#little princeling boy

[starstcff-z]

new muses (most old) drop:

travis mayweather, star trek enterprise, secondary

jonathan archer, star trek enterprise, primary

t'pol, star trek enterprise, test muse

david sheridan ii, babylon 5, test muse

[darth-rainbow]

Warning: This is a rant about Aerin.

Wait,,, I'm so confused, y'all actually like Aerin now? Why? Like I genuinely regret keeping the little gremlin alive for how much he's currently shoved down her throat with his woe is me. Like yes, Baldur was a piece of hot garbage and so was his father but like,,, cool motives still (mass) murder? He's still a war criminal who never actually said sorry for what he's done? Not to MC, not to Nia... I'm,,,, MC is already much kinder than me but the fandom is having me gobsmacked on this one. Is this cos he's white and sad? I don't get it.

p.s edit: No cause waidaminit, the motives aren't even that cool, power, it's fucking power 😭 Not freedom, just naked power to prove to daddy and a brother he hate that he isn't weak and should rule ziejeidkdjezuzbdhzjz pssshhhyeah right, 10/10 would make a terrific king, ready to plunge the whole kingdom into darkness and utter chaos to prove to daddy that he's got a pair on him. Freud you can't keep doing this.

[daycourtofficial]

A Valentine’s Surprise

Summary: a member of the inner circle asks you to be their valentine, despite you being mated to someone else

Author’s note: this is pretty short, but I thought it’d be really cute and I love Nyx

“Excuse me, everyone.”

Everyone at the table stops their chatter as Nyx stands on his chair, his little voice unwaivering as he draws the attention of his family consisting of his parents, Cassian, Azriel, Nesta, Mor, and you.

“I have an announcement.”

You all look on in confusion and curiosity, wondering what the young prince would deem so important. He does this about once a week now - interrupting dinner to declare something to everyone. Last week it was to inform everyone that Cassian had farted next to his face, causing Cassian to argue, “it’s not my fault your face is at bum level.”

The night derailed from there, the warlord getting quite worked up over the accusations of a five year old until the two were wrestling on the floor.

Nyx clears his throat, looking to his mother for approval to continue. Feyre gives him a nod of encouragement, mouthing the words “go on” to him. He takes in a deep breath and says, “I’m in love.”

Feyre smiles at him, clearly aware of where his little speech is going. Rhys perks up, amusement in his eyes at Nyx’s confession. The table falls even more silent in curiosity. The princeling looks to you before continuing, “I love you, (y/n). Will you be my valentine?”

You spit out your wine, and Azriel’s hand that was covertly wrapped around your thigh tightens slightly. You grab your napkin, dabbing at the wine you spilled on your dress. You can’t help the smile on your face at how nervous Nyx looks, and you can’t hold back the grin as he winnows a rose into his hand, holding it out to you.

“Nyx, I’m honored that you would ask me.”

You try to figure out how to let the young prince down without telling everyone of your secret mateship with Azriel. The two of you were keeping your mating bond a secret because you didn’t want to deal with the ordeal it would cause and wanted the peace to navigate it. And then you two just kept delaying mentioning it.

Unfortunately for Nyx, the two of you had plans that evening to celebrate the holiday to hide out in a cabin and you wouldn’t want the little heir to ruin them.

“Why do you want me to be your valentine?”

Nyx smiles at you, “because I get all warm and fuzzy inside when I see you.”

Your face crumpled at his sweet words, his love for you showing in his toothy grin, a few teeth missing from his smile. The adorable spectacle makes you miss Cassian grumbling, “why doesn’t anyone ask me to be their valentine?”

“How can I say not to that adorable face?”

Azriel’s grip tightens, and you place your hand on top of his, gently rubbing it. Reminding him that his instincts can calm down over a five year old.

“What does being your valentine entail, sweet Nyx?”

The little boy’s wings flutter at your attention, “we’ll have ice cream!”

“I like ice cream. Is that all?”

He preens under your gaze, looking exactly the way his father does whenever Feyre looks at him affectionately. He leans in conspiratorially, covering his mouth with his hand that does nothing to keep his words from being heard by everyone, before whispering, “you can hold my hand through Velaris.”

“Nyx I wonder if our darling (y/n) has other valentine’s plans.”

Nyx looks to you, heartbreak on his tiny face that the woman he loved would dare see another male. Azriel shoots daggers over your head at his brother, realizing the two of you hadn’t been as secretive as you thought at Rhys’s feline grin. Rhys mocks a toast of his glass towards you two, causing Az’s scowl to deepen.

“Well Nyx, nobody’s asked to take me out for ice cream on Valentine’s day, so I will be more than glad to go with you to get ice cream.”

The little boy beamed the rest of the evening, and as he totted off to bed he was telling his father all about what he was going to wear when you two went out. He even gave you a color scheme so your outfits could coordinate.

You and Azriel retired separately, so as not to raise suspicions. You were brushing your hair at your vanity when his shadows allowed him to emerge in your room, where he immediately began walking towards you.

Meeting your gaze in the mirror, his eyes are full of amusement, thinking about how he has to share the woman he loves, his mate, with a child he could drop kick into the clouds.

“You are stunning, my dear, surely you must have plans for Valentine’s Day?”

He starts kissing your cheek, making his way down your neck, causing you to giggle while you reply, “I have plans with another male for the afternoon on Valentine’s day, but I suppose I could pencil you in while he’s taking his nap.”

[bumblesimagines]

The Beasts of The North

Part 3

Request: Yes or No

Summary: With the help of Sara Snow, Jace manages to get on the good side of his hosts, although he's unable to shake feelings he hasn't experienced in ages.

CW/TW: Typical GoT/HOTD warnings, nothing much else tbh

Drops this and runs

~~~

Jace sloshed around the stew in his bowl with his spoon, the steam rising from the bowl gently caressing his face and coaxing him back to sleep. He kept his sleepy eyes locked on the contents of the stew and avoided glancing in the mere direction of his hosts as embarrassment still swirled around in his stomach, though they were the least of his concerns with the insistent pounding of his head. 

"Eat, princeling." Ser (Y/N)'s voice forced him to look up, his skin tingling beneath his clothes and shoving the lingering tiredness away. The image of his adoring smile and joyful laugh flashed in his mind again, and he took a spoonful of stew to shove in his mouth. He hummed happily at the warmth invading his taste buds, a shudder darting down his spine. "Have a good night, then, aye? I told Russal to keep an eye on you." 

"Thank you, Ser. I am man-grown, however. I should have paced myself." Jace told him after swallowing down the stew, his tongue swiping out over his lips and eagerly eating more. Ser (Y/N) watched him, his eyes flickering away to look at a servant and nod before moving back to Jace and studying him. The servant swiftly approached and set down a cup beside Jace's bowl, the dark purple liquid swirling with the movements. 

"Beet juice will help with your sickness." Ser (Y/N) told him, his attention returning to Rickon as Sara fed him his breakfast little by little. The boy blissfully ate, humming and clapping his hands in delight with each spoonful. It made Jace itch to know of his little brothers, to know how his family was doing. Any news from Dragonstone would be by man or raven, both painfully slow means of communication. 

"Ah, thank you." Jace tore his eyes away from Rickon and wrapped his fingers around the cup, attempting to hide his distaste and resisting the urge to crinkle his nose when the earthy, almost salty taste hit his tongue. He swallowed the first gulp and set the cup down with tightened fingers, his teeth grinding together as he battled the desire to make his disgust known. He heard a quiet snort from beside Ser (Y/N) and glanced up at Lord Cregan. The corner of his lips had curled up in amusement. 

"We'll be going on a hunt in the coming days, Prince Jacaerys." Lord Cregan spoke, one arm bracing against the table while the palm of his other hand ran along Ser (Y/N)'s back until it settled at his lover's hip. Jace stared at his hand, the taste of the juice almost forgotten as he watched Lord Cregan's fingers massage into Ser (Y/N)'s side. His eyes jumped back up to meet Lord Cregan's again, his cheeks warming when he met the lord's stare. "You've attended hunts before?" 

"Yes, I have." Royal hunts, at least, typically in celebration of namedays in the Kingswoods.

His mother had mentioned once with her arms curled around his shoulders while they gazed into the fireplace and listened to Luke's soft snoring that Harwin Strong loved hunts; the anticipation of tracking, the thrill of chasing and catching, the satisfaction of slicing apart the animal and knowing bellies would soon be full.

There'd been a time when Jace had despised having anything in common with the man he once viewed as an uncle, but he'd grown to appreciate their likeness. He and his brothers were the last of Harwin, fragments and pieces mixed to create them. "I enjoy a good hunt, Lord Cregan. I look forward to it."

"Good." Lord Cregan gave an approving nod and Jace's chest swelled with relief. "Cregan will do, Prince, as will just (Y/N)." 

Progress, Jace realized with more sweet relief. He smiled and dipped his head in appreciation, his eyes flickering toward the knight and almost sighing thankfully when no objections fell from his lips. "Jacaerys will do fine as well, or Jace if you desire. We are amongst... friends, are we not?" He carefully watched their reactions, tension slowly forming on his shoulders. (Y/N) raised his gaze to study him, and Jace resisted showing his nerves. 

"Aye." The knight simply responded before turning to peer at his lover, his lips parting to speak but Cregan swooped down to kiss him, briefly halting his words. Cregan drew back, his eyes crinkled sweetly and hand tugging his lover further in his side. The brief, adoring looks that passed over their features before the stoicness returned always sparked something in Jace; a desire to be gazed upon with such care. "How is the winter town doing, love?"

"Good thus far. The market square is nearly full with enough produce and goods to buy and trade, and the homes are steadily being filled." Cregan answered, his eyes thoughtful and almost distant, his mind likely running through a list of things he had to do and deal with in preparation for winter. Cregan was by all means the lord everyone made him out to be: dedicated to his duties and thorough in his work. His people looked at him with admiration and trust, something Jace hoped to achieve when he ascended the throne and wore the crown of his ancestors.

In the same light, he thought about the previous night and the way Cregan's hand had plunged beneath (Y/N)'s pants. He'd noticed how much Cregan touched his lover, his palm almost always finding its way to (Y/N)'s back or hip and the way his eyes returned to him no matter how far or close the distance between them was. As observant and almost possessive as Cregan could be, he must've been something in bed, with his strong hands grasping gently yet firmly and eyes never breaking contact. 

He thought of (Y/N), too. The knight was rough with his squires and trainees, tossing them around with ease and giving orders as if it were second nature to him but he treated Cregan so gently, so lovingly. Jace couldn't help but wonder if the fire in him soothed with Cregan, or if it intensified and had to be tamed all over again. A bear and a wolf... two beasts of the North completely and utterly smitten with each other. 

The heat dancing along his skin surged when he locked eyes with Sara across the table, her lips curled into an amused yet knowing smile. He stiffened and mustered a polite smile in return, tilting his head downward and shoveling more stew into his mouth. (Y/N) and Cregan hardly spared him a glance, too deep in their discussion over preparations to take note of the flushed prince but their concentration broke when Rickon made a loud noise followed by a gurgle and giggles. 

"Little pup," Cregan cooed and Rickon turned to him immediately, his arms reaching out eagerly toward his father, his eyes bright and gleeful with the innocence of a child too young to understand the cruelty of the world around them. Cregan took him into his arms swiftly and the boy released a noise of contentment, his little fingers dragging and digging into Cregan's beard. They curled and tugged but it only made Cregan rumble with a small laugh that sent another wave of heat through Jace. "You're as strong as a direwolf, my boy." 

"Or a bear." (Y/N) piped in, his cheek pressing against Cregan's clothed bicep and softened eyes watching the toddler. Rickon leaned forward and placed his hand over (Y/N)'s cheek, more gibberish leaving the boy that only he could understand. With a light chuckle, (Y/N) pressed a kiss to Rickon's little hand as he rose from the table, planting a firmer one on Cregan's temple once he stood fully. 

"You ought to give your boys a break, (Y/N)." Sara told him, the twinkle in her eye all too familiar to the one Jace oft' saw in Baela when an idea struck. "Perhaps Prince Jacaerys would like a chance to train and... freshen up on his skills."

Too caught up in her words to insist she also drop the title, Jace's mouth only formed silent words, his widened eyes darting between the woman and the knight until (Y/N) grunted and pursed his lips. "I wouldn't wish to harm the princeling, Sara." He said. Not a rejection, but a challenge, Jace could hear it in his tone. 

"Nonsense." Jace stood from the table, bringing the cup of beet juice back to his lips and almost immediately regretting it when he became reacquainted with the taste. He forced it down a second time, and despite the horrid taste, his actions granted him an amused curl of (Y/N)'s lips. "I am of fire and blood, Ser. I do not break easy." 

"Is that so?" For a moment, Jace thought the teasing tone was a mistake on his part, something he misheard or mistook for something else, but when (Y/N)'s amused grin turned lazy and his eyes slid over to make eye contact with his lover, a heat coiled around the prince's gut. (Y/N)'s fingers brushed over Cregan's shoulder, and while the act seemed casual enough it made him flare with curiosity. "Come then, princeling." 

Ever the quick learner, Jace ensured to wear the appropriate layers before daring to step out of the castle, the bottom of his boots crunching the snow beneath his feet until they reached the training area where the snow had been swept aside to reveal mushy, moist dirt. Jace eyed those who gathered to watch, mostly wards and squires who seemed thrilled at not being on the receiving end of (Y/N)'s blade for the day. He wanted to make a good impression on them and fill them with confidence in their future ruler, but he mostly wished to earn (Y/N)'s respect, even if it left him a little bloody and bruised. 

"Of fire and blood, aye?" (Y/N)'s fingers wrapped around the handle of his sword, unsheathing the weapon that gleamed in the sparse sunlight peeking through the drifting clouds above. Unlike his near-emotionless expressions from the day before, the knight held a large smirk on his face that reeked of confidence. He saw then a glimpse of the boy Cregan had once been at odds with. 

And when their swords clashed, he understood the respect others had for him. 

(Y/N) moved swiftly, his swings and dodges half-calculated half-instinctive. Jace trained with plenty of boys and men throughout his life, from his uncles to his brother to squires and master-at-arms in the Keep and Dragonstone, but his uncles had always been the ones to lunge with the intent to hurt. Jace had grown used to training with Luke, a boy smaller and weaker than him, one who needed constant lectures and training. (Y/N) was a knight, a northerner, a Mormont. He was unrelenting and vicious, and the sweat breaking out throughout Jace's body chilled him. 

Jace relied on all his training, and perhaps Targaryen instinct, as they swung their swords and dodged hits. Jace made a good effort, springing back when necessary and lunging forward when the opportunity arose. He was a prince, a dragon, but (Y/N)'s experience and near-viciousness triumphed when his blade swung and stopped short of Jace's neck. Jace swallowed, his throat dry and chest heaving. Despite feeling tired, the rush of training made everything buzz in his system, and he released a breathy laugh. 

"Better than most, Jace." The prince soaked up the praise and use of his nickname, basking it in when (Y/N)'s students grumbled under their breaths and averted their stares. (Y/N) lowered his sword and tucked it back in his sheath, one stride closing the distance between them as his arm reached out toward him. Jace practically vibrated with pride, his fingers curling just below (Y/N)'s elbow.

"Perhaps I'll break you another time." His low, quiet voice only reached Jace's ears and left his skin lit ablaze. The amusement in his eyes disappeared once he turned to the others, barking orders at them and sending them scrambling off. 

Jace returned to the castle with giddiness, finding the table had long been cleared and spotting Rickon sitting on the floor with maids playing with him while Sara watched on. She turned to look at him when he approached, offering him a smile and tilting her head to the side, the single braid in her hair swaying with her movements. "You're alive." She grinned teasingly. "How was it, Prince?"

"Good," Jace answered, suddenly aware he'd asked Sara for advice and she'd offered (Y/N)'s respect on a silver platter. Smart girl, she was, it was no doubt why Cregan trusted her so much. "(Y/N) appears to... tolerate me more."

"Good." Sara echoed. "Tolerance is the first step toward acceptance, even if it means being knocked down a few times."

Throughout the following few days, Jace managed to cement himself among the northerners through training, drinking, and bantering. It was easy to feel out of place among bulky men with long beards who'd likely be able to break his arm with just one hand, but he grew to enjoy spending time with Russal and Byran, the kennel master. They were loud and boisterous but finding comfort in their presence was easy. 

Of course, he hadn't flown to Winterfell for a time of relaxation and getting out of his princely duties. Jace reminded himself as such each evening when he found a cup of ale being thrusted in his hand and sat across the lovers for dinner. But, it was hard catching Lord Cregan by himself to discuss the real reason for Jace's arrival.

Cregan, as expected, was a busy man with many duties to fulfill as winter drew closer and closer. He was constantly on the move, either hauling something over his shoulder to help or discussing different things with his men or the villagers piling into the winter town. Similarly, Jace oft' found (Y/N) working as well and the few times he took breaks, he'd been right at Cregan's side taking tasks off his plate. It was endearing to watch but exhausting to keep up with them. 

The morning of the hunt, Jace trekked out past the high walls surrounding Winterfell and through the winter town. In King's Landing, he would've been expected to take at least four knights with him to ensure his safety from the smallfolk but in the winter town, hardly anyone spared him a glance. He was unknown amongst his mother's people, he realized quickly. It was no wonder many of his ancestors took the time to venture out and visit more of their lands. He made a mental note to write to his mother about it, to ensure they'd make a good impression on all of Westeros, not just King's Landing.

He tilted his head toward the clouded skies once he reached the outskirts of the winter town, only having to wait a few minutes before a dark shadow passed overhead, dipping down from above the clouds and landing on the ground in front of him. His large legs kicked up a wave of snow, one luckily aimed in the opposite direction from him and the winter town. Vermax shook himself and turned to look at his rider, a soft rumbling noise emitting from his chest.

"Skorkydoso glaesā?" Each step forward made his boots sink further into the deep snow beneath them. Jace reached out toward his dragon and pressed his palms flat against Vermax's olive-green scales. He felt naturally warm to the touch despite the bitter cold around them and Jace could only smile as he felt the large breaths his dragon took. Vermax chittered sharply, his tail raising and slamming back down against the ground in a display of annoyance. "Ziry iksos iōrves, nyke gīmigon."

The sound of snow crunching brought their attention toward the winter town where Jace noticed (Y/N) lingering near, cautiously eyeing the dragon. "The hunting party departs soon, Jacaerys." He told him, his fingers adjusting one of his gloves and eyes never leaving the winged beast. Vermax watched him closely, as he did with most strangers, and the attention seemed to put (Y/N) at unease. 

"Come," Jace coaxed, turning his body sideways and smiling reassuringly at him. (Y/N) made a face, his lips puckering slightly and brows dipping in dismay while he gazed at him as if he'd grown two heads. Jace chuckled gently and beckoned him closer once more with his hand, keeping the other one pressed against Vermax to ensure he remained calm and composed. The cold made Vermax snappier than usual but he trusted his dragon to remain relaxed in his presence. 

Slowly, (Y/N) walked forward, his eyes flickering between Vermax and Jace with each step he took. It took guts to approach a dragon but it also took a heavy amount of trust in the rider, and the knowledge of that appeased Jace. The knight stopped some feet away, his weight shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably before he finally stepped close enough for Jace to reach out and grab his wrist. 

"Sagon gīda," Jace told Vermax as he moved his hand from his wrist upward, covering the back of (Y/N)'s hand with his own and pressing his palm to Vermax's side. His scaled body rumbled with another noise, a cloud of air puffing out from his nostril when he gave a soft snort. He chittered again, this time more gently, and turned his head away in disinterest. "Sȳz, Vermax." Jace praised softly. 

"I've seen and fought plenty of bears in my life." (Y/N) murmured, and Jace nearly withdrew his hand from shock. His widened eyes darted away from his dragon to stare into the side of (Y/N)'s face, his jaw nearly going slack. He'd never considered those who resided on Bear Island would eventually have to come face to face with the natives. "I'd certainly rather face ten of 'em over this beast." 

"Vermax is-" Jace cleared his throat, his eyes drifting toward their gloves hands pressed together. For a moment, he wished the leather separating their skin was gone, but he quickly shoved the thought away. "He is quite formidable. He grows larger and quicker every year, as do the rest of our dragons."

"He is not fully grown yet, aye? I'd hate to face him on the battlefield in years to come, then." (Y/N) exhaled a rather shaky breath, his lips tugging into a grim line. "They claim your uncle's dragon is one of the largest in the world. Vhagar, was it? How do you reckon her rider will take to the news of your mother sending out envoys?" 

"My brother and I are diplomats." Jace asserted, his mother's urgent tone echoing in his years. "Moth- Queen Rhaenyra had us swear upon the Faith we were not to engage with anyone, Green or not, as her envoys. If the Greens were to desire bloodshed, they'd risk losing honorable allies.. if any of the Usurper's traitorous allies can be considered honorable." His jaw clenched as he spoke and Vermax crooned in response to his irritation. 

(Y/N) stared at him for a few seconds of silence, his brows furrowed and lips remaining in that grim line. His (E/C) eyes flickered between Jace's, searching the dark brown of his for an answer to an unspoken question. "The Realm has been at peace since the time of the Old King, Jace. Many of our men have the taste of battle from wildlings but to most... war is but something they heard of only in tales. The stability of the Realm is being threatened and nothing good has ever come from dragons dancing." 

"This time is... more valuable than anything, Ser. With the support of the North and Cregan Starks army, we may yet have an advantage over the Usurper. If we can put an end to their delusions, the Realm will become stable once more. There is nothing more the Queen values than peace, she has said so herself time and time again. She does not desire blood to be spilled on either side." Jace spoke carefully but truthfully, his heart beginning to hammer in his chest from nerves.

His mother had ruled Dragonstone for many years but the island had always been peaceful and easily manageable. Few were the times he'd be called upon to serve as a cupbearer, depriving his ears of the negotiations and discussions exchanged between ruling lords. Maester Gerardys had been his teacher since he was a mere child, and while some lessons included the art of politics and diplomacy, he'd been more focused on what lessons would further prove the Valyrian blood flowing through his veins. 

"You have much faith in your mother." (Y/N) noted, his typically emotionless voice carrying a softer tone. "But she is your mother, Jace. She is but a mere stranger to us and one who holds much power in her hands. The brutality of the North allows for us northerners to form bonds as close as family... but southerners know little of our struggles."

"That is... true." Jace swallowed and nodded, his curls brushing along his cheeks with the movement. "But I am a Southerner, and I see plenty of both the struggles and bonds you speak of, Ser. You can trust I will ensure Queen Rhaenyra will receive detailed reports of my time here so she may understand the lives of her subjects better. When peace is restored, I will ask her to travel just as the Good Queen Alysanne did. You have my word."

"Your word means little to me, princeling." (Y/N) said, and Jace's shoulders almost slumped but he ensured to keep them squared and back just as he'd been taught. The knight carefully pulled his hand back from Vermax, sparing the dragon a cautious glance as he did so. Jace pulled his hand away from (Y/N)'s, almost missing the feeling of it beneath his palm. "I have little choice but to hold you to it, though. We will speak more after the hunt."

The snow crunched beneath their boots on their walk toward the awaiting horses and eager hounds. Jace took note of the horses as he made his way toward one, his brows lifting upward at the sheer height and muscle of the powerful beasts clearly bred for the winter landscape they called home.

He climbed atop one and settled over the fur-covered saddle, his hands grasping at the reins and tugging his horse closer to Cregan and (Y/N) once he grew used to the difference in height. When the last of the hunting party gathered, they began the trek into the forest with light chatter and quiet laughter filling the cold air.

The forest held a serene air to it with a gentle rustling of the branches and the occasional call of an animal in the distance. Growing up in King's Landing and Dragonstone restricted him to only visiting the Kingswoods during celebrations, leaving him yearning for namedays and festive occasions each year when he could slip on his hunting clothes and travel with the rest of the men.

But, the Kingswoods hardly compared to the beauty of the woods of the North. The long expanses of snow, the sharp whistling of wind, the hint of eeriness that kept him alert; he enjoyed it all. 

"Is Bear Island any different than Winterfell, (Y/N)?" Jace questioned, his breath forming a cloud that disappeared into the air and brought a small smile to his face. He tilted his head toward the two men and further adjusted his coat over his shoulders, the fur lined along the hood tickling the back of his head and neck.

"There are more bears." (Y/N) responded with a hint of amusement in his voice. "The Ironborn will occasionally raid those who live close to the shores. Bold, they may be, but no one can recover from taking an axe to the head. The women and men of Bear Island protect themselves and each other well. We must rely on each other, as the rest of the North does when winter comes and food grows scarce."

The corner of Cregan's lips twitched upward. "The Mormont's do well in defending their island."

"Aye," A wolfish grin briefly passed over (Y/N)'s features and sent a pleasing chill down Jace's spine. He wondered how it must've been for the residents of Winterfell when a feral cub stood at their doorstep in all his youthful arrogance, how vexed young Cregan must've been. "Bears are territorial." 

"Aye," Cregan echoed, the ghost of a knowing smirk on his lips when he gazed upon his lover. "They certainly enjoy marking their territory."

Jace forced himself to look away, to focus on the prints in the snow left behind by hooves and paws in hopes of restraining his mind before it could be left free to race. Despite the teeth-chattering cold surrounding them and making his cheeks flush, it did little to soothe the warmth of his skin beneath the many layers of clothing. He could only pray the redness of his cheeks was brushed off as an effect of the chill. 

Luckily for him, the dogs gathered at the legs of Byran's horse and began yipping, signaling their noses had caught a scent. The eagerness and anticipation rolling off the rest of the men seemed contagious, and Jace's legs nearly gave out underneath him when he slipped off his horse and forgot about the height. He staggered a bit but a broad hand pressed into his back and steadied him once more. Jace glanced over his shoulder and met Cregan's eyes. 

"Ready for your first hunt in the North, princeling?" He questioned, voice low and husky and making Jace's tongue twist in his mouth. He simply nodded when words failed him. "Come then, Jace. Let us show you how we do things here."

[wispeth]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[shirefantasies]

Hello! I would like to request a little prompt if you'd want to do it. Kili/Reader where Kili is insecure about not looking "dwarfish" enough; hard time growing a beard, and being seen as too young for stuff. The reader has to comfort him, maybe with some hair braiding and fluff. I just wanna see my little boy getting the love he deserves. If you'd be comfortable with it could the reader be male presenting, otherwise gender-neutral is cool too. Hope you have a good day :)

Bro sorry this is so late but hope you enjoy friend 🥰

Warnings: one suggestive joke

See Me- Kili x GN!Reader

Sometimes it simply shocked you how beautiful Kili was. Your One, the apple of your eye, he whose smile alone lit up your eyes like the whole of the stars. The way his long black locks tumbled effortlessly over his shoulders. Looks of focus that overcame his handsome features as he took a shot or when he attempted whittling.

It would have never occurred to you to think he'd never be enough. In fact, you had to suppress a laugh when he first expressed this concern, not out of finding his struggles humorous but simply a sound of pure incredulity, the same reaction you'd have had to as blatant a lie as someone telling you the sky was green.

Kili had been sitting by your side on watch, only you two awake for the chill wind of the night as the rest of the company stayed wrapped up in their bedrolls. Wistful in the breeze, he'd been thanking you for caring about him so much as he leaned back on his log, one leg crossed over the other and one hand fidgeting with the edge of his boot to match the nervous downward shift of his gaze.

"It's hard sometimes being the extra brother, you know? The one the future king's always standing up for."

"You are one of the strongest people I know," you gaped, "And I have no doubt you would do the same for him. And what is this of being the spare brother? Fili and you are nothing alike. Both of you are blessings to your family. Both of you are kind, strong, and selfless, yes, but you are bright and daring and dare I say fun in a way that he is not. There is no comparison."

"That's just it, I guess. Being the fun one doesn't help them always thinking I'm still a kid," he replied, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Fireglow flickered around his handsome profile, illuminating the vulnerable shine in those deep brown eyes you so loved. For once, all the confidence, the bravado he was always able to summon in the company's presence, had melted away. Kili was no child, but you could see the helpless boy within making his slight emergence. No matter, though. Who could see this dwarf man, this one who made you feel so strong and so safe and made jokes that never failed to flare warmth beneath your skin, and see a boy?

"Your mother?" You asked, leaning closer and resting your hand upon his arm.

"Everyone," he shrugged, looking up and giving a small smile to your contact, "They tell me I'm tall for my age or ask what is wrong with me that I haven't a full beard. They see my brother, proud and golden-haired with those great dangling braids and say there goes the future king. Then comes me, the princeling who gets to have fun, the one lucky to live in so many great leaders' shadow."

"I love my brother," he hastily amended, waving his hands, "None of it is his fault and I do not want his life, his possible throne. Moreso it's the way they expect me not to care, not to have a bother in this world. So I guess I grew into giving them what they want. Acting like just that. Suppose that's part of why I rush into things so. Some part of me hoping I'll prove myself this time. Make up for the times Fili had to rush to my defense from some bully picking on me before I vowed to show them."

As Kili's words trailed off, you shook your head, eyes still shining into his with purest disbelief. "If only you could see what I see. See not only your beauty, but your heart. A beard doesn't make a man, after all, a heart does. And yours is bold, resilient, and would do anything for those it loves. In turn it loves freely and acts courageously, even when the world would have it falter."

A smile crept its way back onto Kili's lips at your words, his dark gaze going a bit bashful. Firelight overtook more of it as he shyly swiveled back away.

"A real man defends those he cares about and those who cannot defend themselves. He knows who he is and fights just as strongly for that. Just like you when you stood up to those imbeciles who mocked your archery and became an expert with a bow. When I look to what being a man means, Kili, I look to you. Now come here. Turn around."

Looking a bit puzzled, Kili obliged, rotating in his seat to face totally away from you, that flickering glow glistening off the long black locks that now faced you. You ran a hand through them, relishing in their softness despite the bristling pine needles that fell from them and dirt that had surely caught there. Running your fingers again and again, you combed carefully through it all.

"You take such good care of us. Of your mother, who gifted you a beautiful promise to return to her arms. Now let me care for you."

Wordlessly he nodded, melting into your touch as your fingers caressed his scalp, running through his hair one final time before you began separating the flowing locks and braiding them.

"Great dangling braids, you say? Great dangling braids you shall have, and I daresay they'll be more than a mite longer than Fili's."

"Not the only thing of mine longer than his," Kili shoots back, turning his head enough to give you a wink.

Smiling and giggling, you swatted his shoulder and shook your head. Deflection or not, your heart was warmed for the return of Kili's humor. You would do anything it took, you reflected as your hands worked at weaving his hair, to keep his smile present. After all, you knew he would always do the same.

Your rock, your strength, your heart, your One. Words you spoke to him over and over that night until they stuck, and if they never did, well, you would be right there to speak them again. To be Kili's eyes and see him for all the beautiful things that he was.

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[themotherofhorses]

pairing: aemond targaryen x handmaid!reader

summary: “she’s a bastard—‘innit the truth, mother?”

warnings: explicit language. angst. much angst. nothing but angst. i cannot stress it enough.

notes: well this is rather unfortunate.

his handmaid's tales | main masterlist

The raven arrives at nightfall, at an hour so late that only Aemond is awake to accept it. The princeling could not find sleep that night, instead rolling off the bed and crossing the chambers to his windows, before pulling back the heavy tapestries and throwing them open one by one.

The cool air is a welcoming feeling to his feverish skin, hot to the touch from hours of lovemaking under the sheets.

He stands facing the darkness, naked and at utter peace, in pure happiness. His precious girl sleeps soundly behind him, with the thick furs pulled up to her chin, hiding the most of her beneath the blankets. She is so utterly beautiful in the moonlight. It’s been three long months since his sons were born, and Aemond was beginning to hope his seed would again take. His loins ache at the thought, and he fights the sudden urge to slip in between her thighs. Perhaps she’d give him a daughter this time.

In his dreams, she wears her mother’s face, in a gown of Targaryen colors with a dragon hatchling sitting on her shoulder. She pokes him awake in the morning, and pleads for a quick ride atop Vhagar before grandmother arrives to begin her history lessons.

His daughter has his love’s eyes and smile, he thinks again, and her nose scrunches up in the same way hers does.  

I want it.

He shakes his head.

Let her rest, you fool.

When the black raven arrives at his windowpane, he is a bit confused. He waves the bird away before it could make another squawk, and stares down at the scroll taken from it, eying the blood-red ribbon tied into a pretty, tight knot around. In his head, he weighs the choices in taking it as his own. Should he…? Or should he not? His curiosity clashes with his righteousness.

Aemond decides to, in the end.

He takes the scroll to his desk, quietly lighting a small candle before taking a seat and unrolling it out to read. The writing is in pretty cursive yet smells of cheap ink, with a slight smudge staining the edge of the paper. It is addressed to his handmaid, he realizes, starting with her name that leads to a sweet congratulations on her newfound motherhood. Twins, your uncle had said. How marvelous to hear. I hope to meet them soon, my dear.

With all the love in this lifetime—your mother, Alys Rivers.

“With all the love in this lifetime,” he repeats aloud, shaking his head, refusing to believe. His fingers tighten around the letter, the tips turning a jarring white. “Your mother, Alys Rivers.”

Aemond then glares up at the woman lying in his bed, a bitter twist on his mouth. She shifts a little bit beneath his gaze, but remains relaxed and asleep and blissfully ignorant of the rising anger sparking deep inside him.

Who is she? For the first time since he met her, he asks himself that.

He should’ve suspected this.

“A bastard, Lord Beesbury, mothered by the daughter of a milk cow.”  

Aemond turns away from her, back to the darkness outside.

Her mother is a bastard rivers woman, it seems. At least that is how it reads. Alys Rivers. She carries no man’s last name in her letter. What is her daughter, if not the same as her? He picks at his mind, trying to remember if she ever mentioned her father. Aemond returns to staring up at the moon and the white stars blinking high above in the midnight sky.

He suddenly feels no desire to return to bed with her tonight.

But she is the mother of your children, his mind argues, and it leaves him irritated.

She’s given him two heirs, his first-born children, beautiful twin boys that are mirrors to their own father, himself. And the daughter he’s dreamt of…But…they’re bastards too, he then reminds himself. You love them the same way you love her, do not lie to yourself. It was not enough to ease his thoughts, and reason with him, and stop the ugly bitterness from rising in his throat.

Damn her.

Aemond stuffs the letter inside one of the desk drawers, not wishing to lay eyes on it again. Maybe he’ll burn it later in the day. He then shrugs on his robe, tying it around his waist, before leaving the room. She’ll wake up in the morning, and search for his hand buried within the sheets. When she realizes she is alone in the bed, he knows she will pout before readying to tend to her babies, like the mother he’s made her into.

Damn her.

Then she will move on to her responsibilities, like the silly, dumb handmaid she is.

Damn her.

That is all she should’ve remained, Aemond thinks, curiously calm as he strides down the hallway. He doesn’t know where he is going, but he knows he will not return this night. Bastards never amount to anything else.  

Aemond hasn’t spoken to her in three days, dismissing his handmaid from his bedchamber before he retires for the evening. She no longer fetches his hot baths or crawls beneath the blankets with him. He hasn’t allowed it. He avoids the nursey too, where he knows his twin sons sleep in their cots, too young to notice their father’s absence. Aemond walks the halls of the Red Keep, as he has walked a thousand times before, but disregards all the rooms where he knows her presence painfully lingers.

She does not fight nor question him. He knows she won’t.

“Aemond.”

He hears her voice in his slumber, always- sometimes in a breathless whisper, and most times in a scream, or a whimper, or an anguished howl. She always manages to find him, following him into his dreams and nightmares and antagonizing him into insanity. Her shadow stands over his bed. And around her neck dangles the sapphire necklace, while her pretty eyes weep both tears and blood.

“Aemond, please!” she cries, bawling up the sides of her dress in her fist. The plain cloth is stained in dried blood, splashed across her belly and thighs. “Aemond, please, I need you, husband!”

“AEMOND.”

This time tonight, it causes Aemond Targaryen to jerk upright, pulled from a horrible nightmare that still clouds his thoughts. The sheets are tangled between his fingers, and his heart is heaving heavily within his breast. He hears her voice echoing, begging for her husband. “Aemond.” His attention quickly darts to the door, where his mother stands, tall and regal and noticeably pissed. She calls his name again loudly. Although still groggy, he stumbles his way towards her.  

His mother does not greet him. Instead, her brown eyes remain on his empty bed, skimming across the sheets and the way the heavy fur blanket nearly hangs off the foot of his bed. He must’ve kicked it off him during his sleep.

She frowns at the sight, before looking back at him.

“So it is true, then.”

Aemond rubs at his eye, tilting his head in confusion. “What is true, mother?”

“That she hasn’t been seen in your room for the past three days; instead, she’s returned to her old room across the castle, where the other maids sleep. Three days, and three nights.” His mother spoke in anger, yet her face remained a mask that betrayed nothing. It is one thing he greatly admired about her, in the same way it terrified him the most. “And you haven’t visited your sons as well, I’m told.”

He flushes. “I’ve been busy,” he grumbles, shifting on his bare feet. “I’ll see them tomorrow, in the morning after we break fast together.”

“Tomorrow? You’ll see them tomorrow? AEMOND!” she shouts, incredulous. Her hair hangs loosely around her face, and she pushes a thick strand behind her right ear. “You wanted these babies so badly, and yet you are beginning to neglect them before their second nameday. Have you lost all fucking sense?!”

Aemond bites his tongue in an attempt to keep his own temper from flaring up in response to her yelling. He says nothing in return, which he knows only upsets his mother further.

“What has happened, Aemond?” she asks. “This is unlike you. You love those boys, and that girl too.”

“Nothing,” he says, a bit too quickly. “Nothing has happened. I’ve simply been too busy to play anymore games with her.”

“Games? Games?! That is all shit,” his mother blazes. “Utter shit. Do not begin to take me as a fucking fool, Aemond. I am not your father, and I am not your brother, and eldest sister either. Now you tell me, boy, what has happened.”

Aemond sighs. “She’s a bastard—‘innit the truth, mother?” He meets her eyes and feels his poor heart sinking at the silent shock that instantly falls across her features and the way she makes no move to deny it. “A bastard.” Saying it aloud, it makes him wish to return to his bed, and curl up in his sheets, completely hidden from this cruel world that damned him to fall in love with a stupid bastard girl. “A damn, no good, bastard girl from Harrehnal—”

But he is then cut off by a sharp backhand blow to the side of his face that quickly sends him stumbling two steps back, almost falling hard against the wall. Aemond holds his cheek, breath hitching as he brushes a tender finger against the already reddening skin that he knows will surely show a dark bruise on the morrow. It feels hot, and it stings. He looks up at his mother, who has never hit him before.

“How dare you speak of her in such a way,” she spits, purpled with rage. Her hand twitches at her side, as if she itches to slap him again. He deserves it, he thinks. “HOW DARE YOU. She is the mother of your children, and you dare behold her with such loathing venom?”

“AND YOU DID NOT THINK TO TELL ME BEFOREHAND?” he shouts back, half hurt from the realization that she watched him fall smitten with the bastard, and never thought to tell him the truth. “She is the cousin of those bastards that took my eye, their own blood!”

“And? It is the truth, yes, that she is a riverlands bastard, born to a woman at Harrenhal. Lord Larys is her true uncle, who brought her to us at my request. But damn you, Aemond, that girl is so fucking in love with you.”

All his words fall stuck in his throat, and he fails to push them out.

“Have you nothing more to say?”

His queen mother sniffs when he says nothing, shaking her head. “Unbelievable. Perhaps it is best she drinks the moon tea, lest she gives you another child that you won’t love nor appreciate because of its mother’s unfortunate bastardy.” Aemond remains silent, and her mouth drops into another scowl. “You lied to me when you promised that you would never be your father or Aegon.”

I am not, he wants to scream out. His knees buckle in weakness at her cruel words, and the sheer disappointment laced within them. It hurts worse than her slap.

I love her so much, I swear, and my boys too. I love anything she gives me, and I promise…I promise…I promise…

“You, Aemond, carry their eyes and hair and nose, everyone can see. But I know the truth now—you carry their pig attitude as well,” she remarks, pushing herself toward him. “I’ll send her back to her mother, I promise, and find another handmaid for you, one that is to your liking.”  

She says not another word, instead turning to the houseguard that had accompanied her to his hall. “I’m tired. Please help me back to my bedchamber,” she asks, pressing her fingertips against his temple. “I would appreciate such, my good knight.”

His mother leaves him silent and still, sad and scared and helpless and heartbroken, staring down at his toes as they grow damp from his tears.

tag list for "his handmaid's tales": @aemondsblog @dc-marvel-girl96 @neobanguniverse @missalycat21 @enchantingcupcakecollectionfan @padfooteyes @alexizodd @avidreader73 @the-common-cowgirl @inlovewithhisblueeyes @elegantsplendour @katzarantos @fan-goddess @okfashionista @randomdragonfires @aemvnd @mochimommy2002 @fangirlninja67 @iiamthehybrid @bellstwd @katzarantos @crazymusicgirl104

taglist for everything aemond: @randomdragonfires @aemvnd @moonteas @chompchompluke

[malfiora]

Can't Get Enough

by captainBAEhab

Tags: GrayWing, getting together, previous DickKory, fluff, thirst traps

The first time they met was...less than stellar. Kori had been raving about her new boyfriend for ages and finally got to introduce him to the Titans during their annual holiday party. "You'll like him, he's from Gotham," he'd been assured.

Nightwing is curious – until in walks the princeling of Gotham, Dick Fucking Grayson. There's a blissful moment in which he thinks (knows) this is a mistake, but, nope, Kori is greeting him with a kiss and heart eyes. How had they even met? And what could Kori have possibly seen in him?

He watches to find out. Dick waltzes around, flashing his best paparazzi smile at the Titans and regaling them with ridiculous socialite stories. What's worse is that everyone else is actually charmed by this, if the faint blushes and waving hands are any indication.

When Dick finally makes his way over to him, he gives Nightwing a sweeping look and his smile tightens to a smirk. "You, I know," he declares. "My family's cleaned up enough of your messes."

And so Nightwing vows to hate the guy, even if the others vouch for him.

"Oh, c'mon, he was trying to be nice," Troia says. No.

"Yeah, isn't that just how Gothamites say 'hello'?" Beast Boy tries. Nope.

Nightwing gets the last laugh when Dick and Kori break up three months later.

---

Or so he'd thought. As fate would have it, night shift in Gotham falls to Nightwing one weekend. Batman and Robin are off world, Red Robin is on the West Coast, the Batgirls are on the other side of the world for a "mission" (read: vacation), and Red Hood won't return his calls. And apparently some upstart gang thinks it's the perfect window to kidnap a Wayne for ransom. But not just any Wayne, oh no.

Dick Fucking Grayson is sitting in the middle of a dingy room, gagged and tied to a folding chair. Nightwing removes the zip ties first and the gag absolutely last. As soon as he's able to, Dick pushes off the chair to stand but immediately falls back into it with a grunt.

"Whoa, take it easy," and Nightwing scans him for injuries. "Looks like your ankle is sprained."

"Doesn't matter, the girl –"

Nightwing raises an eyebrow. "What girl?"

"The other victim." Turns out, the upstart gang is more daring than they initially seemed and kidnapped two hostages. "I'm not leaving her, I have her my word."

It's a bad idea, he should complete Dick's rescue before going back for another hostage, but Dick's eyes are burning with determination and it's crumbling his resolve. "Fine," Nightwing sighs, "hang onto me."

They hobble down the hall to another dilapidated room. Huddled in the corner is a girl, probably a preteen, with smudged glasses and a shock of red hair. She launches herself at Dick the moment she sees him and hugs him around the middle.

"Hey, Carrie," he says through a pained smile and he pats her head. "I told ya I'd come back for you. And I brought a friend."

Carrie peeks up at him and smiles. Nightwing crouches so he's level with her. "Hey, Carrie, my friend here's a little hurt, so I need your help. Is that okay?" She squeezes Dick tighter but eventually lets go and nods. "Awesome. I need you to go a few steps ahead of us and tell me if you see or hear anyone coming. If you do, make this signal with your hands." And he flaps his hands like a bird.

"Like this?" She imitates the gesture.

"You're a natural."

Carrie diligently checks around every corner as Nightwing supports Dick through the building. Either the goons all left or they get extremely lucky, but they don't encounter anyone, and soon enough they're free of the lair. GCPD arrives a minute later with paramedics, so Nightwing gives Dick over to the paramedics and calls it a day. But not before he watches Dick smile down at Carrie and offer his hand to her while they wait for her parents.

See, he's never seen this side of Dick before. Warmth, protectiveness, concern for someone and something other than his hair and his fancy clothes and gaudy cars. It's...weird and vulnerable and a little precious, and so now Nightwing is curious – what else is there to Dick Fucking Grayson?

Which, of course, leads him to Twitter. He scrolls through Dick's posts and retweets, just skimming, all the way back to when he first created it, just as part of his investigation. It's not obsessive if he's only looking, right? It's a patchwork of silly ramblings, vague political statements encouraging Gothamites to vote without endorsing anyone, links to interviews with various Waynes, and photos of charity events. Normal, even a little thoughtful. Must be Dick's PR team, right? Except that wouldn't explain the thirst traps.

There aren't many, but they're there, sprinkled into perfectly innocuous posts. Hashtag-no-filter selfies of him allegedly just waking up, post work out poses, fit checks in various dressing rooms, just there, for everyone to – FUCK.

He accidentally liked one of the posts.

And so now Nightwing is faced with a dilemma: does he un-like it and pretend it was a mistake? Or leave it there and act nonchalant? Dick is going to get the notification either way, and moment now –

"Well hello there 😏" comes the DM notification from @ not_a_dick_joke and nonononono this can not be happening right now. "Glad you liked the pic! But here's a more recent one" and sure enough Nightwing gets an alert saying he's got a photo.

Dare he? Should he open the messages to see? Well...a peek couldn't hurt at this point. Lo and behold, it's another thirst trap, this one of Dick with his shirt half unbuttoned and holding a sign with a scribbled 'to my savior' on it.

Nope. That's enough Internet for the day. Nightwing logs off of Twitter and considers deleting the app for five whole minutes before doing something more productive like polish his wingdings again.

---

And everything is fine for another couple weeks, in which Dick definitely sends more selfies and Nightwing definitely looks at them and leaves him on read and this is definitely normal and healthy behavior for both of them. Until it isn't.

@ not_a_dick_joke: is getting kidnapped the only way I'll get you to talk to me? okay then 😊

What...what does that mean? Holy fuck, is Dick Fucking Grayson going to get himself kidnapped just to get Nightwing to talk to him? That's just...(stupid/hot/crazy/sweet).

So naturally, Nightwing must check on him. He drops by Wayne Manor, onto a balcony he's seen Batman use before. Sure enough, Dick is there, waiting, elbows leaning on the balustrade. He grins when he sees Nightwing.

"So that did the trick, huh? I was wondering what I'd do to get you over here if that didn't work." And then he's tugging at Nightwing's wrist and pulling him inside the manor. "C'mon, I wanna show you something." He tossed a wink back at him. "Something I can't post on Twitter."

[ladystarksneedle]

The eye of envy

Summary: A maid at the keep finds her own flame through the words of the dragon.

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: implied smut, mentions of child death, burns and injuries, angst.

Prev<

Masterlist

Her body aches in ways it has never before. She has known hardship her entire life, strenuous work from dawn to dusk pushing her to the brink of exhaustion and fitful slumber. She wakes up equally restless now, deliciously sore as she gets to work hiding the bruises beneath the wimple she opts to wear. She finds his  eye following her movements every time she enters or perhaps she’s more aware of his presence now that her longing has borne fruit. The sheets are changed more often with longer baths being taken together, grasping and clawing at each other till they're raw and need to be cleansed again. She finds herself visiting the sept more often, eyes on the lookout for his ardor as she begins honoring the Mother forsaking the Maiden before her. It is a wishful dream that she now lives every day, yearning for yet another part of him to hold and she’s answered soon enough. 

The wails that haunt the hallways make her shrink in terror wishing for the Stranger himself. There are whispers of madness and horror floating around that make her want to retreat into herself and run away from it all. The servants are rounded up again and cast into the dungeons awaiting harsher trials as she paces around her quarters unharmed yet she knows she'll face her fate soon enough. The blood that she'd given to him so readily hasn't arrived with the moon's turn making her choke back a sob. Some part of her thinks he knows what lies within her and it is perhaps his clemency which shields her from his wrath yet every time he returns to her his touch is fierce and unyielding, punishing her with sweeter torment. He leaves with a smirk on his face and a kiss to her cheek with a lingering promise of more as she struggles in silence. The Mother seems to have confused her punishment for the son that grows within her blooms as the young princeling of six wilts and the screams only grow louder.

The days that follow are short and agonizing. She's confined to his chambers with little knowledge of what passes outside other than the whispers passed at meals delivered to her on time. The King has ordered the death of all the rat catchers of the keep along with servants who've been presumed guilty. The stench of flesh soon greets her despite the windows being shut tight. Their bars can only hold so much death. 

It is a solemn occasion that greets her later as she dresses him in black. She feels him clench his jaw throughout the night in anticipation with no amount of coaxing soothing the guilt that he struggles to hide. She feels it too, a hand pressed to her womb in passing, feeling the pain she hears down the hall yet she braves it for him. He leaves shortly, assigning a guard to her door, prohibiting her leave as she's tucked into his bed with a lingering gaze. She knows the pain he carries now is for them both.

He becomes careful with her once the ashes of the little boy are strewn to the skies. His hands linger and ghost over her belly before retreating to clenching over nothing. There are days where she sees him only around the hour of the eel, woken up to being pulled close and taken in haste. There is an urgency to his movements which he tries to hide as he gives in to pleasure while not forgetting her own, yet he's gone before the sun rises leaving her locked and alone. She feels like a prisoner with more comfortable lodgings. She busies herself tidying his things yet she longs for home and the comfort of her own mother the most. It is days later when she's visited by one, clad in teal with her hands clasped in front of her. The Dowager queen looks as regal as she's spoken of, out of place next to a woman of her status as she bids her to sit. There is a sorrow that clings to her, haunting her beauty as she speaks.

“How are you doing”

“I am well your grace”

“That is good. You perhaps know why I’m here then”

“I make no demands of your grace. The prince-”

“Is quite fond of you, yes. It is why I've allowed him this fancy in the first place”

“It was not my intention”

“It never is” she responds ruefully. “The Mother has chosen to bless you child, in a time when she's tried us all” she continues fidgeting with her hands “Look after him” she whispers tiredly. She finds the woman that leaves is not the mother she hoped for but a crone gliding through the halls.

The first time she calls him by name is when he leaves for battle. She wakes up before dawn to ready him, helping him with his armour as he stares ahead. She cannot stop her tears as she finishes clasping his eyepatch in place before he pulls her to him whispering to her in the language of his ancestors. He kisses her farewell with a smile and a promise to return and that is what she finds herself praying for daily. She calls him by his name in her dreams, in the thoughts that haunt her while she kneels on stone. She lights candles for the Warrior to guide his blade and flame and for the Father to give them justice for the sorrow she sees amidst green. It is three moons later when word of victory reaches them before she finally approaches the Mother in peace.

The royal parade returns as her belly begins to swell. She hears the cheers in the distance and sees the head of the red horned beast that started it all, before seeing him fly triumphantly above. He returns to her with pride etched into him caressing her with longing burning through them both. It is only later she realizes how deeply the fire has consumed them all. The King screams in agony drowning the wails of his Queen who stares at him, pain etched into her features. She's been ushered into the room to help yet cannot stomach the sight before her. He's covered in bandages, salves and ointments lining his peeling skin, perpetually drunk on milk of the poppy to dull his senses. She sees her hold his hand and whisper something to him which is lost to the wind before she rises and leaves as the Dowager queen cries silently nearby. Aemond stands at the threshold observing it all with a blank face yet she knows what he sees. She remembers her mother telling her it is a curse to play chase with the Gods, yet as the man ahead of her screams as he's weaned off intermittently she can hardly summon any pity. Her heart lies with her lover at the threshold.

The night passes in flashes of anger with bolts of lightning illuminating the skies heralding imminent danger. She feels the empty bed next to her as her eyes adjust to the dark. It is cold as she struggles to wake up and explore. It is the last thing she should be doing but with him back she cannot feel anything but a semblance of security. She pads along the floor in her robe before making her way to where she thinks he is. She sees him stalking towards the monstrosity ahead as she lets herself in with a creak of the great oak doors.

“You shouldn't be here” he says as he hears her approach.

“Neither should you”

“It is to be mine on the morrow”

“Is it” she counters bravely “He still lives”

“Yet he's too weak to exert his will. It is I who’ll rule in his stead” he says, watching her reach him. “All of this will be ours someday.”

“In everything but name” she whispers reluctantly.

“Is it my name you still want when I have given you so much more”

“I want everything,” she admits.

“Greed doesn't become you”

“It seems to have found its place with you”

“This was always meant to be mine.” he remarks.

She sees another flash of lightning illuminate his face, silver and leather bathed in the moonlight, as she turns towards him. 

“You promised me your protection as long as I wished to continue. That is all I still ask for” she whispers, taking his hands in hers.

“Do you know the story about how the Iron throne was forged” he asks “A thousand blades were melted to take its form. A thousand men fell for its cause”

“Do you plan to fell a thousand more for your own?” 

She sees him smile in response as he replies “You shall have all that I have to give in time. Conquests do not yield their fortune in a day”

“Only King's perhaps” she finishes looking at him.

She dresses him at dawn with trepidation, her eyepatch now discarded for a new beginning. His sapphire glints in the dark as he clasps one around her neck.

“You are mine today for all to see” she thinks he means to tell her, as he pulls her to him from behind admiring the way it sits above her collarbones.

The ceremony is long and foreboding. She stands to the side in blue as he's crowned, curtsying with all the grace she can muster. She sees her father in the distance looking at her with confusion and her mother smiling knowingly before they bow. As the sun rises in the distance and steel finds a home atop a new head of silver, she feels the Smith at work, fashioning bonds aflame like the golden pin that glints on his collar. The doe ahead of her fumes in silence.

Taglist: @witheredoffherwitch @arcielee @chompchompluke @barbieaemond @watercolorskyy @b00kw0rmsworld

[fan-goddess]

Hey you! Can I request Aemond falling for a Princess who is generally more dark, sarcastic, maybe she has war experience and is imterested in occult stuff? Thx of you do this !!Love u

Author Note: Thank you for the request! Hope you enjoy it as that I do it justice! After writing I don’t think I went less dark and more sarcastic and only cheerful with Aemond. Hope this is alright though still!

If anyone else has any requests please don’t hesitate to ask :)

Here is my masterlist where you’ll find other requests I’ve answered and my other content

Warnings: no nsfw, fluff, no real pronouns nor any real physical features are mentioned though it is implied the reader is a girl

—————

When Aemond first heard from his grandsire that he was to marry you, he assumed he had heard incorrectly. You were well know in kingslanding for being… unique.

For one, you did not dress like any woman he’d ever seen before. You dressed like a boy. When your father brought you to court one day when the both of you were two and ten, his eye nearly fell from his head when he saw you hanging round with Helaena under the tree in the courtyard.

You wore a dark vest top and darker bottoms. It was only when he saw the more feminine features that graced your face till he realised you were in fact even possibly a lady. Maybe even a pretty one at that…

“What are you staring at princeling?” You shouted at him when you saw him. You had no regard for what may occur with your talk. You truly seemed to be fearless. “You never seen a girl or something?”

Even the way you spoke drew him in to you. You didn’t speak like the women at the court, who all giggled and talked only of needlepoint and their husbands latest triumph. It was all the same recycled rubbish according to Helaena. You instead talked of the wars your lands faced and the training your father allows you to wholeheartedly pursue. He’d seen the scars that graced your body. There were small ones that were mainly etched on your arms, though he’d also seen one that peaked from the back of the shirt you wore for when you joined him and ser Criston for training.

He missed you only a little when you left to go back to your kingdom. Something about them needing you for another war that was starting up. All he knew was that you and your father left in the middle of the night never to be really heard from again.

The next time though he even heard of you was when his betrothal was announced. His mother gave him a sympathetic look as his grandsire announced it at supper for his eight and tenth, Aegon simply raised a cup of some unknown alcohol and said, “Maybe you’ll now learn how it is to feel a woman before the princess cuts your cock off for a spell at least!”

His mother quickly dismissed Aegons jest, though even she couldn’t deny one of the rumours that surrounded you. How you dabbled and experimented with something dark and dangerous.

No one knew what it exactly was you did. The rumour only talked of some language being painted onto your skin before battle in charcoal. A mystery language none could understand excerpt for yourself.

When he saw you next though. That was what did it for him. You still dressed the same. Though this time it held much more armour themed clothing. That and it seemed to be tailored to fit you perfectly. Your now painfully obvious womanly figure showed him just how much you physically matured in the years you left. Though it seemed you didn’t mentally mature as he had hoped.

“Hello again princeling!” You said with a smirk as you sat next to him. He does not respond to you. Hoping maybe you’ll get bored of him and leave him be. “That’s awfully rude of you my dear princeling! And to think I thought this would be a love marriage!”

WHAT?!? His eye widens in your direction by pure instinct. His shock not as well hidden as he’d have hoped. Though as he looks at you in shock his gaze softens at the sight of your face.

It seems since your involvement of the war, which he has been told has been stopped and conquered, has given you more scars that litter your body. There is one more prominent that sticks out to him. It’s on your forehead and looks to be deep. By the looks of it it was cut by a sword. It’s ugly yes, but the smirk you give him makes it so he doesn’t immediately move his eyes to it.

He’s about to comment on it, when a Lannister he does not remember the name of comes over with a goblet of no doubt wine in hand. He can see the frown that takes over your face from the corner of his eye. “My princess! My how much you’ve grown! When I last saw you I swear you had the figure of a boy! At least now I can tell what it is you are!” The man grins, unashamedly looking at your figure.

Aemond nearly lunges at the man there and then. How dare he make such crued and inappropriate comments to his betrothed?!? He’s about to say something so he doesn’t in fact lunge at him, but it seems you beat him too it. “I don’t think my figure should be what worries you Lord Lannister. Maybe you should be more focusing on, what is it your third wife now whose died? People may start to believe your cursed… or possibly that you killed them yourself in your unquenchable desire for a son…?”

Aemond lets out a laugh before he can stop himself. It seems you also know of the rumours of your, dabbling. Though unlike most ladies who fear for the rumours that may spread, you embrace it. It seems Lord Lannister does not share his enjoyment of your wit, as he leaves near as soon as he arrived practically with his tail between his legs like a dog.

“I’m not a sorceress you know little Princeling.” You say as you turn to him. “We do not have the same religions you have here. I follow a certain path that involves symbols called runes that help protect me in battle. That’s what the whole rumour was about.”

“I do not care about the rumours that surround you Princess.” He says. It’s a damn lie. He’s been eager about any rumour about you since you’ve left the castle. “We are to be wed either way.”

“Liar” You smile. It’s so wicked how you smile. You’ve been in war. You’ve been down right mocked for how you’ve been brought up and yet you still give him a smile that makes his insides feel like he’s flying on Vhagar for the first time all over again.

After the announcement ball of your betrothal, he has been seeing you much more than he ever did as a child. You join him for his training sessions with Ser Criston, just as how you did as a child. Only this time you fight him directly and manage to knock him on his arse. A feat he finds himself strangely happy with.

You even bring out a hand for him to take in a goodwill gesture. He finds himself admiring the feel of your hands on his. They have callouses, he can feel. He can also feel a scar on you inner palm. Possibly from holding a sword by then blade. Though as soon as he realises he’s holding it for too long he drops it. He even realises that he likes fighting with you almost too much when you hold him down with all your weight like you’ve been taught to do.

He feels his heart is about to burst from his chest and he hates it. Yet even after that discovery, he still insists on himself enjoying your company.

He finds you to be annoyingly informative. You join him sometimes for his reading sessions in the library, and insist on telling him to gruesome ventures of you in the war.

While he was attempting to read about Visenya and Vhagar, all he could hear was you telling him the tale on how you had to saw of a man’s arm to stop an infection from spreading any further. It annoys himself even more when he goes out of his way to engage these tales from you, asking about the infection and what is was, abandoning the book to the side.

Aemond finds himself near abandoning the books altogether and instead discusses these usually disbanded topics of conversation in full detail with you. Maybe he likes how passionate you get when you insist on telling him your your gory stories from war, your hands making small gestures when you get to a personal favourite parts and sometimes even putting on ridiculous voices for the men in the stories. He hates how he always ends up unconsciously smiling by the end of them and you always smile back at him.

He also hates how well the meeting of you and Vhagar went. All you could do since he once, and only once, mentioned about the possibility of you meeting Vhagar. Ever since then you’ve been non stop threatening him to take you to Vhagar and meet the queen of the dragons. You threatened to take out his eye, you threatened to poison his wine, you even threatened to set fire to the library leaving nothing but dreary poetry you knew he hated.

Oh how he despised you. Oh how he cared for you. Oh how he hated how he smiled so widely when he gave in after the threat of his books. You caressed Vhagar like you would a cat, and he nearly burst a blood vessel when Vhagar began to purr. What in the seven were you doing to his dragon?!? All you were doing was caressing Vhagar with your calloused yet somehow soft hands and whispering to her your favourite war stories… he was definitely not jealous!

Aemond learnt over the next few days he was in fact jealous.

All you could do was bother him to see Vhagar again. You didn’t ask to see him with the same intensity you asked to see Vhagar…

His denial knew no bounds as he denied why you seemed to make his heart race so much. Or why it seemed only you could make him smile so naturally.

Maybe it was only until he married you in the way of his ancestors, when he could whole heartedly say he loved you as he showed his full self to you. Sapphire eye and all.

[starogeorgina]

Killer queen

Warnings: Incest, swearing, childbirth

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen × Targaryen OC

1.07

Your breathing was slightly staggered as you rubbed at your very swollen stomach. The maesters expected your labor to start any day now as the baby had reached full term. You had exhausted yourself by moving the heavy chair you were currently sitting in to face your large bed. You had spent the last few hours softly singing lullabies in high Valyrian, hoping it would help settle your son, who was softly sobbing down. Usually you would have happily sat underneath the bed with your son to find out what was troubling him, but due to the size of your bump, you could hardly kneel to the floor. Luckily, you had managed to calm him down enough for him to stop crying. Although he wouldn’t come out of his hiding spot, he did accept the drink and slice of lemon cake your lady-in-waiting sat down on a small tray for him.

“Ser Criston,” you look up as the knight enters your chambers. You try to push yourself to stand and greet him properly, but struggle to get your footing. “Gods!”

Immediately, he was by your side, offering you an arm to take while his other hand rested on your back. His eyes move around the room as he tries to pinpoint where the whimpering noise is coming from. “Princess, you sent for me?”

“Yes, I wanted to know if you have any further news on the silver-haired children who were seen in fighting pits,” you say quietly.

Criston nods. “I have, in fact. Two boys who have allegedly been fathered by Prince Aegon have been spotted running in and out of one of the brothels in flea bottom.”

“They children are in a brothel?” you ask, horrified.

“Some of the madams allow orphans to sleep in their brothels if they clean the rooms for them. What do—” His eyes shift to the bed. “Is that the young prince making so much noise?”

The lightness in the older man's voice makes you smile. “Yes, my son is hiding underneath the bed and won’t come out. I’ve tried to coax him out for hours, but he’s refusing.”

Ser Criston lets out a soft chuckle before kneeling down and speaking softly to Tré. He’s patient enough with your son and eventually manages to convince him to come out from under the bed. Your cheeks are puffy and red from crying so much; your poor little boy has been extremely stressed out over something. Tré seems to relax a little when Criston picks him up.

“Oh dear,” you said, smoothing Tré’s silver hair back before kissing his cheek. “What is wrong with my little princeling?”

He sobs, “I saw what Kepa did.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was yelling while flying on Vhagar!”

Criston gives you a look similar to the one your mother would gave you when you did something reckless as a child when you held your arms out to take Tré from him. Hesitantly, he hands Tré over to you. The maesters made it clear you were no longer to hold anything heavy for the remainder of your pregnancy, which is probably why he was being so cautious,but your son needed comforting. “When was this, sweet boy?”

“During the night.”

“I think you’ve had a nightmare; your father was here the whole night.” You kiss Tré on the top of his head before placing him on the bed. “I’ll just be a moment; don’t move.”

You motion for Ser Criston to follow you far enough away from the bed that your son could no longer hear you, but you could still see him. “Thank you; I feel much better now that I can see him.”

“It’s quite alright, princess,” he smiles. “I’m sure the young Prince just has a vivid imagination.”

Tré had been having nightmares for some time now, and you hope he'll grow out of them soon. Once the knight was gone, you’d let your son sleep beside you. After you explained to him that there was nothing to be frightened of, first you’d need to figure out how to help the young boys, who were more than likely Targayren. “Could you?" Your hand moves your lower abdomen when you start to feel cramps. “Discreetly bring the boys to the keep; I'll figure out how to help them then.”

“Princess, are you okay?”

You let out a deep breath, and you take the knight's arm to sit back down. You can't help but smile, seeing the fear etched into his facial features. “Perhaps you could send for the midwives, then my husband, before you find the boys.”

—

You let out a deep groan as your contractions became closer. Both Helaena and your mother were waiting with you until it was time to push, although your sister was talking in riddles, putting her in a more irritable mood than normal. Aemond was in the nursery with your son, who was still a little scared of his father despite your best efforts to reassure him. Aemond had been coming in and out of the room to check in on you, but the midwives told him childbirth was no place for a man.

You accidentally brush your sister’s arm as you waddle by her, causing her to turn to you with an almost venomous glare in her eye. She says, “He’ll lose more than an eye.”

“Of course he will, sweet girl,” you say, not fully listening to her.

You knew she meant nothing malicious; she just behaved oddly at times. Your mother rubs at your lower back until they are asked to leave so the midwife can check how far along you are. She announces it’s time for you to lay down on the bed and begin to push, but you refuse.

“No, I'm not laying down again. I've already fucking said that!” You snap, frustrated that nobody seems to be listening to you.

There was no law saying what position you needed to give birth in, and you would not allow anyone to hold you down again while you screamed helplessly. Feeling something happen, you kneel down with your arms and head resting against a leather chair. Tears roll down your cheeks as the maester and midwives continually tell you to reposition as you start to push.

“Princess, I–”

“Aemond!”

You don't even realize your husband is in the room until he is told to leave. “This is no place for a—”

“And which one of you is going to remove me from this room?” he asks, his voice full of ice.

Of course, nobody tries to stop him as he kneels at the side of the chair, so the midwives still have space to work behind you. He kisses your hand and says, “I'm right here.”

“One final push!”

You scream loudly, pulling your hands away from Aemond’s so you can dig your fingers into the leather of the chair roughly as you bring your second child into the world. You bring the back of Aemond’s hand to your mouth and kiss it gently as your wailing baby is checked over. The fire inside you had only ever burned for him until you became a mother, and now you couldn't imagine it burning out. Wincing, you turn yourself around once the cord is cut, so you could sit down on the ground, your body throbbing as you do.

“It’s a girl, princess.”

You're taken aback as you hear Aemond's voice shake as he asks, “Healthy?”

“Yes, kicking like a goat, my prince.”

The moment your daughter is placed in your arms, you begin to sob, “She’s so perfect.”

Aemond sits down beside you, clearly unbothered by the blood and other fluid covering the ground. He kisses the side of your head and says, “I’m so proud of you, Ashara.”

You rest your head against his shoulder, smiling down at your baby girl. “She’s so perfect; I love her so much.”

—

You blink awake slowly, your body fighting the exhaustion that still consumes you from giving birth only a few hours prior.

Aemond is fast asleep, with Tré sleeping with his head resting against his father's chest. It seems the excitement of having a sister overshadowed the memory of his nightmares. Hearing your daughter stir, you slowly get out of bed and go over to her crib, which was at the foot of the bed.

Daenerys, your precious girl.

“Shh,” you say, making a shushing noise to soothe her while picking her up. You kiss the back of her tiny hand multiple times. “My sweet babe, you’ve no idea how loved you are.”

When Tré was born, you were so ill from the loss of blood that you weren’t able to even pick him up yourself without help, and it made you feel like a failure, so being able to do it yourself now meant a lot. You look at the bed, hearing the bedsheets ruffle, and chuckle to yourself, seeing that your son has taken your spot on the bed.

“I will always do whatever it takes to keep you safe; so will your brother, and so will your kepa.”

[targcrazies]

Spring Wine Pt. 1

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC Premise: Rhaenyra Targaryen, referred to as Rhae by her family, is the heir of her mother, the Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen. In this Alternate Universe, Rhaenyra has her children with Daemon instead of Harwin and ascends the throne without an armed contest. However, tensions brew elsewhere, as Rhaenyra intends to marry her heir to her second child and oldest son, Jacaerys Velaryon.

WARNINGS: none, for this part, at least.

Part 2

P.S. this is very spontaneous, and i intend to finish off Moonless, Dark Night as well, I've not abandoned it. However, this will be a shorter series with some interesting dynamics to explore, perhaps three to four parts. Hope you all stick to it!

A dark shadow loomed over younger Rhaenyra’s heart; she could little fathom the tenseness the court had taken on. Everyone seemed terse, including her own mother, then the Queen Rhaenyra of the Seven Kingdoms. Stately matters were being dealt with in nature so abrupt that even her father seemed to raise his eyebrows. Rhaenyra watched as Jace stood beside their mother, observing every action of his mother with solemnity. Her other brothers - Luke, Joffrey, Aegon, and Viserys - stood on one side of the court, mawkishly quiet.

“Where’s Rhae?” The Queen spoke, causing Rhaenyra’s heart to jump to her throat.

“Yes Moth- your grace?” She swallowed hard, looking up at her Mother.

“Your betrothed is only meant to be the King Consort, hope you have not forgotten, Rhae.” She looked at Jace, “What decree do we have for the Princess of Dragonstone?”

Jace looked at his mother tensely, swallowing as he unrolled a heavy parchment, “Your Grace, shall I read it aloud?”

“Loud enough for the entire court to hear.”

The boy cleared his throat, sparing his sister a sympathetic glance, “Rhaenyra Velaryon, the Princess of Dragonstone, is to be wed to the Prince Jaecaerys Velaryon on the ninth day of the sixth moon of the year 130 AC and set sail upon Dragonstone. She and her brother-husband shall inherit two dragon eggs each and a treasury of four hundred dragons as a wedding present. Upon the Princess’s taking her rightful seat, she shall, under the name of Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Second of her name, Princess of Dragonstone. The children born from this union shall take their Mother's name.”

An awkward silence spread throughout the court like a disease. The Princess’s lips remained sealed, her mouth mute. When the rest of the court regained their courage to lift their eyes and look at the Princess, their eyes surreptitiously followed hers and landed upon a Targaryen prince. Not the one they had desired though.

The new Master-at-arms of the Iron Throne, Aemond Targaryen, stood quietly behind the four Targaryen princelings, his eye set upon the Princess in return for hers. He looked at her fervently, as if waiting to watch how she responds to the decree her mother had produced via the small council. Little could be made of his face alone, his features hardened, his posture straight, his hands holding on to two of his nephews, Joff’s and young Aegon’s.

The Princess’s lips parted as she breathed out, “Aye, your grace.”

The rest of the court aye’d in unison. The Prince Aemond Targaryen stared at his niece, his face unflinchingly stoic. The Princess looked at him with little emotion of her own, yet some could see a smidge of anguish perhaps. Or, was it fear?

—

“Father?”

“Yes dearest?”

“I do not wish to be wed to Jace.”

Daemon had stopped scribbling on to the parchment when his first trueborn child spoke what he had somewhat began to dread upon taking notice. He set aside the quill and casted his eyes toward her. She stood with her face bowed slightly, her eyes resting upon the brick ground beneath. Daemon recalled often the first time he had made love to Rhaenyra, the night before she had wed Laenor. The seed in her grew, for she claimed fervently that Laenor and she had failed to consummate. There was little room for disbelief as much was known of Laenor’s inclinations. Laenor, relieved at the prospect of a Valyrian-looking child being born to his wife, could object little. Shortly before her birth, Daemon had married Laena Velaryon, and she happily allowed the two to continue their relations so long as her brother’s reputation remained intact. She may bear the Velaryon name, and so do the other boys, but they were wholly Targaryen. Rhae was his first child, his oldest daughter. And, it broke his heart to know he could do little about it.

“You are to inherit the throne, my child. It’d be the most beneficial for you to marry your broth-”

“I want Aemond.” She interrupted, “Please, Father, you must speak to Mother.”

Daemon had seen it coming, he could little deny. He had noticed both the children taking a queer liking to each other. As children, they kept close. As they grew, their proximity came with shyness, hesitation, and lingering touches and gazes. Rhaenyra had taken notice, too. However, she chose to look past it, only ever resoundingly reminding everyone in court that her only daughter and heir and her oldest son must wed.

“Darling,” Daemon sighed, “Your Mother won’t allow it.”

“Why not, Father?” she took a couple steps closer, “He loves me, and I him. We wish to be bound together before the Seven. I do love Jace, but not like that, not at all.”

“Then where’s my nephew? Could he not come with the plea?”

“He waits outside. Both of you have… certain temperaments and I can only deal with so much at once.”

“Now, now, child, do not jape with me.” Daemon laughed, “Well, I’d have invited him in if I could be of any help here, but my hands are tied. I cannot object to the Queen.”

“But you may speak to her, Father.” She insisted, “I cannot marry Jace, it would be most unjust to him.”

“I can assure you, Rhae, that the boy knows.” Daemon stood up, walking toward the large window, looking out at the moon that shone only in half. “He is aware of your feelings, or lack thereof, for him. However, he’s dutiful. That’s required of us.”

“Father, you chose to refrain when duties were imposed upon you.” She walked closer to him, her voice lowering such that no word went beyond the door, “Mother found her way around it, having the four of us with you.”

“And, I am afraid, you must also conduct your affairs similarly, Rhae.” He put a hand on her shoulder, “Your Mother may be Queen, and I may be her hand, but Otto and Alicent Hightower are in some corner of the High Tower, perhaps planning an assault upon King’s Landing to claim it for Alicent’s firstborn son.”

“Uncle Aegon seems pleased to have his castle on the Blackwater Bay.”

“He might be, but not his grandsire. Otto is a greedy, conniving man, whose purpose has always been to have his blood on the throne.”

“You know Aemond is loyal to the Queen. When grandfather passed, he was the one who sent the raven and flew with Vhagar upon Dragonstone, to ensure that the raven was not deterred by anyone opposing Mother’s claim.” She tried to reason, her voice beginning to rise.

“And why do you think he did that?”

Daemon watched as his daughter’s face softened, “Father, he is honoured to be the Master-at-arms, but that was not his primary intent.”

Her father gently shook her head, chuckling under his breath, “You’ll make too good a Queen for the council. They’ll call you Rhaenyra the Simple.”

Her face hardened, “I do not appreciate the slight, Father.”

He put his remaining hand upon his daughter’s other shoulder and leaned closer, “Either you are a simpleton or you choose to turn a blind eye to the fact that your dear uncle Aemond might be Otto’s secondary route to having his blood on the throne.”

Her eyes followed as he drew back and walked away, she walked closer to him and retorted in a hushed tone, “Do you mean to say he does not truly love me?”

“He must like you… a bit. Perhaps, he can even tolerate you. Your temperament is mostly balanced, your tone rarely harsh, your heart kind, and your brain witty enough.”

She glared at her father, her eyes cold, “Father, I may not be as conniving as you are, but I am no simpleton. I am not a child who can be lured into marriage by someone who lusts over the throne.”

“But you are a child, Rhae, you are only six-and-ten.”

“Did you not wed a woman you called horrible names when you were seven-and-ten, to never even touch her or honour her as your wife? Shall I do the same? Would you and Mother like that?”

“Child, do not resort to threatening us.” Daemon raised his finger in gentle rebuke, “Jace is your own brother, not a political alliance we are imposing upon you with a lowly Andal. It is by the grace of your Queen that you were not skipped over and made heir. Do not return her blessing with betrayal.” He walked away from her again, his back now facing her, “The matter is settled, you shall marry your brother.”

Daemon heard closely as his daughter turned on her feet and opened the door. His ears perked when he heard his nephew’s whisper and her shushing. Daemon knew that it was unfair of him to judge the boy so unkindly, but there were incentives the boy could certainly be optimising upon, doubtlessly. Unless the boy made a genuine effort for his daughter, he saw little reason to deviate from the original plan.

—

“Daemon says a match between you and I is unlikely,” she and he sat in Godswood, under the oldest Weirwood tree, “He says it’s a duty I must perform, my wedding to Jace. His implications are laced with worry regarding your grandsire, especially.”

“I have been nothing but loyal, my grandfather has little control over my intent.”

“I communicated that clearly, however, he refuses to accede. He says he cannot even speak with Mother about it.” She sighed, letting her posture relax, “I am beginning to feel like it is all in vain. Either we shall elope, or we shall submit to our duties and commit to each other in our hearts.”

“We surely cannot elope, you have a duty to the realm, no matter what.” Aemond opined, “However, we may conduct whatever we have clandestinely. Even if it produces children, there should be little distinction.”

“Your mother’s lovely locks might make it to one of my children’s crowns. That’d be persecutory.”

“Hers never made it to us. I highly doubt they’d trickle down so far.” He laughed, “You worry so much, darling. If you have to marry Jacaerys, then so be it. I shall follow you to Dragonstone, scout for men and train them.”

Rhae shook her head, “I know Mother, she will want you here.”

“Then I can join the Kingsguard, be sworn to protect you.” She looked at him, her lips pursed,

“No… you deserve to have children in your own name. That would be rather unfair upon you. I can’t subject you to that.”

Aemond gently held her chin, drank her features in, “You’d not be subjecting me to anything. You and I will have children. You can have your heir with Jace, but the rest, we can have together.”

She bit her lip, “I have such love for you, I do not know how to pretend otherwise.”

“I cannot remember a day I haven’t loved you, truly.” He let go of her chin, with much effort, to ensure no one could catch a sight of them so fervent, “Mother kept telling me that you all were the enemies, you and your brothers. Aegon and I had little concerns of the sort. I had none whatsoever. Luke taking out my eye had had an impact, but I believed you when you told me no other harm would come to me from your brothers." He chuckled, "That's how I knew I wanted your Mother to be Queen, such that one day the Conqueror’s crown adorns you. You’d be my Queen and I’d be yours to serve.”

“I have heard little of a man so willing to be subservient to the woman they love and not have her submit.”

“The thought of you as the reigning Queen of the smallfolks and the seven kingdoms – with your heart so kind and your eyes so full – is what seems of good promise to me.”

She took his hand, despite his reservation, and kissed it, “Only if Daemon knew how you think of me.” She laid her cheek upon the knuckles of his hand, “He seems to think that your feelings are ingenuine. It pains me.”

“We might have some time before the wedding… happens. We may be able to come up with a solution by then. But, for now, if my sister asks you to agree to a wedding, you mustn’t refuse.”

“I fear if she has even so much as an inkling, she shall send you far away.”

“Do you think we could speak with Jace?”

“Jace loves me,” she admitted, “And, he also loves his duties. Even if he were to refuse the marriage, he may end up reasoning his decision with our bond to Mother and… that would defeat the purpose.”

He nodded, “Then for now, all we can do is -”

“Wait, think, and hope an opportunity springs up.”

—

Jace was no fool. He had always taken notice of the closeness between his older sister and his younger uncle. However, he had deluded himself into believing that their affections were only friendlike in nature.

Then, at court, as he read the decree and looked at his sister, he knew he’d lost the woman he loved to the man he feared. She loves him, he thought to himself. His eyes were boring holes into his sister’s skull, hoping she looked at him, once. However, she did not, for it seemed like she had forgotten of her brother’s existence. It seemed like, for all that mattered, there was only their uncle who existed in her vicinity.

Jace tried to read his sister’s face, but there was little. Was she contemptuous? Was she livid? Was she envious? Or, was she just plotting? Could the two speak without words, as lovers in lores do? Or did those two just looked into each other’s souls and scoured for words?

Little did he know that she looked at him for strength until he jerked his head in the slightest nod and a loud, strong, clear, “Aye, your Grace.” Left her lips.

He had bit into the inside of his lips and then tasted blood. His Mother, sat on the Iron Throne, showed little care toward his sister. His father walked to Rhae, enveloping her in a hug. Aemond whispered something to the children as the Queen dismissed the court. As the one-eyed Prince exitted, he looked at the Princess, his Rhae, and she at him; and it is almost as if they knew where to find each other upon a single glance.

Jace later discovered that they did. Some corner of the library, deserted and unguarded. He left the moment he heard the ruffling of fabrics and hurried whispers. His hands closed into fists and he rushed to the training grounds. One day, he thought, he might fight his uncle in a duel. If the Seven favoured, he may finish his formidable uncle off in a joust.

[realmsdelite]

UNDER THE CUT ARE ROLEPLAY PROMPTS TAKEN FROM GRRM’S FIRE AND BLOOD — FOCUSING COMPLETELY ON THE DANCE ERA. change pronouns as desired / preferred. altered slightly to fit dialogue format. part two.

tws: misogyny, violence, swearing

" the tedium of rule is left largely to the king's small counsel, and his hand. "

" the sheep are prettier then their women. "

" he has no living son, _ is the rightful heir. "

" nor did he have much of a taste for the joust, hunt, or swordplay. "

" his daughter was his life's great joy, he'd often said. but a brother was a brother. "

" in the absence of a trueborn son the king's brother would come before the king's daughter. "

" if the precedent set by the great council is to be followed, a male claimant must prevail over the female. "

" i wager he'd finally had a surfeit of his ambition. "

" _ is not the strongest willed of kings, it must be said. "

" he does as they bid more often then not. "

" no amount of argument shall sway me from my course. "

" there could be no possible objection to his choice of bride. "

" her ladyship shows far more interest in flying then boys. "

" it was not rebellion the prince has in mind, he sees another path to power. "

" of themselves, the isles are of little worth. "

" he's doubtless pleased to be rid of him. "

" it is an endless round of feasts, balls, and tourneys. mummers and singers heralding the birth of each new princeling. "

"she has proven to be as fertile as she is pretty. "

" _ protects the princess from her enemies, but who protects the princess from _ ? "

" though the queen has given the king not one, but two male heirs, he has done nothing to change the order of succession. it is not an issue he cares to revisit. "

" he loves both his wife and daughter, and hates conflict and contention. "

" so long as he lives, rules, and keeps the balance, the feasts and tourneys shall continue as before, and peace will prevail. though what of after the king passes ? "

" some have observed the dragons of one party snapping and spitting flames at the dragons of the other whenever they chance to pass near each other. "

" in the tourney itself, i had much the better of it. “

“you unhorsed all of the other champions.”

" as to what happened after, we must look toward our more dubious chroniclers. "

" you were cheering the loudest. "

" though he treats me with all the courtesy due to my station, there is no warmth between us. "

" neither age nor exile has changed his nature. "

" you are the fairest maid in all of the realm. "

" the whole tale has come out, and no small part thanks to him. "

" who else would take her now ? "

" he should be put to death immediately as a traitor. "

" your grace, you must not. there is no man as accursed as the kinslayer. "

" all the more reason to bind them together in marriage. "

" the boy is _ 's own blood. she wants him on the throne. "

" great lords and dashing knights flutter around you like moths to a flame, vying for your favor. "

" did he pay court to you ? "

" what of it? i do not like the taste of fish but when it is served i eat it. "

" you are being an ungrateful daughter. "

" it is a strong match. it was of great concern to us to choose the right one for you, and it is done. "

" what of your own succession ? you need heirs, with a suitable match."

"what a king has done, a king can undo. you will wed as i command, or i shall make your brother my heir in place of you. "

" i am the blood of the dragon. and meant for more then to live out my life as the wife of a common sellsword. "

" if you could set aside your vows, why should marriage vows mean anymore to you ? "

" i saved my maidenhead for you. take it now, as proof of my love. "

" perhaps when he learns i am not chaste, he will refuse me. "

" a joyous celebration has become the occasion of grief, and recrimination. "

" the coolness between the king's wife and the king's daughter is plain for all to see. even envoys have made note. "

" we all must find our own solace, whereever we will. with whomever. "

" the king hopes to prevent any enmity between the two boys by raising them as milk brothers. "

" there has come a tragic mishap, of the sort that shapes the destiny of kingdoms. "

" ' to put my wife to rest', he'd said. though more likely it was to lay claims to her lands, castles and incomes."

" his presence here, is unwelcome. and will be, should he attempt to return. "

" you should not fly any longer. not until the babe is born. "

" i have heard it said that more then just your husband, was at your side at your birthing bed. "

" do keep trying, soon or late you may get one who looks like you. "

" he is a father now, he will have changed. "

" he is as big and red faced, and healthy as his brothers had been. "

" features that some at court have called ' common.' "

" he sat the babe upon his knee, and was heard to say, ' one day this will be your seat, lad. ' " / " one day this will be your seat, lad. "

" the sins of the father are oft visited upon the sons, wise men have said. and so it is for the sins of the mothers as well. "

" i would ask your blessing, your grace. and your permission, for a betrothal of marriage. "

" this enforced closeness has only served to feed their mutual mislike, rather then bind them together. "

" many and more will have reason to wail, and grieve, and rend their garments. "

" some claimed a ship was waiting for him offshore. he was never seen again. "

" there was no shred of proof, then or now. "

" the cruelty of children is known to all. "

" you stay away from her!"

" even at ten, he has never lacked for boldness."

" call it boldness, call it madness, call it fortune or the will of the gods or the caprice of dragons - for who can know the mind of such a beast ? "

" to so name them is tantamount to saying they are bastards, with no right of succession, and that i myself am guilty of high treason. "

" should anyone, man, woman or child - noble, or common, or royal, refer to them as such again, their tongues shall be pulled out with hot pinchers. "

" your false smiles and empty words deceived no one, save for the king. "

" these vile rumors and base calumnies must end. she will return to court with me, you will confine yourself to your seat. "

" he shall serve in his stead as your shield. "

" these rulings have seemed to please no one. "

[llondonfog]

making soup and getting all emotional thinking about lilia returning home from an emotionally taxing day at the castle to a sniffling child and a burnt pot of stew on the fire

thinking about how stunned he must have been for those first few moments, lingering silent in the doorway while silver feared he would be punished for breaking his papa's rules

no one has cooked a homemade meal for lilia vanrouge, no one has considered how he might like something warm after a long, exhausting day of travel and castle politics

and here, this human child- his stolen princeling, the son of his greatest enemy- his child. thought as much and wanted to provide for lilia in return.

how delicious it must have been, to taste love where there were burnt pieces of meat and vegetables. how his heart must have ached, to use his magic on the scrubbed clean pot and bask in the awe of that bashful little smile while the precious boy now slumbers in their room, to hear his voice chatter eagerly about sharing a meal with his father.

this is peace; a bowl of burnt soup, a tiny hand that searches for his own, and the warmth of their two hearts more pleasant than any hearth could ever compare.

[shieldofiron]

Vibe Check Part 8

You Can Sleep When You're Dead

The Frat Boy Au

Read Previous on Ao3 or tumblr.

Steve doesn’t know what time it is when the door swings open.

“Honey, I’m home!” Billy announces in a booming voice, flinging his keys vaguely in the direction of the hooks by the door.

“Sorry, Steve.” Carver bustles in, scooting around Billy and grabbing the wastepaper basket, positioning it next to Billy’s bed.

Steve blinks into the light coming from the hallway, seeing only the vaguest outline of a female form. Did Billy bring home a girl from the bar? Maybe Carver did, because he can’t imagine a girl wanting to stick around for Billy in this state.

Only a few people can handle Billy like this. Argyle and Argyle’s girlfriend Eden are used to him. Steve is pretty used to it too, although he’s gone a few weeks without it.

Is it weird to say he’s missed it. Missed Billy’s drunken rants about gossip, the way he moves a little sloppier, not so tightly wound.

Steve misses him. Present tense. He feels like all he does lately is miss him.

And his eyes hurt but he refuses to close them, watching Billy take out his wallet and lay it on his dresser with supreme concentration. Steve'd been up the night before reading the queer theory that Robin had sent him because apparently gay porn and being in love with a man wasn’t enough.

And he’d also held Robin’s hair tonight when she’d puked in the bushes. Luckily Heather Holloway agreed to walk her back to Heather’s sorority house or he’d have let her sleep here too. Blessedly Eddie’s girlfriend had taken the night off too, so at least they didn’t have to contend with that too.

When he’d finally gotten around to asking about Billy, the party was over, and only Eddie had offered a halfhearted explanation.

Guilt crept over him now as he watched Billy struggle out of his jeans, bare ass on full display.

Steve pushed himself up and reached over to his desk to retrieve the open box of Alka Seltzer. Billy snatches it out of his hand before Carver can add it to a bottle of water.

“For me? Oh, Stevie. You shouldn’t have,” Billy began to struggle with the paper wrapper.

“I’ve got it,” Carver said.

“I’ll just eat them dry,” Billy said.

Carver winced.

“He will too,” Steve muttered, “get in bed, asshole. Quit fucking around.”

Billy drops the alka seltzer to the floor and Carver topples over trying to retrieve it with a very un-Carver-like giggle. 

Great. They’re both drunk as skunks.

At least that’s a good excuse as to why Billy yanks on a pair of Steve’s sweats and pulls back Steve’s covers to get in beside him.

“Hey!” Steve is cold for a moment before it’s replaced with a blistering guilty heat and Billy, warm and sweet.

Billy snuggles right up next to him and takes the offered bottle from Carver like a little princeling, born to the Manor. Steve looks blearily towards the hallway but it’s empty now. Maybe he imagined the girl after all.

“Billy, you can’t-” Carver says, frowning.

“It’s fine. We’ve shared beds plenty of times,” Steve says weakly. It’s true. They bunked together last year on the ski trip and it was no big deal.

They were just plastered from ankle to chest and Billy’s hair was adorably askew after he threw off his t-shirt.

“Have it your way.” Carver throws up his hands and he moves the trash can to Steve’s side, throwing Billy an inscrutable look.

Billy sucks down the still fizzing water bottle with a disgusting slurp before turning into Steve’s chest, curling into himself.

It is disgusting of Steve’s heart to skip, but it does, and it’s disgusting that he thinks w e’re not alone with a mix of disappointment and panic. But he does.

Steve is disgusting, not because he has gay porn on his phone or because he has feelings for Billy. But because he can’t control these wayward thoughts, can’t seem to corral himself. He wants to brush Billy’s static-y curls back. He wants to feel Billy’s sweat sticky skin and have it not be a big deal but it is.

“Thanks, Carver,” Billy croaks. “I’m still gonna kick his ass.”

“I know, Cheryl.” Carver nods. “You… you take care of yourself, alright?”

“I’ve got him,” Steve says.

Carver nods again, like a little blonde bobblehead. “Kay. Uh… goodnight. Want me to get the light?”

“Yeah. Yes,” Steve says, worried that his voice is giving him away. He should ask Carver to stay. Not because anything’s gonna happen. Just because he can’t be alone with these thoughts.

And then they’re alone in the dark. Steve and Billy. Not alone like that, just… alone.

Steve lies stiff as a board while Billy won’t stop curling closer.

“You have a good time?” Steve asks after a period of silence that feels at once way too long and way too short.

Billy snuffles a little, adorably, “Yeah.”

“Why’d you leave the party?” He hates how he sounds. Needy, like a girlfriend.

Something seems to wash over Billy then, and his limbs rustle a little, settling around Steve a little differently.

“No reason,” he says lightly. “Carver and I just decided to go out for a bit.”

The stab of jealousy is expected, but it doesn’t make it any easier. Billy never used to leave a party Steve was at. Not without taking Steve. And the feeling is worse close up, with the bear sticky smell of Billy skin tight.

He could just turn his head and kiss Billy and get pushed away. He could push Billy out of the bed, too. Both would probably be a relief.

So he’s not sure why he chooses the pain. He stays there, breathing lightly. Not trying to touch Billy, and not moving away either. Lightning crackles over his skin with every brush against Billy. It’s so close to what he’s imagined when he’s trying not to imagine it.

They could be together so easily. Walk each other to class and come back to their room. Kiss and play wrestle and fuck with each other and fuck too. They could be together, all the things Steve has wanted forever, if Billy wouldn’t hate his guts for him even suggesting it.

He’s only ever been on the edge of feeling this once before, with Nancy. He thought they could be everything to each other: best friends and lightning and thunder.

But that was all a lie.

And this is too much to take in at once. Being gay is the easiest part to understand, it almost feels soothing.

But being in love with Billy is much harder, much more painful. It feels like he’s seeing a glimpse of everything he’s dreamed of again, only to see it dashed before it even had a chance.

And Steve knows it’s shabby that he hasn’t been talking to Billy, but he doesn’t know what else to do. He wants to be near him so badly but he doesn’t know if he can bear it.

And so he just lies there, not moving, listening to Billy’s breathing even out, feeling Billy’s arms go heavy. Until Steve eventually can join him in that in between place, letting go.

[sky-kiss]

Raphael/Haarlep: Gift

A/N: Yeah, there's no real ending to this. I just wanted to write early days Raph/Haarlep trying to figure each other out a little. Also. The image is a lie, lol, cause this is a pre-glam Haarlep.

R/H: GIFT

He still recalls his sire’s words of introduction: 

Don’t you like your gift, boy?

Gift, said with a smile, hiding the underlying disdain and the most truthful sneer. Mephistopheles watches him closely, chin resting in his right palm, looking the very picture of benevolence to any onlooker. 

Gift, but it’s not a pet, tool, or toy standing across from him—no, his sire was never one for such half-measures. Raphael stares the incubus down, face impassive. They are beautiful, truth be told. Hair the color of burnished copper hangs nearly to the small of their back, skin sun-kissed, features lovely beyond the telling—they are every pleasant summer evening, every whispered dream by the seaside. The incubus is warmth and longing, humid hunger, made flesh. 

Raphael notices none of this—it’s only their eyes he cares about. They are the same hellfire gold as his own, lit with the same fury. For a moment, just the one, he thinks they might understand one another. 

The feeling passes. 

Mephistopheles speaks in a cold tone just above a whisper, only a few degrees above frostbite: “Will you not thank me, son of Hellfire?” 

“My thanks,” he says, and he hates that the response is immediate, that he is still too powerless to risk slighting the Archduke. Raphael flicks his attention to the viper he’s been gifted, “Does my prize have a name, Father?” 

The devil laughs. “Ah, but I hope you of all people shall appreciate this…I took the liberty of renaming it something more to your tastes: Haarlep.” 

Raphael’s head snaps up, lips curling back in a sneer. He opens his mouth to protest…

…and the incubus steps forward, winding their arms around his neck. The unnatural heat of their skin is a welcome balm compared to Mephistar’s unnatural chill. They lean close, near enough for their breath to gust across his lips. “You are a pretty thing, aren’t you? Yes. Oh, and you pout so sweetly.” They shut his mouth with a kiss. 

Raphael hears their voice in his head, a far cry from the empty-headed lilt they’ve spoken with: Don’t give him the satisfaction, little brat—be silent.

~~~~~~

“Is there where you’ve fled?”

“Reside,” Raphael corrects. “The House of Hope,” the cambion holds his arms out wide, gesturing to the banquet hall. It is not half as grand as his Father’s citadel on Mephistar but…suitable. He has carved out a place for himself—it will not sate his ambition for long, but for now, he allows himself to feel satiated. 

The incubus hums, dragging their fingers across the table. 

“You are not impressed?” 

Haarlep laughs, and there is a high and reedy quality to it that he does not like. “Asking me to lie to you already. And not even to the bedroom yet. Tsk, tsk, princeling—we are careening towards disappointment.” 

“You will address me with respect, slave.” 

“But of course, Master.” They croon, eyes blazing with naked defiance. Their wings flick, pinning behind them as the temperature in the banquet halls rises in response to Raphael’s temper. Haarlep bows their head in concession. By way of thanks, they say, “It is warmer than Mephistar.” 

“Too delicate for the cold?” 

They offer an olive branch. “This Home is…comfortable, princeling.”

~~~~~~

Raphael does not let the wretch share his bed. 

If it concerns them, they do not say. Haarlep roams the House, antagonizing the staff. They are never out of sight and just outside of arm's reach. Some evenings, he'll feel their fingers brush across his mind, testing the surface of his thoughts but never pushing. Whatever else the creature is, they are not stupid. 

They want his attention. 

Raphael sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and setting the contract aside. "Ask." 

He feels Haarlep's grin, even if he doesn't see it. The wretch lingers near the corner of his vision, rolling a coin across their knuckles, weaving it through their fingers. "Isn't it more fun like this?" 

"No. If you have a question, ask. Be direct." 

"Oh, but it's tedious. No play, no games…" 

"...no whimsy," Raphael finishes, leaning back in his seat. He knows the creature well enough to anticipate their next movement—they're up from their perch in one liquid movement, sliding into his lap the next. He catches their wrist before they can undo the top fastenings on his doublet. "Ah, ah, wandering hands to yourself, pet." 

Haarlep's lips curl up in a smirk, a note of respect creeping across their features. "You haven't asked why I'm here." 

"Why waste the breath? You are my Sire's spy." 

"Such accusations." 

"Do you deny it?" 

They scoff. "Of course not! No, no, I lie only when it suits me, dear. And I much prefer you know this truth." 

Raphael winds an arm around them, nails digging into their hip hard enough to draw blood. Haarlep doesn't wince. "You're here because he fears me." 

And Haarlep laughs, high and bright, and doesn't stop laughing when Raphael dumps them out of his lap. "Naughty and delusional, are we? No, half-blood, nothing so grand as that—the Cold Lord would distract you. And," they grin at him, cold, wicked, "Forget you." 

"I will not allow that."

Haarlep's eyes light with something like respect, "Good boy. Hold onto that drive. Perhaps one day you'll make something of yourself."

Raphael offers an olive branch—he extends a hand to the incubus. 

Haarlep takes it.