against your hand as you gently touched it, feeling a strange energy pulsating beneath the surface. Like blood pumping in veins. Such an ancient piece that endured time way better than its surroundings. Suddenly, the world began to spin. Colors blended and swirled, and your vision blurred. You tried to hold onto the tree, but your strength waned, and you succumbed to the overwhelming dizziness, collapsing to the ground.

When you opened your eyes, the first thing you noticed was the sky, clear and blue above you. Pushing yourself up, disoriented, you looked around, touching your throbbing head. The once-overgrown garden was now meticulously manicured, the statues restored to their former glory. The world around you was vibrant and alive, brimming with the sounds of life. It was like being pulled back to that dream again.

Heart hammering, you realized you were no longer in the abandoned castle’s grounds. You were… in the past, in the Targaryen age. If that was even possible. Maybe you were going crazy but the castle loomed majestically behind you, its towers and walls gleaming in the sunlight. 

Voices and the sounds of bustling activity drew you towards the main courtyard. You blended in surprisingly well, your attire somehow fitting in with the period. As you moved through the crowd, your mind buzzed with the realization of where - and when - you were. The Targaryen age.

Everywhere you looked, there were signs of the looming strife. Soldiers in armor, courtiers whispering urgently to one another, and the dark, foreboding presence of the dragons, their cries echoing in the skies above. Something was about to happen and it didn’t leave a good feeling to your guts.

Your thoughts raced as you tried to comprehend your situation. You had somehow traveled back in time, to a world that had existed centuries ago. A world where Aemond was alive. Where dragons flew in the sky… When one of the greatest wars was unfolding.

You made your way back to the garden, the same spot where you had seen the man with white hair. It was exactly as you remembered it from your dream - vibrant, full of life, and breathtakingly beautiful. As you walked, your heart skipped a beat when you saw Aemond in the distance, speaking with a group of knights as they walked in the out the gates. He seemed just as you had seen in her dreams, every bit the imposing and mystery figure you had come to know… somehow.

As you watched from a distance, trying to hear anything that wasn’t your thrumming heartbeat, a voice broke through your racing thoughts.

"Lady Vaela!" Startled, you turned to see a maid hurrying towards you, her expression a mix of concern and urgency. "My lady, you are not yet ready! The ceremony will begin soon."

"What ceremony?" you asked, voice shaky. The maid seemed taken aback by your furrowed brows but recovered quickly.

Fear of being caught and hanged for wandering around the castle was the only thing keeping you from tripping on your feet as you followed the maid through the dark and imposing halls. She had recognized you, or better, who she assumed you were. And that may be something good. They’d hang someone known by staff.

"Your wedding, my lady. To Prince Aemond Targaryen. Come, we must make haste!"

The world around you seemed to spin again, but this time with a dizzying revelation. Her dream, her memories - it was all falling into place. They were your memory. You were Vaela… Or perhaps, you were in another dream. You followed the maid in a daze, questions swirling in your mind. How did you end up here? Why did they recognize you? 

The maid led you through the bustling corridors of the castle, and you took in the splendor of the surroundings - the rich tapestries, the gleaming armor, the hurried preparations of the household. It all felt surreal as if you were walking through someone else's life.

They arrived at your chamber - you supposed-, and the maid quickly set to work, helping you bathe and change into the elaborate wedding gown that awaited. It was a breathtaking creation of silks and lace, embroidered with the sigils of House Targaryen. As the maid adjusted your veil and added the final touches, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the polished metal. The reflection looking back at you was both familiar and strange, a mixture of your past self and the woman you had become. It was you and yet it wasn’t. 

"You look beautiful, my lady," the maid said with a warm smile. "Prince Aemond is a fortunate man."

The words brought a flush to your cheeks, and you took a deep breath to steady yourself. This was happening. Your heart raced with a mix of fear and excitement. When would you wake up?

As the preparations concluded, the maid guided you towards the grand hall where the ceremony was to take place. The hall was filled with guests, a sea of faces you did not recognize but who seemed to know you. High lords and ladies, knights, and nobles, all turned to watch as she made her entrance.

The hall itself was a marvel of Valyrian architecture, adorned with dragon motifs and glittering chandeliers. Some of them you had the luck of seeing in museums, others in your history books but most of them were never seen in your century. At the far end, standing tall and regal, was Aemond Targaryen. His white hair gleamed under the chandeliers, and his one good eye fixed on you with a burning intensity, making your stomach do black flips.

Your heart skipped a beat at the sight of him. Every step you took echoed through the hall together with your heartbeat or maybe that was just your nerves. Your mind racing with a multitude of emotions. This was the moment you had dreamt of since childhood - to wed in a palace-, yet it was more real and overwhelming than you could have imagined. You didn’t know that man and still, you haven’t tried to run away since you awoke there.

As you approached, Aemond stepped forward to take your hand. His grip was firm yet gentle, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. For a moment, time seemed to stop as their eyes met, the connection between them sparking and palpable. It was as if their souls were recognizing each other, despite the chasm of time that had separated them. Could he know that you weren’t his beloved Vaela? If so, he didn’t let it show.

The ceremony began, a blend of Valyrian rites and Targaryen traditions. The words of the officiant washed over you as you stood beside Aemond, your hand still clasped in his. Somehow it was the only thing keeping you from fainting right there. 

"Sȳndor bē naejot māzigon hen ñuha prūmia, ao issi ñuha ēngos, ñuha prūmia, se ñuha gevives. Nyke daorūbagon ao va īlva gīmigon, īlva vūjigon, se īlva ānogar. Iā vala mēre, ȳdrā ēdruty. Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor, sepār iksan sȳndroro gūrogon." Aemond purple’s eye was focused on yours, the words leaving his lips seemed to held a deeper power to it. "As we come together from my heart, you are my light, my heart, and my strength. I bind you to our love, our life, and our future. As one man and one woman, always together. A dragon does not bow, yet I am humbled by your love."

The vows were spoken in High Valyrian, their meaning both ancient and profound. 

"Sȳndor bē naejot māzigon hen ñuha prūmia, ao issi ñuha ēngos, ñuha gevives, se ñuha bantis. Nyke daorūbagon ao va īlva gīmigon, īlva prūmia, se īlva rhaenagon. Iā valar mēre, ēdruta va gevie. Zaldrīzes ōños iksā, se nyke ēdrur ao va gevivys.” Your mind only raced further with innumerous thoughts as the supposedly foreign words slipped so easily out of your lips. “As we come together from my heart, you are my light, my strength, and my night. I bind you to our love, our heart, and our dreams. As two souls, bound in strength. You are a dragon of shadows, and I honor you in the darkness."

 With each word, the bond between them seemed to grow stronger, as if the very fabric of time was weaving their destinies together. Again.

When the moment came to seal their union, Aemond leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a soft yet powerful kiss. Awakening something long torpid in your chest. The hall erupted in applause, but for you, the world had narrowed to just the two of you. Love and passion radiating from him, a promise of what was to come.

As the ceremony concluded, the people were led to the grand banquet hall where the celebrations would continue. The hall was filled with the sounds of laughter, music, and the clinking of goblets. You found yourself surrounded by well-wishers and congratulations, yet your focus remained on Aemond, who surprisingly stayed by your side like an anchor in the storm of emotions.

As the evening progressed, you took the chance to accept every goblet of wine that was offered to you in hopes it’d control your mind. You sat down on the chair, eyes quickly finding your.. husband as he spoke to whom you assumed was his brother, King Aegon. It was as if you had known each other for lifetimes.

When they finally found a moment alone amidst the revelry, Aemond took her hand and led her to a quiet alcove. "Vaela," he whispered, his voice filled with emotion. "I know this may feel overwhelming, but trust in our love. We are destined for each other, no matter the challenges we may face."

You looked into his eye as the crease between your brows deepened, seeing the sincerity and passion there. But there was something else there. Knowledge. He knew. "I’m back, Aemond," you replied, your voice surprisingly steady. "And I am ready to face whatever comes our way, as long as we are together."

He smiled a rare and genuine expression that made your heart soar. "Then let us embrace our destiny, my love. Together, we shall conquer all."

His words seemed to strike something on you. Unlock whatever your memory was keeping from you as pages of books and illustrations flashed in your mind. The name Targaryen is in all of them. Your heart sank as you looked at Aemond. You’ve read about his death. What if... That was the reason you were sent there? To avoid it.

As they stood there, hand in hand, the world around them seemed to fade away. They were no longer bound by the constraints of time, but rather united by a love that spanned centuries. At that moment, you knew that no matter what challenges or trials awaited you, your love was eternal, a flame that would never be extinguished. You had a purpose there. You’d save your lover’s life.

+

Taglist: @donut-seam @strangersunghoon @teasweeter @darktrashsoulbear @m00n5t0n3 @rosey1981 @kniselle @rebloggerist-extraordinaire

[queenvhagar]

A more faithful adaptation of B+C that allows the Greens to be real people suffering a loss without using this tragedy to try to heavily paint them as villains in Rhaenyra's story:

- Alicent moves to the Tower of the Hand which is how B + C are able to access her room through tunnels (Maegor's Holdfast is too secure)

- scene plays out like it did in the books (Alicent's maid strangled, she's tied up, Helaena comes with all three kids, their guard is killed, they're threatened, she chooses Maelor, Jaehaerys is killed instead)

- Green council convenes but Larys interrupts that Blood is captured

- immediately go to Blood being tortured where he reveals Daemon ordered him to get a "son for a son" for Rhaenyra, which confirms TB did this (Rhaenyra can still be "clean" in our POV but the Greens don't know she's not involved). He says the rat catcher helped, so Aegon orders them all killed

- funeral procession to where they will burn Jaehaerys' body (it's not propaganda that's just how they transport members of the royal family to their pyre) AND they announce it was Rhaenyra's work (which in all effect is true, as her side did this in her name) (and it's not something they immediately jumped to it's actual fact that they know)

- the closeups on Alicent and Helaena aren't them being uncomfortable in front of the public because they were forced to be there by Otto, but it's at the burning of the body where Dreamfyre lights the pyre: Helaena watches the ash rise into the air (that close up on her face is ash not whatever smallfolk were tossing), Alicent tries to comfort her or Maelor or Jaehaera but can't. Jaehaerys' funeral is allowed the tragedy of all other funerals (Lucerys/Aemma/Laena)

[jules-writes-stories]

Into the Night

A Retelling of Hades & Persephone | Azriel x Eris | Azris Week | Day 7| Equinox

Cast of Characters |

Eris | Persephone Azriel | Hades Lady of Autumn | Demeter Helion | Helios Lucien | Hermes Rhys | Zeus The Archeron Sisters | The Fates Cassian as himself

The first two parts are below. Read the whole story on AO3.

I

Scarlet hair blew across a pale face, like blood on freshly fallen snow. Golden eyes were lights upon dark water, a windy smile. He wanted this fae of Forest and Flame, like nothing he’d ever wanted before. Ours, the shadows whispered.

Each day was the same. Azriel spied on the beautiful male gliding through Autumn’s citrine-ruby forests, watched him slip between stalks of grain and orchards, the scent of stone fruit and loam cloying in the setting sun. 

Somehow the shadows had found their way into this court of hearth and harvest, once in thrall to a wicked Fire Lord, whose wife rose up and took the throne. Now, she ruled as Autumn’s High Lady with her seven sons. And it was the eldest that Azriel desired for his own.

He’d told his brothers, Rhysand, High Lord of Night, and Cassian, Lord of Bloodshed, just how much he needed the prince of Autumn. “Not until the Equinox,” Rhys had insisted. And Azriel was a patient male, a spymaster and a shadowsinger. He could wait for what was his.

Even as the golden cord that bound him to his mate, woven by the Mother herself, dragged at the unruly beast that was his heart. 

II

Today was the Equinox, most High Holy Day in Autumn, and all of Prythian. When Day and Night aligned in perfect balance. It was the one night each year, when the magical boundaries and borders dropped between Prythian’s courts. All fae, High and lesser, Solar and Seasonal, united as one, beneath the Mother’s loving gaze. 

Eris Vanserra, heir of Autumn, prepared for this night of revelry, like any other. He wore green velvet and diaphanous silk that whispered of trysts in moonlit forests. Gold lined his pointed ears, a single hoop in one nostril. 

Warrior, prince, fae of fire—this was his kingdom. And tonight, he would find his pleasure and replenish the land, to give back to its plenty. The prince left for the Forest, his brothers close behind. Fae danced around pyres, in time with distant drumming, already buzzing on wine, the scent of sex, sweet and smoky, in the night. 

Eris felt alive and aroused, in need of something he could not place. Soon. The drumming paused as voices hushed. Crackling bonfires and the breeze in ancient treetops were the only sounds. 

Now.

His magic was rising. It snapped beneath his tongue, itched his palms. Tingled at his fingertips, and down his spine. Until there were full sparks, flames along skin, at the tips of his hair, wreathing his hands. It was life and death and sex, to forget one’s before and after—not to become or have been, but to be.

Now. 

As his magic settled, finally, pulsing through his veins, Eris looked up in awe, ready to receive the Mother’s love. And this was why the fireling was taken so completely off guard. For it was at this very moment, while all of Prythian’s eyes were on the heavens, that Hel’s shadows and darkness came.

 *          *          *

Now. It had to be this very moment. When the wards between their courts were unguarded. Azriel commanded the shadows to bank the bonfires with darkness. Fae cried out as the earth quaked, seeming to cleave open, as the Night Court male landed silently in the darkened Forest. 

The shadowsinger reached out and with strong, scarred hands, pulled the fireling, by his narrow waist, to his chest. Mine. 

The golden thread thrummed with pleasure at the contact, at the scent of embers and rain, of the male in his arms. Amber eyes took in hazel.

 “Who are you?” a voice, breathless, but unafraid, asked in the darkness. 

“I am the singer of shadows. I am yours,” Azriel whispered back, his breath against the skin of the male’s white cheek. And then, before the Autumn fae could panic or react, they were passing through folds of space and time. 

 *          *          *

Eris was lost in the darkness, his only anchor a pair of strong arms, a solid chest, the scent of mist and moonlight on cedar.  He was holding his breath, eyes squeezed shut. 

“Open your eyes,” a low voice rumbled, laced with amusement. The Autumn prince did, and what he saw, left him speechless. He clung to the leathers of a male, built like a warrior, with enormous, bat-like wings, spread against the night sky. And this male’s beauty was heartbreaking. His raven curls were perfectly tousled, as if the wind herself had run long fingers through them. Golden brown skin, high cheekbones, and hazel eyes lined with thick lashes. 

Eris pulled away with a jolt, baring his slightly elongated canines. Flames coiled along his hands. “Take me back to my home.” He growled, with all the authority of an Autumn prince.

But the winged male simply smirked and stared. His eyes moved slowly, starting at Eris’s red hair, the flushed tips of his pointed ears, then shifted with lazy dominance, downwards, lingering at molten eyes, a perfect nose, kissed with faint freckles, to the male’s pink, pouting mouth.

Heat coiled low in the fireling’s belly, at the base of his spine, arousal licking through his veins, even as he grew angry. Who was this male, to look at the heir of Autumn, with such possession? The fae prince bared his teeth again, flames growing hotter.

Hazel eyes, unphased, unhurried, continued to move down the prince’s lithe frame. They took in the long column of a pale neck. Broad, graceful shoulders and a narrow waist. Hips that would feel perfect in his hands. 

And then, the winged male, shrouded in shadows, said, “Eris, you are home.” 

I tagged anyone who asked/expressed interest, but please lmk if you ever want on/off my 🏷️

@c-starstuff-man0, @natashachelsea @chunkypossum, @fieldofdaisiies @jir67 @futurehunt @the-darkestminds @hellolordling @honeysuckle-daydreams13 @brekkershadowsinger @disney-acotar-hp @moonpatroclus @azrisweek @unanswered-stars @theartofmischief @lilah-asteria

[15-lizards]

ASOIAF ATLA Au bc I saw a JJK one and was mesmerized

Dany is the avatar this is not up for debate. Born into the disgraced former imperial family of the fire nation, she shows signs of being able to bend other elements but never acts on them because her opinion of herself is too low and she doesn't believe she could be the protector of the world. After Drogo dies she fully unlocks her earth bending during his funeral ceremony while creating the pyre and everyone's like omg Miss Avatar. Then continues on with her heroes journey/bad roadtrip to take back her throne. The zuko parallels are everything to me. Yes she still brings back the dragons cause they were (thought to be) extinct in ATLA too

Jon who thinks he's a non bender (and Ned prays he is) until him and Robb are play fighting in the yard one day as kids and he accidentally burns his brother's eyebrows off. Still goes to the Wall bc could the fire and ice symbolism even be more in ur face. Most of the wildlings distrust him for his destructive abilities but he learns to control himself and becomes a symbol of light and life instead of destruction when he becomes a leader (Zuko parallels AGAIN babey).

Arya is a water bender who completely rejects learning about healing because she thinks it's so fucking boring. Syrio starts to train her and she starts to develop her shifty and quick fighting style that most trained benders find confusing. Learns ab blood bending while on the run and is Understandably Horrified. The faceless men force her to learn how to heal. They also force her to use her blood bending more so she's not having a great time rn.

Sansa is an incredibly talented healer for her age, but has no idea how to fight because "ladies aren't supposed to do that sort of thing." Forced to heal Lannister soldiers while stuck in the capital, though she just wishes she could let them die. ALSO unlocks blood bending due to this and is also quite unnerved. Forced to pose as a non bender in the Vale.

Bran the water bender who is devastated when it can't be used to heal him after his fall. Starts getting really into the spirit world, increasingly noticing raven spirits that no one else can see. Meera and Jojen (she's the swamp bender kind of water bender and he's a highly spiritual non-bender) take him north of the wall where the harmonic convergence takes place

Robb is an earth bender like his dad (Starks were originally a purely water bending family but started to marry a lot of earth benders) and he's well trained and good for his age, but that doesn't save him from being 15 and making poor decisions. Really heartbreaking as this desperate teenager tries to keep up with more experienced enemies as they attack him from all angles at the Red Wedding

Tyrion is now both a non-bender and a dwarf, which makes him doubly disgraced in Tywins eyes. Has to prove himself through his intelligence, being useful on the battlefield by creating the plans for benders and soldiers. Always has a lot of snarky comments about benders but always dreamed of being an air bender

Jamie and Cersei are both fire benders. Cersei used to spar with Jamie as children but Tywin quickly put an end to that and she was essentially forbidden from using her bending. Jamie is one of the best benders of his generation, and even years after the fact, Cersei still deeply resents him for being the prodigy she never had the chance to become

Cat is a water bender who was a pretty decent healer who patched men up after the war, but didn't really use her powers too much once she got married, because she didn't have much reason too. This bites her in the ass during the Red Wedding when she can't properly defend herself, and once Lady Stoneheart rises, she becomes a blood bender who is going to use her powers to their full extent this time around.

[separatist-apologist]

I Knew You Were Trouble

Summary: After a disaster on Earth sends humans to live on colonies on different planets, Feyre Archeron's life has become impossibly difficult. The Federation meant to protect and provide for human refugees has abandoned them on a hostile planet that forbids them from hunting and has segregated them from the rest of the population.

When her older sister starts an accidental fire in an attempt to revitalize the barren land, Feyre comes face to face with one of the infamous, dreaded Horde Kings. They strike a bargain- her servitude for her sisters life. Now, trapped in his horde, Feyre has to acclimate to a new life and the demands of the man who took her- and hope she can survive him.

Based on the book Captive of the Horde King.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Read on AO3

The ride back to the encampment was heavier than it had been on the way there. Feyre nearly forgot about the hard scales between her legs, so focused on the male behind her and what he’d pressed against her spine. She’d seen him naked before, had seen him erect, even. Somehow, this felt different.

Real.

He didn’t speak the entire way back, nor did he say a word when they arrived at the pyroki enclosure. His fingers lingered on her skin when he helped her down, drawing goosebumps over her skin.

She’d half expected him to throw her over his shoulder and take her back to their tent, but Rhys merely walked as though he were content to be beside her. Feyre was nervous, fidgeting with the dress clinging to her body in the cool night.

In the distance, she could see the faint, flickering lights of the pyres, could hear the pounding of the drums echoing around her. Her very blood felt alive, thrumming in time with those drums. Feyre couldn’t help but look up at her husband, eyes gleaming in the dark.

What was he thinking? She was too much of a coward to ask. Rhys led her in to their tent, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Have you done this before?” he asked, his voice sounding deeply strained. Like he was holding himself back, forcing himself to stand at the entrance as Feyre went in deeper. She halted at the edge of the bed, wondering if she was supposed to lie.

“Yes,” she whispered. He’d figure it out, so there was no point in lying. He might own her now, but he hadn’t owned her for her entire life—whatever she’d done before she met him was none of his business.

Rather than anger, Feyre found relief shining on Rhys’s face. He nodded, still rooted in place. “Remove your clothes, kasikkari.”

It was like someone else took over her limbs. Where was the woman who would have fought him tooth and nail? Who wanted to go back to that horrible village where everyone hated her and she was starving more often than she wasn’t. 

Feyre pushed the gown off her shoulders, letting it pool at her feet. Rhys growled softly, the sound fading to a whine as he kept himself utterly still. Was she supposed to do something? Feyre reached out, which seemed to shatter whatever spell held him. The powerful warrior stumbled forward, eyes locked on her face. Had he done this before? Ferye waited until he was standing before her to ask.

Rhys threw his head back and laughed loudly in that rich, warm voice of his. “Yes, I have been with females before. None like you…none that were my wife.”He said the word with such obvious pleasure. “Wait,” she whispered, watching as his hands stilled over the laces he’d been undoing. “I have a question.”

“Can it wait?” he asked, though she saw his interest gleaming back.

“You want a wife.”

Rhys waited a moment for her to finish her statement before realizing that was all she was going to say.

“Yes?” he asked, clearly thinking she was trying to trick him.

“I’m not a burden?” 

Rhys blinked. “You are a gift. I have been waiting for you since…” he turned his head, raking a clawed hand through his hair. “My whole life.”

Feyre could have told him about the jokes human men made. How they called them balls and chains, how they made comments even after the wedding about running away. How women were considered burdens and girls a waste of resources. She didn’t, though. Feyre only nodded, staring at his face rather than his lower body. 

He wasn’t having it.

“Look at me,” he ordered, taking a step back. Rhys ran his hand down his broad chest and over his stomach, halting just before the trail of dark hair that led to his cock. Feyre did as she was told, swallowing hard. “I am your husband.”

Feyre nodded her head. 

“You belong to me, now,” he continued, closing the gap between them. Feyre felt his tail brush between her thighs before curling around her leg, holding her tight as if he expected her to try and escape. Feyre wondered if he let her.

“What about you?” she asked him.

“I have been yours for as long as I’ve existed,” he told her, reaching out to cup her face. “And I will be yours even when my bones are made of ash.”

Feyre didn’t know what to say to that. There was some emotion to them she didn’t dare name, couldn’t answer. She didn’t want to answer. So Feyre just stood there for a heartbeat while he waited. If he was disappointed she didn’t say anything in response, he didn’t betray it. He merely touched her face, head cocked as he studied her.

“Who was the male who touched you?”

“Why? Going to kill him?” Feyre asked.

Rhys’ grin was savage as he pushed her to the bed. “Maybe. He did touch my Morakkari. Tell me…did he please you?” The predatory look on the horde king's face told Feyre that this was a challenge now. If she said Isaac had been an incredible lover, he’d be wanting to outdo him. Why lie? 

“He was a distraction.” Rhys crawled up the bed, clawed hands sliding up her bare shins. She was naked. For a moment, Feyre had nearly forgotten that fact, lost in whatever magic he possessed. She remembered it now, especially when her eyes found not his handsome face but his rigid cock. The bulb at the base had begun to swell, and it was on the tip of her tongue to ask what that was.

What it did. 

Rhys distracted her, once again, by pushing her legs wide open. This was happening, and what was worse, when he used his knuckle to touch just between, Feyre was wet. Their eyes met, his excitement plain. She could lie and say she didn’t want him all she wanted, but without ever touching her, he’d aroused her. 

“Keep your eyes open,” he murmured as he lowered his face. “No distractions, kalles.”

And then he put his mouth on her with a heady, loud groan. Rhys said something, muffled against her body. Feyre might have asked what, but his tongue found her clit and she simply lacked the words.

Isaac hadn’t done this. He’d touched—teased. Not with his mouth, though. Theoretically, it shouldn’t mattered but his mouth was wet and soft and most importantly, practiced. When this was all over, she was going to make him tell her all the females he’d bedded.

Feyre shifted when he gripped her hips, pushing her back to the bed. She hadn’t realized she’d been squirming until his claws pricked against her skin. The pain of it brought Feyre back to reality just enough to focus. To breathe.

Their eyes met. 

“Don’t stop,” she whispered, wondering if he was waiting for something. 

Rhys groaned again, pulling her so close he couldn’t watch her watching him. Feyre wasn’t convinced he could breathe, truly. Rhys seemed fine, his mouth working against her cunt, messy and frantic in equal measure. Feyre tried to focus, but the sight of him crouched between her legs, tail swishing behind him, had her panting as she clutched at the furs beneath her.

He was relentless and she was inexperienced. What had once felt like a slow exploration now felt desperate, like he needed to do this before he could move on. 

Rhys pulled back, lips glistening in the moonlight, and bit off the tip of his claws on his first two fingers. Feyre could only whine, arching her hips in the air.

“I know,” he breathed before coming back down. “Need you ready.”

Whatever that meant. She didn’t care, relieved when his mouth was back on her. Feyre cried out when one his fingers slid into her body, causing her to clench around him. Rhys swore, pulling back once again to look, eyes entirely black. He held that position as he slid in his second finger, watching the entire time.

“The things I need to do to you,” he whispered, sliding both fingers in, and then out. “The ways I want you…”

“You have me,” Feyre reminded him, but uncertainty shadowed his gaze. He didn’t believe her, but Feyre knew she wasn’t leaving. She didn’t want to go back. Life had been miserably gray before, and though he’d kidnapped her and made decisions unilaterally, he spoke to her. He was willing to have his mind changed. He cared about her enough to potentially alienate his entire horde by marrying not just an outsider, but a human at that. 

Rhys returned his mouth to her body, licking and sucking as he pumped his fingers in and out of her body. The sensations melded together in a confusing symphony of what was what. That was enough to override her loud brain and Feyre found herself building higher and higher so quickly she couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t draw it out. 

Feyre was grateful the horde wasn’t nearby given the way she screamed. It was an embarrassing, strangled sound that ripped out of her throat as her pleasured dragged her into a place she’d never been before. Feyre felt alive, incandescent and free. Was she glowing? She felt like she must be. Feyre could scarcely breathe, having come apart in a million pieces only to be glued back together by whatever magic he possessed.

Though, right then, Rhys was taking advantage of her pliant demeanor to pull her up on her hands and knees. Was this how they had sex, then? Feyre wondered if the Drakkari ever did it face to face the way humans did—she’d ask later.

“Breathe, kasikkari” he said, the only warning before he buried himself fully within her. She wasn’t prepared for the fullness, for the length and size of him. All the air expelled from her lungs, cheeks pressed in the furs as he drove himself into her a second time. 

She ought to have told him she had no experience at all. Feyre now understood how woefully unprepared she’d been. For a moment, Feyre kept herself as she was, breathing through her nose as she reveled in the feel of their bodies. As pleasure began to crest again, Feyre raised herself up on her elbows and arched her spine to take him deeper. 

It was all experimental to her—fun, too. The horde king groaned when Feyre tightened the walls of her body around him, though truthfully there was very little give. Was there a salve for this, too? Feyre knew she’d be walking bow-legged in the morning. 

“Is this what you like, horde king?” Feyre asked, surprised by how sultry her voice sounded.

His response was guttural, claws digging into her tender flesh. “Yes, Morakkari.”

Feyre recalled the struggle it had been to finish with Isaac right then. He’d told her women weren’t supposed to have so much trouble finishing, and suggested that last time that maybe something was wrong with her. Feyre hadn’t sought out another partner after that, in part because she was simply too tired. 

But partly because she felt broken. 

It had never occurred to her that maybe she wasn’t the problem. Feyre had always been the problem. Not then, though. Not as the horde king drove himself into her, holding her close, his fingers sliding beneath her for her clit. It took practically nothing for Feyre to tighten around him, arms giving out beneath her as she came so hard she couldn’t make any noise at all. 

He did, though. Gods, he was so loud that for a moment, Feyre couldn’t hear the drums in the distance. She figured he was done—that was how it worked, right? He came, he rolled off, he went about his life. 

Rhys did pull himself out of her, though only long enough to flip her to her back. He had himself buried back inside her, unconcerned about his mess as he pressed himself against her for a brutal, claiming kiss. “You’re mine,” he whispered, mouth brushing her lips so she could taste his words. “You have always been mine.” Feyre held his gaze, but didn’t return his words. Was he hers? She didn’t know—it was a question for Mor when her friend returned and Feyre could ask her questions. She wanted to trust what was happening and she just…she knew what men were like. Men with power always took too much, more than they deserved, and gave far too little. 

If it bothered him she wouldn’t say it back, he didn’t betray that. With his tail sliding between them, wrapping itself around her wrists to pin them over her head, Rhys drove into her again. “I’ll never tire of this,” he whispered, face buried in her cunt. 

Feyre intended to tell him she liked whatever was happening when she felt something hot buzzing against her clit. She gasped, trying to pull from his grasp, but Rhys only smiled. 

“Take it,” he murmured, lifting himself off her just enough so she could see that bulb at the base of his cock.

“I don’t think I can,” she whimpered, pressing closer all the same. Rhys’s hand curled around her throat, forcing her to look up at him. 

“I’m not done with you yet,” he told her, kissing her again. Feyre liked when he did that and didn’t know how to ask him for it. He was driving this interaction, taking what he wanted with concern that she was enjoying herself, and so when he stopped kissing her, hips still thrusting inside her, Feyre simply sank into the warmth of his body and the heady pleasure coiled in her belly. 

It was slower this time, and by the time Rhys finished, the drums were silent. Had the horde begun filing back into camp? Could they hear him? Feyre doubted they cared, but she did in that strange, human way of hers. No one was going to say anything—hells, they couldn’t even look at her, let alone him. And when Rhys came in that loud, roaring way of his, Feyre was only greeted with silence in response.

“Rhys,” she whispered, bone tired and utterly wrung out. “Rhys, lay down with me.”

But the horde king was licking a path down her navel, eyes bright with intention. 

“I can’t,” she told him when he settled back between her legs. 

“You can,” he replied, taking a taste of her body with a shuddering groan. “You will.”

And in the end, he was right.

Rhys crashed close to dawn, pulling her against his sweat soaked body before falling into a deep, unbothered sleep. Feyre did, too, and when she woke, she was surprised to find him still beside her, still asleep. Feyre was quiet, used to slipping out of a shared bed without anyone noticing her. 

She’d been right about the ache between her legs—Feyre had to exhale softly, squeezing her thighs together in an attempt to alleviate some of the hurt. Rifling through some of the clothing Mor had brought her, Feyre put on a well made dress, trimmed at the sleeves and hem with fur, slid her boots over her feet, and made her way out into the crisp air. 

The horde was alive, moving around in their different tasks and jobs. Heads turned as she approached, though no one dared to look her in the eyes. It was more a curiosity that prompted them to look and when each one did, Feyre offered them a smile. I’m friendly, she hoped that smile said. 

Only the children smiled back, toothy grins that made Feyre strangely happy. The children back in her village were gaunt and starving, too focused on their hunger to smile like that. For a moment, she let herself imagine them living among the horde, playing with the children, bellies full. It seemed an impossible ask—even if Rhys agreed, the humans weren’t likely to accept. She wondered how feeding them had gone. The warrior assigned would have been back by then. Who was he?

Feyre scanned, but saw no one who seemed as if they’d been talking to her sister recently. If they’d spent any significant amount of time with Nesta, they’d be slightly traumatized. Dazed as they processed the sharpness of her words. 

Feyre didn’t get far—she’d found Mor, who was wide-eyed and yet delighted when she saw Feyre making the rounds—only for Rhys to come storming out of his tent. He’d thrown his pants and boots on, but no shirt which Feyre appreciated. The muscles gracing his stomach flexed as he stood there, half obscured by other tents and the horde itself. No one seemed concerned by his presence.

“Did you tell him you were leaving?” Mor whispered, looping her arm through Feyre’s. “Males can be awfully possessive.”

“I was letting him sleep,” Feyre replied, delighted when his eyes landed on her. He raised a hand, beckoning her toward him.

Absolutely not. 

She turned her head to look at Mor, who seemed surprised—and amused—when Feyre didn’t immediately trip forward. “You should go.”

“Is he coming?” Feyre asked breathlessly.

“Yeah,” Mor replied, taking a step backward. “Just for the future, at least in public, you should make a show of doing what he wants.”

“Why?”

“It’s our ways. If his own queen doesn’t respect him, why should the rest of us.”

“I do respect him,” Feyre complained, frustrated by all the rules. “But I’m not his servant.”

That was the last thing Feyre got to say before Rhys’ strong arms swept her literally off the ground, swinging her through the air to land on his shoulder.

“Am I in trouble?” she asked him, running a finger along his spine. She bounced with each step he took, though it wasn’t totally unpleasant. 

Rhys said nothing, taking her back to their tent only to drop her to the bed. Feyre expected another lecture about obeying him, but Rhys merely fell on top of her, bracing the bulk of his body weight on his elbows.

“I woke up cold, kasikkari,” he mumbled, pulling her into his chest. “I woke up alone.”

“You seemed tired—no don’t tickle—”

He’d slid his fingers into her ribs, curling them until Feyre was silenced by her laughter until she was breathlessly begging him to stop.

“You don’t laugh enough,” Rhys murmured before he lowered his face for a kiss. “But I like the sight of your happiness.”

It was hard to argue with that. Feyre kissed him back, wrapping her arms around his neck to pull him closer. This was easy—pleasant, too. Everything else was difficult as Feyre tried to assimilate, but right now, kissing Rhys, it felt like peace. It felt like home. 

“I didn’t think the Drakkari kissed,” Feyre whispered when he pulled back, brushing her fingers over his cheeks.

Rhys grinned. “Why would you think that?”

She shrugged. “You didn’t when we…and I just assumed…”

“I didn’t think you’d appreciate it,” Rhys admitted, head propped up on his fist. “You’re like a wild pryoki. I have to be cautious and careful or you might unsheath your claws.”

“Are you saying I’m feral?”

He didn’t blink. “I am.”

Feyre poked him in the stomach. “I can’t help what I am. What this planet made me.”

His expression darkened. “I want to discuss this with our king. He needs to know the condition of the human settlements.”

Feyre turned to face him. “And what then?”

“We can help—but the hordes can only do so much. If all settlements are as bad as yours, how long before the gertuan realize? Surely it’s our responsibility to care for them?

Feyre’s heart was in her throat. Ask him if they can come to the horde.

“When ah…when the frost is gone…could my village come and join the horde if they want?”

He paused, clearly surprised. “This would please you?” To have her sisters with her? Feyre hesitated for a moment, thinking of how Nesta could be. She’d balk at all the customs and traditions of the Drakkari people, would hate the expectations that Feyre found difficult to navigate. She didn’t think Nesta or Rhys would like each other, either. 

But Elain would come—Elain would enjoy herself, Feyre thought. She’d get along well with Mor, if nothing else, and the horde warriors would surely find Elain interesting. She’d always been so beautiful, so kind. 

“It would,” she decided, remembering the horde children. “Maybe this is the way forward.”

Rhys considered this. “Perhaps you’re right, Morakkari. When the frost ends, we will extend an invitation to your village. All those who wish to join and who wish to respect our traditions may live among us. 

“Maybe we could blend our traditions,” Feyre suggested, deciding to push her luck a little. “We have a lot of holidays.”

That interested him. Rhys perked up. “Oh?”

“Eating holidays, even,” she continued, catching the gleam in his eye.

“And you would eat?”

“I would gorge myself,” she promised, earning another fevered, passionate kiss. Rhys seemed content with that, dreaming of all the ways he’d fill her with food. It was strange the way he wanted to take care of her. Stranger, still, that Feyre liked it. No one had ever cared for her this way. Even when both her parents had been alive, she’d been the last and they were exhausted.

They’d never said, but she often wondered if she hadn’t been an accident and they simply lacked the attention needed for a child. She’d run wild—feral hadn’t been a lie. She’d always been filthy, resisting the frigid water she was supposed to bathe in. Always last—Nesta and Elain went after their parents, and once they died, Feyre still maintained her place as the lowest member of their family. 

She was lost in her thoughts, only half paying attention to what Rhys was doing until she felt her pants slip over her hips. He was already naked, his cock already rigid. Feyre lifted the blanket, peering down to find that bulb at the base of his cock half swollen again. 

“What is that?”

Rhys took his cock in his hand, stroking himself almost absently. “My dakk?”

She shrugged. “Humans don’t have one.”

He peered down. “No?”

Feyre shook her head. “What’s the purpose?”

Rhys shrugged. “Pleasure? What is the point of this?”

She hadn’t noticed his other hand, too preoccupied with his cock, but Rhys had found her clit and stroked, causing her hips to jerk as air rushed from her nostrils. “I don’t know,” she breathed.

The horde kind’s satisfied smile was all she needed to see. Feyre didn’t bother to mention that her body was set up for her pleasure, while his seemed to also be set up that way. What did that tell her about Drakkari males? 

Nothing she couldn’t have guessed by that point. 

“Can I?” she asked him, rising up on her elbows.

Rhys nodded, flopping on his back as he gestured down his large, muscular body. Feyre sat up, fingers hovering as she tried to decide where to touch first. She settled on his golden tattoos, running her hands over his chest.

“You’ll get matching markings,” he murmured, eyes fluttering shut. “Tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?”

One eye popped open, a grin warming his handsome face. “Soon,” he amended. That seemed more likely. Feyre couldn’t imagine he was going to want her out of his bed anytime soon, which suited her perfectly fine. “I will walk you through the horde tomorrow, though.”

“I would like that,” Feyre said, reaching the base of his cock. She touched his daak, which hummed pleasantly beneath her fingers. Rhys exhaled just as she had done, arching up just enough to convince her to touch the rest of him. 

Feyre was learning his tells. When he liked something, the muscles in his thighs tightened for a moment, and when he was close, they trembled. 

Feyre stroked his cock, delighted to find her fingers just barely encircled him. She didn’t know why she liked that—only that she did. The largeness of him was nice, reassuring. He made her feel safe. 

“Rhys?” she whispered, well aware this was not the time for a conversation.

He grunted in response, peeking open a violet eye to look at her.

“Will you still teach me to fight?”

“Yes,” he breathed. “Not now, though.”

Fair. Feyre stroked again and Rhys’s eyes fluttered shut. He wasn’t paying her any attention, which gave Feyre the ability to lean closer and lick the long length of his shaft.

Rhys gasped, eyes wide open all over again.

“Fey—”

“Shush,” she murmured, thinking it was bold to tell a horde king to be quiet. He did, though, staring her down with the same intensity he’d once had when they first met. Feyre wanted to repay him for the night before—he’d spent a lot of time with his face between her legs. 

Feyre licked again before taking her in his mouth, gagging softly about a third of the way down. Rhys moaned loudly, raking his fingers through her hair. That must mean he enjoyed it, though truthfully Feyre wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing. She merely mimicked what she’d done with her hand, sliding up and down his cock while using her tongue below.

He gave her about a minute and a half before he had her flat on his back. Feyre opened her mouth to whine out a complaint, but quicker than she could speak, he had his cock in her body. 

“You didn’t like it?” she asked, knowing full well he had.

“Too much,” Rhys whispered, pulling her into his lap. “I like your mouth too much. How will I ever leave knowing how it feels?”

“Poor tormented horde king,” Feyre said in a breathlessly mocking tone. 

“Smart mouth,” he replied, silencing it with a searing kiss. Feyre clung to him, forgetting what they’d been talking about. He slid his tongue in her mouth, the taste of him cool and a little smokey. She’d never tire of it. 

Never tire of him.

The stretch, however, took a moment—Feyre was still sore from the night before, still getting used to what it was like to be with him. He wasn’t as rushed, slower in his movements until Feyre was drowning in pleasure. With each new roll of his hips, Feyre felt his daak rub against her clit as if his own lips hummed against it.

Feyre couldn’t escape the vice that was his arms wrapped tight around her body, nor could she squirm away from his cock and the blunt head that rubbed over and over against that same spot. Feyre was breathless, forgetting that it was still mid-morning and everyone was awake.

She cried out before clapping her hand over her mouth, only for Rhys to snarl, “Let them hear you, Morikkari. Let them hear how well your king fucks you.” They surely heard him say that, too. Feyre whimpered against his skin, desperation clawing at her throat. It was never going to be enough—she’d always want more. Feyre ground herself against him until the buzzing never left, drawing her higher and higher and higher—and this time, when she came, she let herself be loud. 

Just for a moment, because the next breath was dedicated to sinking her teeth into his shoulder while Rhys let himself go, too. She felt his orgasm before she heard his own cries of pleasure. The sound could have shaken the nearby mountains were they just a little closer, his orgasm rocking through her, reverberating through her very bones. Right then, she felt as if her soul were tangled alongside his own.

Feyre could barely breathe as he laid her out, pressing kisses alongside her neck. He murmured words she didn’t understand, repeating them over and over and over. Feyre didn’t dare ask what they meant, was too afraid to get clarification. She merely carded her fingers through his hair and let him take her away.

[greenbloods]

The Queen of the West

In her dreams she never had silver hair, nor did her earlobes ever clink with the cruel laughter of tourmaline-and-silver. That was how Rhaena knew this was no ordinary dream. She dreamt of awaking to a stormy dawn, in a tall tower next to the sea. The tower was dark, the sheets a woollen wave of gold and black. In her bed she felt a presence, a long figure obscured under the voluminous blankets. It was tall enough to be Larissa, but with the certainty of dream she knew that Larissa was far, far away. When the figure shifted in the sheets she saw that it was a man. Maegor, she thought, with dread rising in her throat, but as the figure rose from sleep she realized she was mistaken again. His frame was thick and bearish, his body covered in a dense fur, but his hair was all wrong, a thick tangled crop of black-and-grey curls where long straight silver should've been, a great mop of hair that seemed to sprout over every inch of his body. The sheets parted, whispering as they did secret warnings too soft for her to hear, to reveal as he rose a patch of hair at the juncture of his thighs coarser and blacker than that on his chest, if that was possible. "My Aly," Rogar rumbled, smiling, and by some strange magic she found herself smiling at him too. They lay together there in the light of morningtide, until he made to hug her in his great bearish embrace.

Yet as he did she caught sight of his hand. In it was a dirk, sharp and short and cruel. As they embraced she could feel it enter her, gasping as it thrust into her belly once, twice, thrice. When they parted again it glistened wetly; it looked so beautiful in the radiance of the twilight moon. And as she saw the wound where it entered her she realized that from her body was spilling not blood, but light, which shone from inside her with fiery passion, and seemed to turn her skin aflame. And as he thrust his knife inside her again and twisted, it grew and grew inside her, until it became a sword that seemed to pierce her very heart, and she cried with a scream that was half anguish and half ecstasy as his face warped and twisted into that of a stranger, and the room and time dissolved into mists until she did not know where she was, only that it was dark, so dark.

And the visions danced faster around her now, rippling fierce and feverish like the silvery waters of the Godseye in the dim of the westering sun. She saw dragons dance, and die, and dance again, and she saw an old man with a shock of brittle white hair weeping before a heart tree, while the autumn snows drifted sorrowfully all around. She saw a great chalice of iron bubbling with the blood of ten thousand dead, with moon's blood and knight's blood, the blood of king and commoner and hero and whore mingling until there seemed to be no difference between one or the other, the blood of the chalice pouring out onto the base of a castle that was long as the horizon was tall, and quaffed the blood as it cascaded. She saw herself wither and die; she saw herself rise from her own grave, wearing a different name, and die again, and rise, twenty times over, until her face became that of a girl kneeling in a funeral pyre with three scaly stones in her arms. And she saw the same girl later wreathed in flame, while all around her great shadows of ice rose and cackled in frosty tongues. And through the mist of dream she felt herself waking, for true this time, to morning bells that echoed through the walls of that scorched ruin of a castle.

Rhaena Targaryen, Queen of the West, rose to the taste of blood on her tongue, while the carillons of the towers of Black Harren echoed doom, doom, doom.

[syoddeye]

step carefully into the dark

330 word gaz drabble. prologue? thinking about this ancient idea about hitchhiker!gaz, and added a sprinkle of serial killer into the mix. unedited.

cw: coerced suicide/murder(?), violence

The flames lick the night sky, eagerly devouring the kindling and accelerant poured as an offering. Kyle lingers a moment longer, watching the fire take, punching through the glass and warping metal.

Cleaner than last time, he muses, lip curling with satisfaction. Adjusting the weight of his bags, he turns and leaves his handiwork behind.

He's a safe distance away when it happens—the low rumble. He spins, carefully walking backward, just in time to catch the small explosion light up the sky. It'll get someone's attention, probably the law, but he feels only peace at the rising plume of smoke. Contentment.

The burning car crackles and pops in his wake, a pyre for the man reclined in the driver's seat. Dan? Don? He can't recall. Poor bastard, he thinks. Too friendly for his own good.

It was quick. One clean shot to the temple. Don had a surprisingly steady hand and only cried a little as Kyle explained what would happen if he didn't man up and do it himself.

Your daughter lives alone, right? It's what you told me. All alone in a big city...Tsk, tsk. With all the monsters roaming free? Anything could happen to her. Ah, ah—you really want to bet who's the faster, better shot, mate?

Dan kept a stiff upper lip as he held the pistol. It surprised Kyle. The first among his kills that wasn't technically executed by his own hand. The first to say yes, to do it themselves. What initiative. He'd remember Don.

Meandering through the dirt and rock, he fixes his eyes on the dark strip ahead, nigh invisible at this hour. By his estimations, it'll take an hour or so to backtrack to the roadside diner he and Dan/Don passed before pulling off. He needs a wash. A plate of sugary food. The ear of some sympathetic soul. Some stupid, soft-hearted stranger who likes accents and easy smiles.

There's one at every rest stop, feels like.

[talonabraxas]

Agni Dev Talon Abraxas

Agni Dev: Exploring the Sacred Fire God of Hindu Mythology

When we talk about the Hindu pantheon, one name that stands out is Agnidev, the god of fire. Agni, as he’s often called, plays a vital role in Hindu mythology and rituals. From sacrificial fires to the flames of a domestic hearth, Agni is everywhere. Let’s delve into the captivating world of Agnidev and understand his importance in Hindu culture.

The Many Faces of Agni

Agni isn’t just about the fire we see every day. He’s associated with various forms of fire, including:

The Sun: The ultimate source of light and heat. Lightning: A powerful, natural force. Comets: Celestial fireballs streaking across the sky. Sacrificial Fire: Central to Vedic rituals. Domestic Fires: The heart of every home. Funeral Pyres: Guiding souls to the afterlife. Digestive Fire: The inner energy within all living beings.

During the Vedic period (1500-500 BCE), Agni was one of the most revered deities, and the Vedas contain more hymns dedicated to him than to any other god. Even today, though not directly worshipped as much, Agni is omnipresent in various Hindu ceremonies, especially marriages and other significant rites of passage.

Agni’s Mythical Tales

Agni’s mythology is rich and varied. He is known to be the son of the Celestial Waters, symbolizing the connection between water and fire. When it rains, the fire is believed to descend to earth, only to rise again through vegetation. This cycle is a beautiful representation of the balance in nature.

One of the fascinating tales involves Agni’s reluctance to take on the duty of carrying offerings to the gods, fearing the same fate as his three brothers who perished while performing the task. To escape this duty, Agni hid in various places but was eventually discovered each time by different creatures. His final refuge, a sami tree, became sacred in Hindu rituals, with its sticks used to kindle fires. Despite his initial reluctance, Agni negotiated to receive a share of the sacrifices and was granted everlasting life.

agni dev

Agni in Hindu Art

In Hindu art, Agni is depicted in various forms:

Appearance: Agni often has black skin, two heads, four arms, and rides a goat or a chariot drawn by red horses. His two heads represent the domestic and sacrificial fires.

Symbols: He carries a fan, a sacrificial ladle, an axe, and a flaming torch or javelin.

Depictions: Sometimes shown as the Garuda bird or a goat-headed merchant, representing his role in sacrifices.

Agni’s artistic representations are not just symbolic but also a way to visualize his multifaceted nature.

Agni’s Role in Rituals and Daily Life

Agni’s presence is essential in many Hindu rituals. As a mediator between gods and humans, he carries offerings to the deities and brings their blessings to the worshippers. His role is so crucial that no significant Hindu ceremony, be it a wedding or a funeral, is complete without invoking Agni.

Agni is also considered the guardian of the southeast direction in Hindu cosmology, protecting this space as one of the eight guardians of directions (Dikpalas).

The Legacy of Agni

Over time, Agni’s prominence as a god has waned somewhat, but his legacy endures. His significance is captured beautifully in various Hindu scriptures, including the Mahabharata, the Vishnu Purana, and the Agni Purana. Agni’s tales, from his mythical origins to his role in epic battles and ceremonies, continue to inspire and fascinate.

Even today, the worship of Agni promises prosperity, protection, and a long life. Offering food and sacrifices to Agni ensures his blessings, safeguarding homes and families. The Agni Puran remains a vital source of these traditions, emphasizing Agni’s role and importance in rituals and daily life.

The Everlasting Flame of Agni

Agni, the Hindu god of fire, remains a powerful symbol of transformation, purification, and connection between the divine and the earthly. His presence in rituals underscores the importance of fire in Hindu culture, symbolizing life, death, and rebirth. As we light a fire, be it in a ritual or a simple hearth, we are reminded of Agni’s enduring presence and his vital role in the tapestry of Hindu mythology.

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 75

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

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

Chapter 75: A Golden Crown of Sorrow I

AO3 - Masterlist

(18K words)

Rhaenyra found herself standing in front of the ancient altar, a relic brought from Old Valyria when house Targaryen had departed from their ancestral lands. This very altar had borne witness to happier times, used when she had married Daemon in the ancient rites of Old Valyria. Those moments now felt like echoes from a distant past, as if they belonged to another life altogether. 

The morning air brushed against her skin, a gentle yet chilly caress from the sea, following a night dominated by a fierce gale that had only subsided with the break of dawn. Rhaenyra had spent the night wakeful, her gaze lost in the turmoil of the storm outside, embodying the tempest within her. She found herself before the altar, her surroundings a vague haze, as attendants had prepared her, their ministrations leaving no imprint on her clouded consciousness. Her body ached profoundly, muscles tense and sore, bones feeling as if they’d been ground together–bruised and creaking with each movement. Yet, it was the profound emptiness that engulfed her soul, a void so vast it seemed to have consumed her very essence, rendering her a shell devoid of anything but the ache of her body and the thrum of hollowness. 

The infant was laid to rest upon the wooden pyre, its tiny form almost incongruous within the immense pain its birth had inflicted upon Rhaenyra. The birth had ravaged her from within, as if a monster had burrowed deep inside her, rending and tearing with ferocity that belied its unwillingness to part from her body. It was as though the creature sensed the doom its arrival would herald, as if it understood its own nature as an aberration, and fought with a desperate, destructive instinct against its inevitable emergence into the world. 

She allowed herself a moment to shut her eyes, grappling with the sharp pang of grief that clenched her heart. Upon reopening them, Daemon had stepped forward, his hand setting the pyre alight with a torch, its flames quickly catching the wood before he handed the torch back to an attendant. 

As the fire grew, smoke billowed up, carrying with it the harrowing scents of charred wood and flesh, a visceral reminder of the life being honored and mourned. Words found no place in this moment, leaving silence to preside over the gathered mourners. This silence settled with a weighty presence, amplifying the solemnity of their vigil as the morning’s light, muted and under a blanket of pale gray clouds, found moments of brilliance where the rising sun’s golden rays pierced through, illuminating the ritual.

Rhaenyra’s head was laden with a heaviness, her thoughts tangled and obscure, as if she navigated through a thick mist, each step more laborious than the last, her mind clouded by this all-encompassing fog. She felt Daemon’s steady presence at her side, her gaze unwavering from the fierce blaze that now claimed the remains of her child. A profound weariness weighed upon her, the emptiness of her womb palpable beneath her hand.

Amidst the rising flames, Rhaenyra witnessed the disintegration of all the hopes and dreams she had nurtured for her daughter throughout the pregnancy. Those visions, so vivid and hopeful, were not being devoured by the fire, just as it laid claim to the tiny form before her. She was struck by the peculiarity of her situation–having carried a life within her, feeling it grow and move, as natural as any of her previous pregnancies. There had been no forewarning, no sign that her child would emerge as it did–an abomination. She struggled reconciling what had been to what should have been. 

The thought haunted her: had she, in some way, precipitated her child’s fate? Could her own despair and utterances, born of the intense pain and desperation she experienced during labor, have cursed the child, twisted it into the form it took? Those curses were not born of malice but of sheer agony, a prayer for relief when pleas had gone otherwise unheard. Yet, despite the aberrations, despite the suffering its birth had inflicted upon her, it was her child, a being she had loved deeply, unconditionally. She wondered, was love not sufficient? To love the child, despite everything–was that not enough?

As the fire vicariously devoured both wood and flesh, a haunting question lingered in Rhaenyra’s heart.

“Ñuha tala, hae hōzalbrot sittus. Kostilus hen jaehoti gīmēdenon iksos…” Her voice, strained and hoarse from the ordeal of childbirth, barely rose above a murmur. It could so easily have been carried away on the wind, never to be heard. But she was heard. She felt Daemon’s eyes settle on her as she continued to watch the flames engulf their child. “Iā qilōnarion. Gīmēdenon issa. Kepa ñuha morghūltas se pāletilla ñuha lāettaks tubī sitta.”

My daughter, born an abomination. Mayhaps she is a warning from the gods… or a punishment. She is an augury. Born on the day my father died and my crown was stolen.

A constricting sensation gripped her throat, yet the overwhelming void within her persisted, rendering her empty, resonant with the hollow thrum of loss–an echo of a woman. “Ñuha Visenȳs. Yn sagon ziry sytilīptos daor.”

My Visenya. But she was not meant to be.

The wind, seemingly in accord with her inner turmoil, whipped the smoke into a chaotic dance, dispersing it into the ether as the pyre’s intensity mounted. Although the blaze’s warmth lapped at her, it did little to penetrate the deep chill that had claimed her flesh.

“Kessa sagon se mōrī,” Rhaenyra murmured, each word echoing within the vast emptiness of her soul, reverberating with a profound finality. She will be the last.

Daemon’s voice, tender and cautious, broke the silence at her side. “Kosti sylugon syt tolī lo ao jaelagon ziry. Bisa daoriot emagon naejot sagon se mōrī.” 

We could try for another if you desire. This needn’t be the end.

But Rhaenyra slowly shook her head in refusal, knowing the truth of her words. “Konīr won't sagon tolī.”

There won’t be another.

The resolution within her was definite; she would not bear another child. This conviction was as unwavering as the cycle of day and night, as irrevocable as the fire that claimed the physical form of their daughter. There would not, could not, be another.

The child’s tumultuous arrival had wreaked havoc within her, a violent tempest that she knew left her barren. The tragedy of losing her second daughter to childbirth was compounded by the cruel realization that she would no longer bear children. The latest loss was just one in a series of profound grievances– the death of her father, the theft of her crown, her eldest daughter’s captivity, and now the death of her youngest in childbirth alongside her own fertility. 

Each loss layered upon the last, leaving Rhaenyra ensnared in a web of sorrow and irrevocable change. 

The flames surged upward, their tongues flickering fiercely against the backdrop of the sky, animated by the wind into a frenetic display of light and shadow. They twisted and turned, alive with a vicarious energy as they feasted upon the body of her child. Rhaenyra caught herself pondering the sensation of extending her hand into their embrace, curious if the fire’s caress would resonate on her skin. Intuitively, she knew the heat would register, yet anticipated that any resulting pain would feel remote–like the residual agony of childbirth that lingered in her body. The pain persisted, yet her consciousness had somehow distanced itself from the physical sensation, leaving her with the impression of being an observer to her own experiences, detached and adrift from the reality of her suffering.

Amidst this feeling of detachment, there lingered a delicate thread that prevented her from completely succumbing to the depths of her own mind, a small tether anchoring her to the tangible world around her and her own body.

“Nyke brōztagon syt ao,” Rhaenyra muttered, her thumb unconsciously caressing the now vacant curve of her womb. A trace of bitterness crept into her voice, a sentiment strong enough to anchor her spirit within the realm of the physical, to keep her from being entirely consumed by her own thoughts. Her words barely rose above a whisper, imbued with a haunting echo of solitude and yearning, “Nyke brōztagon syt ao. Gōntan ao daor rȳbagon ñuha limagon.”

I called for you. I called for you, could you not hear my cries?

He had indeed heard her; of that, she was certain. Her cries had reverberated throughout Dragonstone, her voice tearing through the silence with desperation, calling out for him, her pleas and prayers for intervention filling the air. Yet, despite her agonizing summons, he had not appeared by her side. 

“Nyke vēttan naejot mīsagon aōha pāletilla.  Se peldio gaomas daor umbagon naejot pryjagon skori zȳha ossēnagon iksis nākostōbā,” Daemon responded, his voice deep and resonant, echoing within her with an intensity that felt like a clash of metal on stone. I prepared to defend your crown. The snake does not wait to strike when its prey is weak.

“Ao vaoresagon naejot mazverdagon vīlībāzma pār sagon ondoso ñuha paktot skori nyke vīlībāzma ñuhon,” Rhaenyra retorted, a surge of resentment igniting within her, as fierce as the flames on the altar. This internal blaze seemed to strengthen her connection to her body, as the bitterness within her twisted and turned. “Nyke jorrāelatan ao.”

You would rather wage war than be at my side when I waged mine. I needed you.

“Emilza arlinnon daorun,” Daemon countered, his words piercing her as sharply as a knife. It would have made no difference. “I gūrotan se gaomon bona sia bēvilagon, syt aōha jorrāelagon se syt se dārion. Ao jorrāelatan nyke naejot mīsagon skoros iksis aōhon–”

I took the actions that were necessary, both for your sake and for the realm’s. You needed me to defend what is yours–

“Nyke jorrāelatan ao ondoso ñuha paktot,” Rhaenyra interjected, her voice thick with the imminent threat of tears. The ache of his absence was compounded by her grief and pain, bringing a sharpness to her words, emphasizing the depth of her need for him during her struggle. I needed you by my side. 

Exhaling deeply, Rhaenyra’s gaze was transfixed by the dance of the flames before her, feeling their intense heat graze her skin, the warmth emanating from the fire enveloping her. Fire possessed a peculiar duality; it was a force of utter destruction, devouring all in its path indiscriminately, reducing everything to mere ashes. It embodied chaos, a relentless prelude to ruin. Yet, it was harnessed for its utility–encased within candle wicks, nestled in hearths to stave off the cold, utilized in the preparation for meals, and to illuminate the dark of night. 

Standing before the voracious flames, Rhaenyra was consumed by a singular perception of its nature–not as a tool or a source of comfort, but as a manifestation of insatiable destruction. As the fire devoured the form of her child, all she could discern within its flickering embrace was an unquenchable hunger, a merciless force laying waste to the last connection she had to her daughter. 

As she stood there, Rhaenyra found herself besieged by a grim contemplation–pondering who next might be claimed by the ravenous embrace of a funeral pyre’s flames. This morbid curiosity weighed heavily on her, a shadow looming over her spirit. Weary, she closed her eyes, attempting to shield herself from such dark musings, yet the thought twisted and turned within her, a serpentine coil of dread and sorrow. 

Rhaenyra’s thoughts were a tumultuous sea of uncertainties and hypotheticals, each ‘what if’ crashing against her consciousness like the relentless waves crashing against the shore. Had she remained in King’s Landing, what course might fate have taken? Would she now be mourning her father, standing before his funeral pyre instead? Would the child still be in her belly, happy and content? Could she have seized the crown before it was usurped from her grasp? She pondered the sacrifices required to cement her rule and protect her children–how much bloodshed would have been necessary, and whose blood would have been spilled? Would any of her choices have altered the tragic fate of the child she had carried?

Yet, amidst the myriad of unanswered questions and conjectures, one regret stood above the rest, a beacon of remorse in the storm of her reflections. She fixated on the decision she believed to be her gravest error–not bringing Daenera with them when they had the chance. This oversight, more than  any speculative alternative history, tormented her, the weight of this singular ‘should have’ bearing down on her with an acute sense of loss and missed opportunity. 

The Stranger had claimed one of her daughters already; the thought of enduring such a loss again was unbearable to Rhaenyra. As her gaze returned to the dancing flames, a heavy question burdened her soul. “Is this an omen?Is this how the gods reveal that I am not meant to be Queen? The gods mock me with their cruelty.”

Daemon’s voice, low and steady, broke through her turmoil. “Misfortune doesn’t signify an omen. Sometimes, it’s merely that–misfortune.”

His gaze settled on her. Rhaenyra could feel the intensity of his look, probing, weighing, as if trying to penetrate the fog of emptiness that had settled within her. 

“And is that your consolation for your own misdeeds?” She shot back, her voice laced with an edge of bitterness–accusing. “Everywhere you go, a shadow seems to spread, darkening everything it touches.”

The accusation was harsh, and she knew it, yet the words spilled out, fueled by a mix of grief and resentment. Daemon’s response to their loss appeared distant to her–as though he did not feel it at all. He had carried her to their bed, he had been present, offering her comfort through the night, his arms wrapped around her, but his absence when she needed him the most left her feeling abandoned to the dark fate that seemed to dog his steps. She wondered, despairing, if this curse of misfortune was now hers to bear as well, dooming everything she cherished to a similar end. 

“We abandoned King’s Landing to strengthen my claim, yet it was usurped,” Rhaenyra’s voice carried the heat of resentment, feeling the simmering embers of bitterness flare within her. “They robbed me of my crown and my daughter.”

“Your father would have accepted this fate,” Daemon retorted, his tone as sharp as her own. “But you, you cannot. Summon your banners; loyal men will rally to your cause in the tens of thousands. Some already stand ready. Together, we can reclaim the throne and your daughter.”

“The realm does not want a queen,” she countered, her words echoing the hollowness she felt inside. “The truth was spoken at the Great Council, yet my father chose to ignore it. Viserys was a fool to name me as his heir…”

Rhaenys, The Queen Who Never Was, had cautioned her long ago when she was declared the heir. She herself had had her right stolen from her on the basis of her gender. Young and foolish, Rhaenyra had believed the lords of the Seven Kingdoms would willingly accept her reign. Now, she wasn’t so sure. 

Rhaenyra could feel the intensity of Daemon’s stare, laden with a piercing scrutiny. “A queen without a crown is scarcely a queen at all.”

“You shall wear your crown,” Daemon assured her. 

Meeting his gaze, she observed the weight of his brow, his eyes sharp and probing–judging her weakness. Though there was a somewhat fragile compassion within their green depths. It was the undercurrent of pity minging with his judgment that inflicted the greater wound. Daemon had reminded her often enough that they were the blood of the dragon, destined to soar over the realm as its sovereigns, bound by blood and divine right. Yet, Rhaenyra felt anything but powerful. She felt diminished, hollow, and profoundly alone. Doubts plagued her, sapping her resolve. She dreaded that her sorrow was a tide strong enough to sweep her away, to engulf her in its depths until she was lost. 

“And what more will it cost me?” She inquired, voicing her trepidation that gnawed at her spirit. 

As Rhaenyra shifted her focus back to the fire, the wind swelled around them, lifting the smoke and embers into the air, a wild dance against the sky’s canvas. Daemon left her side, stepping away from her, and almost instantly, the distinct sound of swords being unsheathed shattered the stillness. 

“I mean no harm, brothers,” a voice called out, cutting through the tension, followed closely by the approach of steps.

Rhaenyra’s attention turned from the funeral pyre to the sound, her gaze landing on Ser Erryk Cargyll as he moved towards her, kneeling in a gesture of submission. From his satchel, he carefully extracted a crown, cradling it in both hands as he presented it to her. The emerging sunlight, breaking through the clouds, caught the metal, gleaming against it in an intricate blend of gold and silver. Her eyes lingered on Ser Erryk, then on the symbol of sovereignty he held–what was left of her father and what was rightfully hers. The crown was a poignant reminder of his absence, of the intricate web of challenges and struggles he had bequeathed to her, a tangled legacy she was now tasked with carrying. 

“I swear to ward the Queen,” Ser Erryk Cargyll declared, continuing on with his vow, “with all my strength, and give my blood for hers…”

Daemon advanced to take the crown from Ser Erryk’s hands, his focus seemed tethered to the intricate circlet, a tangible link to his aspirations and the legacy of his brother. Rhaenyra retreated from the altar, watching him carefully with bated breath, bracing for the possibility that he might seize it for himself–it had been his to claim once, after all. The crown was a symbol of power and was all that remained to them of Viserys. 

Ser Erryk’s oath rang out, echoing his dedication. “I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall guard her secrets, obey her commands, ride at her side, and defend her name and honor.”

Amidst the solemn declarations, Rhaenyra was besieged by a surge of apprehension, a fear that Daemon’s long-held aspirations might supersede his loyalty–his love. And in the depths of her heart, a whisper of suspicion stirred, faint yet insidious. It murmured to her soul with chilling subtlety, suggesting, ‘The crown was his true ambition from the start.’

Yet, as he turned towards her, his expression softened, his eyes meeting hers with a warmth and reverence that silenced that voice, forcing it back into the shadows of her mind. He moved closer, their gaze locked in silent communion, as he gently positioned the crown upon her head. 

The crown’s cool weight settled onto her brow, fitting her perfectly despite being made for a man. Her pulse quickened, a mix of trepidation and awe rendering her momentarily breathless, uncertain of the path ahead. 

“A crown for you, my love,” Daemon murmured, his voice a tender caress against the weight of the moment. Then, with grace that belied his power, he knelt before her, his head bowed in fealty. “My Queen.”

As Rhaenyra’s gaze lifted, the rising sun climbed higher, scattering the remnants of clouds to unveil a vast azure sky. In this moment of radiance, the knights of the Kingsguard gracefully descended to their knees in a unified motion. This gesture set off a wave through the assembly, prompting each individual to lower themselves in a display of reverence. 

Watching this unfold, Rhaenyra was struck with a blend of astonishment and disbelief, tears gathering in her eyes as the profound realization dawned on her: they were kneeling in allegiance to her, acknowledging her as their true and rightful Queen. The significance of this act of fealty filled her with a seedling of hope and a burgeoning sense of duty. 

Gently, Rhaenyra extended her hand, tenderly brushing Daemon’s hair with a soft touch. He looked up at her, his eyes meeting hers, and in that brief exchange, there was a quiet understanding, a shared moment of comfort. He leaned into her caress, drawing a measure of solace from her presence, and then he stood, positioning himself by her side.

Rhaenyra navigated the corridors of Dragonstone, her path secured by a detail of guards. Their red cloaks, each adorned with the sigil of the three-headed dragon, flowed behind them with a  grace that belied their readiness for conflict. Each guard’s hand hovered near the pommel of their swords, a silent testament to their vigilance and readiness to defend their Queen. 

Progressing beyond the table situated outside the great hall, they encountered an array of swords laid upon it–a silent, steel congregation awaiting their bearers. Each blade was momentarily forsaken by its owner as they stepped into the solemn expanse of the great hall. And as they ascended the steps towards the assembly, beams of midday sunlight streamed through the lofty, slender windows, casting a luminous glow over the stone interior and dispelling the shadows that lingered. The hall was alive with the presence of an assembled crowed, gathered around the intricately carved wooden table that mapped the entirety of Westeros. This gathering of loyalists and counselors awaited her, a vivid tableau of allegiance and anticipation set against the backdrop of the kingdom they meant to reclaim. 

Positioned at the far end of the table, framed by the warmth of the hearth behind him, Daemon stood enveloped in the fiery orange flow. The light danced around him, casting his figure as if in flame, as she proclaimed, “Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

The room, filled with the court and her loyalists, turned their collective attention towards her. Heads bowed in a moment of deep respect and reverence, only to rise again, eyes filled with a blend of expectation and scrutiny. Rhaenyra felt the collective weight of their anticipation–a heavy mantle now on her shoulders. She scanned the faces before her, meeting their looks that were tinged with hope, curiosity, and a subtle trace of apprehension, all seeking to discern her capacity for leadership.

“Your Grace,” Daemon greeted her, his expression softening into a subtle smile that acknowledged her approach. 

Feeling the moment’s gravity, Rhaenyra instinctively straightened, her posture firm as she faced the assembly. With measured steps, she advanced towards the table, her guards mirroring her movements closely behind. She signaled them to halt, preferring some distance to alleviate the press of scrutiny from all sides. 

“Wine, my Queen,” offered Rhaena, her demeanor warm, a soothing presence amidst the intensity of the gathering. 

Gratefully, Rhaenyra took the wine from Rhaena’s hands, her acceptance driven more by a gesture of courtesy than any desire to drink. “Thank you, Rhaena.”

Feeling the rapid beat of her heart against her ribs, Rhaenyra summoned her strength and raised her voice as much as she could muster, saying simply, “Come.”

This moment was not just for her; she was determined to include her stepdaughters, to ensure they were part of this moment rather than observers on the periphery, as she once had been in her youth, serving merely as her father’s cupbearer during council sessions–neither allowed to express her opinions or ask questions. 

Her gaze swept across the assembled faces, finally resting on Baela, who stood close to her grandmother, Rhaenys. Rhaenyra made a subtle, inviting gesture towards the girl as she walked by, silently indicating for Baela to join her side. 

Taking her place at the head of the table, Rhaenyra gently set the wine cup aside. Her fingers entwined, absently twisting the ring on her finger, a small gesture betraying her nervousness. Her gaze drifted across the expanse of the map sprawled out before her, where the veins of its rivers glowed like molten fire, an effect of the candlelight flickering from below, breathing life into the darkened wood. 

Lifting her eyes, she found Daemon’s gaze awaiting her from the other end of the table. 

Beyond the Queensguard, Daemon was the sole figure in the room who bore arms. Positioned prominently at the head of the table, the Valyrian steel blade Dark Sister was conspicuously resting against the table, a silent testament to his readiness and authority. Around him, an aura of intense vitality was palpable; it was as if the various threads of his turbulent and unpredictable existence had converged into a singular, precise point of clarity and purpose. This newfound focus lent him an air of undeniable command. His expression was one of anticipation, a silent question hanging in the air between them. 

“What is our standing?” Rhaenyra inquired, her voice steady despite the pressure of the attentive eyes upon her. 

Daemon responded with the precision of a seasoned commander, “Our forces consist of thirty knights, a hundred crossbowmen, and three hundred men-at-arms.”

His tone was as authoritative as his demeanor, betraying no doubt about his familiarity with the demands of leadership in times of conflict. “Dragonstone is relatively easy to defend, but as an instrument of conquest, our army leaves a lot to be desired.”

His analysis was delivered with the confidence of someone deeply experienced in the strategies and realities of warfare. “We’ve sent word to my loyal men in the City Watch. I’ll have some support there, but I cannot speak to the numbers.”

To this strategic overview, Maester Gerardys contributed further encouraging news, “We already have declarations from Celtigar and Staunton, Massey, Darklyn, Bar Emmon.”

As the name of their allies were called out, Rhaenyra acknowledged each lord with a direct look, receiving affirming nods in return. Jace skillfully positioned the wooden and brass pieces on the map to denote their alliances, marking the locations such as Duskendale, Rook’s Rest, Sharp Point, Stonedance, and Claw Isle.

“My lady mother was an Arryn,” Rhaenyra stated, emphasizing her familial ties. “The Vale will not turn cloak against their own kin.”

Her assertion was met with Daemon’s keen gaze, which lingered on her with an intense, evaluative silence. He refrained from commenting on the loyalty of House Arryn, a silence seemingly born from the recognition of his strained relations with the house–a factor that could potentially threaten their support. Rhaenyra could only harbor the hope that House Arryn would overlook their contentious history with Daemon–the Rogue Prince–recognizing instead the ties of kinship that bound them. She wished for them to prioritize their shared bloodline over past grievances, rallying to her cause. 

Maester Gerardys interjected with a note of optimism. “Riverrun was always a close friend to your father, Your Grace. With Prince Daemon’s acquiescence, I’ve already sent ravens to Lord Grover.”

Rhaenyra’s expression hardened as she locked eyes with Daemon, her look laden with reproach. His response to her silent accusation was a veneer of impassive resilience, enduring her scrutiny without yielding. The tension between them was palpable, a clash of wills over unseen lines being drawn. “Lord Grover is fickle and easily swayed. He will need to be convinced of the strength of our position and that we will support him should it come to war.”

Daemon’s reply was definitive, undeterred by her reproach. “I’m going to treat with him myself.”

Their exchange was charged with an unspoken confrontation, a battle of resolve where neither party showed signs of retreat. 

Rhaenyra was no stranger to the discomfort of being excluded from crucial discussions, a sentiment that intensified during her labor. It had since become apparent that, in her absence, pivotal conversations had transpired and decisions had been actioned in her name without her consent or knowledge. She conveyed her dissatisfaction with a subdued yet unmistakable censure. In response, Daemon met her disapproval with a composed assurance, his demeanor bordering on defiant, as if urging her to see the rationale behind his actions. While Rhaenyra grasped the logic of his stance, it did little to mitigate her frustration or assuage her sense of being sidelined. 

Ser Steffon Darklyn raised a critical inquiry, “What of Storm’s End and Winterfell?”

“There has never lived a Stark who forgot an oath. And with House Stark, the North will follow,” Lord Bartimos Celtigar stated confidently. 

Rhaenyra interjected thoughtfully, “Lord Borros Barathon will need to be reminded of his father’s promises.”

“An alliance with Borros Baratheon was secured through marriage. It’s reasonable to assume they might be inclined to support us,” Lord Bartimos offered.

“Any alliance we had with the Baratheons ended with the passing of Daenera’s husband,” Daemon stated bluntly. “We cannot cling to past alliances that have since been laid to rest. Lord Borros Baratheon is as fickle as they come and he is proud, he will bide his time and see whichever way the wind blows.”

As he spoke, Ser Steffon Darklyn moved a brass pawn to Winterfell on the map, symbolizing their expected support, while Jace positioned a neutral piece at Storm’s End to represent their uncertain stance with House Baratheon. 

The conversation took a turn as Ser Lorent Marbrand directed their focus back to a pressing issue. “What of the Princess?”

The inquiry about the princess’s status lingered ominously, charged with tension akin to an executioner’s sword poised for the decisive strike. The room was thick with the implication of what her absence meant–and stifling with worry for the princess whom many loved. Apprehension moved through the room like a passing shadow, looming heavily on each face. 

Pausing for a moment, Daemon’s expression remained even as he spoke, “Princess Daenera was present at the usurper king’s coronation, where her betrothal to the king’s brother, Aemond Targaryen, was announced. We’ve yet to receive clarity on her stance, but we are to assume she has been made a hostage.” 

The response to the daunting question settled over the room with a solemnity that matched, if not surpassed, the tension of the initial inquiry. A heavy silence ensued, profound in the absence of voices. Within this silence, another query began to take form, unvoided yet palpable, casing ghostly presence over the proceedings. It was Daemon’s phrasing that birthed this specter, subtly casting a shadow over Daenera’s fidelity. 

Rhaenyra intoned, “She is a hostage.”

Her words cut through the uncertainty and lay to rest, at least momentarily, the spectral doubts that Daemon’s comments had conjured. She had made her stance clear on the issue at hand, and it was a position she intended to uphold firmly until presented with evidence to the contrary.

In the midst of this tension, Jace, with a thoughtful precision, moved to place a pawn at Harrenhal, declaring it for them. As their gazes met, Rhaenyra offered him a brief, acknowledging nod–a silent gesture of gratitude. 

Rhaenyra shifted the direction of their discussion, her voice cutting through the air to focus on Rhaenys, who had been maintaining a quiet presence away from the heart of the gathering. “What news from Driftmark?”

Dressed in a gown of deep blue, the rich fabric fell round Rhaenys in heavy folds, embodying the wealth of House Velaryon. Adorning her attire, the sigil of her husband’s house – a seahorse – was intricately stitched into the golden lace that traced a deliberate path down the gown’s front. She appeared taken aback by Rhaenyra’s direct question, quickly gathering her composure. The momentary hesitation could have been mistaken for reluctance to join the discourse. 

“Lord Corlys sails for Dragonstone,” Rhaenys finally responded, her voice carrying the weight of her words through the hall.

“To declare for his Queen!” Daemon declared in a confident manner that belied the intention of his words. 

Rhaenys remained unfazed by Daemon’s attempt to put words into her mouth, and she retorted with a statement that was both a clarification and a boundary, “The Velaryon fleet is my husband’s yoke. He decide where they sail.”

The reply was meticulously neutral, carefully avoiding any direct proclamation of support or opposition. 

Rhaenyra acknowledged the delicate balance of allegiance and hope in her response. “We shall pray for both you and your husband’s support…Just as we pray nightly for the Sea Snake’s return to good health.”

Rhaenys offered a gentle, albeit pensive smile in return.

Aiming to emphasis the strategic advantage of House Velaryon’s maritime prowess would bring to their cause, Rhaenyra asserted, “There’s no port on the Narrow Sea would dare to make an enemy of the Velaryon fleet.”

With this statement, she turned her focus back to the map sprawled out before them. Taking a moment to gather her thoughts, she delved back into the discussion of their position. “And our enemies?”

Daemon offered a blunt assessment regarding their prospects with the Lannisters. “We have no friends among the Lannisters. Tyland has served the Hand too long to turn against him. And Otto Hightower needs the Lannister fleet.”

Rhaenyra nodded in agreement, her eyes scanning the map before her, settling on the representation of the Westerlands. “Without the Lannisters, we are not like to find any allies west of the Golden Tooth.”

Daemon concurred with a simple, “No.”

The action that followed–placing a brass pawn near Casterly Rock to denote them as adversaries and another by Riverrun to symbolize an anticipated but unconfirmed allegiance–visually empathized the strategic landscape they were navigating. 

“The Riverlands are essential, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra caught the significance in Daemon’s tone, fully grasping the pivotal role the Riverlands could play not just for their strategic positioning but for the vitality of their cause itself. 

Lord Bartimos interjected with a palpable sense of urgency and frustration, his words cutting through the strategizing. “Pray forgive my bluntness, Your Grace, but talk of men is moot. Your cause owns a power that has not been seen in this world since the days of Old Valyria.”

At this, Rhaenyra exchanged a knowing look with her husband, a silent acknowledgement passing between them.

“Dragons,” Lord Bartimos declared, his statement hanging in the air with the weight of centuries. 

“The Greens have dragons as well–” Rhaenyra reminded him, her fingers absently twisting her ring with a sense of anxiousness, even as her tone was a mirror of Lord Bartimos exasperation. 

Daemon interjected with precise knowledge of their opposition’s capabilities. 

“They have three adults, by my count. We have Syrax, Caraxes, and Meleys. Your son’s have Vermax, Arrax, and Tyraxes. Baela has Moondancer.”

His enumeration served not just as a tally of their assets but as a reminder of the significant power at their disposal, and yet, it did little to assure Rhaenyra of their advantage. All they had were young dragons, most of whom were inexperienced in war and too vulnerable to send into battle. 

Rhaenyra sought to interject a note of caution into the conversation. “Daemon, none of our dragon’s have been to war.”

Undeterred, Daemon pressed on, his confidence undiminished. “There are also unclaimed dragons. Seasmoke still resides on Driftmark.”

The air seemed to thicken at Daemon’s mention of Seasmoke, the dragon once bonded to Laenor Velaryon. The prospect of another claiming Seasmoke was intricately tied to the fate of its rider–if Laenor was indeed still among the living, hidden away in the Free Cities, the dragon remained his alone. The mere utterance of Seasmoke’s name raised a tempest of questions regarding Laenor’s fate, a mystery that either outcome–his survival or his demise–filled Rhaenyra with an equal measure of apprehension. 

The secrets of that tumultuous night on Driftmark were closely guarded, known only to Rhaenyra and Daemon, and Laenor himself. The potential unraveling of those truths threatened to bring their carefully constructed world tumbling down, a calamity known only to them, veiled from the eyes of everyone present. 

“Vermithor and Silverwing dwell on the Dragonmont, still riderless,” Daemon persisted, undaunted by the caution in Rhaeyra’s gaze. “Then there are the three wild dragons, all of whom nest here–and the Shadow of Harrenhal, wild and unclaimed, nesting at Harrenhal.”

“And who is to ride them?” Rhaenyra asked. Despite the impressive count of dragons at their disposal, the issue of finding suitable riders remained a glaring gap in their strategy.

Daemon, however, displayed a bold confidence that seemed unshaken by such logistical concerns. “Dragonstone has thirteen to their four.”

His statement emphasized their numerical advantage without dwelling on the rider dilemma, and he continued, “I also have a score of eggs incubating in the Dragonmont.”

As Ser Erryk discreetly slipped away from the conversation, his departure was barely registered by Rhaenyra as Daemon’s strategic consideration continued to unfold. He picked up a brass marker, its placement on the map symbolizing the strategic importance of the place. 

“Now… we need a place to gather, a toehold large enough to house a sizable host,” Daemon said, moving around the table, he decisively positioned the marker at Harrenhal, reinforcing Jace’s earlier placement. “Here, at Harrenhal. We cut off the west, surround King’s Landing with dragons, and we could have every Green head mounted on spikes before the fucking moon turns.”

As the assembly reached a critical juncture, Ser Erryk interjected with an urgent message that immediately drew everyone’s attention. “Your Grace… a ship has been sighted off shore: a lone galleon, flying a banner of the three-headed green dragon.”

Without hesitation, Daemon sprang into action, his instincts seeming to take over. He swiftly moved to retrieve his sword from the table’s head, signaling his readiness to confront the threat, and as he spoke, his voice resonated with authority and command. “Alert the watchtowers. Sight the skies.”

Rhaenyra found herself momentarily sightlined by the rapid development, barely managing to voice her concerns as Daemon brushed past her, his movements brisk and determined. He was already on his way out of the great hall, accompanied by Ser Erryk, Ser Lorent and Ser Steffon, as well as Ser Brandon Piper, the Captain of the Guard. 

“I will engage with them on your behalf,” Daemon assured her, his tone resolute.

“Daemon…” Rhaenyra’s voice pierced the tension in the air as she hastened after him, her decision made. The echoing steps of her hurried pursuit filled the hall as she dismissed the council with a wave of her hand, determined to follow her husband. Daemon, however, didn’t halt his stride until her command grew more insistent. “Daemon, stop.”

He finally paused, allowing the men trailing him to proceed without them, affording the two a semblance of privacy. Daemon turned to face her, his movements deliberate as he secured his sword at his waist, his expression grave and expectant. 

Rhaenyra stood firmly before him, resolve etched into her features. “I will meet with them myself. I refuse to let them return to King’s Landing with any misconceptions of cowardice or weakness on my part. I must demonstrate my power unequivocally, and I will do so mounted on dragonback. There will be no doubt who is the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.”

A gentle smile broke through Daemon’s stoic facade, his eyes alight with admiration and pride. “As Your Grace commands.”

With a respectful nod, he acknowledged her decision, then proceeded after his men, as Rhaenyra remained standing where she was. She felt a twist of unease unfurl within her, the lingering discomfort from her recent birth making itself known with each step she took. Absently, her hand drifted to her now-empty curve of her abdomen, where a dull ache persisted, a somber reminder of the life she had carried.

With resolve steeling her every move, she made her way towards Dragonstone’s underbelly, navigating the winding staircase that descended into the castle’s cavernous depths. The journey was illuminated by flickering torches that cast dancing shadows across the rough-hewn stone walls. A mingling of smoke and sulfur hung heavily in the air, a prelude to the beasts that resided within the caves beneath Dragonstone castle. 

Entering one of the vast caverns, Rhaenyra crossed the threshold into a realm where dragons dwelled. Here too, torches lined the path, their warm glow reflecting off the resplendent golden scales of Syrax. The dragon raised her head in greeting, exhaling a breath that was both hot and welcoming, recognizing her rider. 

Syrax tilted her head as if to observe as Rhaenyra approached, the dragon emitting a soft, welcoming rumble that vibrated through the cavernous space. Rhaenyra’s hand slid along the dragon’s snout and she gently pressed her forehead to the dragon, allowing the dragon to nudge against her. She whispered a soft plea, “Tepagon nyke aōha kustikāne.”

Lend me your strength.

With another affectionate nudge, Syrax seemed to express her consent, her massive form shifting slightly to accommodate her rider’s touch. Rhaenyra’s fingers explored the dragon’s neck, tracing the deep valleys between Syrax’s scales, soaking in the heat that radiated from the magnificent beast. 

The Dragonkeeper that had attended to Syrax, an old man weathered by years of experience, approached cautiously, his grip firm on his spear. “Ziry ilimagho syt aōha ao hae lo ziry gryves aōha ōdres.Issi ao sure ao naejot sōvegon isse aōha rytsāri?”

She mourns for you as though she feels your pain. Are you sure you should fly in your condition?

Determined, Rhaenyra positioned herself at the ladder that ascended to Syrax’s back, her hold on the leather steadfast. “Kostan gryves se ōdres. Mazēzi ñuha pāletilla se mazēzi ñuha tala. Bona nyke daor gryves.”

I can bear the pain. They steal my crown and they hold my daughter. That I cannot bear.

Clutching the leather tightly, and with a concerted effort, Rhaenyra heaved herself up with a determined intake of breath, her body protesting as she eased into the saddle, each movement wrought with pain. It was as if she was sitting upon an open wound–and she was. Her cunt was still raw and unhealed from the ordeal of giving birth no more than a day prior. Her bones seemed to groan with a deep-seated ache, her muscles quivering under the strain. 

A swirl of nausea churned within her, compelling her to momentarily shut her eyes in a silent plea for respite. She steadied herself, securing the tether snugly around her waist and firmly grasping the saddle’s handles, preparing to confront the ordeal with unwavering resolve. 

“Rȳbagon,” She commanded the dragon. “Rȳbās. Tepagon nyke aōha kustikāne se ivestragī nyke sagon mijegon zūgagon. Ivestragī īlva urnēptre zirȳ īlva perzys ēza daor zaltan hen.”

Listen. Obey. Lend me your strength and make me fearless. Le us show them our fire has not diminished. 

“Jikagon,” Rhaenyra directed, her voice commanding despite the pain. 

Syrax responded with a deep, resonant growl, her massive claws digging into the earth, propelling them forward. They advanced towards the mouth of the cave, where the scent of the sea mingled with the dust swirled by Syrax’s movements. Each step of the dragon sent shivers up Rhaenyra’s spine, her body tensing with every jolt. Clinging to the saddle, she felt every muscle in her body cry out in protest. The ache in her pelvis was a cruel reminder, each movement aggravating her wounded flesh. 

Nevertheless, she swallowed the pain, and ordered, “Sōvegon, Syraks!”

Responding with a powerful surge, Syrax unfurled her vast wings, catching the rising thermals, her powerful beats propelling them upward. The wind tangled Rhaenyra’s hair, intertwining with the expanse of freedom that flight afforded, momentarily easing her discomfort.

The world unfolded beneath her, the vast expanse of the sea stretching out, where the relentless waves embraced the rocks in a frothy caress, and the heavens stretched wide, adorned with streaks of clouds. The mingling of sea spray and crisp air filled her senses, and she breathed it in greedily. Syrax sore through the sky, letting her tail trace the surface of the water before ascending higher, beating her wings. Rhaenyra’s heart matched the rhythm of Syrax’s wings, pulsating with a shared vigor–a thrill known only to dragonriders.

Together, they soared above Dragonstone, embracing a momentary escape from the troubles below. As they ascended over the walls, the watchful eyes of the newly stationed men–brought by the lords that had arrived while she was abed–followed their ascent, awestruck by the sight of dragon and rider in flight. 

Rhaenyra directed Syrax to the castle’s battlements, between the twin watchtowers. They landed with a loud thud, sending a few guards sprawling on the floor in an attempt to avoid the dragon. Syrax let out a huff, shaking her head. With keen eyes, Rhaenyra surveyed the approach from the harbor, noting the group of men positioned at the landing where the path narrowed towards the harbor gates, effectively controlling access from the docks to the castle. The position atop the battlements allowed her a comprehensive view of the harbor and the solitary galleon docked within, its sails neatly furled, as a delegation made its way towards where Daemon stood. 

As the delegation halted before Daemon, Rhaenyra tightened her grip on the saddle, steeling herself for the ascent. At her command, the air trembled with the roar of Syrax, a sound that echoed across the expanse, a declaration of their might. They soared, slicing through the skies to sweep dramatically over the delegation, casting imposing shadows that danced mockingly around the startled men. Daemon did not flinch, instead his eyes seemed to follow her with pride and vivid amusement. 

Circling back, they descended majestically, directly over the delegation, inciting a wave of fear and panic, the men instinctively recoiling. 

With a command as fierce as the beast itself, Syrax landed upon the narrow path, unleashing a roar that pierced the very air, a potent reminder of the might that Rhaenyra wielded. Positioned high above them, she observed the delegation with a narrowed gaze, a smirk playing on her lips as she reveled in their fear. Her eyes locked onto Gwayne Hightower, whose posture remained defiant but apprehensive.

Rhaenyra gracefully touched down upon the ground, her boots making a definitive connection with the sturdy, unwavering stone beneath her. She expertly concealed any hint of a grimace beneath a mask of stone. Determined not to express even the slightest hint of her unease or weakness, she turned to confront the assembly, maintaining an upright posture and an elevated chin. With an air that commanded attention, she cut through the crowd of traitors as she made her way towards her husband. As she strode past Ser Gwayne Hightower, she caught a glimpse of the subtle yet unmistakable strain that marred his countenance–a frown settling on his features. 

Positioning herself beside her husband, she and Daemon’s gazes briefly locked, communicating an unspoken accord before she shifted her attention to the waiting party. Ser Gwayne Hightower seemed nonchalant–though there remained a note of unease to him as Syrax emitted a growl behind him. His hand rested casually on the pommel of his sword, the other hooked in his belt, his armor proudly displaying the Hightower sigil–a tower topped with flames. The green of his cloak fluttered in the breeze, subtly suggesting his allegiance lay more with his own house than with her estranged half-brother that was supposed to be his king. 

The air hung heavily with tense anticipation, the distant crash of waves and the whistle of wind through the narrow path providing a heavy setting to the silence. Above, the sun marked its zenith, crasting a harsh light over them as the day began its slow tilt towards evening. 

“Princess Rhaenyra,” Ser Gwayne commenced, his head bowing slightly in a semblance of respect, yet the iciness in his eyes hinted at a familiar condescension–one that reminded Rhaenyra of his father.

“It is Queen Rhaenyra now,” she corrected him sharply, her voice cutting through the air like steel. “And you all stand as traitors to the realm.”

The tension in the air thickened as Rhaenyra fixed them with a penetrating stare, the nail of her thumb digging into the flesh of her palm in an effort to maintain her composure. “You are in possession of my daughter.”

Gwayne acknowledged with a simple, “Indeed.”

A momentary flicker of vulnerability crossed Rhaenyra’s face as she sought out Daemon’s gaze, seeking a sliver of reassurance, before her eyes settled back onto Gwayne. Drawing upon a deep reserve of strength, she managed to keep her voice even, “And how is she?”

“She fares well, Princess,” Ser Gwayne responded, his demeanor serious yet imbued with a hint of compassion. “We ensure she receives all the care and honor befitting her status.”

“She is well? Truly?” The question from Rhaenyra came again, laden with a mother’s concern seeking unequivocal assurance of her child’s well-being. A knot of apprehension wound its way through Rhaenyra’s core at the thought of her daughter being wielded as a pawn. She ached for the comfort of her daughter’s company, to envelop her in a protective hug, ensuring her safety within the embrace of her arms. The desire to have her daughter by her side, safe and sound, was overwhelming.

Rhaenyra’s hand drifted unconsciously to the hollow curve of her stomach, touching upon the deep-seated emptiness inside her. The absence was palpable, a silent echo of what had been lost. In her mind, there lingered the hope, fragile yet persistent, that reclaiming her daughter might somehow heal the jagged tear in her heart left by the loss of her second daughter. 

At this, a sincere smile broke across Ser Gwayne’s features, his brows lifting in a gesture of empathy and understanding. “Indeed, she is, Princess. She remains unharmed, and I believe, quite hopeful. She is resilient and clever. You needn’t worry so much for her.”

How could she not be consumed by worry? She was, first and foremost, a mother, and her daughter was being held captive. Yet, within Gwayne’s response, there lay a thin thread of comfort, a faint hint of solace that managed to penetrate the dense cloud of her anxiety. 

“I demand the return of my daughter,” Rhaenyra declared, her tone laced with both authority and desperation. 

Gwayne met her insistence with a measured response. “The authority to grant that request does not lie with me. Nor am I sure your daughter would return to you should she be granted the freedom to do so.”

The implication was clear and it jabbed between Rhaenyra’s ribs. She fixed him with a piercing look, her hand rubbing against the ache in her belly. 

A thin smile crossed Ser Gwayne’s face as he slightly inclined his head, his demeanor cool and unmoved by the threat in her voice. “I come at the behest of the Dowager Queen Alicent, mother of King Aegon, Second of His Name, Lord and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms…”

Rhaenyra’s stare grew icier, more intense.

“King Aegon Targaryen, Second of His Name–”

“Must you recite the pretender’s title each time his name is uttered?” Daemon interjected, visibly annoyed by the needless formalities afforded to a usurper. His stance was relaxed yet poised, signaling a lack of threat but readiness–one hand rested on the pommel of his sword while the other rested on the pommel of his dagger. He let out an exasperated breath, “Are you here at the behest of my brother’s widow or his usurper cunt of a son? Which is it?”

The smile that Ser Gwayne offered in response was as frigid as his gaze, devoid of any warmth–truly his father’s son. “My presence is at the behest of both the Dowager Queen and her son, the King… who, in his wisdom and desire for peace, is offering terms.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes met Daemon’s, a silent exchange passing between them.

“Acknowledge Aegon as king and swear obeisance before the Iron Throne,” Ser Gwayne stated, outlining the conditions for her surrender. “In exchange, His Grace will confirm your possession of Dragonstone. It will pass to your trueborn son, Jacaerys, upon your death. Lucerys will be confirmed as the legitimate heir to Driftmark and all the lands and holdings of House Velaryon.”

Rhaenyra’s fingers unconsciously played with her ring, considering the offer and its implications. It seemed the Hightowers were willing to acknowledge the legitimacy of her eldest children, affirming their rights to their inheritances–offering it up as though they weren’t already theirs to begin with. But in the eyes of the Hightowers, they were generous terms, it would seem. A spark of incredulousness formed within her–would it be enough to erase the stains of illegitimacy they had already cast upon them?

“Your sons by Prince Daemon will also be given places of high honor at court: Aegon the Younger as the King’s squire, Viserys as his cupbearer,” Gwayne added, detailing what else they stood to gain. “Finally, the King, in his good grace, will pardon any knight or lord who conspired against his ascent.”

Daemon’s response was laced with contempt as he spat out, “I would rather feed my sons to the dragons than have them carry shields and cups for your drunken, usurper cunt of a king.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze flickered between her husband’s vehement sneer and Ser Gwayne’s provoking response. She noted Ser Gwayne’s demeanor, his words meticulously chosen, each serving as a challenge to her claim. 

“Aegon Targaryen sits the Iron Throne,” Gwayne declared with an imposing certainty, each word ringing with the weight of convictions–each word an indictment against her. “He wears the Conqueror’s crown, wields the Conqueror’s sword, has the Conqueror’s name. He was anointed by a septon of the Faith before the eyes of thousands… Every symbol of legitimacy belongs to him.” 

Daemon scoffed, his tone laced with disdain as he retorted, “Yet, for all his regalia, he is not Aegon the Conqueror–he is Aegon the Usurper. He is merely a puppet, a mere shadow of the figure you so desperately try to conjure, manipulated by your father’s hands.”

Ser Gwayne’s smile was thin, revealing nothing but a cold amusement. “And then there is Stark, Tully, Baratheon. Houses that have also received, and are at present, considering generous terms from their king.”

Rhaenyra sensed Daemon’s intense stare and locked eyes with him. His face, a silent query, suggested a swift conclusion to this pretense of diplomacy by severing Gwayne’s head from his shoulders. However, with a slight shake of her head, Rhaenyra signaled her disapproval for such drastic measures. 

“Stark, Tully, and Baratheon all swore to me when King Viserys named me his heir,” she confronted Gwayne with unwavering resolve, emphasizing the sacred oaths of loyalty and obedience that had once been sworn to her. “You stand before me not as honorable men but as betrayers of your word, forsaking the very oaths you swore.”

Gwayne, unfazed, responded with icy composure, “Stale oaths will not put you on the Iron Throne, Princess. The succession changed the day your father sired a son. It is regrettable that you and he were the last to see the truth of it.”

Anger surged within Rhaenyra, a storm of resentment and fury sparked by his dismissive tone and the undercurrent of belittlement that weaved through his words. “You and your house are fucking traitors and as are all who stand with you. How long did my father uphold my position as his chosen heir? For how many years did his resolve never waver? How often and steadfastly did he proclaim me the true successor to the Iron Throne?”

Rhaenyra advanced, her bearing regal and undaunted, proclaiming her sovereignty. “I stand as the true Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and it is under my authority that I will dictate the terms of your surrender.”

Behind her, Daemon’s presence was palpable, an extension of her own will. His movements were those of a predator in wait, his readiness palpable in the air, adding a layer of imminent threat that tightened the grip of the men on their weapons, wary of the impending action from the formidable Rogue Prince. 

“With graciousness, I offer a pardon to all who have taken part in the usurpation of my crown,” Rhaenyra announced, her gaze sweeping over those aligned with Gwayne Hightower, then fixing intently upon him. “For his years of service to King Viserys your father will be afforded the courtesy of retiring his position as Hand of the King and he will be allowed to spend the remainder of his days in Old Town. This clemency will be extended to my father’s widow too, Queen Alicent.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze remained coldly on Gwayne, letting her words settle in. He seemed unsettled, his eyes shifting between her and Daemon, who maintained his stance as a relentless guardian, pacing with a predatory grace behind her. “As for my half-brothers and my sweet sister Helaena, they have been led astray by the council of ambitious men. I invite them to come here, to Dragonstone, to bend the knee and seek my forgiveness. In return, I offer them my mercy and a place within my grace.”

The proposal hung in the air like morning mist, and while it was a royal decree, it held a genuine offer of reconciliation. If her brothers were to accept her as their Queen, she would allow them to enjoy the liberties befitting princes, free to pursue their own paths in life. And as for her sweet half-sister, Helaena, she wanted to see her prosper.

Gwayne’s reaction was telling; he sighed, a gesture tinged with resignation or perhaps a calculated semblance of it, as he cautiously retrieved an aged piece of parchment from his belt. 

Daemon, ever watchful, swiftly snatched the parchment from Gwayne’s extended hand. With an urgency driven by impatience, he unfolded to reveal a page torn from a book. Holding it aloft, his expression twisted into an accusatory scowl, seemingly annoyed by the triviality of what was in his hand as it held no meaning to him. “What the fuck is this?”

A frown settled on Rhaenyra’s face as she took in the sight of the parchment held by her husband. Gently, she took the page from him, her fingers treating the aged parchment with utmost care. As she recognized the image upon the page, a heavy realization dawned on her, settling in her stomach like a weighty stone. The parchment displayed an illustration of Princess Nymeria’s historic voyage across the Narrow Sea, annotated with descriptive text. The wear pattern on the parchment spoke of its frequent contemplation, suggesting a deeper significance or a cherished sentiment attached to it–Rhaenyra felt that attachment tug at her, felt the weight of its significance.  

She was momentarily stricken, her gaze locked on the parchment as a whirlwind of emotions churned within her. The revelation brought a complex tapestry of feelings to surface, intertwining bitterness with sorrow, anger with a poignant sense of what used to be and what might have been. A lump swelled in her throat, and she fought against the tears that threatened to surface, recognizing the profound implications of this gesture. 

“The Dowager Queen Alicent has not forgotten the love and bond you once shared,” Gwayne offered gently, his voice carrying an undertone of caution and perhaps, a note of reconciliation–both of which were overt in its manipulation. “It is her wish that you may find some semblance of it once again. No blood need be shed over this, and the realm may remain at peace.”

Daemon let out a derisive scoff, his voice dripping with contempt. “You claim no need for bloodshed, yet what of the blood you have already shed? Lord Beesbury, Lord Caswell? Have you not shed their blood?”

Ser Gwayne’s expression tightened, his eyes cold as ice. “They were traitors–”

“Traitors?” Daemon repeated mockingly. “For supporting the legitimate claim to the throne? It appears the real treachery lies with you. Shall we extend to you the same judgment you passed on them?”

Rhaenyra raised a hand, silencing Daemon with a gesture, her gaze ablaze with a fierce determination. “Alicent kept this?”

“Indeed, she did,” Gwayne answered, refocusing his attention on her. 

“And she gave you this?”

He nodded. 

In that moment, Rhaenyra recognized the gesture for what it was–a desperate plea from someone who once held a place in her heart, imploring her to flee as Princess Nymeria once did, seeking sanctuary far away. Yet, she also saw it as a tactic, an attempt to sway her into submission under the guise of mercy. 

Holding the parchment aloft, Rhaenyra declared, “This holds no meaning to me anymore.” 

Even as the words left her lips, Rhaenyra felt the sting of tears threatening to breach her resolve, a tightness constricting her throat, and a profound ache wringing her heart over a friendship long lost. The impact the parchment had on her was undeniable, yet she masked her sorrow with anger. Ripping the parchment in two, it seemed to Rhaenyra as though she was also rending a part of herself, a fragment still clinging to the cherished past they shared as friends. 

“Maybe this will carry more weight, then,” Ser Gwayne said, reaching beneath his armor to produce another piece of folded parchment. “Before I left King’s Landing, your daughter tasked me with delivering you this message…” 

He presented a sealed letter, its folds secured with a wax emblem bearing the sigil of the Hand of the King. Rhaenyra accepted the letter, her gaze fixed upon the emblem as a surge of emotion threatened to breach her composure–tears prickling cruelly behind her eyes. She felt an intense pang of sorrow and fear clutch her heart, sending waves of pain radiating through her, constricting her breaths and anchoring a heavy weight within her chest. 

“Princess Daenera wanted me to remind you that she is still your daughter…” His words weren’t intended as a solace but served as a sharp reminder of her daughter’s precarious situation. This acknowledgement only amplified the sensation of tightness enveloping her chest, making the burden she carried heavier. 

Rhaenyra needn’t be reminded that Daenera was her daughter–it was a truth she felt as sharply as a blade grazing her flesh, felt as acutely as the absence of a limb. The reminder bore an edge of cruelty, serving to further hone the blade that was pressed against her skin. Syrax, deeply attuned to Rhaenyra’s inner turmoil, unleashed a fearsome roar that sliced through the air, sending a palpable wave of force through the vicinity. The men nearest to her were caught off guard by the dragon’s fury and instinctively recoiled, staggering backward with terror painted on their faces. 

Despite the intimidating roar from Syrax, Gwayne appeared unshaken, though there was a noticeable widening of his eyes and a certain tightness in his features that betrayed his unease. “Her love for you is immense, and she fears what will become of her should you decline our terms of your surrender.”

His words only seemed to drive the imagined blade deeper, letting it slip between her ribs, twisting into her heart and spreading agony throughout her being, reverberating in the emptiness of the loss of her second daughter. 

Daemon’s reaction was a guttural sneer laden with venom, “Should any harm befall her, I swear, each and every one of you will become fodder for my dragon.”

Gwayne remained unmoved by Daemon’s fury, his focus unswervingly on Rhaenyra. This only seemed to fuel Daemon’s wrath as he positioned himself protectively near his wife, his hand fast on the hilt of his sword.

“And if that one-eyed cunt you call nephew lays a hand on her, I will personally feed him his remaining eye before splitting him open from cock to throat,” he sneered. 

Rhaenyra’s gaze lingered on the letter she held, hesitant to break the seal and unveil its contents. It was only when her husband’s voice, laced with threats, cut through the air that she lifted her gaze to search his face. In his eyes, she saw the fierce promise of retaliation should any harm befall her daughter. This display of wrath brought her an unexpected solace, revealing the depth of his protective instincts–even amidst his suspicions of her possible betrayal. 

“We have no intention of causing her harm,” Gwayne assured, his words met by Daemon’s reproachful huff. “Princess Daenera wishes for your presence at her wedding… A moment of joy she hopes to share with her family, as you were unable to share her joy at her first wedding…”

Rhaenyra felt the bitter sting of his words.

“It is her desire that you accept the terms as I have presented them, and acknowledge Aegon, Second of His Name, as your King and the legitimate ruler of the Seven Kingdoms,” Gwayne continued. “She hopes you will agree to these conditions, for her sake and for the realms peace and stability.”

These words, intended to pacify, hung in the air–laden with the weight of the decisions yet made and the silent plea of a daughter caught in the middle of the political machinations. 

The gentle, seemingly sincere tone of Gwayne’s voice, only intensified Rhaenyra’s disquiet. Tears threatened to surface as she lifted her gaze to finally meet his, feeling an acute pain with each labored inhalation. It was as if a blade had been wedged between her ribs, its sharp point mercilessly piercing her heart with every breath, twisting with calculated cruelty. She fought against the tears, determined not to let them fall in front of the Hightower delegation. 

“In the light of your daughter’s well-being, the inheritance of your sons, and for the peace and prosperity of the realm, I implore you to agree to these terms and put an end to the division of House Targaryen…” Gwayne concluded, his voice carrying the weight of the decision Rhaenyra stood before. “Your daughter, as well as the King, awaits your answer.”

Daemon’s response was immediate and venomous, his position on the matter clear, “The usurper cunt might have his answer now, stuffed in his uncle’s mouth along with his shriveled cock. Let’s end this mummer's farce…”

The sharp sound of steel unsheathing sliced through the tension, as Daemon drew Dark Sister with a swift, fluid motion, the blade glinting with deadly intent as he levied it against Gwayne Hightower–a man he had always despised. He was poised for combat, as were all the other men as they drew their blades. “Ser Erryk, bring me Ser Hightower so I may take the pleasure myself.���

Syrax unleashed another roar, towering and spreading her wings wide in a display of intimidation, her snarls directed at the men in front of her. Rhaenyra felt the power of her dragon’s roar reverberate within her, drawing upon its raw energy to fortify her resolve. With the letter and the torn page gripped tightly in her hands, she set her jaw firmly and commanded Daemon to stand down with a simple, “No.”

She fixed Daemon with a piercing gaze that silently implored him to stand down. Their gazes locked, with Daemon’s head canting slightly, a look of discontent marking his gestures as if questioning her certainty. In response, Rhaenyra’s gaze hardened, conveying her decision with an unequivocal turn of her head. With a sigh tinged with frustration and a clear sense of disappointment, Daemon reluctantly lowered his weapon. 

Turning her attention back to Ser Gwayne Hightower, Rhaenyra’s demeanor was once again composed, the tempest within her kept in control. “King’s Landing will have my answer on the morrow.”

Gwayne took a step back, offering a bow, while outwardly respectful, couldn’t fully mask the calculating coldness in his gaze–a trait he had unmistakably inherited from his father.

“Princess…” He uttered, with a tone that held more than mere acknowledgement and then he turned to rejoin his men, taking the lead. His departure was not without a palpable tension, the soldiers shifting restlessly under the weight of Syrax’s thunderous roar. Syrax remained in their path, surveying them with her fiery gaze, forcing the men to halt their retreat. Gwayne cast a wary glance back towards Rhaenyra, his eyes fraught with a mix of uncertainty and apprehension–seeming to question her intentions, almost as if he feared a sudden reversal of her forbearance. 

Rhaenyra maintained her composure, her breath controlled and steady as she lifted her gaze to Syrax. As if understanding her will, Syrax ascended into the air with a resonant roar, her wings unfurling with such might that the cloak of the Green delegation fluttered violently in her wake. Syrax soared, gracefully circling above the restless sea and rocky outcrops, while the delegation retreated towards the dock, threading through the gateway leading to the harbor. Once they vanished from view, Syrax returned to land, taking up the same position on the bridge as she had before, emitting a huff. 

Rhaenyra’s voice carried a blend of inquiry and frustration as she asked, “What transpired with Lord Beesbury and Lord Caswell?”

Daemon studied her for a moment, his expression retaining a sliver of incredulity. “A message arrived from one of my contacts within the City Watch. It informed us of Beesbury and Caswell’s demise.”

“And when did you receive this news?” Rhaenyra pressed, her voice now edged with a clear strain of criticism, signaling her displeasure at being once again ill informed on matters pertaining to her as queen. 

“It arrived only as we left,” Daemon disclosed, maintaining a calm demeanor. “Lord Beesbury, it seems, did not survive the council meeting, and Lord Caswell was hanged for treason.” He then reached beneath his belt, retrieving a neatly folded note. Extending it towards her, he added, “The message mentions your daughter as well.”

Rhaenyra accepted the letter, holding both the torn page and the letter from her daughter, as she carefully unfolded this new piece of parchment. As her gaze moved across the inked words, her pulse quickened, a tumult of emotions swirling within her.

In the wake of the King’s passing, a council convened at dawn, with all key figures present. The events within the council chamber remain unknown, but what we do know is that Lord Lyman did not leave the chambers alive.

Rhaenyra absorbed the contents of the letter, her expression darkening as Daemon elaborated the council’s betrayal, watching her closely. “It appears Lord Beesbury was the first casualty of their usurpation.”

“Lord Lyman was ever loyal to my father,” Rhaenyra reflected, her mind drifting back to her youth. She recalled a council session her father had insisted she attend, despite objections from his advisors. Seated on her father’s knee, young and observant, she had scribbled on a scrap of parchment provided by Lord Lyman from his book. “He would never support Aegon’s claim over mine. He knew my father’s heart better than any of them.”

“They murdered him,” Daemon said, and there was a fire in his eyes.

Disbelief and exasperation shaded her voice as she said, “And Criston has been appointed Lord Commander…”

Daemon’s contempt was palpable. “He makes a mockery of the title. Even rats have more honor than him.”

Lord Commander Westerling has since vanished from the capital, his fate uncertain, and Ser Criston Cole has ascended to his role. Any who resisted pledging allegiance to Aegon has been detained, pending charges of treason. Lord Caswell, denied the right to trial, has been hung, alongside two of Princess Daenera’s guards, Ser Kevan Mertyns and Ser Sithric Greenfield. The maid, Joyce Garner, also met her end, while the rest of the Princesses men have been imprisoned in the dungeon.

“Lord Caswell’s allegiance to my right to the throne has always been unwavering,” Rhaenyra remarked, her disbelief evident as she digested the grim news of his fate. Already, a handful of men had been killed over this dispute. “Daenera herself has penned letters acknowledging his support… and her guards…”

Daemon interjected softly, “They were honorable men who died for their Queen.”

“And Joyce…” Rhaenyra murmured, shaking her head. The thought of her daughter’s suffering was almost too much to bear. Joyce had been a constant presence, a trusted confidante, and someone Rhaenyra had relied upon deeply for the care and protection of her daughter. 

She felt his attentive gaze on her as she absorbed the contents of the letter, her heartbeat echoing her distress, one hand instinctively resting on the aching expanse of her abdomen, the ache seeming to pulsate along with the beat of her heart. 

The princess, however, remains in high spirits despite her circumstances. She is kept in comfort, and is, by all accounts, well. She is allowed to move wherever she pleases through the ground of the Red Keep, though she is never left alone. She is under strict surveillance. Even so, she spends her days standing vigil over her men. 

“Daenera remains unharmed…” Rhaenyra whispered, a measure of relief softening the tension within her at the news of her daughter’s welfare. Yet, this assurance did little to quell her yearning to embrace her daughter closely, to offer comfort and protection. 

“Holding vigil for Caswell and her men,” Daemon observed, a hint of admiration in his voice. “No doubt to the annoyance of the Hightowers.”

Daemon shifted his stance, his hand curling around the hilt of his sword, “We should have made a bolder statement. Otto Hightower ought to have received his son’s head as our reply.”

“I will not break convention and have you kill an envoy. It is not a precedent I wish to set,” Rhaenyra countered with stern resolve. “This is not the manner in which I intend to begin my reign.”

With an exhale of exasperation, Daemon’s demeanor remained hard and unyielding, his critique sharp. “Few successions have been bloodless. Yours was never going to be. Yielding to their demands would not be the start of your rule, but the end of it–and be assured, it will not be bloodless.”

“They come here in good faith to–”

Daemon interjected with a scoff, “‘Good faith’? They have stolen your throne!”

“Permitting the execution of an envoy would have started a war,” Rhaenyra responded with a sharpness to her voice, carefully modulated to ensure their exchange remained somewhat private. She did not appreciate Daemon opposing her so openly in front of their men, nor did she appreciate his disregard for convention and what it would mean to break it. 

“The war has already started,” Daemon contested, his stance unyielding. 

“Then should it not fall upon me to quell it before it costs us any more?” Rhaenyra retorted, her gaze fierce, her hand resting against her stomach. 

He scrutinized her with an intensity that bore his frustration and disapproval, his gaze as sharp as the sword at his hip. “You cannot seriously be contemplating their offer.”

“Daemon, they have my daughter,” Rhaenyra said, her voice laced with a desperation born of maternal fear–and she wished she could strip her voice of it. Her grip tightened around the letter, it’s touch almost scalding in her hand–unopened and filled with unread words, yet still potent in its very existence. “My only daughter. I cannot–I will not–risk her safety for the ambition of a crown. The terms they offer are good–”

“It’s a farce!” He spat out, his disdain palpable. “They offer crumbs and call it a feast. They mock you by ‘granting’ what is already yours to hold. And your sons, they mean to award them with the inheritances that are already theirs.” He closed the distance between them, his stance imposing, his fury as tangible as the flames of a dragon’s breath. “And our sons… They mean to have them bear cups and shields for that drunken cunt. How do you think they will treat them? Hmm? They will be no more than hostages–if they even live.” His eyes burned with rage. “To accept these terms is to sign our own death warrants–all of us. The moment you bend the knee to the usurper cunt of a king, our fates are sealed. Otto Hightower will not allow any claimant to the throne to live–for men to rally behind.”

Rhaenyra’s own ire surged as Daemon’s words lashed at her, her gaze shifting away, unable to face the piercing truth in his eyes. “I don’t believe Alicent–”

“Don’t fool yourself into believing she harbors any kindness for you. She has a viper for a father and she is sure to have the same venom,” Daemon interjected harshly. “Do not forget what she has put you through. Your father might have yielded to their demands. Do not make his mistakes. Where is your fire?”

Her gaze whipped back to him, fierce and defiant. “They have Daenera.”

“And if you cede to their demands, then you risk the lives of your other children.” The implication of what he was saying seemed to crackle in the air like thunder.

“And if it was your daughter? Would you dismiss her so easily?” Rhaenyra challenged, her voice sharp, slicing through the tension between them. Daemon’s response was a silent, penetrative look that mingled revulsion at her seeming capitulation with his own tempest of anger. 

Rhaenyra’s voice was firm as she continued, “I understand your disappointment in Daenera, and I know you fear she has aligned with the Greens. But she is still my daughter. She was prepared to sacrifice herself to prevent this conflict–and we should take that into account. She was ready to sacrifice herself for us, Daemon. That is not something a traitor would have done…”

Daemon’s fingers tapped irritably against the pommel of his sword, his frustration palpable in the tight set of his jaw. He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling heavily before he spoke. 

“Daenera might not be a traitor,” he acknowledged, each word strained like a tightly drawn bow. “And I genuinely hope she isn’t, but I am concerned that her love for that one-eyed cunt may change that–and I’m concerned that your love for her will cloud your judgment.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed. 

“That letter will suggest surrender, and you won’t find any true sentiments of hers in it… If you surrender for the sake of your daughter it could cost you everything else.” His tone was firm, yet there was a gentle quality to it–like that of the flat softness of a blade. “You must not bend the knee, Rhaenyra. Not even for your daughter.”

“My decisions must reflect what is best for our family and the realm.”

With a heavy pause, Daemon stood back, staring at her before he averted his gaze, a gesture so charged with finality and repulsion that Rhaenyra felt as though a wave of icy water crashed over her. Turning away, he began his departure, his movements slicing through the silent, watchful crowd of their guard. They parted for him as he walked through them, enveloped in his own storm of fury. 

Rhaenyra’s gaze lingered on the torn page and letters she held, carefully tucking them into a hidden pocket within her bodice–a safeguard to ensure their security. Her eyes briefly connected with Syrax’s, witnessing the dragon’s powerful wings flap before she soared into the sky, leaving Rhaenyra to undertake the journey back on foot. Perhaps this was a mercy; she doubted her ability to endure the saddle once more. 

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Rhaenyra gently touched the area of discomfort in her lower abdomen. The pain was acute, reminiscent of labor, yet her womb was empty–the hollowness aching. With each step, the fabric of her underclothes clung uncomfortably to her skin, exacerbating her discomfort. Her pace was slow, not by choice but necessity, every muscle in her body protesting the movements. 

“My Queen…” Ser Erryk Cargyll’s voice broke through her focus, his hand poised near her lower back in a gesture of support. As she paused, resting her hand against the cool, rough texture of the bridge’s wall, the contrast between the stone’s solidity and her own fragile state became apparent. 

Rhaenyra dismissed Ser Erryk’s concern with a shake of her head, clenching her jaw tightly to combat the waves of nausea and pain engulfing her. With sheer determination, she walked the remaining distance to the castle gates, her every movement through the courtyard and into the castle’s vast interior a testament to her will. The effort to maintain a composed exterior did little to ease the discomfort radiating along her spine and the acute, burning sensation that plagued her with every step. 

Upon entering her privat quarters, Rhaenyra found Lady Elinda Massey at the settee, carefully folding a blanket. Startled by Rhaenyra’s sudden appearance, Elinda’s hands paused, her expression shifting to concern as she abandoned her task and hurried over. “Your Grace!”

Rhaenyra, too overwhelmed to respond, staggered towards the chamber pot and was soon gripped by a bout of nausea, her stomach heaving as the stress of recent events took its physical toll. As she succumbed to the convulsions, tears mingled with her distress, clouding her sight and dampening her cheeks. 

Elinda immediately sprang into action, her voice laced with urgency as she comforted Rhaenyra. Her hands traced soothing circles across her back, trying to offer some relief amidst the tumult of her queen’s suffering. “I’ll send for the maester immediately.”

Without a word, Rhaenyra made her way to the chamber pot, succumbing to the urge to vomit, her body wracked with convulsions as tears blurred her vision. The chill of a shudder went down the weary muscles of her spine.

In the solitude of her chambers, Rhaenyra composed herself as Lady Elinda scurried off to summon assistance. With a trembling hand, she brushed away any remnants of tears from her cheeks, the bitter taste of bile souring her mouth. She winced at the sight of the regurgitated bread and cheese in the chamberpot–the scant breakfast she had managed to stomach earlier.

Methodically, she retrieved the papers she had tucked into her bodice, spreading them carefully across the surface of the dressing table. Her fingers clung to the table’s edge, seeking its stability. Lifting her eyes to meet her own reflection in the mirror, Rhaenyra faced the weary visage that stared back at her. The strain of the day’s revelations was etched deeply into her features, revealing the heavy burden of her royal duties and personal sorrows.

Her complexion remained pallid, a fine layer of perspiration glossing her skin, while the wind had left her hair disheveled and her eyes reflecting the depth of her fatigue and distress–there remained a haunted look to her weariness. With hands that trembled slightly, she reached up to unburden herself of the crown that rested heavily upon her head, setting aside the emblem of her authority and heritage. 

The crown of Jaehaerys was a marvel of craftsmanship, combining gold and silver in a delicate yet imposing design. The front was adorned with the sigil of House Targaryen, the formidable three-headed dragon, symbolizing her lineage’s power and her claim. Encircling the band were the sigils of the Great Houses that had all bend the knee of Aegon the Conqueror–Houses Stark, Arryn, Tyrell, Tully, Baratheon, and Lannister. 

Every one of them had knelt before her, swearing fealty with their houses’ strength and unwavering loyalty. Now, with the shadow of possible war stretching across the realm and the specter of turmoil beckoning, she wondered the steadfastness of their support. 

As the crown lay beside her, a silent question hung in the air, mirrored in her weary gaze: How many of these houses would stand beside her in the trials to come? And would it be worth it laying waste to the realm for her to sit the Iron Throne?

“Help me with this,” Rhaenyra’s voice was hoarse with weariness as she fumbled with the fastening of her cloak, her hands trembling. 

Elinda, ever attentive and seasoned in her role as lady-in-waiting, approached with gentle haste. With practiced hands, she eased the cloak from Rhaenyra’s shoulders, allowing the heavy, dark material to rest over the back of a chair. She then proceeded to assist her with her dress, carefully undoing the fastenings of the gown, the rich fabric whispering against itself as it was opened and slid down to pool at her feet. Following this, the inner layer was also removed, leaving Rhaenyra in her undergarments–a chemise of fine cotton and breeches, both stained with blood and clinging uncomfortably to her skin.

Seeking a moment’s respite, Rhaenyra moved towards a chair set before the warmth of the hearth. Elinda was quick to cushion the seat with a soft pillow, before Rhaenyra lowered herself, easing down on it, a sound of discomfort falling from her lips. 

The distinct sound of Maester Gerardys’s approach was heralded by the gentle clinking of his maester’s chains, a sound that carried the weight of his office and expertise. He entered the chamber with a furrowed brow, his expression etched with concern as he navigated the room to place his medical satchel upon the table adjacent to Rhaenyra. In tandem, Elinda approached, bearing a basin filled with steaming water. With care, she set it beside the maester’s bag, then soaked a cloth in the warm water, gently pressing it against Rhaenyra’s damp forehead.

“Your Grace,” Maester Gerardys gently approached her, settling himself on the stool positioned in front of her. His tone was laced with concern, his eyes settling on the blood on her undergarments. “You’ve pushed yourself beyond your limits, you should not exert yourself in such a manner.” 

The stool scratched loudly against the floor as he moved closer. “Please, Your Grace, if you will…”

Obligingly, Rhaenyra shifted closer to the edge of the chair, angling her hips and spreading her legs as she gathered the hem of her chemise to grant the maester access to her injuries. Her gaze lingered on the deepening frown of worry that marred the maesters forehead as he assessed her. 

His eyes flickered up to her, his head shaking softly as he chided at her, “You shouldn’t have ridden–and a dragon at that. You’ve exerted too much pressure and a stitch has come loose. It is imperative that I cleanse the wound before applying a new stitch to prevent any further complications and let the tear heal faster…”

Rhaenyra pressed her thumb to the inner corner of her eye, making a dismissive sound, and with a faint, weary nod, her gaze drifted to the ceiling, her eyes tracing the intricate patterns etched in the stone as Maester Gerardys rummaged through his satchel. TThe soft clatter of glass vials and the gentle clinking of bottles resonated in the quiet room as he searched for the necessary instruments. 

“You might find relief in some milk of the poppy,” Maester Gerardys suggested, his voice a blend of compassion and professional advice, intending to ease her forthcoming discomfort. 

“No. I’ll have none,” Rhaenyra replied, her voice tinged with fatigue. She had witnessed firsthand the numbing haze induced by the milk of the poppy, observed its hold on her father, who under its influence, seemed adrift, scarcely aware of his own daughter and brother beside him. Such a clouded existence was not something she wished to endure. 

“The application of the stitch might bring considerable discomfort, Your Grace,” Maester Gerardys cautioned. “You should not have to suffer the pain of it.”

“No milk of the poppy,” Rhaenyra asserted firmly, a note of annoyance weaving its way into her tone. “I can bear the pain. I will not have it cloud my mind, I need my senses with me.”

The pain of the procedure seemed minuscule compared to the trials she had already endured. The thought offered her a cold comfort; if she could withstand the tempests that had battered her during labor, surely she could bear the sharp bite of a needle’s stitch.

Acknowledging her decision, Gearardys sighed softly, placing the bottle with a foggy white liquid back into his bag. His hands then emerged holding what appeared to be slender sticks. “Your daughter procured these from the Kingswood.”

“Twigs?” Rhaenyra said skeptically. 

A small smile formed on Gerardys lips. “It's the bark of the white willow tree. It should alleviate some of your pain.”

She eyed the bark with a skeptical curiosity, “You want me to eat these?”

“They are not for consumption but for you to chew on,” he clarified, presenting a few shavings to her. “The white willow’s bark acts as a natural alleviant. It is not as effective in relieving pain as milk of the poppy, but it should offer some comfort.” He turned to Elinda as she, too, was eyeing the bark. “Lady Elinda, if you could steep these shavings in boiling water, it would make a beneficial tea for Her Grace.”

He handed Elinda a portion of willow bark and a small pouch of hers, presumably, to enhance the tea, she nodded and moved to the hearth. The maester then dampened a cloth, wiping some of the blood off her inner thighs, a concentrated and worried expression on his face. 

Rhaenyra, still somewhat dubious, reluctantly took a bite of the chewy bark. The earthy, bitter taste spread across her tongue, overpowering the acrid taste of bile that had otherwise clung to her tongue. The sound of water being set to boil filled the chamber, the crackle of fire a familiar and comforting. 

As the water cascaded over her swollen and wounded cunt, Rhaenyra couldn’t help but wince, the sensation akin to flames licking at her already tender flesh. She tensed, a grimace forming as she braced herself for the pain, hastily stuffing the rest of the bark shavings into her mouth and chewing with a visible grimace.

Maester Gerardys proceeded with utmost care, washing away the blood with a gentle touch. He delicately removed the remnants of the torn suture, prompting Rhaenyra to clench her jaw tighter, her fingers embedding themselves into the wooden armrests of the chair as she fought the urge to recoil. The maester’s eyes, full of concern, met hers as he signaled his readiness to mend the tear with a new stitch. 

With a barely perceptible nod, Rhaenyra allowed her head to recline, her gaze fixed on the ceiling, seeking distraction in its cold, unyielding expanse. The needle’s entry was a sharp bite, a pain so acute she could only grit her teeth harder, her entire being coiled in the anticipation of more pain. A low, pained sound escaped her lips as she endeavored to swallow the bitterness in her mouth, hoping it would alleviate the sharp sting of the needle as it drew through her wounded flesh.

There was a certain clarity to the pain, a singular focus that pierced through the fog of her weariness. It was a sensation both known and oddly comforting, different from the deep, unyielding emptiness that had taken root within her. The physical pain of childbirth was a familiar force, one she had faced down seven times over. But the sorrow of this birth, the sheer magnitude of the losses she had suffered, cast a shadow far deeper than any physical wound could inflict. It was a desolation amplified by the absence of the child she had hoped to hold, leaving her with nothing but the echo of her pain and the void of her embrace.

She couldn’t help but admire the strength of her own mother, who had endured this cycle of hope and heartbreak time and time again. How had she managed to bear the weight of so many lost possibilities, so many silent cradles? The thought burrowed deep, mingling with her own grief. 

Rhaenyra stifled a grunt, her form tensing as the needle pierced her once more, the maester’s murmured apology barely registering. Her gaze was fixed on the flames flickering across the room, their glow casting the stone ceiling the flames, an intricate dance between light and shadow. 

“Done,” Gerardys announced, tucking the needle and thread back into his satchel with a finality that seemed to echo in the quiet of the room.

With effort, Rhaenyra raised her head, spitting the chewed willowbark into a chamberpot Elinda had thoughtfully positioned at her side. She rinsed her mouth with sweet wine, her face contorting at the clash of flavors–the residual bitterness of the bark wrestling with the wine’s richness. She chased the lingering bitter bark with her tongue, spitting repeatedly into the pot, striving to cleanse her pallet before finally pushing the wine aside with a soft, “Thank you.”

Her leg muscles quivered as she adjusted her posture in the chair, inhaling sharply through the discomfort. As she positioned herself more upright, the tender, swollen skin of her cunt brushed against the cushion beneath her, sending a wave of pain through her body.

“Rest now, Your Grace,” Maester Gerardys urged gently, his voice a blend of concern and wisdom. “Allow the body the time it needs to recover… the soul as well.”

“Rest seems more a luxury than a necessity at this moment,” Rhaenyra replied, extending her hand for support, her tone resolute. “I will rest when I am dead.”

This response only deepened the furrow in Maester Gerardys’s brow, his gaze laden with concern as he assisted her to rise. Holding her hand, he imparted a moment of solemn counsel, “Such words are born of youthful fervor, Your Grace. True wisdom lies in recognizing the need for rest, particularly when the body and spirit yearn for it. An eternally vigilant mind risks losing its way.”

“I don’t intend to forsake rest altogether,” Rhaenyra clarified, offering a weary smile. “However, now is not the time for rest, and I fear that should I try, I will not find it.”

Despite her body’s exhaustion, Rhaenyra was besieged by a whirlwind of thoughts, the looming shadow of war hanging over her and the decisions she had yet to make. What would war mean for the realm? Death and despair? For her? For her children? The notion of sleep felt like a fanciful dream, a fleeting escape from the weariness that had seeped into her marrow. And out of the periphery of her mind, there lingered a fear, a trepidation that in the quiet of rest, she might confront the vast emptiness within, a silence filled only by the remnants of her losses. 

Maester Gerardys, ever observant, cast a look of understanding her way. “When you are ready, I shall prepare a draught to ease you into sleep.”

“Thank you, Maester,” Rhaenyra replied, her gratitude genuine though suffused with fatigue. She squeezed his hand a little before releasing it.

As the Maester moved through the chamber, the soft chime of his chain punctuating the silence, Rhaenyra’s gaze drifted to the blanket draped over the settee. A surge of emotion tightened her chest as she approached and lifted it, her fingers tenderly trancing the embroidered flowers adorning the plush fabric. With each touch, her heart splintered further, tears welling in her eyes as she brought the blanket close, searching for a scent that might connect her to the daughter she would never know.

She had no frame of reference for what her daughter might have smelled like–the coppery essence of blood, the peculiar aroma of birth waters–these were all she had. Would her daughter have carried the scent of lavender that seemed to follow Daenera, or perhaps the richer undertone of pine that marked Jace? Or maybe she would have possessed the indescribable scent unique to newborns until she had grown too old? Yet the blanket offered none of these; it bore only the clean, impersonal fragrance of soap and rosemary–of being clean. 

The absence of any familiar or discernible scent left her feeling hollow, an unexpected layer of loss adding to her grief. The disappointment was a quiet, gnawing presence, a silent echo of all that had been lost already. She thought, at the very least, that it should smell of someone.

All that remained to her of her daughter, her little Visenya, was a lingering ache within her womb and the throbbing pain that haunted her every step.

“Elinda, could you return this to Luke?” Rhaenyra asked, her voice ragged with weariness. Ever since Daenera had gifted it to him, Luke had taken to sleeping with it every night. At the tender age of six, with him just shy of four, her youthful fingers had awkwardly moved the needle through the fabric, her inexperience visible in every imperfect stitch. Years had passed, yet time had done little to refine her skills in embroidery. Despite its flaws, each stitch was imbued with warmth and affection, and Rhaenyra held it to her face for a moment, once again breathing in the scent of no one. 

Elinda offered her a nod, approaching her with a warm cup of tea. “Of course, Your Grace.”

“And before you leave, would you help me dress? I need to be presentable.” Rhaenyra let the blanket rest on the settee before moving around the sitting area, each step marked by the discomfort from the fresh stitch and the residual ache of childbirth. She moved to the water basin, splashing her face with water, the coolness a brief respite, and gently patted her skin dry, erasing the traces of her ordeal. Elinda then carefully untied the chamise, letting the stained garment drop to the floor. 

With gentle hands, Elinda dabbed at Rhaenyra’s skin with a damp cloth, soothing away the sweat and the poignant smell of dragon. Once cleansed, Rhaenyra was helped into fresh undergarments–a new chamise and cotton breeches, thoughtfully prepared with an extra cloth for added protection against any further bleeding. The first layer of her dress was then draped over her, followed by the outer layer, each piece meticulously fastened with small golden clasps.

Seated before the mirror, Rhaenyra allowed Elinda to carefully release her hair, working through the tangles that had formed during her flight on Syrax. A dull headache throbbed with the tempo of her heart, and she nursed the bitter tea, feeling it somewhat ease the tension. 

Her gaze, reflective and distant, landed on the torn page. With a sense of purpose, she reached out, gathering the remnants, letting them rest before her. 

A tide of bitterness surged within Rhaenyra, accompanied by the familiar sting of tears threatening to break through once again. The memory of her recent promise to return to King’s Landing haunted her, along with the fragile hope Alicent had sown–a hope for reconciliation, for mending the fractures of a friendship that had once been steadfast. Now, reflecting on that hope, Rhaenyra felt it might have been a fool’s wish. The chasm between them had widened too much, irreparable as the torn page that rested before her.

Yet, she had chosen to preserve the page. Despite the option to discard it, Alicent had kept it all these years. 

And with a cruelty that was once love, she had used it in this way. 

The message was twofold: a plea from the friend of her youth, imploring her to flee to safety across the narrow sea, as Princess Nymeria had once done. And from the Queen, a solemn warning: the consequences of remaining dire. 

Her gaze found the lone flame flickering in the quiet room, and she contemplated the act of burning the torn pieces in the fire. Yet, a part of her soul, a vestige of hope or perhaps what was left of the friendship, resisted.Thus, she carefully placed the torn pieces into a wooden chest, a repository for the letters her daughter had sent her during her time in King’s Landing. Her hand rested on the wooden chest, thumb caressing its surface before pushing it back into place. 

“The council has gathered, Your Grace,” Ser Lorent Marbrand announced, standing at the threshold of her chambers. 

Rhaenyra acknowledged Ser Lorent with a slight nod and lifted herself from the stool, her movements rigid and laborious. Her hand trailed over the smooth wood of the table, hesitating when her fingers encountered the sealed letter resting there. She lacked the strength to break its seal, her apprehension of the known veiled as dread of the unknown.

With a weary sigh, she left the letter where it lay, untouched and unopened, the wax seal remaining intact–a symbol of her reluctance to face what was written inside. The room seemed to close in around her, the weight of decisions unmade pressing heavily upon her shoulders as she turned away from the table.

Rhaenyra was almost through the threshold of her chambers when Elinda’s voice called out, a note of urgency in her tone. “Your Grace, your crown!”

Pausing, Rhaenyra turned to see the crown, the physical embodiment of her duty and burden. It lay on the table, its intricate metalwork gleaming dully in the muted light. Her gaze rested upon it, feeling its weight in her very soul.

“It is a heavy one, indeed,” she murmured, her voice raw with resignation. She turned and walked out.

As Daemon strode along the walled path leading back to Dragonstone Castle, irritation pulsed beneath his skin like a relentless itch. His grip on the pommel of his sword tightened with each hurried step. Frustration seethed within him, fueled by Rhaenyra’s hesitation–her reluctance to decisively reject the Hightowers audacious terms, her failure to support his impulse to strike down Gwayne Hightower as the traitor he was, gnawed at him. But above all, his frustration mounted over her contemplation of the enemy’s demands. 

Despite his agitation, a small part of Daemon understood her predicament. He acknowledged the weight of recent losses that clouded Rhaenyra’s judgment, the unbearable thought of additional losses pressing down upon her. Yet, he believed she needed to recognize her responsibilities–not just to their family but as Queen as well. The dual burdens of personal grief and the demands of leadership tugged at her, yet Daemon felt she must rise above the emotional turmoil to see her duty clear. The kingdom required her strength and resolve now more than ever, and he reprehensible that she would even consider the terms they had given her.

As Daemon had left Dragonstone to confront the green delegation, he had encountered Ser Brandon Piper, who had breathlessly rushed towards him with a letter in hand. Daemon had hastily broken the seal and read through the contents, which seemed to quell some of his inner turmoil regarding Daenera. The letter, penned by a reliable ally, confirmed that she was alive and well, subtly resisting the Greens in the limited ways available to her–standing vigil over those they perceived traitors. 

Each step he took brought him closer to the towering gates of Dragonstone castle. Guards lined the walls, their presence dispersed along them in a vigilant display of force. Yet, despite the fortress’s fortifications, a restless agitation continued to drive him forward.

Perhaps he had been too quick to judge her actions as those of a traitor–and he had been relieved to hear that that might not have been the case. Daenera was not a traitor, but a hostage, a role that Daemon found easier to forgive. 

Yet, despite this understanding, the seed of doubt sown by her prior betrayals–the lies and deceit for the sake of keeping her relationship with Aemond quiet–had taken root deep within him, and it was not so easy to uproot. 

Daemon paced up the steps, his thoughts stormy as he mulled over Daenera’s impending marriage to the one-eyed cunt. He couldn’t deny that she had fallen in love with the boy, but this affection, Daemon feared, could turn her away from her family–and this he could not forgive. 

The Greens meant to use Daenera as a way of influencing Rhaenyra, a simple tool to force her into submission. Daemon found the mere thought intolerable. The idea that Rhaenyra might even consider yielding to their demands ignited a fierce rage within him. To accept their terms would be to expose their throats to the vipers, a surrender that would only lead to their destruction. Once they showed weakness, the Greens would not hesitate to eliminate any threats to their power, starting with those who had more claim to the throne than them.

Daemon was beyond exasperated by Rhaenyra’s willful blindness to this peril–like her father before her, she refused to accept that they had to fight for their crown and secure their rule. Accepting the Greens’ terms would not only be accepting of a grave insult but a fatal error. 

He had observed a flicker of determination in Rhaenyra as they confronted the demands from the Greens, even going as far as giving them her demands. He had swelled with pride at her initial defiance, only to be disheartened as her resolve waned, shaken by the reminder of them holding her daughter. 

War was inevitable, and sacrifices necessary–something which Daenera appeared to grasp more than her mother. 

As the evening sun dipped below the horizon, its departing light threw elongated shadows across the stone paths of Dragonstone. Daemon, driven by a restless energy, bypassed the castle’s inviting warmth and instead ascended the winding staircase to the battlements. From his elevated vantage point, he watched Rhaenyra’s arrival through the castle gates. Her appearance was a blend of determination and weariness: cheeks flushed from the long walk, her usually poised hair tousled by the wind, creating a striking image of her internal turmoil as she moved through the courtyard and into the castle. 

Daemon’s chest tightened with a mix of indignation and frustration as he contemplated Rhaenyra’s possible compliance. Within him, apprehension coiled like a serpent, whispering that she might succumb to the same weaknesses that had plagued her father. He had ceaselessly warned Viserys of the Hightowers’ ambition, yet his caution had been dismissed, his presence often shunned for the truths he dared voice. How many times had he been cast aside for laying bare the venomous reach of the Hightowers? Otto Hightower had woven his web meticulously around the king, ensnaring Viserys and poisoning his mind against his own brother. Viserys had always been weak of will, had always sought to placate and be amiable–he was a good man, but he did not possess the resolve to be a good king, and House Targaryen had suffered for it. 

And now, Rhaenyra displaced the same tendency. He could not comprehend why she, fierce and fiery far beyond her father, seemed ready to restrain her own formidable spirit. In his eyes, her willingness to negotiate, to delay, projected weakness–a stark contrast to the blazing dragonblood that flowed through their veins, which demanded dominance and commanded respect. 

They were dragonriders, they were the blood of the dragon, and they should not be made to grovle at the feet of serpents. 

Daemon believed that if Rhaenyra would just let him loose to unleash chaos, to do what he was born for, they would swiftly defeat their enemies. He could have the heads of their enemies adorning the castle walls before the moon turned, if only she gave him the chance. Rhaenyra could rightfully claim her throne, surrounded by her family’s unwavering strength and unity.

He brooded over the past, convinced that if his brother only listened to his warnings about the Hightowers, they would not be facing the conflict they were now–The Red Keep would not be the home to a nest of vipers. These serpents slither through its halls, spreading their poisoned lies and deceit, turning the castle into a breeding ground for treason and corruption. It would instead be a home for dragons, as it was meant to be. 

Had Viserys taken Daemon’s counsel to heart, they would not be facing the threat of war. There would be no disputes tearing at the fabric of the realm; instead, there would only be the unchallenged might of House Targaryen. The realm would be united under the strong and undisputed rule of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen–and Daemon would be at her side, protecting her as he was meant to. 

Even if it was from herself.

[wizkhaleesii]

I think one of the things I kind of love about House of the Dragon is the same undercurrent that makes me love Hadestown.

A lot of us know how this is supposed to end. It’s a sad song, it’s a sad tale

It’s a tragedy

But we still hope, we still cheer and weep and rage and theorize and hope in the face of all this despair, because maybe it will turn out this time! There is still hope there is still a chance, even in the face of fate we still want to believe it can change.

And one day it will

In the ashes of a funeral pyre

In the light of the rising sun

It will no longer be a Dance

But a Song

[gentleanddamned]

howl:werewolf x black fem!reader

summary: you told a man you would not be his wife and now they have harmed you and seek to set you ablaze. a creature in the woods doesn't like that.

triggers: violence against reader, some resus, slutshaming, piv, blood, so much blood, tetrophilia, cardiophilia, religious extremism, misogyny

minors dni.

you told a man no and the world had left you bloody for it.

you told father ezekiel you did not wish to be his wife so he handed your father and brother a stone and told him to do what God would. when your father would not and your brother could not, he went to the other men of your village.

they would do it.

two held your family back as the others kicked and cut and stoned you for whispering to the devil, for seducing a man of the cloth.

you did not.

they ripped your chemise and would not let your mother pass to cover you for a burning pyre had no use for modesty. you cried out for your family but father ezekiel had harmed them too, bloody hands reaching out for yours

you told a man no and the world would burn you for it.

it hurt to breathe, your heart was kicking in your chest, the blood from your wounds flowed in tandem with each beat. perhaps you would be dead before the first flame licked your skin.

but something else smelled the blood, heard the kicking of your dying heart, saw the semi conscious loved ones you moaned for.

and it howled.

the howl extinguished the good father's torch, not once but three times, an icy wind cut through the village, stealing the light from every fire in every cottage, until only shadow remained.

when the good father finally cursed the fire and decided to finish you with his great knife, he soon discovered his hand had fallen into the snow.

he had no time to scream before his head bounced at your feet, in thanks to the monstrous beast with father ezekiel's torso in it's great mouth.

when the wolf man finished swallowing father ezekiel, he stood to his full height and addressed the crowd that had formed in a frenzy to watch you burn, wiping his sticky red maw and started anew.

you were dowsed in the blood of the crowd as the creature turned the audience into a mountain of snapped limbs, the same fingers that threw stones at you bent back and severed.

the wolf would have continued had he not heard you cry in pain behind him.

the last thing your family, the few of your village left breathing, saw was the mighty wolf take you into his powerful arms and run.

you were too cold, too bloody, too far from his home to heal you but the monster would not, could not let you go and beneath the moonlight, he laid you up on the forest floor, a gargantuan paw wiping the blood trickling from your pretty mouth.

to bring you warmth quickly, he gently as a church mouse entered you only to thrust his weighty cock inside you, pumping and pumping into your pussy, a tender moan of pleasure and relief as warmth and wetness ran though your broken body.

but warmth was not enough when the kicking of your heart came to a stop and with a panicked roar he slid his massive cock from your warmed yet horrifying still body.

his paws met your chest and with a growl he began to push down, awkward at first until the wolf found his rhythm, pumping your precious mortal heart, guttural sounds emitting from his mouth ordering the darkness to bring you back to him. something cracked within you but the wolf would not stop until he had to.

and when he had to, a howl of mourning pierced the sky and rang in the chest of your mother and father.

his attempt at a second grieving wail was interrupted by the mortal beneath him, a pained gasp of air released from your lips, your chest rising and falling, slowly but surely, the kick of your heart felt beneath his claws.

you were too weak to manage much more than a shaking hand on his furry cheek but it was enough, he understood.

once upon a time, you told a man you did not wish to marry him.

he did not know you were already married.

open for requests, thank you for reading :)

[anathemafiction]

Fiz bandeira de um velho ditado

Alessa stares out into a deep, red sunset. Clouds shred the skies in strokes of gold, and a band of pigeons flies overhead, the sound of their wings flapping like the whispers of forbidden gods. 

She can hear the murmur of a dozen voices behind her, muffled by the walls of the brightly-lit inn but no less boisterous. 

Ahead, there's a view fit for a painting. Alessa inhales the fresh air, blue eyes watching the last light of a dying day. She is used to being cold, but Alessa finds herself shivering at the approaching night. 'Tis a beautiful view. 

And she has none to share it with.

Melhor só que mal acompanhado

One hand grips a patched satchel.

The other holds the only possession Harian could take with him. His black sword. He's panting, sweat drips from his forehead, and the blood pounding against his eardrums yells at him to keep going. But when Hadrian reaches the apex of the hill, he comes to a stunned stop. 

The land opens before him. 

Behind, too close, so far away, are the high walls of his Order. Hadrian almost looks back; he almost goes back. Instead, he makes his legs take another step. And then another. And one other after that. For the first time in his life, Hadrian walks alone.

 Nem pensava em apoiar, Os p��s no chão

She crawls out from the ashes, lungs burning, eyes watering, throat like the hottest pit of hell. Her skin is red agony, her muscles shredded, her tendons torn, her heart beating out of pure spite. 

Neia, the former Dawnseeker, takes a deep, ragged, pain-filled breath. And then, she screams. 

A dark cloud of crows scatters away from her.

A specter rises to her feet, scorched, blood too dry to bleed, yelling still. When Neia has no more air left in the pitiful excuse for her lungs, she looks at her grave — the charred remains of a holy pyre. There is no one else. 

She's reborn alone.

Olho em volta, Agora estou sozinho

The ocean is a flat, moving plain, stretching to impossible horizons. 

A dozen, two scores, half a hundred vessels surround him like a curved wall. The Pirate stands at the bow of his ship, the figurehead braving the waters, nine fingers holding the damp-wooden railing. Lights shine from a hundred different windows, replicating the cold glow of the millions of stars above.

The ocean breeze is calm. He inhales the salt-filled air. 

His armada. 

The Pirate smiles, but his dark eyes do not glint. His armada, and his alone.

Não liguei às placas do caminho

On the top floor of a high, impossible tower, two windows sit on opposite ends. One faces south, the other north. There is no corridor connecting the two, no hidden passage, no hall or arched hallway. The rooms are sealed in the impregnable way only dreamed rooms can ever be. 

In the room facing north sits a young, brown-eyed girl with curls for hair and a beautiful golden gown for clothes. Ysbaella sits with her skirts spread around her and stares out her window, watching the world below move and go on and on and on. 

In the south-facing room, a young boy twirls a broken quill between too-short fingers. He sits by the window, but he doesn't look outside. He stares instead at an empty journal. Alain can't find any ink to write. 

The twins wait for dawn, for the dream to be over. Each of them alone.

Nem parei p'ra perguntar a direção

The door closes with a thud that spells finality.

Rafael slumps on his chair. His body is a distant thing now, beyond the grip of pain. Exhaustion closes in, and Rafael wants to heed its siren call, for it would be so easy. Close your eyes. Close his eyes and let go. Let go...

Distantly, he feels an ache on his side. It's not pain; he can't feel pain right now. Rafael looks down and sees the red expanding on his wraps. Blood. He was stabbed. His eyelids half-close. It would be so easy...

But Rafael twists his lips in a hateful sneer and clings to consciousness. Clings to life. To hell with them all. He's lived so far; he can cling on a little more. 

The would-be thief looks around the room — his cell. Dark and cold.

And completely deserted. 

Olá, Solidão

You raise your chin and face the mirror. 

Candlelight glows from behind, casting your silhouette in warm golden lines. Shadows play with your chin and jaw, your forehead, and the ridge of your nose. Your hair is wet, clinging to your neck, and your mouth is but a faint streak in the gloom. 

The whites of your eyes glint with the scarce glow as if they hold a light of their own. 

You stare at the mirror, but it's not your face you see. 

It is hers. 

Olá, Solidão

The bard puts the lyre aside, the last remnants of the song echoing like ghosts in the air. 

Lance unfolds his legs and rolls his shoulders, getting rid of the soreness of his muscles. His left hand is cramping, but he pays it little mind. The pain pales in comparison to the one pulsing from his back. 

He is proud of this song, but there is no applause. 

Lance looks around the small, narrow room with a sad smile. It is empty, of course. He plays for an audience of one: himself. 

- - - 

Song: Olã, Solidão by Os Quatro e Meia

[dyannawynnedayne]

Btw, for anyone who is into medieval history, I HIGHLY recommend this book:

"The word “medieval” conjures images of the “Dark Ages”—centuries of ignorance, superstition, stasis, savagery, and poor hygiene. But the myth of darkness obscures the truth; this was a remarkable period in human history. The Bright Ages recasts the European Middle Ages for what it was, capturing this 1,000-year era in all its complexity and fundamental humanity, bringing to light both its beauty and its horrors. 

The Bright Ages takes us through ten centuries and crisscrosses Europe and the Mediterranean, Asia and Africa, revisiting familiar people and events with new light cast upon them. We look with fresh eyes on the Fall of Rome, Charlemagne, the Vikings, the Crusades, and the Black Death, but also to the multi-religious experience of Iberia, the rise of Byzantium, and the genius of Hildegard and the power of queens. We begin under a blanket of golden stars constructed by an empress with Germanic, Roman, Spanish, Byzantine, and Christian bloodlines and end nearly 1,000 years later with the poet Dante—inspired by that same twinkling celestial canopy—writing an epic saga of heaven and hell that endures as a masterpiece of literature today.  

The Bright Ages reminds us just how permeable our manmade borders have always been and of what possible worlds the past has always made available to us. The Middle Ages may have been a world “lit only by fire” but it was one whose torches illuminated the magnificent rose windows of cathedrals, even as they stoked the pyres of accused heretics. "

----------------------------

It is an absolutely wonderful, humanistic depiction of the middle ages, spurred on by a wish to reframe our view of it as the 'dark ages'. I am about halfway through it and it has made me cry plenty because god, PEOPLE.

I first heard about it on the Medieval Podcast when Daniele Cybulskie interviewed the authors:

And have been slowly chipping away at it with my other books I'm reading.

[sketches4mysw33theart]

No Such Thing As Ghosts

Pairing: Henry Winter (The Secret History)

Summary: A secret meeting with Henry Winter in a graveyard at twilight. What can go wrong?

Warnings: None

Also would like to add - I know ventriloquism is spelt wrong in here. It's on purpose!

Other Henry Winter pieces: To Indeed Be A God, Omnia Redit Ad Pulverem

“Henry?” I whispered tentatively into the quiet, purple darkness. “Are you there?” 

I always felt the need to whisper when we met on nights like that. To this day, I don’t know why. The only people I could wake there were the dead.  

As I stepped through the foreboding arch, rising up like a gargoyle through the twilight, and into the graveyard, I heard the clicking of a light, the clapping of a book shutting, the rustle of a thick coat, the snapping of twigs. 

“I’m here,” he said, from the right. I turned to the sound of his voice in time to see him, dot of a lantern in hand, emerging from behind a grave sculpture he was rather fond of, a weathered marble depiction of a cherub whose nose had long since eroded. When we were last there, that same cherub had been on its side in the dirt. Despite his admiration for it, Henry had refused to put it back in its place.    

“I wasn’t sure you’d come. It’s supposed to snow tonight.” He looked tired, particularly in that incandescent light. This, however, was nothing new.  

“I know. We’ve managed snow before.” 

Henry and I had been secretly meeting for months, almost a year. Our clandestine trysts were well considered, in far-flung places that no one, not even Bunny Corcoran, would consider searching. Henry feared the scrutiny he and I would receive. I, after all, was majoring in medicine. It felt like a treachery to our separate kingdoms, I in medicine, he in Classics, that we were in love. A war on time. Romeo and Juliet, kept apart by the fog of the mountains and the turrets of Hampden College. But never by the snow, it seemed. 

It was a funny night, illuminated by a bright moon but encroached with shadows, the threat of the oncoming storm. Still, it was just light enough to see the outlines of the graves around us, the one mausoleum of the tiny town, the eerie statues looming before us, faces turned piously in every direction as though we had recruited them as lookouts. 

“Someone’s been here since August,” Henry said, coming to me finally and rubbing his gloved hands up my arms. I didn’t realise I'd crossed them over my chest. “The cherub’s back in place. You’re cold. Perhaps we should go to my car?”  

He must have felt my quivering bones, even beneath the thickest coat I owned. I shook my head. Despite it all, I liked meeting at the graveyard. It was quiet, far away from the familiar, and, in a terrifying way, beautiful. Almost all old things were beautiful to me then. Henry taught me that, through the strange photographs in his books and his detailed monologues. He had a gift of bringing history to life. 

“No, I’m fine. Have you seen anyone around?” 

He scoffed. “Of course not.” 

This was the main reason we met there so often. Who on Earth would hike through the woods at twilight to laugh among the tombstones? Well, we knew the answer to that. There had been the time we held a picnic in the height of summer, when fireflies had flew through from the nearby river and Henry had managed to catch one in his bare hand, the night we spent in the mausoleum to satisfy some maudlin craving of Henry’s, the evening we’d played hide and seek (somewhat begrudgingly, on one of our parts) among the gravestones. That had been the first time we'd claimed the graveyard as our own, mere days after Charles and Camilla had shown Henry through the place after hearing them speak about it.   

The graveyard had belonged to a town, struck by disaster and long since deserted. Besides a looming church pyre and a few piles of rubble, it was the only indication that a town had once stood there at all.  

“Here, sit down.” Of course, Henry had come prepared. Behind his grave of choice was spread out a meticulous picnic blanket, the host of his book, another thick blanket and matches and kerosene for the lamp. Gingerly, I arranged myself on the it, leaning partly on the gravestone for support. Once I was settled, Henry stretched out beside me, arm pressed against mine, hand resting on my leg.  

“I missed you,” I mumbled, reaching over to take that same hand. He settled his thick fingers between mine and afforded me a small smile, nosing softly at my cheek. “How’s the new boy?” 

Henry sighed, a warm exhalation that spread across my face. “Strange. I can’t read him very well. But he seems the silent type, so I don’t see why he won’t get along just fine. Charles and Camilla are particularly fond of him.” 

“You’re not?” 

“No. He's so... quiet, closed off. He walks around like a ghost.” 

I didn’t say anything. I’d seen Richard, the new addition to the Greek class, fairly often around campus, floating to his classes and slipping into the rowdy parties. Ghost was certainly the best way to describe him. But I’d never said two words to him, so who was I to judge? 

With that conversation abruptly dried up, I glanced around the cemetery that protected us from our lives, looking for snow. There was none yet, of course. Just gravestones, cool and still. 

“Do you think this place is haunted?” I asked, ghosts on my mind now. Henry laughed scornfully. 

“Of course not. There’s no such thing as ghosts.” 

“How do you know?” I asked accusingly, with a teasing smile. Henry rolled his eyes, shaking his head. 

“Because how could there be? There’s no conclusive evidence of a life after death, and there is certainly no conclusive evidence of spirits.” 

“Didn’t the Ancient Greeks have a God of ghosts?” 

“Oh yes, Melinoe. Also, the God of nightmares. Far too much of a coincidence, don’t you think?” 

 I stared at him, and he raised his eyebrows. “Come on, you don’t believe anything happens after death?” 

He was silent for a moment, considering my question. “I believe... that our souls linger. Not on Earth, that’s far too ridiculous. But... somewhere. Julian once said...” 

Before he could continue speaking, there was a creak out in the woods, echoing through the silence. Startled, we both whipped up to face the direction. A hunter stalking down its dinner? A bird flying past a bare tree? Or... 

“Did you hear that?” I said, springing to my feet, holding back a laugh. “That sounds like a ghost to me.” 

“Oh, for...” Henry’s head fell to his tented hand, but I could see the curve of his lips.  

“No, no, listen, Henry.” I was smiling as I held my hand to my ear and nudged his leg with my toe. There was another noise. A rustle in the forest. Closer.  

I looked down to him. “We’re not alone here.” 

Henry chuckled. “There is no such thing as ghosts!” 

“I don’t know, I think we could be about to capture your conclusive evidence.” 

Another noise. Even closer. Twigs snapping, leaves rustling, insects buzzing, wind blowing. 

“Really,” Henry huffed, shaking his head as he pushed himself to his feet. “How many times? There’s no such thing as...” 

Suddenly, another noise, a crash, like an elephant marching through the forest edge, and Henry fell silent, peering beyond the gravestone. “See?” I said, gleefully. “No such thing as ghosts, indeed.” 

Henry shushed me forcefully. “No, there is not.” Then, footsteps, not loud, necessarily, but obvious in the quiet that echoed between the gravestones. Very clearly human. It was only when I heard it getting closer that I realised my spectre, corporal or otherwise, could present a serious danger to us. Two college kids, out in a graveyard, in the dark. Good Lord.  

“So, who the hell is that?” Henry finished, darting eyes staring uselessly into the darkness. His gaze flew to the lantern, still lit on the blanket. 

But, before he could stoop to pick it up, there were more footsteps, the eerie sound of a mumbling voice getting closer, like a radio being turned up. Henry’s spine was stiff, assuring the stretch of his shoulders and each inch of his height was obvious. Then, a shout, “Is anyone there?” 

I knew that voice. It was familiar, terribly so, but I couldn’t place it. A glance at Henry told me he knew it too, but seemingly better than me. 

“Oh God.” He had gone white, all the colour sapped from his cheeks in the flutter of my eyelashes. Instantly, I was on edge. 

“What?” I whispered. “What is it?” 

His Adam’s apple bobbed listlessly as he swallowed. “It’s Bunny.” 

Oh God. I knew Bunny, alright. There weren’t many on campus who didn’t. Loud, ferreting, damn near insufferable Bunny, whose obnoxious voice seemed to reach as far as Fairfax and twisted mind ensured acquaintances either adored him or loathed him. From what I had experienced and seen, and the stories Henry had hesitantly told me, I fell into the latter.  

“Bunny?” I repeated incredulously. “What the hell is he doing here?” 

Henry shushed me forcefully. “Get down,” he whispered, “on the blanket, behind the cherub. Stay down, don’t move.” 

I followed his commands without delay, happy to be told what to do in the face of this unforeseen upheaval. My mind was frantic. Of all the people who had to happen upon us, it had to be him. Now curled up on the blanket, cradling my knees like a child, I looked up to Henry, his strong jaw set, calm hands cleaning his glasses on the tail-end of his shirt. As the footsteps came closer, through the archway, and the mumbling voice bounced off the gravestones in awe, he was tucking his ruffled shirt back neatly into his waistband.  

And then... 

“Henry,” Bunny honked, his voice carrying so harshly it made me wince. “Am I glad to see you, old boy, I just got so lost on one of my little walks. These damn Vermont nights, hm? Creepin’ up on me. What on Earth are you doing out here at this time of day? It’s supposed to snow tonight, you know.” 

“Yes, I heard, Bun. I was –“ 

“You wouldn’t be hiding someone back there, would ya?” He knew. I could tell, just from his voice. “’Cause, y’know, I couldda sworn I heard ya talkin’ to someone.” 

“No, not at all. I –“ 

Again, Bunny cut him off. “Naw, I know I heard you talking to someone. What you doin’, taking up ventriloqulism, or somethin’?” He laughed, the squawking of a flock of seagulls. “What you got behind there, hm? Is that where you’re hiding her?” 

Henry protested uselessly, trying to mollify Bunny before he could get too close. I watched him step forward, presumably to meet his friend before he could get to me, then saw the red of Bunny’s hair and the glint of his glasses as he tried to see beyond Henry’s broad frame.  

“You brought blankets, I see. And a lantern. And-“ I saw no point in avoiding it. Bunny was leaning so far around the grave, trying to poke his head around Henry’s large frame despite the latter’s protests and fidgeting, that he would see me one way or another. May as well save everyone’s blushes. 

This time, it was Bunny that got cut off, by my face, no doubt paled and terrified-looking, rising up over the other side of the grave. “Hi, Bunny,” I said meekly. 

“Well,” Bunny said, stopped in his tracks. I could see the surprise glinting behind his glasses, the few cogs turning slowly in his futile brain. Henry, his shoulders still braced but looking somewhat relieved, took the hand I reached out to him under the cover of the grave. “Well, well, well. I’ll be damned. Henry and his little doctor, is it? I must say, Henry, I never thought you’d get down with a pill pusher. Actually, now that I say it, it makes perfect sense.” He laughed again, but I looked at Henry without even a smile on my face. I saw, with little surprise, that Henry wasn’t sharing in our unexpected guest’s joy either. In fact, he looked angry. Startlingly so. 

“Go on then. Doctor, doctor, give me the news. What’s the story between you two?  Y’know, my father always says doctor’s are charlatans, a load of crooks.” 

“Actually, Bun, I don’t want to be a doctor.” Henry squeezed my hand tight as I finished this sentence.  A warning, I realised after, when it was too late. “I want to be a psychiatrist.” 

“Oh, a shrink, hm?” Bunny’s eyes glinted maliciously, illuminating like hell fire in the cast of Henry’s lantern. He gestured to Henry. “He your first patient? There’s rules and regulations, y’know, codes of conduct. No mouth to mouth at those appointments.” He laughed again.  

“Yes, very droll, Bunny,” Henry said disdainfully. “Do you need us to walk you back to Hampden?” His hint wasn’t even subtle, voice dripping with annoyance, but Bunny did not, or refused to, pick up on it. 

“Me? Oh, no, I’m fine, I know the way. But I want to hear about you two. Has he tried to-?” 

“Actually, Bun,” I jumped in, trying to think on my feet under his scrupulous gaze. “I don’t know if you’ll have time. I heard Marion was looking for you earlier. Something to do with Cloke Rayburn, and a tinfoil package?” 

Bunny’s face, which had twisted into an aloof, non-caring expression at the mention of his girlfriend, fell instantly as I finished speaking.  

He dithered for a moment, fisting the edge of his thick coat with one hand and scratching at his head with the other, mumbling vocal disfluencies, half-baked excuses and nonsensical reasons why he should or shouldn’t go. These fell out of his mouth in a torrent, almost unintelligible. I glanced at Henry, but he was only staring stonily at our unwanted visitor. 

“Perhaps you’d better go find out what she wants?” I pushed as gently and indifferently as I could. 

Bunny threw his hands up, a surrender to a decision finally made. “Doctor’s orders.” He laughed raucously, so shrilly it set me on edge. “Well, I’ll leave you two to your little love nest. I look forward to hearing all about this later, Henry.” It felt like a threat. From the look on Henry’s face, he took it like one. 

“See you folks later.” And with a wave of his hand and a blur of sandy hair, Bunny was gone like the apparition I’d initially thought he was. Immediately, Henry sighed out a long, deep breath. Relief. 

“Good God, I’m never going to hear the end of this now,” he said as he slid down the gravestone to rest on the blanket. “Of all the people who could’ve found us, it had to be him, didn’t it? Not Charles, not Francis, not even one of your friends... Bunny.”  

“C’mon, he’s your friend, Henry, he would-” Henry shot me a glare, quickly broken by a smile as I stopped talking. 

“Oh, he would do that to me. To us.” he said, sighing as he took my hand and coaxed me down beside him. “Well, I’d been meaning to introduce you to everyone, anyway. Camilla will adore you, I think.”  

A spark of anxiety flared at the bottom of my stomach, but I refused to let this show in front of Henry. The Greek class always walked through the college grounds like royalty, simultaneously above and below everyone around them, who were awestruck by their ethereal presence or disdainful of the timeless coldness of their manner.  

Still, I’d had the same misleading thoughts about Henry until I met him, when he spoke to me with an open air I had originally thought was beneath him. I knew meeting his classmates would have had to happen some day.  

“Look,” Henry said, startling me out of my worry. I glanced at him, still, stoic, carved like a great Greek statue, staring up into the dark shadows of the trees swaying in the breeze. “It’s snowing.” 

It was. Finally. Flakes as small and thin as dust were beginning to fall, catching in the sparse leaves and landing quietly on the headstones around us. The graveyard and the forest were completely silent once more, slowly sprinkling with snow.  

“Come on,” Henry said. “Stay with me tonight.”