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imagine-darksiders · 1 year

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The Human Influence.

Samael X Reader.

This is a 10,000 word continuation from this little ask I received a while ago.

Summary: Lilith brings her Prince a 'gift,' all trussed up in a silver chain and collar. To her credit, if anyone were to ask her if she thought Samael had a soft spot, she would never in a million eons dream that the answer might be 'yes.' Unfortunately for the demon queen, Samael's little 'soft spot' just so happens to be attached to the chain she grasps in her sleek, black claws.

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Samael won’t even vaguely pretend that he’s pleased to see Lilith when she comes strutting with a purpose through the doors to his throne room, her pretty, painted lips black as night and twisted into that self-assured grin he so detests.

The demon prince’s cragged chin sits perched upon his knuckles as he lounges inattentively in the seat of his throne, tracing Lilith’s sauntered path towards him over the black, basalt floor.

Neither of them bothers to pretend they’re especially pleased to see the other, even if it has been several months since Lilith set foot in Shadow’s Edge. She, however, puts in just slightly more effort than Samael, lifting her lips into a sultry smile when she catches him looking her way.

Just as he begins to wonder what kind of favour she might try to curry from him today, something glints in the light cast by the moat of lava that surrounds the room, and he drops his gaze slightly to find a silver chain clutched between his mistress’s talons.

Thick and cumbersome, it disappears behind her inverted wings, pulled ever so taut, doubtlessly locked fast around the neck of her latest little plaything.

Heaving a great sigh through his nostrils, the prince casts a bored glance between Lilith’s coiled horns in an idle attempt to catch a glimpse of the unfortunate creature that’s stumbling along in tow.

If he weren’t such an expert in maintaining his impenetrable countenance, he might have lurched forwards in his seat and crushed the armrests beneath his claws at what, or rather who he spies at the end of his mistress’s chain.

As it is, Samael’s only outward reaction is in the barest twitch of his pointed tail and the quirk of a scaly brow.

Inwardly however, a spark ignites.

‘She didn’t,’ he seethes to himself as an ugly, howling rage begins to stir in his belly, whipped up like flames in the wind, ‘Not this human… Any human but-…’

You.

His little storyteller…

It can’t be you. Not so soon after the Horsemen took you back from him the first time.

Questions fly around his skull like rapid, biting gnats. It’s hardly been a full Earth month since you were here last. He’s been keeping close tabs on your movements, not to mention the Four have barely let you out of their sight for a moment – How could Lilith have sunk her claws into you!?

Mistaking the subtle shift of his attention as a show of interest, the demoness’s lips carve upwards into a sharper smile as she blows a lustful breath between her fangs, prowling to a halt at the foot of Samael’s throne with her hips cocked.

“My Lord,” she all but purrs, dipping into a low bow and very deliberately exposing more of her chest than Samael finds either tasteful or necessary, “It has been far too long~.”

Alluring, golden eyes flick up to peer at him through her lashes, yet her smile wavers ever so slightly when she finds that his attention is fixed elsewhere.

He can’t tear his eyes from your face.

Samael’s nostrils flare wide to inhale the tangy scent of iron on the air. He’d know that smell a mile off. After all, he’s well acquainted with blood. It rises above the chamber’s usual aroma of brimstone and dank moisture, with a source that his well-trained nose can trace directly back to you.

Lilith, it would seem, hasn’t brought you to him unscathed.

Even the Prince of Hell himself is taken aback as the anger churning in his guts starts to boil, bubbling up from his stomach like putrid smoke and rising to fill the crevices of his chest.

A trickle of scarlet blood runs a track from your swollen, purpling nose down over quivering lips to gather at the bottom of your chin, where it drips steadily to the ground by your feet with soft, little splats that permeate the silence sitting like a smog between you.

One of your captivating eyes has swelled shut behind a dark bruise, and from your other eye – the one he tries and fails to meet – streams a veritable river of tears, cutting a path through the dirt on your cheek and mingling with the blood in the dip of your chin.

Like an ancient building falling to ruin, Samael’s unshakable composure slowly starts to crumble. Lowering his fearsome, yellow eyes to your neck, he locks his sights on the metal collar that Lilith must have fastened tightly around your throat, causing every breath to leave you in tiny, pitiable wheezes.

The delicate skin below it has been rubbed red and raw…

Inhaling sharply through his nose, Samael barely manages to compose himself, ducking his head and attempting to catch your eye again. And yet, your gaze slides away from his, fixing itself resolutely on the ground below your bare feet.

Lilith must have snatched you away in the dead of night, if the white, cotton sleepshirt hanging from your frame is any indication.

She stole you when you were at your most vulnerable…

Coward.

Easing his clenched jaws apart, the prince aims a poisonous glare over at his queen, his lips curling down at their corners. “Lilith,” he utters, his voice like tar moving under the earth, low and dangerous, “What… is the meaning of-?”

“- A gift, my Lord,” she interrupts smoothly, proud as a cat with a dove in its jaws, “A present, in part, to…. apologise for the time I’ve spent absent from your side…”

Frankly, he muses, her absence in itself has been gift enough.

Twitching her head sideways to peer over her shoulder at you, Lilith’s expression suddenly contorts into a snarl that mars her attractive features as she gives the end of your chain a jarring, vicious yank.

Samael’s spine snaps straight as you’re wrenched forwards by the neck with a strangled croak, collapsing onto your knees and throwing your trembling hands up to claw feebly at the collar, but the hateful piece of silver has been cinched so tightly around your throat, you can’t even squeeze your fingertips beneath it to relieve some of the pressure.

Curling his enormous hand into a fist, Samael raises his chin and stares down at you, his burning, fire-laden stare aflame with anticipation.

As much as he dreads the thought, he half expects a groan of pleasure to tumble from your lips.

Lilith’s… obscene influence is as powerful as it is repulsive. It’s an ancient, inherent magic that can pervert the mind of even the most pious angel and turn them into just another of the demoness’s depraved and lustful thralls.

She’s tainted the sanity of far more powerful souls than yours, through no effort at all on her part. And yet…

And yet, to the prince’s astonishment – and surprisingly, his relief - there are no needy moans, no adoring looks at his mistress, no grasping hands that stretch out across the space between you and her skin as if you couldn’t possibly live for another second without feeling her scales roll beneath your fingertips.

All Samael can see in your eye is a bone deep terror, all he can hear from your lips are quiet, wheezing breaths. Your hands are still your own, still clutching and scrabbling at the collar locked around your throat.

As twisted as it seems, he’s glad to see your terror, but… How are you still in your right mind?

“Bow before your betters, Ape!” Lilith spits, hauling on the chain once more so that you’re yanked forwards, thrown off balance and landing harshly on your hands and knees beside her with a strangled sob, “Or else I shall feed your legs to the Hell hounds!”

Now, Samael is the furthest thing from a saint. His cruelty, depravity and occasional grabs for power might be considered by many to be on par with Lilith’s own, craven deeds.

He’s a Prince of Hell, after all. The enemies he’s slain could fill all the rivers of Eden with their blood.

But… you’re not one of Samael’s enemies…

You’re not even a political target, despite your affiliation with the Four Horsemen.

You’re just…

You’re you.

For what you’ve had to endure, during the Apocalypse and your journey alongside the Horseman, Death, to bring your species back from extinction, for being the foremost intermediary between Humanity and the rest of Creation, you’re worthy of respect. Not… this.

Seeing his little storyteller bloodied and broken, bound on your knees in front of him doesn’t stir anything in the demon except a… a heaviness in his chest. He’s never once given his cold, ancient heart much consideration, but he certainly notices it now when it gives a sudden and unexpected twist.

He can only think to attribute such a sensation to the rage swelling behind his ribs.

Fire ignites beneath his scales and burns a path through his veins until he’s contemplating simply tearing Lilith to pieces for laying her vile claws on you. But… that would be showing his hand…

And Samael hasn’t been on the throne this long by showing his hand…

If Lilith catches the slightest whiff of a weakness in him, she’ll try to exploit that weakness to her own advantage.

She could kill you if she thought for a moment that your death would get to him.

As much as he’s loathe to admit it, it would.

Unfortunately for her, Samael was always better at playing high-stakes games than she ever was…

Plastering a sultry grin on her lips, she watches as her Prince leans himself forwards in the throne, balancing his chin atop steepled fingertips.

She must think him a fool…

You were never intended to be a gift for him.

This isn’t her attempting to win her way between his sheets after several months spent away from his fortress.

All this is, is Lilith drawing the Four Horsemen right to his doorstep.

When he brought you here the first time and the Horsemen arrived to rescue you, the only reason he came out unscathed was because you yourself were unscathed. Unharmed. Untouched. He’d kept his word to you, and never once laid a finger on you in malice.

You’d even vouched for him when War exploded into his all-powerful Chaos Form and charged hell-for-leather at the demon.

“War! Don’t!” you’d pleaded shrilly, hurling yourself between the charging behemoth and a bemused Samael, “He didn’t hurt me! Look at me! I’m fine! Please, just… just take me home…”

You knew the demon wielded powers that could easily match those of the Horsemen, and you weren’t willing to risk the safety of your friends.

Samael had been counting on your intervention. Without it, he’s sure his fortress wouldn’t have been left standing in once piece after an all-out battle between himself and the Four.

But if the Horsemen were to turn up now to find you in this state…? And they surely will, because Death won’t neglect to investigate the prince’s involvement for a second time.

Well… Samael is sure to come out of it losing something, even if not his life.

The tenuous reinstatement of peace between Hell and the other realms would no doubt be ripped up.

The Horsemen would declare war on him in your name. You’re one of theirs, after all.

And Lilith knows that.

“Let me see if I understand your intentions here,” Samael rumbles, planting his massive palms on each of the throne’s armrests and curling his black claws into the stone, “You have brought me.. this human…“

He has to bite his tongue before he almost says your name, though Lilith gives no indication that she’s noticed the near miss.

Sweat has begun to bead between her scales, and the stench of it drifts into his nose.

She’s nervous.

“Not just any human,” she rushes to assure him, twisting her fist into the chain and hauling you -hacking and spluttering – back up onto your feet, “Allow me to introduce you to the little pest that belongs to those treacherous Horsemen.”

Samael’s fangs grind together as she extends a sleek, ebony claw and slides its point beneath your chin, pushing your head back, and for the first time since she brought you before him, your eyes finally lock with his.

He almost wishes they hadn’t.

Samael must favour you more than he assumed, because the look you’re sending him empties the fury in his chest until it merely feels hollow and cold.

Even with one eye wedged shut and blood painting your lips crimson, he can easily make out the betrayal pinching your expression. It’s an expression he’s well-accustomed to.

But on you, it’s hard to look at. Predominantly because there was a moment, however briefly, where you seemed to trust him, if only a little – which was a damn sight more than anyone ever has before.

It wasn’t… an unwelcome feeling, to have someone believe him at his word. Not even his own troops would trust him. Lilith – the very demoness who used to share his bed – knows better than to trust him. And, yes, while it was terribly naïve of you, Samael had ended up proving you right, in some small way.

You trusted him when he said he wouldn’t hurt you, and he hadn’t.

Until now, evidently.

He can understand why he’s getting this look from you now.

He once swore you’d never come to harm within his walls, not by his hand nor any of his ilk’s.

Of course, it would be Lilith who shattered what fragile and hesitant faith you’ve granted him. In your eyes, by mere affiliation, Samael is responsible for his former mistress’s actions.

“You’ve brought the Horsemen’s human right to my doorstep?” he growls heavily, pushing himself up onto his taloned feet.

His chest gives an unexpected twinge when you take a step back, though he’ll admit it’s gratifying to see the confidence drain from Lilith’s face as he rises to his full, imposing height.

“And what do you suppose they’ll do, Lilith,” he adds, “When they find their precious friend in this condition, hm?”

A heavy, thundering step carries him down the stone staircase towards her.

The demoness’s forked tongue darts out to moisten her lips. She matches his advancement with a backwards step that brings her up alongside you. “This,” she starts apprehensively, “This is your chance… to take revenge on-!”

“-Revenge!?” Samael’s thunderclap of an interruption stifles the last remnants of cockiness in her tone and she hastily retreats as he draws closer, letting a few links of the chain slip through her slender fingers.

As soon as it goes slack, you take the opportunity to stagger sideways, putting as much distance between yourself and the two, massive demons as the chain will allow, your wary eye affixed on Samael, as if he’s the greater threat.

“And what offence have the Horsemen cause me that would warrant revenge?” the demon prince demands, endeavouring to keep his gaze trained on Lilith.

Her slitted pupils shrink as badly concealed irritation flashes across her face and her lips twitch with the beginnings of a snarl. It must have occurred to her, at last, that she isn’t fooling anyone.

This was never about Samael’s tenuous alliance with the Horsemen. It’s only ever been about Lilith, as always. Once again, her desire for vengeance for what the Four did to her Nephilim children has superseded her common sense.

Even thousands of years after the massacre at Eden, she still seeks retribution.

She always has been a master of manipulation - Pit the Horsemen against the Prince of Darkness, and no matter which of them emerges the victor, it’s Lilith who ends up reaping the spoils.

If Samael succeeds, she’ll have finally had her revenge on the Horsemen, but if the Four succeed, she’ll be free to move in and take the prince’s throne.

She certainly knows how to play the game.

It’s just unfortunate for her that he’s been playing it a whole Hell of a lot longer, and he always has so hated to lose.

Her first mistake was taking him for a fool.

Her second, and far more grievous, was taking you at all.

She’ll face retribution, for that he’ll make certain, though her punishment won’t necessarily be for the reason she expects.

Lilith’s mouth twists. He can already hear the venomous words curdling on her tongue, no doubt readying a jab at his cowardice for being unwilling to face the Horsemen’s wrath. She never gets the chance to voice whatever cruel sentiment rises behind her gorge.

Without warning, Samael’s hand snaps out, his fingers curled over and aimed straight at his former mistress. Before she can even utter a squawk of alarm, a dark, festering tendril of magic slithers into existence, ripped from between the fabrics of space itself and sent to coil around her neck like a serpent, crushing in on her throat with a pressure that only increases with every flex of Samael’s fingers.

At once, and as he’d hoped, Lilith drops your chain to throw her hands up and scrabble uselessly at the magic strangling her. But magic, by nature, is intangible. Her claws can’t make purchase.

“What say you, Lilith?” he growls, a vindictive smirk revealing two rows of gleaming, wicked fangs, “Is this still as gratifying as you remember?”

The demoness’s mouth hangs agape as she collapses heavily onto her knees. ‘There,’ he muses, letting a wave of sick satisfaction roll over him, ‘At last.’

Poetic justice if he’s ever seen it.

The feeblest sound twitches his ear, and he stills, flicking his gaze down to the human in their midst.

A single, undamaged eye shines back up at him, sparkling in the firelight that glints off the tears rolling down sodden cheeks. In a lone blink, Samael’s dark magic falters and the snarl on his lips withers as he studies your face.

You’re still crying… A sight that should have gladdened and satisfied him only renders the demon unpleasantly hollow. Perturbed, Samael tries to shake off the unexpected weight of your distress piling up on his shoulders… He soon finds, however, that he can’t.

Lilith’s wheezing gargle that sounds a little too much laughter snaps his attention back onto her and he growls, his fingers quivering with the pressure of closing the magic coil even more firmly around her throat to cut off any other, sinful sound she tries to make.

Sudden movement to his right draws his scorching glare down to the spot you’d been hunching in mere seconds ago, only to find it empty.

Inverted, leathery wings stiffen as he whips his gaze up and finds you stumbling away from him as fast as your wobbly legs can carry you, heading in a backwards run for the exit of his throne room to the corridors beyond. The silver chain rattles along in your wake.

It’s only by a fraction... just a fraction… but Samael’s wild and wrathful gaze starts to soften.

Heaving a sigh, he turns his focus back to Lilith once more.

She’s still on her knees, still choking on the magic locked tight around her throat, but her eyes are fixed coldly on the prince’s, her pupils narrowed to thin, catlike slits.

He knows then that she saw it. She saw the malice fade from his snarl as he looked at you…

Bristling, Samael peels his lips back and bares his teeth down at her. He can tell she’s trying to do the same, throwing as much hatred into her glare as she can, despite the agony that no longer seems to bring her any semblance of sick pleasure.

Right now though, he has more important matters to attend to.

“Begone from my sight,” he hisses. And with a final, dismissive flick of his wrist, he disperses the band around her neck.

Lilith’s gasp is loud enough to echo through the cavernous chamber.

Crumpling forwards onto her hands and knees – just as you had only moments ago – she greedily sucks down several lungfuls of air as Samael sweeps past her, his nostrils flaring, hoping he’ll catch your scent before you can run too far.

He barely makes it to the entrance before a cold, breathless chuckle reaches his ears.

“Oh~” she rasps in a haggard voice, “Oh, isn’t that precious…..”

Like a dark moonrise, Lilith picks her head up and spins it over a shoulder, glaring maniacally after his retreating back.

Samael doesn’t linger to hear what else she has to say, but the fortress rings with the shrillness of her cackles, her voice chasing his shadow as he in turn follows after the trail of blood droplets you’ve left to seep into the cracks of the basalt floor.

“The Horsemen will hear of this, my love! They will know! Who would have guessed that a human will be your doom!?”

-----

If nothing else, at least the stench of blood is easy enough to track.

Samael is not the kind of demon to hurry, but he’s well aware that his fellow demonic hordes can sniff out a wounded human from a mile away. So, if his thundering footsteps fall a little more hastily that usual… well, that’s his business.

For someone so injured, you’ve made good ground.

Unrelenting in his pursuit, the prince follows your scent up a winding, spiralling staircase and along a vast corridor all the way to a room that had seen much use just last month.

“Ah,” he muses aloud. Of course, it would make sense you’d come back here.

He finds himself standing outside the doors to your old prison.

The bed chambers he’d kept you in after he stole you from Earth.

His fortress is large and labyrinthian. It’s likely you fled along the only path you could recognise.

The moment he ducks his horns through the entrance and steps into the dimly lit room, he’s struck by an acrid concoction of blood and terror.

The bed to his left sits innocuous and innocent, perfectly unassuming.

But he’s the one who had it put there, so he knows of the small space between the springs and the floor, just enough of a gap for a human to squeeze themselves into, should they be so inclined.

Turning towards it, he carefully lowers himself onto a knee, breathing a sigh as he reaches for the silken, burgundy sheets that hang over the side and drape all the way to the ground.

“I wish I could tell you I’m not glad to see you again so soon, little one,” he rumbles, pinching the sheets between his thumb and forefinger and raising them slowly off the ground, “But in truth, I’ve been hoping our paths would cross again, though perhaps not under these circumstances…”

Stooping low, his burning gaze illuminates the dark, dusty space between the mattress and the ground, and there, in the shadows, he finds you.

“There you are…”

Curled into a tiny ball, you peer up at the demon’s colossal face, your pretty eyes blown wide with horror. That wretched, silver chain is still digging like teeth into your neck, rendering each breath that passes your lips small and lacking.

The prince’s browbones dip into a frown. “Come here…” he utters, neither commanding, nor passive. Just a request.

Yet still, you flinch at it despite its gentleness.

The smell of liquid iron – once so tantalising – now itches at the insides of his nostrils. You’re still bleeding freely, but…

That isn’t all that troubles Samael.

He doesn’t know how long Lilith has held you, and you haven’t yet said a single word to him.

He doesn’t like this silence, not from you.

A sudden urgency strikes him in the chest, though he mistakes it for impatience, and he emits a low growl from his throat, a sound of frustration, not anger.

Without giving you a moment to prepare, he promptly slides one, enormous paw beneath the bed frame and simply tips the entire thing up onto two of its legs, exposing you completely to his searching glare.

Recoiling in shock, you immediately heave yourself off your stomach and try to get your feet underneath you, only to find the escape attempt thwarted by a gigantic, leathery hand that closes swiftly, yet gingerly around your torso, plucking you up off the cold ground.

Samael’s shoulders drain of tension once he has you safe in his clutches. Swallowing back a throaty rumble, he raises you towards his chest and stoops to lower the bed once again, all the while subjecting you to his unflinching scrutiny.

The demon’s lips peel back to reveal his teeth as he takes a closer look at the swelling around your eye and the crookedness of your bleeding nose. At the sight of his fangs lingering dangerously close to your face, you utter a pitiable whimper and clutch frantically at the fingers circling your waist, making a valiant, yet futile attempt to shove them away from your night shirt.

You may as well be trying to bend steel beams.

“Did she touch you?” he suddenly urges, his voice strangely thin and ragged.

He needs to know… He needs to confirm for himself that Lilith hasn’t spoiled his little storyteller’s soul.

Your struggling pauses briefly as you tip your head back and fix him with an incredulous, pinched look, your bruised eyelid twitching as if to say, ‘What the Hell do you think?’

‘Ah…’ he realises, ‘You misunderstand.’

“I can see she has hurt you,” he elaborates with an uncharacteristic patience, lowering his gaze to that intimate place that’s safely hidden behind his fingers, just below your naval, “I need to know if she touched you…”

Perhaps the angle of his stare is a little crass, but at least you catch on swiftly, and begin to squirm unhappily in his grip.

The fact that the fierce shake of your head is delayed does little to ease his flaring temper.

“I need to hear your words, little storyteller,” he murmurs in his low, resonant timbre.

Your good eye grows wide as he raises the forefinger of his free hand and brushes it over the silver collar wound around your neck.

The anticipation screws your face up tight and you flinch back, eye squeezing shut. Yet rather than pain, you’re instead hit with shocking and blessed relief.

At the demon’s touch, the collar comes apart with a jarring snap and the whole thing slides from your throat, rattling down to the ground below your dangling feet.

A gasping breath is sucked down into your lungs too quickly, causing you to lurch forwards over his thumb with a grating cough, lifting your hands up and stroking at the tender, red flesh left behind with trembling fingers.

Without the chain obscuring them, Samael is given an uninterrupted view of the dark band of bruises that have been burned like a brand around the circumference of your throat.

Sparks of white-hot fire burst from his lips as he spits a curse in the demonic tongue.

You’re still breathing raggedly, choking on each grateful sip of the tepid air.

Samael’s tail coils and lashes as he waits for you to catch your breath before his patience runs thin and he bites out, “Do not make me ask you a third time…” Raising you up to dangle in front of his fiery eyes, he makes sure you meet them. “Did she touch you?”

“N-No!” you finally manage to gasp, watery and weak, thumping at your sternum, “Jesus, not… not like that.”

You shrink as best you can within his fingers as a hot breath washes across your face, averting your attention to the ground beneath him when he spins himself about and sinks down on his haunches, lowering you both onto the bed. The demon’s tail drapes across the silken sheets and a tension he hadn’t yet acknowledged drops from his mighty shoulders.

Mortified at the relief your words lend him, he furrows his brows into a scowl, his eyes fixed on your neck.

“You… lied…”

He blinks at your words, flicking his gaze to your face as a sardonic laugh, devoid of humour, bubbles up and falls out of your mouth. “Of course… you did,” you continue, shaking your head, “Prince of Lies, right? Can’t believe I trusted you…”

It’s an expected remark, but it still hits the demon like a hammer to the chest.

He’d worked damn hard to maintain that tiny little flicker of innocence. To have lost it feels like a devastating blow.

A prince of Hell never apologises, not even to the object of his… concern. But he will at least try to explain himself.

“If I had known what she planned,” Samael begins, carefully lowering you down to his bent knee and settling you onto it as gently as a brute like him ever could, keeping his fingers coiled securely around you lest you try to wriggle free, “I would have tried to stop her.”

You snort sceptically, though you soon cut yourself off with a gasp as the motion sends a shock of burning agony shooting through your nose bone. “Ah! Shit,” you hiss, tugging an arm out from the cage of his fingers and dabbing your own underneath your nostrils, feeling about tentatively for fresh blood.

The most abnormal urge nearly seizes him then, an impulse to bend down and brush his lips tenderly against the skin below your broken nose, using his coarse tongue to wash you clean of blood as he might have done when he first begun courting Lilith, aiming to show her that she’d be well-taken care of should she choose him.

That was, of course, before he discovered how much she abhorred a gentle lover.

Which was a pity. For all his strength and power, Samael rather prides himself on his ability and inclination to remain gentle between the sheets.

Still, he can’t imagine you’ll appreciate the gesture of a cleaning, regardless of his benign intentions.

As swiftly as the urge arrives, he’s beaten it back and sealed it behind a wall of stoic self-restraint.

Perhaps he ought to be less concerned with how you’d react to his courtship, and more concerned with why he’s considering courting a human at all.

A conundrum, he decides, that can wait for another day.

Right now, there’s damage to be undone, not least that which afflicts your nose, eye and neck.

Samael would rather not have you despise him, not after he’s had the fleeting taste of what a cordial rapport with you could feel like…

He begrudgingly finds himself shying away from the term ‘friendship’ because demon lords don’t have friends, especially a lord with his grim and destructive duties.

Absently, he lifts his unoccupied hand up and aims to crook a long, warm finger beneath your chin. His movements pause however, once you catch sight of the claw in your peripheral vision and throw your hands up, catching the tip of his approaching finger before it can come anywhere near your throat.

“Don’t!” you snap, aiming for stern but landing on squeaky.

Samael’s pupils expand to soft, round pits of darkness in a sea of gold as he takes in the miracle of your comparatively tiny hands pushing back against just one of his fingers. A wayward rumble sputters to life in his chest and threatens to travel up his throat where you’re sure to hear it, but with a hard swallow, he smothers the sound of contentment before it can gain traction.

That could have been embarrassing.

He presses his finger closer.

“Don’t touch me!” you reiterate with a particularly hard shove that gets you nowhere.

It’s almost a relief to see the spark of fire behind your eyes. There’s still fight in you. Lilith hadn’t managed to snuff that out either.

“You think I mean to hurt you?” he hums curiously.

Quick as a flash, you retort, “I wouldn’t put it past you.”

Hm. He supposes that would be fair… if it were anyone other than yourself.

Scolding eyes flare with dangerous luminosity as they scan across your face, and the damage his former bed mate has left behind like cruel reminders of his failure.

“Contrary to popular belief, I hold very little sway over Lilith’s actions,” he points out, “I did not orchestrate what she’s done to you.”

With a resentful huff, your arms sag and he’s allowed to freely bring his fingertip to your chin, tilting your head back to take some of the pressure off your nose. You’ve been hurt – badly – because of him, which is……

… disquieting.

“Perhaps,” he begins slowly in that bone deep murmur, “You would allow me to amend her transgressions against you.”

Suddenly, you grow very still between his fingers, sitting rigidly as suspicion creeps into your brows. Squinting up at him dubiously, you ask, “Why… would you do that?”

Honesty has never been Samael’s favourite policy, and even now, he avoids answering you directly, instead opting to tell you just a fraction of the truth.

“You were not hers to take,” he growls, the undertones of a possessive prince almost broiling up to the surface. He can see your brow furrow even further as you no doubt try to read his expression in that way humans are so adept at, but Samael won’t allow you to ponder too long.

“Do you know any healers?”

Blinking, you fling your eyebrows up at his unexpected query. “Do I…. I’m sorry? What?”

By way of an explanation, the demon flexes his hand on the bed sheet and flicks his tail, grumbling, “I imagine it won’t surprise you to learn that I’m not well-versed in healing magic… So, if you can think of someone who is, I’ll…”

His statement remains unfinished, hanging like a hushed confession, bright and glaring in the air between you.

He’ll take you where you want to go. All you need to do is ask.

What you can’t figure out is why.

There’s a reason the Horsemen are so wary of Samael, why they were all so agitated when they got you back from him the first time. He’s dangerous. You knew that when he took you, and you still know it now.

What does he have to gain by letting you go?

Peeling your tongue from the roof of your mouth, you decide to ask him as much. “You’re… gonna let me leave?” Though you tremble in his grasp, you manage to jut your chin out at him in what little defiance you dare to show.

Samael has always privately commended you for your courage, or at least, your ability to pretend that you’re brave. He knows you’re afraid of him.

Wise. And yet, ironically, you’re perhaps the sole human in existence who has the least reason to fear him.

His great, horned head dips slightly and you don’t miss the throaty hum that sounds far too much like a purr to suit such a brute.

“If that is your wish,” he breathes across your face, raising the hairs on the back of your neck.

His gargantuan face looms even closer, unblinking, yellow eyes peering into your own with unnerving scrutiny that renders you suddenly and painfully shy, enough that you drop your gaze to the massive expanse of scarred flesh that stretches over his chest.

“I… don’t need a healer,” you mutter, “I just want to go home. Please?”

‘Please.’

How could he refuse you when you continue to be so genial with him, despite your pain, despite being back here in this dreary place? He’s never been granted kindness so freely before - kindness without an ulterior motive hidden behind it like the blade beneath a matador’s cape.

You are… an interesting change to the monotony of his gloomy existence.

It isn’t a change he doesn’t intend to lose.

While he’d much prefer to keep you in his fortress a little longer and let your laughter and stories chase away the lonely shadows, Samael’s pragmatic side reminds him resolutely that it would be far more beneficial in the long run to return you to your true home on Earth before the Horseman come kicking his door down.

The demon’s nostrils widen and close as he draws in a long, lazy breath, inhaling the soft scent of your shampoo that sits just below the smell of blood… You must have bathed only a few hours before Lilith took you...

If home is where you want to be, then that’s where he’ll take you.

“Very well,” he announces, raising his unoccupied hand and turning his palm to face the wall nearby.

He doesn’t need to look at your face to know it’s fallen slack with shock. Apparently, his easy acquiescence wasn’t expected.

Smirking to himself, he concentrates on pulling the threads of the Universe apart at their seams to create a hole – a doorway.

Deep in the depths of his mind, an image of your house emerges – your second house, the one the Horsemen had hurriedly moved you into because they thought the old one was compromised with his knowledge of it.

He latches onto the image fast, feeding powerful and ancient magics into the tips of his fingers, sensing the air around him grow hot and charged with energy.

After another moment of letting his magic build, he finally releases it in a rush.

The portal swirls into life right in front of him. One moment, there was nothing, and the next, a large, glassy surface ripples and hums gently on the opposite side of the room, beyond it, the unmoving image of your den beckons.

The change in you is immediate.

“That- that’s my house!” you exclaim in disbelief, leaning forwards over the demon’s thumb to stare gobsmacked at the view beyond the portal.

Flicking his gaze down at you, Samael grants himself the luxury of a rare, genuine smile.

By the time you twist around in his grasp to peer up at him, his usual frown is back in place.

“Shall we?” he asks.

-----------

“Samael?”

“Mm?”

“How’d you know they moved me here?”

All at once, the demon’s long tail ceases to drag itself back and forth across the plush carpet of your bedroom, plunging everything into a heavy silence.

He doesn’t turn to face you, though he can feel your eyes drilling a hole into the back of his skull.

Samael’s own gaze stays adhered to the little bookcase that sits proudly in the corner of your room, its shelves filled to bursting with dog-eared tomes and well-loved stories you couldn’t part with for all the world.

He should have known you wouldn’t miss such a glaringly obvious detail.

The Horsemen had moved you to a new house a little further out from Haven’s suburbs after they got you back from Shadow’s Edge last month. It was laughably easy for your former captor to track you down again – solely for the purpose of keeping a watchful eye on you, of course…. Though look at the good that had done, in the end…

Still, for once, he doesn’t think it’ll make much difference if you know the truth.

“I’ve been watching you,” he hums casually, swinging his clawed hands behind his back, clasping them together just below the juncture of his wings. As he starts to haul his body around to face you, the tips of his spiralling horns scape the ceiling, forcing him to duck his head a little to spare the plaster.

He’d asked, upon setting foot inside for the first time, why it seemed a place more adequately suited to accommodate a maker than a human. It came as little surprise for him to learn that it was, in fact, makers who built the place, and it had been at your own request that they fashioned a home that could easily fit all manner of guests, regardless of their size or species. All of your usual amenities – your bed, your kitchen, are perfectly suited for human use. But the ceilings, doorways and even the windows are grand enough that even Samael can move almost entirely freely inside without having to bend-double to avoid piercing the ceiling with his horns and leathery wings.

Once he’s turned towards the sound of your voice, he has to suppress a smirk at what he sees.

You’ve just emerged from your adjoining washroom, face clean of blood and dressed in a new set of fluffy, blue sleep clothes. In addition to your fresh ensemble, you’ve slapped a bag of frozen vegetables over your bad eye, apparently to relieve the swelling, or so you claim.

And yet, despite the amusing state of dress, you somehow still find it in you to look downright affronted.

“You’ve been watching me?” you echo accusingly, taking a bold step across the room towards him before you seem to think better of squaring up to a prince of Hell and halting in your tracks, “What, it isn’t bad enough you kidnapped me, now you’re keeping tabs on me too?”

A look of abject horror passes across your visible eye and you hasten to glance at each corner of your room as if you’re going to find something heinous lurking in the shadows. “Oh god, have you bugged the whole place?”

Samael hasn’t heard the term, but he can connect the dots.

“I can assure you,” he says, “I have only caught the occasional glimpse of your home from the outside…”

A half-truth. Those ‘occasional glimpses’ had turned into hours of lounging on his throne whilst gazing through a window into your world as you pottered around it. When the weather was fair, he’d see you in the allotment beside the house.

He found it restful to watch you go about your tasks, digging your trowel into the soil, gasping in delight if a bird were to land on the fence nearby.

You’re his own little taste of nepenthe.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” you huff, pulling the bag of vegetables away with a grimace, “God… why are you even… Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Watching me!” you wheeze, throwing a hand up in exasperation.

You may have gulped down a couple of painkillers the moment you got back, but straining your voice still twinges your damaged neck. “Why bother!? I’m not a threat to you! Or are you just keeping an eye on me because you plan to steal me again?”

Admittedly, he’s been tempted to do just that several times, but each time, he’s refrained, if not to spare himself from the Horsemen’s wrath, then to keep himself as endeared to you as possible.

“You have nothing to fear from me,” he hums.

“That’s not what I asked.”

You stare him down for several seconds through one, narrowed eye, when all of a sudden, your face breaks apart into a wide yawn that seems to catch you wildly off guard.

Throwing a hand up to cover your gaping mouth from view, you half turn from the demon, fighting off the uninvited wave of fatigue.

With the grace of a predator but not the intent of one, Samael pads towards you over the carpeted floor. “You’re exhausted,” he remarks coolly.

Giving your head a rough shake, you sigh and grumble, “Yeah, well… It’s been a long night…”

His encompassing shadow falls across you, blocking out the light from the fixture overhead. Whipping your head around, you glance up and blanch upon realising he’s crept close enough to snatch you.

However, rather than make a move to sweep you off your feet, Samael only flicks a pointed glance down at your cozy, inviting bed. “You should rest.”

“I’ll rest when you’re gone,” you retort, crossing your arms.

‘Fine,’ he snorts to himself. And that’s when he finally makes a move.

All at once, you’re sent stumbling backwards towards the bed as he drops onto his large hands with a thud and begins to prowl towards you like a wolf stalking a doe.

“Woah! Hey!” you bleat, all bravado vanishing in an instant, “What’re you doing!? Stop that!”

The backs of your knees hit the bed and you tumble backwards onto it, dropping the vegetable bag in the process as you scramble to pull yourself upright again, raising your legs off the ground and retreating towards the headboard.

“Perhaps…” Samael growls – or does he purr? “… I am not yet ready to leave…”

He lays one, colossal paw on top of the mattress.

The bed groans suddenly under his weight as he pulls his upper body onto it and begins to settle down amongst the crumpled duvet. Letting out a rumble of contentment, he folds his arms beneath his chin and slumps heavily onto the mattress, causing the springs below you to buckle and screech in protest while he merely gives you a lazy blink.

The sight is so strikingly familiar, you feel the fear drain out of you with a whoosh.

‘Son of a bitch…’ you gripe to yourself, ‘The overgrown lizard’s just getting comfortable for story time…’

Slowly, your brows ease into a flat, unimpressed frown. “Are you serious? Right now?”

Samael only offers a warm chuff and sticks his nose into your heaped duvet, drawing a massive lungful of your smell into his airways.

‘Ah…. There you are…’ he muses.

It seems you’re the only one to have slept here, which he’s glad for. The sheets don’t stink of another’s flesh, nor can he detect the scent of sex…

The prince’s pleased hum is powerful enough to rattle the bed knobs against the wall.

“Don’t you dare start getting comfortable,” your voice pipes up warningly, and he drags a half-lidded eye up to meet your defiant glare.

“I’d like to go to bed,” you forge on, “And I’m not your prisoner anymore. I don’t have to tell you another story for as long as I live.”

You know this routine of his all too well.

When he’d held you captive, he’d often crawl up onto that gigantic bed and drape himself across it whilst you lay in your little corner beneath the silk sheets with his chin resting near your feet. For hours, he’d laze there like a massive, deadly lion, his tail flicking idly as he listened to the stories you’d spin for him, those you could remember from books you read and retained as a child.

You never thought, for one minute, that he’d want to continue that practice outside of his fortress walls.

“I mean it,” you hiss, shoving your legs under the covers and prodding his heavy arm with your toes, as if you might be able to nudge him off the bed, “Thank you for bringing me back, but I am still in a lot of pain, and I’m not in the mood to entertain you tonight.”

Blinking his luminous eyes at you slowly, Samael disregards your protests and utters, “You never finished your tale of the little monarchs by the creek…”

Something in your expression shifts at that, a mote of surprise soothing the wrinkle of your brows.

“You… you remember the Bridge to Terebithia?”

It was the last story you tried to tell him, recounted from memory on the night the Horsemen finally tore the doors down to save you.

“I remember every one of your stories,” he thrums deeply.

“Well… They’re not mine,” you point out, “I just told you what I could remember of the books I used to read…”

“Will you indulge me, little storyteller?” he presses, cocking his horned head sideways until his cheekbone rests upon a broad, scaly forearm, “The tale intrigued me. I’d like to hear how it ends.”

It’s selfish of him to do this, to stay when you’re in dire need of rest… but once the Horsemen see your injuries and inevitably convince you to tell them what happened to you, he anticipates that he won’t be seeing hide nor hair of you for a long, long time. If Death is sensible, he’ll take you off-world and stash you somewhere even Samael can’t reach you. Maybe to that family of makers you’re always gabbing on about.

This moment here and now may well be the last chance he has to speak with you until you persuade the Four to return you to your home on Earth.

“Tell you what,” you grumble, taking him off guard by kicking away the covers and sliding your legs over the side of the bed, “You can read what happens for yourself. I’ve got the book right here.”

The demon raises his head, watching as you cross the room to your bookcase. Drawing to a halt in front of it, you run a finger delicately along the collection of spines before you eventually stop and dig out a book that’s nestled snugly between a pair of thick, glossy tomes.

Flicking this pointed ears forwards, the prince chuffs softly in his throat - a sound born of instinct intended to call you back to the nest. He barely even registers having uttered it.

Soon enough, you’re slipping back underneath your duvet and retrieving the bag of not-so-frozen vegetables, pressing them tenderly to your eye once again.

As Samael lays his head back down, you toss the book across the bed where it lands with a dull thwack beside his chin.

“There,” you huff, sagging backwards into the pillows, “Happy?”

You nearly let out a loud groan when the book is promptly nudged back towards you with the tip of his forefinger.

“Oh, come on, big guy,” you complain, oblivious to how the impromptu nickname sends a spark of interest shooting up the demon’s spine.

“I want you to read to me,” he sighs and settles down again, allowing his eyelids to droop halfway shut, his pupils blown wide like black holes in a thin ring of gold.

“Ugh!” Exasperated, yet more than aware that the prince isn’t one to take no for an answer, you snatch the book off the duvet and start thumbing irritably through its pages. “Why do I have to be the one to read it?”

Your fingers pause briefly, however, when Samael shifts and a warm, solid knuckle suddenly alights upon your arm.

The breath catches in your throat. You hardly dare move. Frozen, you dart a glance down to see his colossal, red hand hovering beside you, the back of his forefinger stroking a gentle line down the bare skin of your shoulder.

His voice reverberates up through the bed, deeper than the purr of a motorcar.

“I like the sound of your voice,” he utters.

The words fall softly, like a prayer sliding off a sinner’s lips.

Hesitant, your gaze moves up to his cragged face and you have to swallow a gasp, admittedly startled by the look you’re receiving.

Why is he staring at me like that?

The demon’s knuckle rolls up to the top of your shoulder again, sending the hairs along your arms standing to attention.

He’s watching you closely through hooded eyes, his smile lopsided and his pupils abnormally large and round and...

Oh dear.

Oh dear, this… could be bad.

Perhaps it’s just your imagination, but… It might explain the gentle looks, the lingering stares, the rage in his eyes when he took in your bloodied face in the throne room… It would definitely explain why he’s still here in your room, and the slow stroke of his knuckle up and down your arm.

You don’t want to even entertain such a foolish notion.

‘I like the sound of your voice.’

Your stomach twists itself into anxious knots as you start to wonder if Samael likes more than just your voice…

Wetting your dry lips, you try to give your arm a slight shrug under the guise of opening the book, conveniently shifting backwards closer to the wall and pulling away from his tender strokes.

“Um, in that case, you’ll have to remind me where I left off…” you manage to eke out, clearing your throat.

If the prince of Hell is stung by your subtle rejection, he makes no mention of it, though his pupils shrink by a fraction as he lays his palm down on the mattress beside you, exhaling warmly across your face.

“The young human… Jess,” he mumbles into the scales on his arm, “He had just returned from the gallery with his tutor…”

Good memory.

“Yes,” you reply quietly, “Yes, that’s right.”

Trying desperately to ignore how suddenly suffocating the demon’s proximity has become, you prop the book up in your lap and start to read.

-------

“The boy was right.”

You startle awake from a light doze, jerking upright on your pillows with an undignified grunt.

‘Did I fall asleep?’

The book sits open in your lap, held loosely between limp fingers.

And Samael is-

You have to resist the urge to kick out your legs when you raise your eyes to find his colossal face resting peacefully between your parted knees. You’ve never been more thankful that you’d put your legs under the covers earlier, though suddenly the duvet doesn’t feel like such an adequate barrier against monsters as it used to be when you were young.

“Huh?” you blurt eloquently, still in the clutches of sleepiness.

Two walls of flesh shift on either side of you, and it’s only then that you realise you’ve been more or less surrounded on all fronts.

A pair of thick, muscle-bound arms are curled loosely on the bed to your left and right, close enough that you can feel the demon’s preternatural heat radiating off his skin. To your back is the bedroom wall, while ahead of you lays Samael’s red, rough-hewn face. The black horns jutting from his chin create deep divots in the mattress where they’re pressed.

“The boy,” he repeats, prying an eyelid apart and casting a yellow glow over your face, “He was right. She should not have trusted that rope.”

Oh… Right. The story…

Raising your hand, you nearly pinch the bridge of your nose before a painful throb reminds you not to do that. You’ll have to take some more painkillers soon…

Emitting a sleepy hum, you flop back down amongst the pillows and give a rough exhale. “Wasn’t the rope’s fault it snapped.”

“… Her caretakers did not blame him.”

Ugh. If this is going to turn into another long-winded discussion like the Rainbow Fish….

“Of course they didn’t,” you sigh, tilting your chin down to meet his gaze, “It wasn’t Jess’s fault either.”

“But he could have prevented her death.”

Samael’s probing insistence drags you a little further into the waking world and you start to sit up, propping your weight on your elbows to squint at him.

The demon’s face is like stone, hard and cold. “He could have asked her to accompany him,” he adds in a growl, “But his selfish infatuation with the older human kept him from doing so.”

A gentle frown tugs at your brows. “Jess wasn’t to know what would happen,” you point out, wondering why Samael seems so fixated on the matter.

Lifting his chin off the bed, his nostrils flare and his eyes flick down to the bruises on your neck, staring at them unblinkingly as he retorts, “He knew the rope was untrustworthy. He could have kept her away from it.”

“Well… Sure but… then it wouldn’t have been such an effective story.”

“Mph,” he grumbles, scowling at the wall behind your head, “I seem to recall telling you that I prefer stories with happy endings…”

You chew on that for a minute before closing your eye and offering him a drowsy shrug. “Good stories don’t always have to have a happy ending,” you tell him, your voice thick with fatigue, “Happy endings are nice, but it’s important that we’re told stories that… you know, like, challenge our morals and stuff.”

“… Go on,” he nudges when you fall silent.

Heaving a sigh, you whine, “I don’t know. I am way too tired to be having in-depth discussions like this at the crack of dawn.”

“Why read stories of tragedy and death? The tale only upset you.”

“Oh my god,” you whisper in exasperation, resigning yourself to the conversation, “I guess, because… if all we’re consuming is clean and good and happy, then when bad stuff does inevitably happen to us, I don’t think we’re ever really prepared for it. If that even makes sense.”

Samael’s lips quirk up at their corners, and he slides his gaze down to you again. “The way your mind works never fails to intrigue me.”

“Pft, it’s not working much at all at the moment,” you huff.

He hadn’t realised before meeting you, that this is what his relationships had always lacked. This is what he’s been missing.

Dialogue.

Nothing more than that. The simplest thing of all.

This sleepy conversation with you is ten thousand times more preferable to the cold, empty silences that would stretch across the massive void of bedsheets between he and Lilith.

His smile fades slowly as he finds himself drawn, as ever, to the band of bruises around your neck.

He knew not to trust Lilith. He should have kept you away from her. But he didn’t.

“The boy,” he murmurs deeply into the quiet of your room, “Do you suppose he was right to blame himself for what happened to her?”

“Right?” Humming, you lean back on one arm and exhale a slow breath. “No… Not right. Normal, though? Yeah. I reckon it’s normal that he’d blame himself. I think most people would do the same in his shoes.”

“Does that not then make them right?” he puts, “If that is the general consensus? To blame oneself?”

After a longer pause, you eventually shake your head and reply, “No.” Then, parting your jaw in another wide and toothy yawn, you add, “It just makes them human.”

Human…

How can blaming himself for what Lilith did to you make him like a human?

Hmm… While not the feel-good ending he’d been hoping for, it wasn’t necessarily a bad one either, and once again, whether knowingly or not, you’ve given him much to ponder over. He plans to do just that while you sleep. Already, those dainty eyelashes are fluttering against your cheeks as your head droops, exhaustion proving a fierce adversary on this long night.

Perhaps it’s time he let you rest. Of course, that doesn’t mean he’ll be leaving your side just yet.

Tyrants are seldom granted solace. Most would argue that they don’t deserve it.

Ironic, that it almost feels sacrilegious for Samael to be laying here on your bed with his mouth resting a mere foot from the most confidential part of you, and doing nothing but talking to you in soft, dulcet tones. Talking… it’s more intimate than the depravities he’s performed with his former mistress.

How laughable.

It’s inevitable, then, that the prince’s wonderous moment of peace should be so rudely shattered by the dull thud of a door closing downstairs.

Samael’s head shoots off the mattress with a snarl so quickly that it startles a yelp out of you.

Heavy footfalls – too heavy to belong to any human – pause in the room directly below your own. Then, all at once, there’s the unsettling sound of them starting up again at a far more urgent pace.

Your yelp hadn’t gone unnoticed.

The demon’s tail twitches irritably as he glares hard at the door.

… Just when he was really getting comfortable…

“War…”

The name whispered breathlessly from your lips draws Samael’s focus back down to you, silencing the growl in his throat. You’re staring at the bedroom door, brows screwed together in worry.

For the Horseman? Or for him?

Somewhere a few rooms away, metal boots begin to thunder up a flight of stairs.

Samael parts his lips and flicks a hot, red tongue over his canine, lowering his gaze to your exposed neck. He knows he has to leave. He isn’t about to let your night be ruined by a brawl in the middle of your bedroom. But… there’s one last thing he’s compelled to do.

Demons don’t apologise.

Not aloud, anyway.

Trapped below his bulk by enormous arms, you tear your eyes from the door and shakily raise them to his, swallowing a thick lump of apprehension that sends a dull ache through your bruises.

You don’t like the way he’s suddenly staring at your throat, the points of his fangs gleaming out from behind barely parted lips.

He looks agitated.

He looks hungry.

Your heartbeat steadily begins to reascend the mountain it had worked so hard to climb down from.

“Samael?” you peep.

The footsteps are on your landing now, shaking the foundations of your home with their weight.

Towering high above you, the demon’s fiery eyes flash with intent, like a predator tensing to pounce.

You aren’t even given a second to admonish yourself for letting your guard down before that mouthful of wicked, sharp teeth lunges for your neck, stealing a final cry of alarm.

It’s instinctive when you throw your head up and to the side so as to avoid having to see the enormous fangs flying in your direction.

You brace for agony.

However, what you feel instead is the furthest thing from it.

… The gentlest press of rough, warm lips lands upon the column of your throat, directly over the purpling bruises stained into the flesh.

Your good eye wrenches itself open like a shot.

You’re too stunned to turn your head, and your chest feels tight with the breath you’re keeping trapped inside it, afraid of what the slightest exhale might provoke.

The corner of your vision is almost entirely swallowed up by Samael’s head and horns. His flared nostrils glow with internal fire as he puffs swathes of hot air across your jaw, whilst the scratch of his lips tickles your skin when they seal together into a tender kiss just below your bobbing gorge - far too tender and painless to be given by a demon, let alone one of his size and reputation.

Up until now, you might have been able to convince yourself that the prince’s attentions had been born of mere curiosity.

Now though? The hope that you’ve just been misinterpreting his advances flies out of the proverbial window.

Samael, prince of Hell, Head of Satans and Chief of Devils… is placing a kiss on your bruised throat so gently that the only coherent thought flashing through your brain is that you must still be dreaming.

A resounding ‘boom’ alerts you to your bedroom door being kicked viciously off its hinges and the clank of metal announces War’s entrance.

The unswollen eye in your head swivels away from Samael and for one, damning moment, your fearful gaze locks onto the wild, infuriated blue shining out from beneath your Horseman’s crimson hood.

"Something to remember me by..."

The single lap of a scorching tongue coaxes a gasp from you when it eases over your bruised neck, and then, in a flash of fire that sends you screwing your eye shut against the intruding light, the pressure on your throat, and the weight on top of your bed vanishes, as if a demon prince had never been there at all.

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fanficapologist · 6 months

Text

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Fifty-One

Time passed incredibly slowly whilst Maera waited in Aemond’s chambers. Anxiety gnawed at, fearing the possibility of a public bedding ceremony could bring such a wonderful day to a tragic end. Maera's worry heightened with every echoing footstep outside the door, each sound sending a shiver through her. Fearful that a group of Lords and Ladies might arrive to bear witness to the intimate moments of her wedding night with her husband. Facing Aemond again was also concerning her, and she hoped that the minor disagreement on the balcony wouldn’t cast a shadow over the beginning of their marriage.

Thanks to Thena’s visit, Maera had now shed the weight of her elaborate wedding gown. The loyal maid had also unpinned Maera's hair, allowing the dark curls, interwoven with the single streak of silver, to cascade freely down her shoulders. Before leaving, Thena dressed her mistress in a silk off-shoulder nightgown, which clung gracefully to Maera’s form. It left little to the imagination, a testament to the intimacy of the occasion. The maid then smiled, wishing Maera luck before departing from the chambers with a respectful curtsy.

In an attempt to distract herself, she decided to explore the dimly lit chambers, the flickering candlelight slightly illuminating the room where her husband spent most of his time. Everything had its place, a testament to Aemond's meticulous nature. The air held the scent of aged parchment and the faint aroma of dragon smoke. Her gaze swept across the shelves lined with books, their spines telling tales of history, strategy, and philosophy. The glow of the hearth danced upon the leather-bound tomes, creating a warm ambiance that contrasted with the dark, imposing aura of the room.

Maera actually found solace in the quietude of the chambers and the familiarity of Aemond’s belongings, temporarily escaping the anxious thoughts of the impending night that lingered in the air. That was, until, she set her eyes on his bed, draped in regal black fabric. She traced her fingers along the intricate carvings of the bedpost, knowing that was where she would lose her virtue to her husband.

She shook her head and, with a clenched jaw, made her way back to the hearth, where the previous serving girl had set a golden jug of wine from The Reach on a nearby table. Pouring its contents into a goblet, she took a measured sip to steady her nerves. The rich warmth of the liquid provided a fleeting comfort, prompting her to indulge in another, then another, until the once-full jug was noticeably depleted.

Seated by the fire, the flickering flames casting dancing shadows on the walls, Maera felt the effects of the wine taking hold. A flush coated her cheeks, the tipsiness evident in the unsteady but determined gaze she cast toward the door. The room, once a sanctuary from apprehension, now pulsed with a mix of anticipation and the dulled edge of inebriation.

The echoes of approaching footsteps sent Maera's heart into a rapid cadence, each beat resonating with the anticipation of an impending intrusion. As the creak of the door handle reached her ears, she sighed, resigning herself to the possibility of witnesses be present to the intimacy she had hoped to keep private.

With a sense of reluctant acceptance, Maera moved away from the comforting warmth of the hearth and positioned herself in the middle of the room. Her hands clasped together, the curls of brown and silver flowing loosely around her, she waited, a portrait of vulnerability and apprehension.As the door swung open, she braced herself, emitting a sharp gasp and briefly squeezing her eyes shut. The sound of the door closing brought a momentary relief, and when she dared to open her eyes, there stood Aemond. Alone.

The Prince paused across the room, his figure still clad in smooth black satin adorned with intricate golden dragon embroidery. His long silver hair, still meticulously straight, held the subtle braid on the top of his head. His single wide violet eye, a striking feature, observed Maera with a depth that mirrored the complexities of their shared history, as well as their shared future

Maera's eyes in turn lingered on her husband, a mix of emotions flickering across her face. Worries stemming from their earlier quarrel lingered, casting a shadow over the moment, but relief washed over her as she beheld him standing alone. The weight of the unspoken tension seemed to hang in the air, yet the sight of Aemond in his wedding attire, gaze fixed upon her, held a promise of shared understanding and perhaps the opportunity for reconciliation.

Instead of making his way straight to her, Aemond’s strides took him to the fireplace, reaching for the jug of wine on the table, his fingers brushing against its polished surface. With a wry smile, he remarked, “It seems you have already helped yourself to most of it.”

Maera did not appreciate his mocking tone, annoyed by the apparent lack of understanding. Maera retorted vehemently as she made slow steps towards him, her emotions coursing through her like a torrent. "I was not certain if there would be an audience," she declared sharply, her voice cutting through the air with a blend of defiance and frustration. "I thought it best to prepare myself."

The one-eyed Prince picked up his goblet before settling himself in one the chairs facing the hearth, gaze fixed on the dancing flames, the warmth offering a stark contrast to the cold reply Maera had just given him. He scoffed, a cynical twist forming on his lips. "Yes, the King and the other Lords were rather… insistent," he remarked, his expression revealing a mixture of annoyance and resignation. Maera's gut churned at the mere thought of the unwelcome tradition.

As Maera's eyes traced the contours of Aemond's figure near the fire, she noticed the tight grip of his right hand on the chair's arms. A subtle stain of red marked his knuckles, still wet and fresh. Compelled by concern, Maera inquired with furrowed brow, "Why is there blood on your hand?" Her words hung in the air, a delicate thread unraveling the mystery of Aemond's concealed turmoil.

Aemond arched his eyebrows in response, his movements deliberate as he brought his hand to his eye, inspecting it with a measured gaze. He hummed with a casual disdain before delivering his explanation. "One lord, Lefford I believe, got too over familiar, showing excessive enthusiasm for seeing my bride on our wedding night,”Aemond then turned to her, smirking. “He had to be put in his place. The other attendants did not press the issue further.” Maera, caught between relief and amusement, breathed a soft laugh into the air.

Her green eyes then swept the room, her attention landing on a small silver dish containing water and a cloth on the bedside table. In a quiet display of care, she retrieved the items and settled on the chair beside her husband. With a tenderness that belied the recent tension, she dipped the cloth into the water and began to clean his hand, her actions speaking of both understanding and a desire to erase the visible traces of conflict.

The flickering firelight cast shadows on their faces, framing a moment of shared vulnerability and unspoken support. Aemond's gaze lingered on his bridge, a mix of gratitude and admiration reflected in his eye as he observed Maera's care. As she diligently worked, Maera cleared her throat, breaking the silence. "I am glad you stopped it," she confessed, her words carrying the weight of the night's uncertainty.

Aemond, his expression calm yet assertive, hummed in response. "You underestimate me," he pointed out, a subtle smirk playing on his lips. Frustration etched across Maera's features as she finished cleaning his hand, her actions punctuated by a sharp movement of tossing the cloth and silver bowl onto a nearby table, not in the mood to entertain any jokes.

Rising from her chair, Maera stood defiantly, her silk off-shoulder nightgown clinging to her curvaceous form, her loose curls framing her face with a touch of defiance. Her green eyes, a reflection of both passion and determination, met Aemond's gaze.

“And you underestimate me,” Maera sneered, her words cutting through the air. This prompted Aemond to turn and look at her, his expression unreadable, as if caught between understanding the weight of his words and the storm of emotions brewing within Maera.

Perhaps it was the wine, the brush with a humiliating ceremony or all the emotions of the day bubbling over, but she wanted and needed to be heard. She stated, “Princess or not, to the Realm, I am just your wife. Your property. My body, my soul, my choices, now belongs to you.”

Aemond met her gaze, his expression a stoic mask as she continued to voice her plea. “I just wanted to have a say in what will happen in the future. Yes, I should have discussed it with you prior to meeting with the Tarth’s. But the conversation was turning sour. I had to do something.” She tore her gaze away from him in attempt to steady herself, eyes fixating on the fire crackling in the hearth, mirroring the tumultuous emotions swirling within her.

“We need Tarth, Aemond. To back the Green’s cause. To keep us safe. To keep our future children safe. And the best way to do that is through marriage.�� Maera then clenched her silk nightgown in her fists. “An early betrothal will give our child a chance to find contentment with their intended. You cannot loathe me for that.”

Aemond rose from his seat, a deliberate motion as he took measured steps toward her. His voice softened, carrying a complexity of emotions. "As if I could," he murmured, acknowledging the fierce spirit that defined Maera, and the delicate dance between their desires and the realities of their union.

Maera watched as Aemond approached, his figure standing tall in front of her, mere inches away. She studied the contours of his face, his slightly parted lips, which spoke volumes of the unspoken connection between them. In that charged moment, the room seemed to shrink, leaving only the two of them in a world suspended by shared anticipation.

“Gods, look at you,” he breathed, his voice so close to her face, forcing her to look up and meet the intensity in his eye. “Today you looked exquisite, like the Maiden herself. But to have you here, looking like this…”

He trailed off, finishing the sentence with a satisfied low hum, a noise that caused Maera’s heart to skip a beat. Aemond then began to to circle her slowly, a predator admiring his prey, his fingers tracing the contours of her back and shoulders beneath her curls. The air seemed to thicken with anticipation as he moved, each deliberate step intensifying the intimate dance between them. With a voice laden with desire, Aemond proposed a question to his bride whilst stood directly behind her. “That day in the Sept, a few moons ago, when you saw me praying to the Warrior…do you know why I was praying to him?”

Maera felt that familiar sensation in her core as Aemond remained behind her, a subtle blush tinging her cheeks. To feel so vulnerable, so helpless like is around him, was an oddly welcomed feeling. She shook her head before whispering her reply, “No, my Prince.”

Aemond seemed pleased by her response, emitted another low hum at the back of this throat, which caused another jolt of excitement to shoot through Maera. She then felt him closing in, reached out to gently move her hair, whispering into her ear.

“I was praying for strength. Not in battle for the upcoming war. But to be around you, without going absolutely. Fucking. Insane. All sense of honour and duty I had hung by a thread every time I looked at you.” He then began to drag his lips down her neck with a feather light touch, the sensation sending a shiver down her spine as she gasped involuntarily.

“Aemond,” she pleaded his name, begging for the torture to stop. Maera could feel the very obvious slick forming between her legs, but the friction caused by rubbing them together wasn’t doing a damn thing.

In response to her begging, Aemond, gripped her by the shoulders with a commanding intensity. He spun her around to face him, their eyes locking in a shared moment of desire. His gaze, laden with lust, met hers in a fiery exchange, a dance of longing and connection that transcended the words left unspoken.

"Tell me you want this," he whispered, his fingers delicately tracing her collarbone. The sensation left her momentarily stunned, the touch akin to a searing flame. Growing impatient, Aemond's hand then found its way around her throat, a gesture that ignited a thrilling excitement within Maera. A trail of goosebumps prickled on her skin, and no matter how badly she tried to hide her excitement, she could not stop her body from reacting to him.

"Princesses use their words," he mocked, tugging her closer until their lips almost touched, his breath a tantalizing caress on her skin. The roughness of his touch, a whispered promise of what was to come, ignited a fiery anticipation within her. Maera, caught in the dance of desire, surrendered to the sensations that pulsed through her veins. She admitted defeat, but felt no shame in it.

"I want this," she affirmed, a declaration that brought a smug smirk to the Prince's face. The tension in the room climaxed as their lips crashed together with a rough urgency, a collision of desire that spoke of years of history and a newfound intimacy. The pair of them deepened the kiss immediately, the taste of anticipation lingering as tongues danced together, each movement a fervent declaration of the intensity between them.

Aemond removed his hand from Maera’s throat as the kiss became more heated, his teeth catching her bottom lip between them and nibbling until it stung, which she did not seem to mind. Maera was about to protest not having the Prince’s hands on her, until she heard the rustle of him removing his regal robes, her heart beginning to pound at the realisation and excitement that tonight they would lie together.

She then hastily began to take off her own clothing, pulling on one of the sleeves of her silk nightgown until it tumbled from her shoulders and pooled at her feet. Her eager fingers can began to explore the contours of his clothed lower stomach, tugging urgently at the undershirt until Aemond broke the kiss, pulling it over his head and discarding it across the room.

The contact between them was not broken long as Aemond captured his bride in another burning kiss, this time accompanied by his large, warm hands beginning to roam her body. One settled on her waist, the other made it’s way south before cupping one of her ass cheeks, roughly kneading it. Maera wanted to be as close to him as possible, the nipples on her large supple breasts hardening as her desires completely possessed her. She reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck, pushing her bare chest against his, causing her to gasp.

Before she knew it, the Prince was backing her up to his bed, the back of her legs hitting the mattress, causing her to sit down. She looked up at him, the intensity of the lust in his violet eye look mirrored the passion that had been building between them for so long. Maera’s eyes hungrily roamed his torso, toned and lean, littered with a few faint scars, before landing on his trousers. His cock was hard and she so badly wanted to free it from its confines. She eagerly began fumbling with his belt, unclasping it before starting to make work of the laces holding the fabric together.

With the final lace undone, Maera went to free his cock from his trousers, only to be roughly shoved back onto the mattress, her dark and silver locks now a halo around her head. He crawled on top her so now their faces were level, entangled his fingers in her hair and pulling so he had her attention.

“You have tortured me enough,” he growled. “Allow me to return the favour.” Before she could reply, Aemond pulled her hair so her head tilted to the side, and began to plant wet open-mouthed kisses to her neck, licking and sucking and biting with desperation, causing a little moan to escape Maera’s lips involuntarily.

He then began his descent, kissing between the valley of her breasts, before reaching for one with his hand, and taking the other in his mouth. He swirled his tongue around the pert nub, Maera feeling him smirk against her as the sensation caused her back to arch, pushing the breast further into his mouth. Aemond did not stay this way for long, continuing down, kissing her stomach and hips roughly, before placing himself between her legs, hands splayed across her hips to keep her in place.

She did not have time to react before she felt him lick a slow stripe from her cunt to her pearl, making her to throw her head back against the pillow and gasp at the new feeling. This spurred the Prince on as he buried his tongue deep inside of her, rubbing his nose against her clit in the process, causing Maera to squirm. Her thighs attempted to press together but Aemond gripped them roughly, prying them open with his large calloused hands so he could continue lapping at her.

He then paused and Maera looked down at him, seeing his pupil blown with lust and his lips coated in her arousal, a blush tinting her cheeks at the mesmerising sight.

“Mmm, tastes so good, issa dāria,” my Queen, he groaned against her cunt, the vibrations of his words sending a jolt through her body. He then changed tactic, starting to mouth at her pearl with a flattened tongue, the pleasurable feeling to much for her to bare. She didn’t have to prepare herself for the sudden intrusion of his finger that entered her, gasping and looking down at where he remained between her legs, beginning to pump in and out of her. Maera had tried this on herself before, but it did not bring her much pleasure.

However Aemond’s long and skilled fingers could reach places she could not, a cry leaving her lips as he brushed against a spongey spot deep within her. Aemond inserted another finger, the stretch causing a slight burn, but as he continued hitting that spot within her, whilst mouthing at her sensitive nub, the discomfort soon started to feel good. The combined sensations built and built, and she felt that familiar knot forming in her stomach.

“Gods, Aemond,” she called out, begging for the torture to be over, but at the same time, never wanting it to stop. He growled against her, continuing his movements. Maera entangled her hand in his silver locks, hips bucking into his face to chase her her high.

All at once, the coil within snapped, causing a sob to leave Maera’s mouth as Aemond continued his ministrations, holding her firmly in place by her hips using his free hand so she could fully ride out her orgasm. As she came down from her high, attempting to steady her quick breathing, her head resting on the pillow, she heard Aemond unbuckling his boots and discarding his trousers.

He climbed back on top her, his bare and muscular body covering her completely, their chests heaving as they each breathed deeply. Maera studied Aemond’s face, his eye lidded, mouth agape as he looked downwards, holding his large cock as he lined it up with her entrance. And yet in that moment, Maera could not help but become fixated on his eyepatch that hid him from her.

“Stop,” she said softly, causing the Prince’s gaze to flicker up to her face, a look of concern across it, causing Maera smile to herself. She tucked a strand of silver hair behind his ear before continuing, “You have seen me. Now I wish to see you, all of you,” her fingers dancing over the leather eyepatch.

A moment of uncertainty flashed across his features. “It is…unsightly,” he admitted, his voice carrying a vulnerability that echoed his reluctance.

With a tender gaze, Maera reached out cupped his scarred cheek, reassuring him, "Nyke jaelagon ao hae ao issi, nektogon se ry. Ivestragī issa ūndegon ao, issa dārys." I want you as you are, scars and all. Let me see you, My King

Encouraged by her high Valyrian, Aemond slowly removed his eyepatch, revealing not an empty socket but a mesmerizing sapphire in place of an eye. The depth and brilliance of the vivid blue gem gleamed in the flickering light, a unique and unexpected beauty in the place of perceived imperfection. As Maera's eyes met the radiant sapphire, she became entranced by its beauty. In a hushed whisper, she complimented him, "You have the look of a Valyrian God."

Caught in the magnetic pull of the moment, Maera leaned in, capturing Aemond in a passionate kiss that spoke of acceptance, desire, and the uncharted territory of a love that transcended physical imperfections. As he deepened the kiss, Maera wrapped her arms around his shoulders, feeling his cock pressing against her inner thigh. Their tongues danced together as Aemond pushed the tip of his cock in her cunt, the stretch causing Maera to dig her nails into him, leaving crescent-shaped indents behind on the bare skin of his back. It was not as horrendous as others had described, but thanks to Aemond being so well endowed, it took some getting used to.

The Prince pushed himself to the hilt immediately, as close as he could be to her, causing Maera to gasp into his mouth. His hands roughly captured her hips, tilting them upwards so when he grinded against her, his pelvis rubbed against her clit, a desperate whine to leaving her lips at the friction. He chuckled at the sight her, his rotating movement of his pelvis morphing into thrusts, setting an erratic pace, spurred on by Maera squeezing her eyes shut in pleasure and biting her lip to prevent her from screaming.

“Consider this as a repayment,” the Prince grunted, a smirk plastered on his face as he rutted against her, “for torturously wrapping that pretty mouth around my cock. Fuck, you were made for me, weren’t you? I knew you were, I have always known.”

Maera could not reply to his words, holding onto his shoulders for dear life, thighs pressed against is hips, welcoming him into her with each thrust. She was sure her lip would bleed with how harshly she had it between her teeth, but was quickly snapped out of it when Aemond’s hand snagged her jaw, forcing her to look at his face.

“Do not deny me, Maera,” he hissed with warning, slamming his hips into her even harder than before. “I have been more than patient. Let me hear you. Let everyone in this fucking castle hear you.”

Aemond then placed his hands on the backs of her thighs, pushing them back against her chest and setting an erratic pace. The wet sound of their bodies colliding filled the spacious room, combined with the devilish smirk on his face, meant Maera was hanging onto whatever control she had left by a thread. She let out a shaky exhale, unaware that she was even holding her breath. But now her lungs were empty, her body gave her no choice but to let out whimpers and gasps.

This seemingly wasn’t enough for her husband, who fixed his gaze on his cock slamming in and out of her, before reaching down and beginning to circle her clit with his thumb. This made her finally fully surrender to him, all attempts at appearing untameable, were no match for the euphoric feeling she now felt beginning to form in her low abdomen once again.

“Oh, Fuck!” She screamed out, jaw going slack and eyes rolling into the back of her head as she approached her second peak. Having him above her, taking her in such a rough and possessive manner, coupled with his small grunts and groans now filling the air, was too much for her to bare.

Maera’s legs began to shake as she teetered on the edge of her orgasm, crying out for mercy from her husband, something he had previously promised he would not grant her. And he was right. There was no mercy in this. But she loved it.

He seemed to enjoy it was well, although not as vocal, she could tell by the way he had clenched his jaw and the few veins bulging out of his neck, that he had been as desperate for this as she had. As his thrusts became more intense, Aemond’s one eye looked at her beneath him, focussing on her open mouth, her half lidded eyes and the rosiness of her cheeks. Finally, feeling her cunt start to clench tightly around his cock, he snarled at her, “Yes that’s it, come for me, ābrazȳrys.”

Hearing the word for ‘wife’ finally sent her crashing over the edge. She choked out a sob, a blinding hot sensation of pleasure ripping through her as she came all over Aemond’s cock, wave after wave of euphoric bliss hitting her as the Prince continued thrust into her, the pace fast and deep. She heard a guttural, primal groan leave his throat as he too reached his peak, feeling every pulsation of his cock, which coated the inside of her walls with his hot, sticky seed.

Aemond pressed his forehead to Maera’s, which she too needed to steady herself after such an event. Sweat coated each of their bodies, their heavy breaths mingled together as they both came down from their highs, Aemond’s cock still twitching within her, filling her to the brim. Eventually, he withdrew from her, the loss of feeling causing Maera to hiss, their combined essences hitting the sheet below. She looked down to see crimson and white had stained the bottom sheet, all that was left of her Maidenhead now surrendered to the one-eyed Prince.

All too soon, Aemond, his actions purposeful, promptly rose from the bed. Grasping Maera's arm, he pulled her up alongside him, her legs still trembling and muscles aching from the intimate encounter. Noticing Maera's vulnerability, Aemond grabbed a black sheet from the floor, wrapping it around her to conceal her body. Drawing her against his chest, she could feel the reverberations of his pounding heart, the intimate moment shared in the aftermath of their union.

Aemond rang a bell, and the same young maid from before promptly appeared. He handed her the stained bottom sheet, instructing her with a firm tone, "Give the evidence to the King, the Queen mother, or whoever in the Seven Hells wishes to see it." The maid nodded, curtsied, and swiftly changed the bottom sheet before leaving the room, the old stained sheet in hand.

The Prince then reclined on the bed, and Maera, wearied but content, crawled beside him. They laid bare under the sheets, their bodies pressed close, the smell of sex still very much heavy in the air. Maera, feeling the weight of exhaustion after their union, nestled her head on Aemond's broad chest.

Underneath the warm cocoon of the sheets, Aemond tenderly laced his fingers into Maera's curls, a gesture that conveyed both intimacy and a sense of comfort. As the afterglow of their union enveloped them, Maera's green eyes, heavy with fatigue, began to close. The rhythmic rise and fall of Aemond's chest became a lullaby, gently ushering them into the embrace of sleep.

Notes: We got there. Over 50 chapters and they finally fucked. You did it! Or perhaps this is the first chapter you’ve seen, either way holy fuck. I’ll be honest it took me so long to upload because I did multiple edits. I was definitely overthinking it because I wanted it to be perfect. ADHD, right? 🤣 anyway, this is the first time writing smut so do let me know what you think. Thank you for being patient and I hope you enjoyed it!

Tags: @blue-serendipity @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @manipulatixe @shesjustanothergeek

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

#maera wylde #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #aemond x oc #chapters #hotd aemond #hotd fanfic #hotd helaena #house targaryen #house wylde #smut #aemond smut #loss of virginity #aemond one eye

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fairysluna · 1 year

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His Highness Prince Aegon II Targaryen was finally able to escape from his native home. He ran away many times, but he was constantly caught. But this time, he succeeded. He is standing on the threshold of some small estate, as it seems to him. His hands are icy, he is frozen to the bone, he does not feel his own body, but desperately knocks on closed, dark doors. He doesn't know where he is, he just knows, that somewhere far to the North. Far further away, than he could ever have imagined. And that's good. The further away from home, the better. The only thing, that deeply hurts the Prince, other than the icy wind, is that his winged treasure is far away from him. Sunfyre stayed at home. The Prince shouts, but does not hear his own voice. He's banging on the door. He was tired and cold. The last thing, he sees before collapsing backwards, is an increasing crack of light.

When a strange man with silver hair appeared on the threshold of your house in the deep, cold night, you, the mistress of this house, the last member of your last name, did not expect much from him. Even though you live on the edge of the universe, there is no escape from rumors.

Everything about this place was strange to the Prince. The young woman is in charge here. There are very few servants, and they all called you by name, although with deep respect in their voice. And you didn't call them "servants", you said: "my help". When you greeted him by his full name, the Prince prepared to run again, but you only asked him to be calm and respectful. Now, he is very far from home, the King's fist almost does not reach these lands, you have your own rules and customs here. And if the Prince wants to stay, he must comply with them. This world is different, from where he came from. And Aegon agreed. He promised to behave himself, and you promised not to extradite him. And it was easy. Few people get to your tiny piece of land. In fact, it's surprising, how he crawled up here at all.

But that was a long time ago.

Now, Aegon has increased not only in the waist, but in the shoulders. And, it seems, he became half a head taller, but that's not for sure. He began to smile more, and an unquenchable flame burns in his eyes. And his habits have also changed. The current Aegon and Aegon, that escaped from King's Landing, are two different Aegons.

Where else would you see Prince Aegon, playing snowballs with little children, to whom, he has nothing to do? And he let these children beat him. Where else would you see Prince Aegon, who portrays a defeated dragon? Where else would you see Prince Aegon, sitting relaxed on an icy lake and fishing for fun? Of course, he brings the most beautiful catches home, to his real home, but mostly, he finds fishing calming. He even asked a local blacksmith to make him a "safe fishing hook".

You've lived on this icy lake all your life, and fishing has never given in to you. Your best catch, is someone's ring. And this stranger just picked up a fishing rod, and immediately caught a good fish! It's just not fair! This bastard has talent! Of course, you told him, that you'd kick him out of the house for it, but you both just laughed about it. You praised his talent.

Aegon noticed, that you often praised him in general. Also, he found out, that you are not much different from him in age, but, almost from childhood, a huge burden of responsibility hangs on you. You are the eldest daughter in the family, you are the first heiress to this small town. You are literally the last person in this family.

You have a bad pedigree. Almost all the sisters ran away, some to freedom, some to lovers, the father was mired in his thirst for money and power, and the mother despaired of finding happiness in this house. There was no one left. You're alone. But Aegon doesn't need power. Aegon has escaped from power. But he offered you to become, a kind of, well, your consort. You tell him, he'll do it. Now you're not alone. Now Aegon is here. And when you get married, he will be happy to be called by your last name. Aegon was run away from responsibility, he didn't want that responsibility. But for this responsibility, he is ready for anything. And he will not break this promise.

Aegon himself did not think, that he would love this place so much. He is much deeper in the North, than any "Dog" could tell him. If the whole world were a plate, he would be on the very edge of that plate. Aegon loved this quiet, affectionate estate with all his heart, these kind and loyal assistants, who call him: "Aegon" or "my boy". He fell in love with these icy forests and waters. And this small town, with its strange inhabitants, for whom he has already become their own. And this warm berry pie, for which he ready sell his soul, which is cooked by a maid of a very respectable age, who, by the way, calls him affectionately: "my boy".

Where else could you see Prince Aegon, who yesterday danced with his Lady by the fireplace some kind of incoherent, fervent dance, and today - he hugs her closely to him, gently swaying by the same fireplace. Sometimes, in the morning, Aegon is afraid to open his eyes. If this is all a dream, then let this dream not end. But Aegon feels the familiar heavy and warm blanket again. So, everything is fine. One day, you told him, that you were a little sad, that all your sisters had scattered, that you would like to show him off in front of them. You've always been not the most attractive sister, a hopeless bride. And here's how it all turned out. Aegon thought the same thing. It would be so nice, to show off such a new life in front of his family. But, on the other hand, Aegon will do everything, to protect this new life. He has changed, but some of the old traits of his being remain.

Aegon is a dragon, and you are a whale. And you would never have thought, that a dragon would so desperately want to turn into a whale. You are his beautiful flower, carved out of thick, centuries-old ice. But when Aegon hears your bones crunch again and again, when he sees the old scars on your skin, how your hands are shaking again, the deep dark color under your eyes, that will never leave you. When he looks into your eyes again, in which your whole life is visible, Aegon understands again, that you are still a flower, that needs to be cared for. And he'd be damned, if he'd let that flower wither. You've had a heavy burden on you for a lot of years. But now, you have someone to share it with.

Aegon tells you his fiery fairy tales, and you tell him your fairy tales, woven from icy water. In this cold fairy tale, he will never be found.

One day, when you were cuddling by the fireplace, you told him, that you would love to meet Sunfyre. You even came up with an approximate place, where he could be placed. You ask Aegon, if the dragon would freeze here? After all, even through all this time, Aegon is still freezing here. Well, you were born in cold water, and Aegon in fire, of course he is cold here!

When you both approved the construction of the "home for Dragon", Aegon gathered in the capital, to take what rightfully belongs to him. In fact, even in such an unpleasant business, as a temporary return to his native lands, there are a couple of pleasant moments. Firstly, Sunfyre will be with him again. Gods, how he misses Sunfyre. Secondly, you're excited about meeting Sunfyre, in the best possible way. Aegon is more than sure, that his winged treasure will like you as well. And thirdly, several local men offered to help him. They offered to go with him, just in case. After all, no one here wants their Lady's future husband to get hurt or worse. Besides, this very future husband, well, is not a very bad guy.

Oh, Aegon's poor heart, it's about to burst... He would give his life for this little piece of land.

Oh my god- this is so perfect... thank you for sharing this with me and my followers, i feel HONORED. Firstly, the story is amazing, the fluff? soft aegon? yes, please. Secondly, your writing is INCREDIBLE, and I would LOVE to hear more about this story pretty pleaseeee (if you have a name for it let me know to put it in the tags)

Please everyone NEED to read this, i loved it so much.

sorry for not being able to add the 'read more'

#liv's replies #hotd!AU #aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii targaryen x original character #tom glynn carney #aegon targaryen imagine #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon ii #aegon ii x you #hotd #hotd x oc #hotd x reader #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #house of the dragon

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ainyan · 1 month

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Kal'istae Miurani - Stats and Facts

B A S I C S

Name: Kal’istae Miurani

Nicknames: Kali

Age: 34 as of the beginning of Dawntrail

Nameday: 18th day of the 3rd Astral Moon

Race: Xaela Au Ra

Gender: Female

Orientation: Pansexual/Demi-Romantic

Relationship(s): Thancred Waters (Lover/Husband)

Profession: Warrior of Light

Canon Jobs: All Jobs

Main Jobs: White Mage, Summoner, Dancer, Paladin, Dragoon

Crafter/Gatherer: Yes (Omnicrafter/Gatherer)

P H Y S I C A L A S P E C T S

Hair: Midnight blue with silver streaks. She keeps it long - hip length or longer, and bound in a braid that falls down along her spine.

Eyes: Indigo with glowing lavender limbal rings

Skin: Indigo with silver freckles and obsidian scales

Tattoos/scars: One tattoo: A meteor brand between her shoulder blades. She still hopes for the brand of an Archon someday. A number of small scars are scattered across her back, ribs, stomach, legs, and arms, evidence of her very active and combat-filled lifestyle.

F A M I L Y

Parents: Unnamed Dotharl Xaela

Siblings: No known blood siblings. Two adopted siblings in Sharlayan - Cassandra and Aidan Miurani. Two foster siblings in Ishgard - Artoirel and Emmanellain de Fortemps.

Grandparents: Unnamed Dotharl Xaela

In-laws and Other: Ryne Waters (Stepdaughter)

Pets: Numerous various animals and mammets

S K I L L S

Abilities: Skilled in magic, gathering, crafting, fighting. Particularly skilled in alchemy, cooking, sewing, and jewelry making. Adept Summoner with access to all known Egis.

Hobbies: Making plushes, particularly of animals she’s encountered or people she knows. She keeps most of them for herself, but will gift them to her special people or occasionally barter them for goods she needs.

T R A I T S

Most Positive Trait: Patience. Kal’istae has infinite patience when dealing with almost anything, whether it’s waiting for news, helping those in need, teaching her goldsmithing students, or awaiting Thancred’s return from wherever he’s run off to.

Most Negative Trait: Low self-esteem. Despite her notoriety and fame, Kal’istae does not look at herself the same way everyone else does. She does not see the miracles she has wrought or the good deeds she has done, only the mistakes she has made and the cost in lives lost to her inability to solve every problem.

L I K E S

Colors: Purple, blue, teal, lavender, silver, gold

Smells: Warm leather, gunpowder, gun oil, lavender, sage, wild roses, starflowers, fresh churned earth.

Textures: Silk, smooth wood, smooth stone, velvet, soft petals, cold water

Drinks: Hot tea, water, sweet red wine, hot chocolate

O T H E R D E T A I L S

Smokes: Never

Drinks: Occasionally, but only when around others and when there is someone else abstaining

Drugs: Never

Mount Issuance: Kal’istae was claimed early by a rental chocobo from Mimigun in Ul’dah, and when she was given her issuance from the Flames, she immediately chose her friend and named him Zhikanikoth, or Zeek for short. It was many years later that the memory of her first chocobo companion, also named Zhikankioth, returned to her and she realized that her first companion was none other than her current companion, waiting those five long years for his mistress to return. She also has a very large number of mounts she has gathered over the years, but none so beloved as her Zeek.

Been Arrested: What?? No! (Being arrested for a false accusation of regicide doesn’t count!)

Tagged by: @paintedscales

Tagging: No one in particular, but if no one else has tagged you and you would like to do this, consider yourself tagged by me!

#ffxiv #kal'istae miurani #meme: character facts #tagged #tagging

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letsdeerintheheadlightsuniverse · 2 months

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>>Next Chapter>>

Masterlist

Pairing: Izzy Hands x gn!reader

Synopsis: Upon saving your life, Izzy Hands also unknowingly stole your heart. Will you ever be brave enough to admit your feelings or will the spark that burns between you eventually fizzle out, if not stoked into flames of passion?

A/N: Welcome to the first of what I hope will be a multi-chaptered fanfiction. It's my first time properly writing on here, so go easy on me! I'm still trying to find my footing with formatting and the like. I will update the Masterlist as I go along! I'm not totally sure how to make one, but I've made it this far, so hopefully, it works!

Content Warning: Canonical violence, gore, and discussions surrounding the reader's difficult past. This series will be 18+, so minors dni. Go away (politely).

DISCLAIMER: PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, REPUBLISH OR TRANSLATE MY WORK ANYWHERE WITHOUT MY EXPLICIT PERMISSION.

==================================

The sea was a cruel mistress. Beautiful in all her oceanic glory but as quick changing in temperament as the weather. From clear blue skies to perilous storms- there was no deciphering her moods, only surviving her continuous whims. But blessed had she been to you.

Perhaps she had conspired with the fates, whispered in their ear and asked them to favour you, as you travelled the seven seas with your found family. For life prior to your time on board the Revenge had been a different kind of survival. Just one, big never-ending fight, for food and shelter, that left you mentally- and more frequently than you cared to recollect- physcially battered and bruised. Though you were made of sterner stuff, even the most adept pirate had their limits.

And the day you had reached your own, good fortune had smiled upon you, as you were introduced to one, Israel Hands. Well, introduced might have been too polite a word. It's connotation suggests that you both met under usual circumstances and exchanged pleasantries, when the reality of the situation had been anything but pleasant.

Another day of surviving for your life had taken on a new meaning that dreadful Tuesday. You were doing more than just fighting for scraps and offcuts, you were struggling to keep your own entrails contained within your own abdomen. Rivers of red bled out from your failing form, as others equally destitute, viewed your fading self as one less hungry mouth to compete against. One less person taking up residence in a barn or abandoned shack. You thought your life over in that moment, as you felt your consciousness wash in and out like the waves that lapped at the nearby port.

You never really had the confidence to ask Izzy what it was exactly that moved him so much to take pity upon you but something in that dank alleyway had stirred within the silver-haired pirate's chest, as he had caught sight of your bloodied disposition.

Your remembrance of being brought back upon the deck of the Revenge was hazy at best but then, severe blood loss and copious amounts of rum for the pain would cause amnesia in the most sound of mind. The only snippets of memory that you still possessed, all involved the First Mate. The vague feeling of leather brushing against your cheek, as he carried you towards the port. The sensation of a hand in yours, as the cook-slash-medic crudely stitched you back together again. That was all you still retained from that horrific time. Still, you treasured the memories, keeping them close in your heart.

No, you would not ask the pirate to recount the full tale of what had occurred the day you were found. That was all in the past now. A distant speck on the horizon of your life's story. You had moved onto better things and your prospects were much brighter now.

Life on the Revenge was by no means easy but having a wonderful crew and somewhat sane co-captains was a farcry from where you had been only six months prior. You now had people you could call friends. Hell, you considered them to be family and they, you. You were loved and also loved in return. For the first time in your tragic history of existence, you had found a home in the group of misfits. A strong sense of belonging. You were safe. Well, as safe as one could be as a pirate.

Not that you ever worried too much when on raids. If your past was anything to go by, you could look adter yourself well enough in the midst of a fight. Though you lacked skill, you were ruthless in your attacks. However, as per the co-captain's orders, you were generally buddied up with someone more skilled than yourself. More often than not, such a responsibility fell upon the shoulders of the Revenge's beloved First Mate. Not that you were complaining. No, seriously, not even a peep!

Unfortunately for you, it had not escaped the attention of your closest friends, Lucius and Oluwande that, you never complained, in fact, about being paired up with the- quite frankly- cantankerous arsehole. It was almost if you, they dare thought, enjoyed his company. The absolute horror! Despite their teasing at your expense, most of the crew. Nay! All of the crew, were rooting for you both.

It was just a waiting game now of when you and Izzy would recognise your feelings for one another. Wee John had money on it being within the next month. Whereas Archie guessed it would be at least another six months but who was to say? Only time would tell.

If the way you were staring forlornly at the First Mate, when you were supposed to be helping Jim scrub the deck, was any indication then maybe Wee John was not totally off the mark with his prediction. You could not help yourself. The opalescent sky, brought to life by the dying rays of the close to evening sun, was a beautiful contrast compared to the stark black silhouette of the silver-haired pirate, who was currently berating a very disgruntled looking Buttons.

However, our distracted state did not last long. You were brought forth from your reverie with a very unceremonious wet cloth to the face. The sounds that emanated from your persons could only be described as a shrill shriek of horror.

"Ew, Jim!" you screeched, ripping the damp fabric from your skin and immediately pelting it back at them with aggravated gusto. "What the hell!"

Easily battling off your counter attack, the pirate chortle with unrestrained glee at your panic and disgust. You were so, so easy to catch unawares, it was impossible to not take advantage. "Ah, come on now, mi amor (my love). Lighten up a little! You're becoming as grumpy as Dizzy Izzy."

At the mention of his name, you found yourself blushing deeply. Oh no, where your feelings for the First Mate were concerned you were in too deep and your friends made sure to remind you every second of your waking hours. Not that you could really complain. How many times had you lovingly mocked Pete for his infatuation with Lucius or Jim when they doted on their partners?

"Bet you like that about him though." they smirked, as they resumed scrubbing at the deck.

You grumbled a murmured, "shut up" but Jim was right. You did like his stoicism. There was something reassuring about Izzy's stubbornness and fortitude. It was like he was a lighthouse in the tumultuous ocean that was life. Standing strong against the waves that would drown anyone else. A guide to the well-meaning but ill-equipt eclectic crew. Had he not delivered you from a path of darkness?

While lost in our own thoughts, little did you know that your cry of horror had caught the attention of the man that occupied your mind during all waking and sleeping hours.

From his vantage point, Izzy watched the crew of Revenge toil away at the daily tasks, surprisingly with minimal complaints or antics. It appeared that they were on their best behaviour that day. Much to the First Mate's chagrin. Of all the days his racing mind needed a distraction, that damn crew decided to actually put some fucking effort into their work.

But there you were, he thought, fighting to keep the soft smile that threatened to melt his icy demeanour. Working hard as always alongside your friend, Jim. You were laughing at something they had said, as you wiped the sweat from your brow. The wind against the rustling sails blocked out the sound of your laughter but thankfully, he had heard it enough time to commit the sound to memory.

"Staring at (y/n) again?" the unwelcome voice of one Edward Fucking Teach suddenly interrupted Izzy's otherwise pleasant train of thought.

"Oh, fuck off, Edward." despite his annoyance, the irritated pirate's tone did not covey itself as malicious, just frustrated, which all but confirmed Ed's suspicions.

Unlike some of the other crew members, the co-captain was well accustomed to Izzy's volatile personality by now. No matter how many foul words, curses or threats the other man verbally hurled at Ed, he would simply brush each attack off with a smile- or even more infuriatingly- a laugh accompanied with a shoulder pat. Izzy loathed those shoulder pats sometimes. Unfortunately for him but more fortunately for Ed, it was frowned upon to cut off your Captain's hand.

And as if on cue, there it was, that familiar smile. That bright as the fucking sun on a clear summer's day smile. No wonder Stede Bonnet was besotted with the bastard. Who could possibly resist the friendly warmth of that mischievous grin? It was disarmingly charming enough to even placate a cold-hearted man, such as Izzy Hands. Who could already feel his resolve crumbling.

While it would have been foolish to assume that Izzy's bark was worse than his bite- goodness, his bite could erradicate an entire crew with a moments hesitation- overall, the man was pretty harmless. Especially when it came to talking about you.

And Ed was well aware of his friend's newfound fondness. "Ah, come on, Iz." he chuckled, leaning against the nearby railing with complete ease, while Izzy felt like his stomach being tied up in knots. It took everything within his power to stop his hands from shaking. He quickly grabbed onto the same railing and hoped he mirrored Ed's unperturbed manner. Damn, he was so embarrassed with himself. How did anyone manage to function properly when being in love made you feel so jittery all the time? "You're allowed to look at 'em, you know? Nothing wrong with appreciating the view." the Captain's own gaze roamed across the deck, when he too, spotted you. His smile grew even wider.

There was no doubt that Ed liked you a lot. You were a competent pirate and a loyal friend to those aboard the ship but more importantly, you were a good influence on the First Hand. The gradual closeness that had bloomed between you and the silver-haired pirate, had been a heartwarming sight to witness from a far. In fact, it was often the subject of the late night conversations shared between Ed and Stede, as they got ready for bed every night.

However, they were not the only ones invested in the hopefully-so-to-occur-coupling of you and Izzy. The rest of the Revenge's crew had also placed many bets, all of which ran simultaneously. From first dates to first kisses- there was money riding on every single one of your shared interactions. You both just did not know it yet (and hopefully never at all). If Izzy were to discover just how invested everyone was in your inevitable relationship, heads would roll. Or more precisely, Ed's would roll.

Izzy could barely stop himself from scoffing at Ed's words. Actually, he did scoff. Loudly, too. But even with his sound of dismay, the pirate could not help but steal a guilty glance in your direction but only for a moment. "Don't talk daft." he grumbled when you eventually disappeared below deck, having been called away by Roach to help in the kitchen. "I was just keeping an eye on the crew. Fucking useless, the lot of 'em."

"Even (y/n)?"

With a huff, Izzy had finally had enough of this particular line of enquiry. "Did you need something, Edward?"

"No, just came up here to annoy you."

Of course he had. Of course he fucking had! What else would a co-captain do, other than annoy his Right Hand Man? Nothing so useless as, oh Izzy could hardly think of something worth while, like...chartering the next part if the ships journey?! "Well, in that case, can you kindly fuck off then? Haven't you got to go and make your boyfriend blush or something?"

Despite his hearty laugh, Ed still had one last parting shot for the silver-haired pirate. Leaning in close, he whispered, "You know, instead of focusing on my relationship, you could be making y/n blush right now."

Before Izzy could even stammer an apoplectic response of faux outrage- how many times had he actually fantasies about being the cause of the rosy dusting upon your cheeks?- Ed had already pushed himself off of the railing and made his way down onto the main deck. "Twat." Izzy huffed, knowing deep down. Like, deep, deep, deeeeeep down, Ed was right. He had been, as the captain had so succinctly put it, been "appreciating the view".

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galderthefuzzy · 4 months

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The Tale of Myrkalfa Earthshaker

(BG3 Major Spoilers Ahead)

The Tale of Myrkalfa Earthshaker (BG3 Major Spoilers Ahead) begins in a way unlike most any other drow; in the light of the sun. Having abandoned the Underdark before even learning to speak, this child was shielded from Lolth's cruel embrace by her war-dancer parents for most of her younger years. At a tender age no older than twelve, she and her childhood friends were caught unawares by a drider in the forest, whose vile poison cost her nearly all those she held dear. Seeing the danger posed by her under-dwelling kin and their dark spider-goddess, the young drow made a vow to herself, to help nature reclaim balance in the world, and expunge all those who would seek to harm rather than help. Upon coming of age, Myrkalfa would grow into the Circle of the Moon, mastering the art of shapeshifting in accordance with the teachings of Elistraee as she spoke to the drow people: “A rightful place awaits you in the Realms Above, in the Land of the Great Light. Come in peace, and live beneath the sun again, where trees and flowers grow.”After escaping the crashed nautiloid, Myrkalfa would join forces with the charming evoker Gale Dekarios, as well as the fierce gith'yanki fighter Lae'zel and mercurial Sharran cleric Shadowheart.

By fighting shoulder to shoulder, and recruiting a host of allies with their valiance, they would travel from the hilt of the sword cost to famed city Baldur's Gate, slaying every evil in their path without heeding the call of the foul Emperor. With blade and sorcery, not a single epic opponent was spared their onslaught, from the immortal Ketheric Thorm to the undying Heart of the Gate. The Master of the House, the Murderer of Mothers, the Black Hand of Bane and his foul Titan Creation. In a single swoop of their combined might, four heroes did free this age of so many evils that they are honored still among the likes of High Harper Jaheira, Nerys Kathon of Kelemvor, and Minsc of Rashemen. And in so doing, found also the light within themselves, whether it be from the Prince of the Comet, Our Lady of Silver, the Mistress of Magic, or the bright wilds of the Dark Dancer.

Not a single tiefling life was lost for the actions of these heroes, and but an ally did fall in their fight against the Absolute. Friend Yurgir, in his zeal for battle, found himself poorly placed among the party's plans for Raphael. In so doing, he gave his life, the single friend lost to none other than fate itself. At their sides in the final fight though were Zevlor and his hellriders, Dammon and the owlbear cub, Rolan and the Arcane Tower, Dame Aylin and the cleric Isobel, Jaheira and her Harpers, Nine-Fingers and the Guild, Valeria and the City Watch, Duke Ravengard's personal guard, Florrick and the Flaming Fist, Halsin and Thaniel, the free Gondians, Arabella, Mol, the Gur monster hunters, Kith'rak Voss and his red dragon, Orpheus the Prince of the Comet, and Volo the Chronicler.In the end, Shadowheart freed her parents from the shadowy grip of Shar, instead embracing the Life Domain and the teachings of the goddess Selûne. Lae'zel saw the flawed ways of the lich-queen, choosing rather to follow the teachings of the fallen Prince Orpheus, and in their name, journeying to the lands of the gith'zerai.

Gale Dekarios, formerly Gale of Waterdeep, the Chosen of Mystra, became a professor of magic at Blackstaff Academy. Archdruid of the Moon Myrkalfa Earthshaker lived up to her namesake despite adopting a new surname, cleansing the shadowlands of Ketheric's taint and Shar's corruption and allowing nature's peace to flourish once more in Baldur's Gate. The parties were chosen to safeguard a Netherstone each. One with Shadowheart, always on the move. One with Lae'zel, beyond the cusp of the stars. And one with the Dekarios household. Those locations would seem obvious to some, but in truth, it is a dare. An invitation for the Dead Three, or any other force of evil to rear its foul maw again.

I had the pleasure to work on this piece for jæja. The project was quite exciting and very complex, but I have enjoyed every step and really like how it shaped up. As a fan of Bg3, it was quite a treat to be able to combine my stained glass style with some of our beloved companions. I hope you like how it turned out!

Thank you for commissioning me!

#fantasy #gaming #digital #digital art #digital painting #oc #bg3 fanart #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #shadowheart #gale of waterdeep #lae'zel #commission #stained glass #stylized #digital illustration

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tilly-tilly-2827 · 21 days

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Midnight Sanctuaries (Side B & Side C)

Reimaging An Offer from a Gentleman#3

Synopsis: Maria Beckett should know better. But there was nothing she could do. She craved love, she craved for warmth. And Richard Gunningworth didn’t know better.

But how Benedict Bridgerton knew better.

But how he was, a bit of a fool.

⚠️Trigger Warning: Mentions of sexual assault/ rape/ suicide.

AO3 post from here

Part one from here

“What is it, to woo a woman?”

Benedict Bridgerton spurred on his fifth glass of whiskey, contemplating if he should take the sixth.

“Not a lady, you mean?”

Alice eyed the man suspiciously, wiping the glass with a cloth. She was quite worried, seeing the second son of the Bridgerton family almost drown himself in whiskey. It was true that he had been dwelling in the stalls of the bar for years with a glass in hand, but he seemed to be improving.

“After a refreshing stay in Wilshire, I have gained a new perspective,” explaining to her happily a few days back.

“Well, yes, yes…a lady.” He added hastily.

“You must be at a loss, for a Bridgerton to be suffering in the process of a courtship!” Will laughed wholeheartedly, placing an arm over his shoulder.

“Might I ask who the lucky lady is? Which young debutant has captivated the eyes of a melancholic artist?”

Alice had expected Benedict to burst out in verse, declaring forever love and devotion to a young debutante somewhere in the ton, but his reaction was quite the opposite; instead, he sunk deeper into silence, dipping himself in another glass of wine.

“Isn’t she the one you talked about for years?” Alice asked a little hesitantly, “The women in silver you talked about-”

“What?” Benedict jerked from his intoxication. “No, no, no. Not her. Definitely not her.”

“Then who is she?”

Benedict decided to ignore the question altogether. He knew that he was being selfish, but anger and frustration had been slowly bubbling up in him. As he watched the young John Stirling whisper something teasingly to Francesca as her face flushed crimson pink, as they promenaded in the park arms in arms, giggling away happily about who knows what, Benedict couldn’t help thinking why he couldn’t do the same with Sophie.

He wanted to fill her room with flowers and bouquets.

He wanted to take Sophie to ice cream parlors.

He wanted to ask her for the second Walz at the end of the ball.

All the jealousy, all the longing, all the desire were flaming stronger day by day, and the overwhelming craving was killing him, making him lose his mind. How much he longed to just take her down in the closet or even the hallway, how much he longed to bury himself inside her arms…

“……Why does she keep rejecting me?”

“…So you are being rejected by this mysterious lady of yours? Hence this drinking?”

“How do you know that she’s rejecting me?”

“……You said those words seconds ago, Mr.Bridgerton.”

Benedict softly touched his mouth, regretting that he had let it slip. He knew what others would think of him if they knew he was trying to seduce a maid to be his mistress. He was seen as a respectable gentleman, and he didn’t quite want to lose the reputation he had from his fellow men. Not like Phillip Cavender.

“Well, …I…”

“So she has been rejecting you.”

Alice stated in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Perhaps, you are not her preference,” Will teasingly added, giving a pat on his shoulder. “No need to pounder, Bridgerton. There will be someone who would appreciate your looks.”

“No, no. No.” He denied quickly, “I am definitely in her preference.”

“How can you be so sure of that, Mr. Bridgeton?” Alice arched her eyebrows.

“Well…”

She said I look like her Prince Charming.

“I just know.”

Alice sighed deeply. Men, she quietly thought. So sure of themselves, not doubting any bit that they could be the reason for rejection. She quietly felt sympathy for the poor girl in question; imagining Benedict Bridgerton trying to wear her down with his charms.

“Have you been sending gifts to this lady of yours?” Will asked nonchalantly. “Perhaps she does not like what you have offered to her…”

Gifts…Gifts!

It suddenly dawned on him that Benedict had never given Sophie Beckett anything, maybe except for an ill-cooked breakfast.

One doesn’t have to be a mistress to be receiving gifts, don’t they?

“Mondrich, you are a great man!”

Already planning out a perfect scheme in his head, Benedict hurriedly slipped down from his chair, quickly grabbed his jacket, and ran to the door. He’ll tip the florist double the amount, he knew how to sneak into Genevieve’s shop at night….

“He’s going to do something awful.”

Alice murmured under her breath as Benedict disappeared from their sight. She wrote down his bills on the piece of paper sighing at the amount. He will have to pay, soon.

“……Why didn’t you stop him then?”

“Because,” Alice replied as she took a glass of whiskey from his hands, drinking it in a swig.“Men can’t realize their mistakes until they truly experience how bad one screwed it up.”

----------------------------------------------

Sophie was exhausted to the bone.

She had been running up and down the house all day long, preparing for the Bridgerton Ball that was coming up next Wednesday. After helping Miss Eloise with the dress in the morning, she also assisted Lady Violet with the penning of the invitation and also helped Hyacinth with her Latin and French. She also secretly mended the tear Miss Eloise had made on her secret escapades, secretly washed the cigarette stain on Eloise’s nightdress, and secretly delivered the letters Eloise had firmly told her; that it is a secret.

She truly adored and admired the Bridgertons.

But she was truly exhausted. Her feet were sore from bustling around London with Eloise’s secret errands in ill-fitting shoes that she had been wearing for years, her hands were cramped from all the writing and the mending she did for the day, and her fingertips were filled with cuts for every time Benedict Bridgeton came into the room.

Sophie wished she could be more calm in front of his presence. Sophie wished Benedict would not look at her so longingly. With his ardent, morning-dew eyes. His warm, sweet, eyes.

Sophie shook her head fervently, trying to erase the fantasy that dwelled in her mind. It was almost midnight, and what she needed was a good night’s rest, not the passionate gaze or the warm arms of one Benedict Bridgerton. Sophie staggered herself up the stairs, wanting to lie on the bed and curl up in her sheets. But before that, she had to mend a hole in her stockings, iron out her apron, wash herself up, and change into her nightgown…

Benedict Bridgerton was the last person she wanted to see in her room that night. He was sitting on the corner of her bed, his face lighting up as he saw her open the door. With the crooked, teasing smile on his face, normally his expression alone would bring her to her knees, but that night Sophie was just goddamn tired. Just so, so, so tired.

“Why are you here, Mr. Bridgerton?”

“You look tired, Sophie.”

“Mr. Bridgerton, why are you here?”

“Can’t I be here?”

“You can not be here,”

“So hostile.” Benedict tutted, pouting his lips ever so slightly. “Aren’t you pleased to see me?”

“No, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Come on, Sophie, I know…”

“Do you not hear me, Benedict?” Benedict finally noticed how cold and stern her voice was. “I am saying that I do not want you here.”

“Sophie, I just wanted to…”

“Did you not think that some could have seen you?”

“No, I didn’t think-”

“No, you didn’t think,” For the first time in her life, Sophie snapped, letting her anger get the better of her.

“How would the other servants think of me if they saw you in my room? They would think me as a self-serving whore-”

“Sophie, no-”

“And I would be fired from this position and…and…and…it would be very convenient for you, wouldn’t it?”

“Sophie, that’s not what I wanted to-”

Sophie glared at him with her moss-green eyes, and he noticed that Sophie’s eyes were filled with frustration. He staggered back, unable to say anything at all.

“Then what did you want to do?”

“I…I just…”

“Take me down on this bed, mark me as yours?”

It was exactly what he might have been planning to do.

“…And you call yourself a gentleman when you are no better than Phillip Cavenderー”

The next moment, Sophie was pinned up against the door, his hand grabbing her waist strenuously, his other arm slammed above her head, hovering against her by the door.

“You don’t mean that, Sophie”

His voice was dangerously soft, but there was a stroke of pain and fury, and Sophie realized she had gone too far with her anger. How could she ever compare him to Phillip Cavender? Benedict was far more sweet, far more caring, far more…

“I’m here because I love you,”

Sophie felt tears coming up to her eyes.

“…Please don’t say that.”

“I love you, Sophie.”

“You don’t know what you are saying.”

“I mean what I say, Sophie.” Benedict replied angrily, gritting his teeth, “I’m saying that I love you, and I want to take care of you…”

“If you truly loved me, Benedict,” Sophie was falling apart as she broke out in a sob, feeling the tears running down her cheeks. “Why would you ask me to be your mistress?”

But people have mistresses and by-blows all the time, Benedict stupidly found himself thinking despite his fury. What was wrong with having a mistress, if he loved her just the same, if he cared for her just the same?

“You’re hurting me, Benedict, don’t you know…”

“You have never thought how much you hurt ME, Sophie?” Benedict was almost losing his temper, he wanted to scream and roar if he could. Benedict tightened his grip around Sophie’s waist, knowing that his nails were biting into her skin, hurting her, scaring her. The awful side of him was wanting to hurt her, wanting her to feel the pain he had been suffering ever since Sophie had rejected his offer.

“I cannot breathe, Sophie,” Benedict’s words shook with anger. “I cannot breathe, I cannot live without you Sophie, knowing that you feel the same for me.”

He pressed his forehead against her, trying to regain his breath, trying to calm down the immense anger he felt towards her. He let go of his grip and instead placed them on the door, his nails biting the wooden plank.

“I love you, Sophie.”

“Benedict please don’t.”

“I love you.”

“Just…just, don’t, don’t Benedict”

Benedict slowly leaned in, softly nuzzling his nose against hers. Their lips were almost an inch apart, and if Sophie leaned in just an inch, he would have her sweet lips on his in a second.

“Tell me that you love me, Sophie.”

“I can’t.”

“Tell me,”

“Benedict,”

“….That you love me.”

Sophie’s lips were about to reach his, and he closed his eyes, waiting for the sweet sensation to reach his lips.

The next moment, he felt an immense pain slap across his cheeks, tasting the blood in his mouth. He staggered back, perplexed by the power she held.

“…….You’re drunk.”

There was a striking coldness in her eyes he had never seen before. Her hard, cold gaze was enough to sober him up in a second, but it wasn’t enough to deny her words.

“Sophie, Sophie, Sophie.”

Benedict instinctively reached out his arms, wanting to soften her, but Sophie stepped back, clutching to her shoulders as if she were protecting herself from him.

“No, no, don’t you dare touch me, Benedict.”

Benedict finally noticed that he was the stupidest man in the world. Benedict stood foolishly by the door, not knowing what to do or say, as he watched Sophie take another step back, shrinking into the corner of the room.

“I will tolerate, you dwelling on hallways,” Sophie said quietly. “I will endure you stalking me, sneaking and jumping up on me from hidden corridors.”

Benedict was beginning to notice how childish he had been acting as she spoke.

“But I can’t have you in this room, Benedict. This is out of the line.”

“…I apologize, Ms. Beckett.”

His voice was barely above a whisper.

“I’ll …I’m going to leave these here.”

Without even a glance, Benedict left Sophie’s room, quietly shutting the door behind him.

Sophie collapsed to the floor, hardly processing what happened over the last few moments. It was too much, too overwhelming to think with her drained body, but his desperate voice echoed through her mind.

“I love you, Sophie. Tell me that you love me too.”

Sophie staggered to her bed, the very place Benedict Bridgerton had been waiting on a few minutes earlier. He had left her something on the bed, and Sophie finally realized that there was a bouquet and a beautiful small box placed softly on her sheets. It was Lilly of the valleys. Her favorite.

Of course, he would have remembered.

During their stay at My Cottage, Benedict had insisted on her accompanying on his walks. “What if I collapse on my way? I have just recovered from sickness, Ms. Beckett,” Benedict had asked her teasingly. “I would need someone to run to Mr. Crabtree.”

Long walks they took on the country streets of Wiltshire, talking about their favorite authors, plays, and paintings. Benedict would ramble about his siblings and she would laugh, and Sophie remembered how much she loved the countryside; enjoying the wildflowers that bloomed in the side, enjoying the peaceful breeze that surrounded her. As she glanced at his warm smile, she remembered how much she was in love with him.

“You like Lilly of the Valleys?”

Benedict asked as Sophie softly took the blossoms in her hands.

“Yes,” she answered. “We had them around the garden when I was a child. It was my mother’s favorite…”

“Quite suits you,” Benedict had softly said.

“Why so?”

“Do you know what they symbolize, Ms. Beckett?

“I’m afraid I do not know.”

“Return to love, Ms.Beckett,” Benedict whispered, softly kissing her fingertips as he reached for her hand.

With quivering hands, she opened the white box, covered with oriental embroideries. Inside was a beautiful pair of shoes, laced in silk ribbons and white velvet .

Why wouldn’t he know servants can’t afford such things?

Such a foolish, foolish man,

Still feeling the warmth of Benedict Bridgerton against the sheets, Sophie sobbed silently, clutching to the warmth he had left on her bed.

----------------------------------------------------------

“Mrs. Gibbons?”

Annabel sighed as she saw a crack open at the door, seeing a petite figure in the shadows.

“Go back to your nursery, Sophie.”

“But I can’t sleep, Mrs. Gibbons.”

“Go back to your room, Sophie.” Annabel patiently replied, glancing at the clock as it struck midnight. She knew she needed at least four more hours of sleep, before starting another day. “Go back to bed, and close your eyes, and if you count to three hundred…”

“But it’s so cold and dark,”

Annabel rolled her eyes, cursing under her breath. God in heavens where is the governess? It should be her, or at least her father that should be tucking her to bed, not the bloody housekeeper as herself…

But when she looked at her soft almond eyes that loomed too large for her face, she felt a stroke of pain and regret.

“All right, Sophie, come here my dear girl.”

As Annabel pulled back the covers, Sophie climbed desperately onto the bed, clinging to her arms as if she were saving herself from drowning. Annabel noticed how cold her hands and feet were, and her cheeks stained with tears. Poor, poor girl, she thought to herself.

“I can’t stop shivering, Mrs.Gibbsons,”

“You’re all right now, my girl.”

As she put her arms around the poor girl, softly cuddling her against her back, she noticed that she should have done this years ago when she heard her young, petite roommate sobbing under the sheets every night. At that time, she would ignore her desperate sobs, covering her years with her pillow, trying to get some sleep. She wondered how the story would have changed if she had stopped and listened to her deepest vulnerabilities.

“Why can’t you reject him, Maria?”

“Annabel, he loves me. And he is so lonely, ”

“Sophie, are you asleep?”

“……..No.”

“I want you to listen to me very carefully, all right?”

“Yes, Mrs. Gibbsons.”

“You can come here every night, Sophie. If you feel sad or have a bad dream, or you can’t sleep, you’ll come to my side. I’m going to hold you tight, and we’re all going to have a nice peaceful doze. Do you understand that, Sophie?”

“Yes, Mrs. Gibbons.”

“But I don’t want you crawling into anyone else sheets except me. Nor do I want anyone else sneaking into your sheets.”

“Why would I have someone in my sheets, Mrs. Gibbons?”

“I’ll explain to you when you’re older.”

“How old Mrs. Gibbons?”

“Old Enough, Sophie.”

“Old enough for what, Mrs.Gibbons?”

She was quite at a loss for words. Instead, Annabel tightened her arms around him, hoping to warm up the poor child.

“You are going to be a strong smart beautiful lady, Sophie.” Softly stroking her golden locks, she felt a tear dropping down her cheeks. “Your mother would have wanted you to be strong, strong enough to keep yourself warm at night…”

#benedict bridgerton #bridgerton #benophie #sophie beckett #bridgerton fanfiction #benophie fics #benedict x sophie #an offer from a gentleman

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 1 year

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A second queen Part 2- Discovery

Pairing: Daemon x Reader (Summer Isles) x Ashara Martel (OC character. Will appear in the parts 3 & 4)

Themes :Ansgt | Kinda sorta fluffy ending

Word count: 2.7k words

Summary: Life in Volantis is not all that bad, and the family you work for is good for you. But then, you see a familiar face, someone you though you would never see again.

Want to be tagged? Want to know the rules? Read all here.

If you like this, please consider giving it a reblog.

Six years had passed since that fateful day.

You heard of Daemon’s wedding and the Dornish princess he took to wife. You heard he had settled into the role of a happy family man, that he had grown content with his lot in life. You found out no children had been born into the marriage, and already there was talk of a grand council. A decision on who would succeed the ailing king should his brother not produce an heir had to be made.

You put such news out of your mind. Daemon never searched for you, never inquired after the child you birthed, and why should he? He made it plain he never wanted to marry you. He had destroyed all your letters, so why should he look for a child he never cared to learn about in the first place?

And Gods, how it hurt. Being lied to and used hurt. Being made to feel less than hurt. Having to give birth in a strange home, frightened and alone, without your child’s sire by your side, hurt. Why it was enough to leave you weeping into your pillows every night.

And tonight, you stood by Jace's bed, watching his chest rise and fall with each breath. His arms had wrapped tight around the toy ship Talisa’s mother had given him on his fifth name day. When she asked who the father was, you only said he was a Lyseni sailor, a man of no consequence. The lie came easily as your son possessed the same silver-gold hair, chiseled features, and violet eyes most Lysene were famed for. Lady Sybell, an observant woman, did not believe you but accepted your answer. Jacaerys, or Jace, as everyone called him, was allowed to study with Lady Sybell’s grandchildren. He had everything save for the one thing that mattered. A father.

Oh, how your hands turned into angry fists at the thought.

Still, you learned to be content with your son and new home. It still stung whenever you looked at your child and wondered what might have been had Daemon fought for you. Jace could have claimed a dragon by now. He and his father could have driven you to distraction with their antics. You would have spent every night in Daemon's bed, being loved by him, instead of sleeping in a cold room every night.

And your days were filled with the same routine.

You would wake up before dawn, eat a quick meal with the rest of the servants and go about your duties. You would then bring Talisa’s breakfast to her, lay out her clothes and arrange her bath. You would help her dress, then fix her hair. Sometimes, you would tend to Lady Sybell herself, and you did not mind. Talisa was a sweet and considerate young woman. Her mother was a fair and generous mistress. It was not bad, this new life you lived, but sometimes, you would find your mind wandering back to Westeros and its future king and the life the three of you could have lived.

Then at night, you could weep into your pillows again.

✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚*❋ ❋ ❋*˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧

"Three pieces of silver, madam."

The shopkeeper and their outstretched hand brought you out of your usual daydreaming. "My apologies," you said, and you gave her the money. After accepting your bags, you sighed and looked around, at odds with your time.

Lady Sybell had taken Talisa out for the day, giving you plenty of free time. You walked around the marketplace, nibbling on exotic fruits and buying trinkets Jace would have liked. Finally, you came to the mummer’s square, where dancers, mages, and mummers performed in the hope of patronage and coin.

There were fire mages today, performing wondrous acts for a growing crowd. They made flames rise and dance, created creatures that could only be found in fairy tales, and whipped thin coils of flames about, making them whirl over and around stunned onlookers.

You watched and watched, losing track of time and oblivious to everything around you. A nearby bell struck the hour. You had to go back. The family would return soon, and you had to help Talisa prepare for a feast tonight. You held onto your bags and looked around again, not stopping until your gaze rested on a pair of familiar lilac eyes. You swallowed and stared when wisps of silver-gold hair whipped about in the breeze. You pinched yourself to make sure you were not dreaming.

The sting in your arm convinced you that this was no dream. Daemon was here. He was actually here. And the way he looked at you, like he could not believe his eyes.

You wanted nothing to do with him. When he made his way over, you ran, ignoring his pleas for you to stop. You ran and ran, not stopping until you reached the safety of the Maegyr manse. You held onto the wrought iron gate and panted, your heart pounding away in your chest. You tried to grapple with the enormity of what just took place.

He was here. Daemon was here, behind the black walls of Volantis. And he had seen you. Oh, this was not good at all.

"Mama?"

The sudden greeting startled you. "Oh, sweetheart." You pressed a hand to your chest and smiled while your son opened the gate. "You scared me."

Jace raised his head and smirked, flashing the same wide grin as his father. "Who is he, mama?" he said, pointing to someone behind you.

That someone came forward and introduced themselves. "I am prince Daemon Targaryen of Westeros."

You closed your eyes and sighed. Daemon had followed you back to the manse, and he had seen his son.

Daemon came over and crouched in front of Jace, taking in his soft, pale hair, chiseled jaw, and vivid purple eyes. Why, the child was exact in many ways. "And you are?"

"Jace," Your son replied. "Everyone calls me Jace."

“Short for Jacaerys,” you said, when Daemon turned to you.

Jacaerys. It was the name he had always wanted to give his first son. Daemon repeated it silently, as if he were tasting it. "And how old are you, Jace?"

He did not have to ask for an age, did not have to ask for anything, really. Daemon already knew, but wanted to hear it all the same.

"Almost six," you said and sent Jace back inside as that familiar sharp pang of rage and heartache took hold in your heart. "And why are you here?"

Daemon stood up, unable to look you in the eye. Shame and guilt had been eating at him for years, and now he didn’t know what to say to you. He knew he had to say something, but what? What could he say to the love he had abandoned all those years ago?

"Well?" you demanded.

He swallowed, looked at the house, then at you. "That day. The day you were sent away. You wanted to tell me you were with child, didn’t you?"

You refused to answer. You thought he did not deserve one, not after everything that happened.

Daemon took a step forward, forcing you to step back. "I'm so sorry," he said, taking another step towards you and only stopping when you flinched and backed away.

Your eyes stung when memories of that awful day came flooding back. "Why are you here?"

Daemon swallowed and looked at the house, at a very specifc window, where a specific little boy could be seen looking at the two of them. A stab of guilt tore at his gut. "I found out what really happened. Otto slipped up and I made him tell me everything."

Daemon went on to explain how there had been no manse, how Otto made sure you did not get a cent of what Daemon put aside for you. He found out how you never made it to Bear Island and that Otto put you on a ship for Volantis after snooping through your letters and finding out you were pregnant.

"I've come to take you and our child with me," he added, hoping and praying that it was not too late and that you still had not closed your heart to him. "I plan on making you my second wife."

"Why?" you sneered. "So your brother can avoid a succession crisis? Is that it?"

"No!" Daemon tried to reach out and touch you like he used to. When you flinched, he forced himself to stay his hands, thinking he had lost all right to do so. "Not because of the succession crisis! I…” his shoulders drooped a little. “I just want you back." You flung back every word Daemon and Otto threw at you. "I am a bastard with no name or title. I am a low-born woman of little consequence. Someone who has no connections. Marrying me will bring no advantage to the crown. That is what you and Otto told me, yes?"

Daemon sank to his knees then, not caring that passersby gaped at the sight of a clearly high-born man kneeling before a servant. "And I offer no excuse for any of it," he said, his eyes filling with tears. "You had no one at court save for me, and I... I broke my vows and abandoned you. Y/n..." he pleaded when you pulled away from him. "Sweetheart, I am so sorry... For everything that happened. Please, let me make amends for failing you in every possible way."

"By marrying me?" Tears strained at the corners of your eyes before falling down and staining your cheeks. "Why do you want to marry me?"

"Because I want to do right by you and our child." Daemon swallowed before speaking again. "Because I still love you, that’s why."

You gasped and took a deep breath to compose yourself. Daemon claimed to still love you, but was that the truth? "More of your lies?" you hissed through your teeth. "More fanciful tales to get me on my back?"

Daemon flinched, like you had just slapped him. "Of course not!" He rose as his anger bubbled and he took a deep, steadying breath to compose himself. You had every right not to trust him, he reasoned. "Of course not. I do love you. I will do anything to get you back. Please," he said, his eyes filled with silent pleading. "Tell me what I must do to get you back?"

Did he truly want your forgiveness, another chance? Did he truly want to marry you? But what of his wife? What did she have to say about such a scheme? "Does Ashara know?"

Daemon replied with an immediate, "Ashara helped me find you. She wants me to do this. Please, sweetheart, there is no trickery here. I really do want to marry you and be a father to our son."

You swallowed, determined to say no. Daemon wounded you in a way you never thought possible. He let his brother’s knights lay hands on you and did nothing to find out if you were truly cared for or not. You should have told him no, that the damned could take him, and that he should suffer for the rest of his days.

You looked at him, your eyes spitting fire. He didn’t deserve your forgiveness. Then you turned back to the manse. Jace was by the window, looking at you both, his eyes filled with curiosity. It was the same look Daemon had, and you sighed.

Daemon was his father. No matter what happened, Daemon was Jace's father. And you knew all too well the pain of being born to a man who never claimed you, who wanted nothing to do with you. You knew all too well the struggles that came with being a bastard, and you did not want Jace to struggle the way you did. Your child deserved a better fate. You swallowed your pride and came to a decision, hoping you would not come to regret it in the future.

"I will marry you," you ground out, and Daemon's eyes lit up in joy.

"For Jace's sake," you continued. "But know this..."

Daemon nodded and encouraged you to go on.

"I will never lie with you. And I will never forgive you for what you did."

He swallowed but accepted your decision. The gods knew he had no right to argue your choice.

"And now I must depart," you said as you gathered your belongings and made your way back to the house. "Goodbye, prince Daemon."

Daemon could only rise and watch as the gate slammed behind you.

✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚*❋ ❋ ❋*˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧

You spoke to Jace that very evening, about how the prince was his father. Jace was overjoyed, and that joy grew when Daemon came over for dinner, much to the shock of everyone. Everyone except for Lady Sybell, that is.

Oh, she knew. She had met the prince years before, and she had long suspected he was the father. “The same dimpled cheeks,” she mused, “The same wide grin. If Jace had been born with his father’s colouring he would be Daemon’s exact in every way. Why did you not tell me?”

You swallowed, hoping she would not be angry with you. “I am sorry, my lady. But I had no choice.”

Sybell sighed and patted your hand. “I understand. But are you truly going to marry him?”

You looked on, as Daemon talked with his son. He kept Jace on his lap and regaled him with stories of Westeros and Kings Landing. “I must,” you huffed in frustration. There was no other way now, Daemon would follow you and Jace to the ends of the earth if he had to. “My son needs his father. I will not deny him that. As for me and the prince…” You shrugged, completely at a loss. That spark you felt for Daemon was there, buried deep within your heart, but you didn’t want to let it burn bright again. “I do not know.”

Jace had been staring at his father, completely wide-eyed. "You ride a dragon?" he said, his eyes filling with wonder. "A real dragon?"

Daemon grinned and pulled out a wooden carving of a dragon, all painted in deep red. "Caraxes. The blood wyrm." He held out the carving for his son to take. "He looks like this."

Purple eyes went wide with shock. "Can I have a dragon too?" Jace studied the carving, running his fingers over the wings and the unusually long neck.

Daemon smiled indulgently and ran a hand over his son's wavy, silver-gold hold hair. He cursed himself for what he did, thinking how he lost six years of his son’s life, and all because he did not have the strength to fight for his son’s mother. "Yes,” he said indulgently. “But we will have to go to the Stepstones, for that is where the dragons live."

Jace beamed, then hopped down to run around the dining room, carving in hand, pretending he was atop a great dragon. Talisa’s little brother chased him, the two of them pretending to fight a great battle, much to the amusement of others.

And Daemon watched while guilt tore at him. Had he taken better care of you, his son would have had a proper name right from the start and would have had a dragon's egg placed in his crib. You would have been crown princess, and Jace a prince. You would not have had to struggle as someone’s servant. But Daemon had a chance now, to make things right. He looked at you, his entire countenance softening when you looked back at him. You scowled and looked away again, even though your cheeks warmed a little. He would not see it. Not for a long while. Not until you were certain he was not playing you false. When you looked his way again, his lips tugged at the corners into a shy smile, his eyes never leaving yours.

And Daemon gave you your space. He made no attempt to approach you in a private corner, made no attempt to touch you.

He did the same during the long voyage back to Westeros. He made sure you and Jace had the best room, the best of what he could personally offer the two of you. He spent every possible moment with his son, to make up for those lost years. You would hide in the shadows and watch while he played with Jace, while he read him stories and put him to bed. And when it came to you?

Daemon kept away as much as he could when it came to you. Oh, you would catch him watching your every move, listening to your every word with rapt attention. He made sure you ate, made sure you were comfortable, but he went no further than that. It honestly felt like the early days, when he was trying to catch your attention and court you. It made you yearn, for a time from before.

And you felt the ice in your heart crack a little.

#daemon #daemon targaryen #daemon x reader #x reader insert #angst #daemon angst #daemon imagine #HOTD #HOTD Imagine #fanfiction #writeblr #a world of whimsy writes

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noelle666 · 1 month

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Ship/Kiss challenge - Heinrix van Calox/Noelle von Valancius

Original post with all options

25. ... as a 'yes'

It's been almost two solar years since Heinrix left the Inquisition: these changes were unusual at first, but after some time he got used to his new role of Master of Whispers. His knowledge and skills helped him to build new working network of agents in the Expanse, he even started working with some shady people who he previously would've never speak with, but they knew their job and knew they owe their lives to Vladaym Tocara (who also owes his life and place to the Rogue Trader).

Lady Noelle von Valancius, the mistress of the Koronus Expanse and the mistress of his heart, was trying her best to serve her subjects and make this part of the galaxy a better place. And it was Heinrix's job to make sure his beloved is safe and no one would disturbe her peace whether she is at meeting with governers of her colonies or travels on her ship. The knowledge of her mutual feelings towards him warmed his heart, her presence next to him made his soul sing, and Heinrix felt she had the same reaction. They were happy, no one could ever take this from them. But Heinrix realised he wanted a little bit more.

Psyker and Lord Captain spent evening in a restaurant on Dargonus (not the fanciest one but cozy enough). It was not something ununual for them - Heinrix liked to spoil his beloved from time to time with no particular reason, and this time was no different, although he had to use all his will to not give in to his commotion knowing what's coming next. Time was late, so they decided to skip a walk and returned to the ship. The two of them were standing in the Lord Captain's quarters in the embrace of each other; Noelle looked into Heinrix's eyes, she touched his cheek and stood on tiptoes to kiss him. There is nothing sweeter and headier for him than her lips . Psyker took her hand in his and starter talking:

"My love, I could've never wished to be that happy as I am with you. You are the only one I desire, the only one I will spend my life with and I still can't expess sufficiently all my feelings to you for there are no words in this world which could've described them. I am yours eternally, body and soul, and this will never change. But there is one solution, one tool which will properly help me to fully show the flame burning in my heart".

Heinrix stood on one knee infront of Noelle and took a small dark red velvet box out of a pocket of his jacket. The woman made one step back, she instantly realised what was going on, her mind and heart were about to explode. Her eyes wide opened, she covered her mouth with her left hand while Heinrix was still holding her trembling right hand. Master of Whisperes opened the box in a center of which a simple yet elegant silver ring decorated with one small red and two sky blue gems was resting on a tiny puffy pillow.

"Lord Captain, Lady Noelle for Valancius, this humble servant standing on his knees right before you wants to ask you a question, - he made a pause trying not to drown into emotions which started overflowing his mind and heart, - Will you be my wife?"

The moment of silence felt like an eternity. Noelle couldn't say a word, her chest was heaving with excited breathing; she almost forgot all the manners and rushed into Heinrix's arms. Lord Captains squeezed her beloved tightly, then she looked into his eyes and pressed her trembling lips to his, her whole body was shaking. Noelle was shocked but in a good way, she felt like she completely forgot how to speak; she looked into Heinrix eyes again and starter to rapidly nod. Heinrix smiled, he breathe out a sigh of relief and started chuckling while holding Noelle in embrace. After a few moments lady von Valancius could at last use her voice, her words flew directly to psyker's ear:

"I will. I will!"

#rogue trader #warhammer 40k #warhammer 40000 #heinrix van calox #von valancius #facfic #fanfiction

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mercurygray · 9 months

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Golden Needle, Silver Thread

I'm so excited to finally get this idea on paper - it's an OFC idea I've had bouncing around in my head for a little while for House of the Dragon and I'm so glad she finally found her name.

Fandom: House of the Dragon Warnings: Implied sexual situations, Aegon being Aegon

The men were back early this afternoon.

She was getting used to thinking quickly on her feet, since she'd come here - things moved much faster than they did at home, and here even the smallest thing, like the house's menfolk coming back from a hunt, was a cause to be wary.

The shift she was mending was still in her lap, but her fingers folded, underneath it, around her scissors, small but sharp enough to hurt. It would be better to have a knife, her sister Hylda had said, but that can't always be hidden.

Her sister had also told her to sit watching the doors for occasions like these. But why, she'd asked, confused as anything. Because of the house, her sister had said darkly. And because of the men.

The door opened and she rose from her chair, pleasant as anything and never once surprised, the scissors hidden in her hand.

"Prince Aegon,” she said brightly. “You're home early."

After six months, she knew her sister had been right to say it. This house. And this man.

A great honor, the letter to her parents had said. Position in the royal household as mistress of the robes - a lady in waiting to the Princess Helaena. I have had good reports of your daughter Iselde's conduct, and her care and attention to detail in all matters of deportment and grace...

"You'll be serving the royal family, just like your brothers," her grandmother had said happily from her seat by the fire. The Queen's letter was still out on the table, written in a clear hand and carrying her personal seal, the flame within a seven-pointed star, distinct in deep green wax. "What an honor for the Cargylls - two names in the White Book and a lady in waiting!"

"Honor indeed," Hylda had said darkly, and wouldn't say more until Gran had gone to bed. "Look, Sis, Gran hasn't been to court since the days of Good Queen Alysanne. It's changed a bit there since then."

Iselde knew her lessons well enough, the great family trees that her mother had made sure they all knew by heart. Jaeherys married Alysanne, and had issue, 13 children, which was unlucky, since all of them died, and his grandson Viserys married once for love and once for duty, and had issue, two daughters and three sons...

And oh, what sons.

Was it any wonder none of the other ladies liked to be here? It was easier to find them in Queen Alicent’s rooms, huddled around their aunts and mothers, sharing the day’s gossip. The only threat there was Prince Aemond and his prattle of the practice yard. His brother was a different beast entirely, and one to be avoided if you liked your virtue.

The Prince looked to be in low spirits today - his boots were splattered with mud and his cloak would need a good brushing, but there was no evidence of blood anywhere on his person - usually a sign that he hadn't managed to make a kill while they were out. That would leave anyone in a foul mood, but Aegon more than most. "The sport was poor and my horse was tired," he reported. “How long were we out, Cargyll?”

Behind him, her brother Arryk looked even more uncomfortable in his muddy white cloak. Visenya had meant for the Kingsguard to be royal bodyguards, but she’d never planned her uniforms for some of the things the Tagaryens got up to. “A good four hours, your Grace.”

“Four hours,” the Prince said, throwing his gloves down on the table. “And not a fucking thing to show for it except a sore backside. Now, where is my lady wife?" he asked, clearly not thrilled by the prospect of finding her. "The maesters have told me the moon is good for making babies this week and my balls need to breathe."

Iselde took a step away from her chair and steeled her shoulders. “His Grace shall have to come back later," she said, planting herself in front of the door, mindful still of the scissors in her hand. "The Princess is indisposed at the moment."

No one had told her that standing up to the Prince would be part of her regular responsibilities. She thought, perhaps, now that no one had told her that because no one had dreamed it could be done. But Aegon still seemed …amused by it. He stared at her a moment and then laughed. "What a perfect tyrant your sister is, Cargyll. See how she stands and turns me away! Perhaps I'll have her instead,” he said, stepping forward a pace or two and moving her closer towards the door. “Since it seems Helaena's out. My grandsires took second wives to serve their pleasures,” he added, his short blonde hair just brushing her face, and she could smell clove on his breath - the spiced wine he liked in the morning to chase away the night before. “What's to stop me? I've got a needle here in need of a case and a strong hand to get it there." He leered closer, her back against the smooth wood of the door so she could feel all of him, and over his shoulder she could see her brother glowering, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"I doubt your mother would approve," Iselde cut in quickly, before Arryk had a chance to say anything out of turn. (Brothers were like that, weren't they? And one of these days they'd say something and Aegon would make them regret it.) "A Crownlands girl is hardly good enough for the heir to the throne." She tried to make it sound like logic. Alicent liked her well enough as a lady in waiting, but a daughter - or a second wife? Hardly likely. Iselde could still remember her parents discussing the news of Aegon and Helaena's wedding, and how the Queen had held her tongue and would not touch her wine. Everyone was still reeling a bit from the Princess Rhaenyra's abrupt marriage to her uncle, two years before, and a second Targaryen marriage was...rather a lot.

"Bugger my mother," the Prince said dismissively. "A Crownlands girl's good for what I need now."

"Perhaps at the Bell they'll have sweeter sport, my prince," Arryk interrupted. "You know my sister's unbedded and unlikely to serve you well."

"And your lady mother did say she would look in," Iselde added, on a whim.

It was a game they played, a kind of hellish pass the parcel, trying to distract him away from the goal. But that did it - Aegon wasn't threatened by many things, but his mother finding him trysting wasn't high on his list of desires - an unhappy consequence of too many such instances as a younger man. The chances of Alicent visiting in the middle of the afternoon were slim - she was far too busy with the Small Council - but Aegon didn't know that, and it worked. He snarled and pulled away, departing the room in a whirl of cloak and sword, Arryk in close and grateful pursuit to one of his regular Flea Bottom stews.

Iselde leaned back against the door and breathed again, feeling the metal of the scissors in her hands, warm now that she’d been holding them so close for so long. He was worse when Erryk or Arryk attended him - a cheap amusement to see them squirm while he said the most vile things. On days when Ser Criston or Ser Loras were with him he paid her no mind at all. He hates his marriage - hates that he's had to wed his sister when no one else in the realm would need to. That's all it is.

She heard the lock turning behind her, and quickly stepped away from the bedroom door, hastening back to her chair and her sewing before the Princess peeked out, freshly arisen from an afternoon nap.

"You said I was indisposed again."

It was always a statement - never a question. Iselde nodded. The truth was always best, with Helaena. Not because she saw it, the way the others always said she did. The Princess only liked straightforward people. It was one of the first things Iselde had learned, when she'd first come to King's Landing. Aegon likes wine, Aemond likes books, and Helaena likes things that crawl, and the truth. "I thought you would not like to see him, your grace. He was... in an amorous mood."

"You're good at lying," Helaena said simply. "Like Mother is." She looked at Iselde's sewing, and the front of her gown. "Did he touch you?"

She knew there wasn't any harm meant by the question, but it still hurt her to answer. "Only a little."

"It bothers you, when he does that. Because you think it bothers me."

I know it doesn't bother you, Iselde thought to herself, her heart tight in her chest. But it feels disloyal, somehow - that he should be so open in scorning you. I know that it would bother other women, to have their husband look at someone else. But I know you are not like other women are, and your marriage is…different, too.

"He does it to everyone," Helaena continued, unperturbed. "Mother thinks I don't notice but I do. But you're the only one who distracts him with it. To be kind to me."

Iselde had to still her needle, and swallowed. “I hope I am kind, your Grace,” she said, and meant it. There’s so little kindness in the world for women like you. But there was something else. “He’ll be back this evening, I think. The maesters said -”

Helaena nodded - she’d already heard. How long had she been lying there, behind her door, listening? She hears more than people think she does. “They are right, in their accounts?”

Iselde nodded. Mistress of the robes meant mistress of the sheets, and the bleeding cloths, and every single speck of clothing sent to the laundrywomen. That was where the maesters got their information, but she knew Halaena’s moon cycles as well as her own. The twins were nearly a year old, now, but an heir and a spare wouldn’t do for the House of the Dragon. Helaena must have another child. “I’m just fixing the shift you like,” she said, holding it up for the Princess to see. “The one that doesn’t scratch. And I’ll have the kitchen send up a tea, and put a hot stone in the fire, for after.”

“He’ll want wine.”

“He can get that in his own apartments,” Iselde said, her voice sharper than she meant it to sound, jabbing the needle into her work.

Helaena laughed - a short, happy sound. “Who needs a dragon to guard you when you have a goose?”

Most women wouldn’t like being called a goose, Iselde thought, watching the Princess dip into her collecting boxes to pull out her centipede and let it play through her hands. But that’s the Cargyll crest, and I suppose I do guard you, your Grace. And maybe it’s not as noble as a dragon - but everyone knows what it’s good for, at least.

Thanks for reading! If this sounds like something you'd like more of, I love comments, tag commentary, or just old fashioned asks!

#i have written a thing #mercurygraypresents #iselde cargyll #meet my originals #still working on the title here #house of the dragon oc #fyeahhotdocs

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tabletoptrinketsbyjj · 4 months

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Trinkets, 65: Interesting baubles, semi magical objects and items touched by mystery.

A statuette of a disreputable dog carved from a soft grey-blue soapstone that is pleasant to touch. It looks like a fairly hard-bitten sort of dog, with pointy ears and a sharp snout. But it also has a friendly grin, and the suggestion of a tongue in the corner of its mouth down at the way it sits, with its tail curled around its back legs, head up and forelegs straight, as if waiting for its mistress.

A small cage haunted by a spectral mouse.

A Random Humanoid skull, with red silk thread connecting the eye and nose cavities. The bone is clean, resilient and projects an aura of Random Good Domain. Knowledgeable PC's recognize this holy relic as the skull of St. Batho, a crusader who was quartered by infidels but never gave up his faith.

A piece of orange amber with a hatching phase spider trapped inside.

A full-face mask carved of deep red jade, depicting a demonic creature, its features twisted in menace. It seems to possess some flicker of sentience or life and is filled with a sense of rage. When the wielder becomes angry the face on the mask begins to twist itself into ever more angry looks as if straining to climb out and destroy the offender.

A miniature bouquet, measuring about eight inches in length containing lily, daffodil, and carnation. The flowers appear to be real, to scale, and in a magical stasis, maintaining their health without water or light years later.

A leather medicine bag with herbs, needles, thread bone saw, scalpel, mortar and pestle.

A rolled-up leather hide covered with sketches of what appears to be detailed floorplans of a crypt.

A thick black drakeleather tunic set with silver skeletons leaping and dancing through golden flames across the tunic’s front. While worn, nearby flames dance with excitement.

A stout willow staff with a stylized human fist at one end. It radiates magic and one could swear they occasionally hear and see a crackle of electricity run along the shaft of the staff and the hand at the end stretches its fingers out before making a fist again.

—Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A small cage haunted by a spectral mouse.

A piece of orange amber with a hatching phase spider trapped inside.

A leather medicine bag with herbs, needles, thread bone saw, scalpel, mortar and pestle.

A rolled-up leather hide covered with sketches of what appears to be detailed floorplans of a crypt.

A thick black drakeleather tunic set with silver skeletons leaping and dancing through golden flames across the tunic’s front. While worn, nearby flames dance with excitement.

A battered lump of jet with the name “Yalandlara” inscribed on it.

A metallic cylinder with a very stout exterior casing. It’s quietly emanating a voice that repeats a message over and over. The recording is approximately one minute in length and is in an old alien language that is no longer common on the continent.

A one-gallon cask of Meat Stout, a hearty beer made with fermented meats. A veritable meal in a glass. Oily fat slick on the surface and tastes thick and rich like an alcoholic gravy. It is notoriously hard to distill and has a fair following amongst those with pretensions of sophisticated taste.

A small rectangular polished metal box with several, buttons, levers and cogs sticking out. The various extrusions can be switched to multiple positions, none of which seem to do anything. There is a note attached to it stating that the writer is utterly bewildered by it and hope the recipient can make some sense of its use.

A wand of black jet flecked in glowing jade.

A metallic kazoo that sounds like a flute when played.

A silver horn that when winded, sounds a clear note that brings hope to Dwarfs and foreboding doom to their enemies.

A small jade idol of a griffon that shimmers with an eerie green light.

A once finely-wrought gemstone bound into a silver filigree cone. It is now a dirt-encrusted, chipped remnant of its former glory.

An enthralling ivory mask from which wafts a strong, captivating scent.

A long, diaphanous, red veil that shimmers with crushed amber shards that dance like sultry flames whenever its bearer breathes or moves.

A wool shawl, embroidered with scenes of pastures.

An elven poncho covered in long strands that resemble weeping willow, wisteria and ivy vines.

A large stone fist carved with primordial runes in ancient Netherese.

A primitive mask carved from the wood of a tropical tree.

A parchment scroll with skull emblem on its back. It contains detailed information on how to create several forbidden potions and substances that have dangerous or illegal effects. Simply owning this parchment is a serious crime if one is caught with it.

A celestial lantern that emits a soft, ethereal glow, powered by the captured essence of a celestial being, and requires periodic recharging to maintain its luminescence.

An official looking deed to a piece of land in a realm unknown to you.

A delicate candle of incense that floats like a feather when dropped.

An expensive looking dark glass bottle stoppered with a cork and sealed with wax. The carefully written parchment label says the following “Firewine. This ruby rich delight is packed with mouth-watering sumptuousness with hints of bramble, blackberry, boysenberry, Don Cherry and Frankenberry flourishes. This Pinot Noir is a treat to eat with beef testicles or lamb spleen escabeche. Also an ideal companion for manic-depression. Shows promise to last longer than your belief in an afterlife.”

A tattered piece of a legendary war banner.

A mosaic tile with a multi-colored glazed surface.

A hinged metal wallet of finely worked steel. It contains a full set of certified identification papers denoting that the bearer is a member of the tinkers, pewterers, and casters guild. The section containing the member’s physical description (Height, weight, sex, race, eye, skin and hair colour) is completely blank and could be filled in by anyone with half decent handwriting.

A top-quality brass-and-glass oil lamp.

A white porcelain mask with a single, curving eye slit. It is covered in ancient runes and symbols, their cautionary meaning lost to time.

An ugly, oddly-shaped gem that nonetheless thrums with residual magical energy.

A huge candle made of white wax that has been molded and carved into a macabre shape. The candle is covered with skulls of different sizes, some as small as a fingernail and some as large as a fist. The skulls have hollow eyes and grinning teeth, and some are cracked or missing parts. Between the skulls, there are bones that form intricate patterns and symbols. The candle has a faint smell of decay and smoke.

An ash-shafted pin featuring a spearhead carved from jade in a shape suggestive of a quill feather; whatever it is pinned through slowly grows a pale pink-gray mold.

A long prosthetic beard made of fine silver hair that glitters in the light. It has a soft and silky texture and smells faintly of lavender.

An occult magical implement made from the skull of a pyromage who died in a fiery explosion of their own making. The skull is charred black and has two small rubies for eyes. It can be used as a focus for casting arcane spells.

A scroll on which is displayed a beautifully abstract rendering of a burning snowflake features a sliver of pale blue diamond set into the center of the thick parchment, forming the snowflake itself.

A simple earthenware cup, in the shape of a perfectly shaped cylinder, marred only by the Pentolan obsession with imagery, in this case depicting a bonedrake with molten stone (Stylized with tiny rubies) dripping from its bony plates. Anyone who drinks from this cup feels intensely warm, sweating despite even the coolest night breeze.

A bronze statuette of a pillaring flame set into an octagonal plinth of marble, lavendar shot through with pale green veins.

A short daffodil-yellow linen dress featuring an espaliered persimmon tree, its fruits embroidered with golden threads.

A richly black handkerchief featuring a field of ironoak stars sewn around a silver-threaded rune shaped like the moon.

A scorched linen shawl embroidered with colorful silk faces, placid and near-featureless. While worn, the anger of everyone nearby is reflected in the faces of the shawl, taking their likeness and changing their expression to display their frustration or fury.

An anklet made of a bronze arrowhead marked with a bespiked rune and threaded with thin twisted iron wire.

A yellow silk bracelet holding a plain circle of bronze; on the reverse, a furry violet mold grows, rubbing off easily. The face is dull, reflecting nothing except in moonlight, when everything is reflected like a perfect mirror.

A scale cap made of drakebones painted with small purple flowers and featuring small bronze protrusions like saffron stamens, polished so smooth they’re nearly soft to the touch.

A large olive-handled brush with bristles made of impossibly thin strands of carved jade, surprisingly supple and leaving an indelible green ink on any flesh they touch.

A child's patchwork cardigan that looks to be made out of used baby clothes. It has obviously been worn and there is a tear in the right sleeve at the wrist. Almost as if someone had hidden something in it and needed to retrieve it.....

Marine’s Struggle: A framed charcoal drawing of a fierce ship-boarding battle, that has more feeling than detail, showing swirling smoke and mortal struggle. The few pieces of armor depicted are made of iron shavings, not coal, and flicker violently in firelight. Staring too long at this illustration fills the viewer’s ears with the din of a hard-fought battle.

A small granite statuette depicting an androgynous slinger whirling a massive sling bullet with grim determination on their face. Their eyes are inlaid with silver which turns the color of any light reflecting off of it a pale red.

A short pale red linen robe which has silver wire sewn through its edges displaying handsome men embracing. At the sleeves, tiny iron charms in the shape of faces, eyes closed, lips puckered.

A thin copper anklet studded with half a dozen carbuncle eyes, crudely (Though not hideously) set.

A small box carved of marble in the shape of a box of playing cards. When opened, all nearby light dims until the lid is closed again. Inside, a deck of 40 plain linen cards, a handful of them marked with pips eerily reminiscent of fingernails.

A pale gray whetstone set into an oblong disk of gold and has a silk tassel attached to a protrusion on one end. The tassel seems to dance like a falling ember whenever it is not gripped tight. Using this whetstone to sharpen an implement of any sort fills the user with a keen and overwhelming desire to use that implement; the sooner the better, and with little regard for consequences.

A mortar and pestle made from bluish granite, though cracks in the mortar have been filled with iron polished smooth.

A child's doll holding a bloody axe and her dress has dried blood on it.

A leather map upon which has been marked a star map of the known sky of the local area. At least, that is what it kind of looks like. The only problem is that there are some planets and quite a few stars missing and the names of a significant amount of both have been changed. The date on the map is wrong too, it’s several years in the future…

A letter of acceptance to a wizard college.

A small glass bottle filled with a dark, black ink.

A folded ticket for passage on a ship to faraway lands and an ad about a new life in said faraway land.

A love poem ripped out of a book with a handwritten "Found this for you" in a heart.

A pencil and a sketchbook containing dozens of portraits with names and small personal details. Written on the inside cover are the words “The Family You Choose.”

A large silver coin. One side appears corroded and pockmarked, and the other bears the image of a woman rising from the sea. Close inspection will reveal that the 'pockmarks' are actually a deliberate pattern; a map of the moon's surface. The woman is an obscure and nearly-forgotten lunar and tidal deity, and the coin is an amulet that has a calming effect on werewolves.

A deck of cards, but the Jack of Clubs has wildly different artwork than the rest of the deck.

A small sun dial whose shadow does not match up with the sky above, because the dial is tracking the sun in a different location. It is a clue as to that location's position.

A children's drawing of a monster. The lines are quite rough and squiggly and close analysis reveals that the shape of the outline matches the shape of a nearby island, and the monster's features form a map to a secret pl

A leaflet titled, "General Orders for City Guards": A short leaflet with hand drawn pictures that describes the duties and expectations of City Guards. It describes things such as proper watch turnover, even provides tips and tricks for making rounds efficiently.

A large handled musical instrument similar in shape to a maraca, crafted from the giant rattling tail pieces of a fallen Yaun-ti warrior.

A mahogany mask carved in the horrendous approximation of draconic visage, red liquid ever flowing from its gaping wooden maw. Few have met the gaze of the vengeful nature guardians depicted in its form and lived to tell the tale of their encounter with a wyvern. Borne from the anguish of those who feel the pain of nature as sharply as their own, their scarlet tears leaking through eyes that have seen much devastation. Crimson sap seeps out from the wrinkled sneer as though choking upon the injustices inflicted upon the forest and its denizens. And when those sins are expelled, those caught within shall finally grasp the extent of their crimes as they burn upon their backs forever more.

A tankard of silver and polished tusk, which perpetually smells of mead.

A jar containing an eye and a couple inches of optic nerve floating in a greenish fluid. Glued to the jar is a note reading "Vazquez?" Somehow the eye always seems to be turned to face you.

A small statue, it was maybe once a bust, weathered and beaten beyond recognition. When looked at under candle light, something reminiscent of a face can be seen.

A pewter toy of a lance wielding soldier on horseback.

A spool of thin twine that sparkles in the sunlight.

A silk veil that looks like a burlap hood to all but the wearer.

A deep blue marble that looks like an eye.

A quill made with a roc's feather that is ridiculously large and nearly impossible to write with.

A fourth of a treasure map, showing only where to start. Knowledgeable PC's will recognize a few landmarks for a nearby area.

A silk handkerchief with a single tear staining one corner.

A glass eye made from obsidian with a polished gold iris that shines like the sun.

A jar of pickled fruit that cannot be opened without magic.

A series of glass lenses in a tube that projects an illusory red dot that cats love.

A long reed that produces a low whistling noise when blown.

An inkwell of pitch-black paint that slowly replenishes itself.

A high-quality bowstring made into an anklet.

A paintbrush made of rare wood and luxurious bristles.

A brassy clockwork beetle that scuttles around when wound up.

A jar containing a dozen hollow reeds that can be used as delicate drinking straws.

A heavy bracelet is made of dark brown stone. The crafting is superb but several large gashes mar its otherwise smooth surface. It seems slightly too large to fit a human wrist but mysteriously adjusts in size when worn.

The Needed Cane: A small, sturdy wooden cane lies innocent. If a humanoid creature picks it up, it acts as a normal cane. However, if at any point they lean on it or use it to support them, its curse activates. For the next 1d10 days the user cannot do anything but the crawl if they are not supported by the crane.

A small painting shows a beautiful cottage on a lake in front of a mountain lake.

A caricatured figurine of a horse-head made of polished basalt, about one foot high.

Zephyr Clip: A simple hair clip that shimmers in a metallic blue tone. The creature that is wearing the clip has their hair flowing as if in a light breeze.

A crate of rotgut liquor.

A leather wallet stamped with a glowing arcane rune. It contains a full set of certified identification papers denoting that the bearer is a member of the mages guild. The section containing the member’s physical description (Height, weight, sex, race, eye, skin and hair color) is completely blank and could be filled in by anyone with half decent handwriting.

A black glass bottle filled with a substance known as Brimstone Brew and sealed with a bone lacquered bone stopper. This odd liquid is a constantly swirling mass of orange and red, and has a faint glow to it. The potent liquor carries a slight odor of sulfur, and is warm on the tongue. After downing the brew, the drinker begins to hear unintelligible whispering that plagues him for hours. Fiendish Warlocks and other beings in the service of infernal masters establish a weak telepathic link with their demonic patron and can ask simple questions and may receive short simple answers or be given direct orders if the devil is in such a mood.

A white apron that’s been absolutely covered with a pattern of embroidered roses. Knowledgeable PCs will recognize the pattern as a nod to a local folk tale where a young maiden’s fiancee dies and she makes a deal with a devil in order to bring him back to life. The devil demands that she return in a week with her apron filled with roses or she must forfeit her soul. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem as wild roses bloomed everywhere but this occurred in the dead of winter. Instead the maiden worked day and night and covered every square inch of the apron in roses and return to the devil at the end of the week. The endings vary by who’s telling it, most try for a happy ending where the fiancée is resurrected and they live happily together as the maiden cultivates a rose garden into her old age. Other darker stories end with the devil becoming angry that it was tricked and playing a trick in return bringing the fiancée back to life as a zombie who kills and eats the maiden, simply killing her out of spite or pointing out that apron is only covered in roses and not filled with them and consuming her soul.

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aletterinthenameofsanity · 8 months

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let me wrap my teeth around the world (Rhaella gets a dragon)

Title is from "Eat Your Young" by Hozier. A dragon is born at Harrenhal, but it's not Rhaegar or Aerys.

Aka Rhaella Targaryen GETS A DRAGON!

---

At first, those that survive the blaze believe that the dragon hatched for the babe.

Of course, they say. Two royal lineages, began again. In fire and in blood.

Of course, Rhaella's half-mad husband says, our son is the Prince Who Was Promised. The product of our line. Our family might have perished, but he will bring us glory.

But Rhaella knows different.

The tiny creature is not born quite right. The tiny, silvered she-beast looks, for the most part, like the dragons of old. It has a mane of small spikes to its nape. It has two fully functional wings, guaranteed to grow wild and fierce. It has sharp claws and teeth and a snarl that even at its birth, no more than three feet in length, strikes fear in hearts.

But it is half-blind, one beady, black eye intelligent, one ice blue and clouded over. It is tarnished. It is defected.

It is not a mount for the prince that is promised. It is a dragon, a monster, made for a queen forced into her duty and broken by her brother husband.

And it is a gift like no other.

Nearly every member of the family has died at Summerhall, but she has secured the Targaryen family's might for generations, by birthing a babe and a beast in the same hour.

Balerion, her husband names the dragon, the Silver Dread.

It evokes Targaryen might. It summons images of burnt fields and extinct houses and Valyrian apocalypse.

Bitterwing, Rhaella names it, something strange and ferocious rising in her chest. It is not a royal name, but she does not give a damn.

The little whelp is the first thing she can call her own, and Rhaella will cling tight to her scales.

She hands Rhaegar over to a wet nurse, but she visits Bitterwing as often as she can, whenever her husband is busy with his mistresses. He might fuck every flowered girl in King's Landing, but she doesn't care. She doesn't need his loyalty. In fact, she would love to see him never spend a night in her bed again.

Because these moments, these nights, with her dragon are hers.

Her officially sanctioned visits to the Dragonpit always include her son. She knows that Rhaegar visits the Dragonpit without her, accompanied by his monstrous father. Aerys sees the prophecies fulfilled in his son.

Bitterwing tolerates Rhaegar, because Rhaella holds some fondness for her son, but she holds none for her husband, and therefore does not constrain her dragon to politeness.

Her dragon can rage as she cannot, and it is considered natural. Dragon-like.

Dragons are monsters, she hears the servants whisper, and they're not entirely wrong.

Bitterwing is a monster, yes but she is such a beautiful one.

No matter how many times her husband summoned her to his bed, no matter how many times she emerges bruised and bloody and broken-boned, she is not bowed. She is not bent.

Because for the first time in her life, Rhaella cradles power. Not within her and her womb, but within her first friend.

Rhaella lets out her first laugh since her wedding the first night that Bitterwing lets out a jet of flame. It stutters after seconds, and Bitterwing hiccups, and Rhaella can't help the giggle that emerges from her lips. Bitterwing's eyes glitter, something curving her snout. Rhaella reaches out and snuggles into Bitterwing's neck, Bitterwing's scales warm and smooth and comforting against her bruised cheek.

Bitterwing grows long and and sinuous, more serpentine than dragon-like, but she is graceful and loves Rhaella's hand against her snout and snaps at Aerys when he gets too close, and that is all Rhaella could wish for.

***

Years pass. Rhaella is raped into birthing her second son, and Aerys announces before the court that he will give up his mistresses for his Queen, and Rhaella cannot stand to be the only outlet of his bites and his bruises and his burns.

She is no warrior. She is no knight. Her arms are too thin and weak to wield a sword. She has been told she is too delicate to study tactics or ponder war.

But she is a survivor.

And she will be a dragonrider.

Rhaella steals down to the Dragon Pit and climbs Bitterwing's back for the first time. She is sore- she is always sore- but her legs clench around her dragon's back and the warmth soothes some of the ache away.

And Rhaella rides her best friend in this wretched world through the roof of the throne room.

Rhaella is not wearing armor, but Bitterwing dives in such a way that her armored belly takes the brunt of the damage. Rhaella ends up with some scrapes and a cut across her lower leg, but it is worth it for Bitterwing to land in front of the Iron Throne, Aerys ' head in her maw and his corpse beneath her legs.

They will call Rhaella the Kingslayer, the Kinslayer. Many will want to take her power from her. They will want to execute her for her crimes. They will want to rebel.

But everyone fears another Field of Fire, and so they will not.

She is a Targaryen. She is the only person in the world with a dragon. She will never have to lay beneath a man again if she does not want to.

She steps to the throne and sits herself upon it and for the first time in her entire life, she does not fear it.

Rhaegar is her heir, but he has no dragon. Not yet. And without a dragon or her abdication or her death, he cannot hope to be King.

Queen Rhaella, First of Her Name, Kingslayer, Kinslayer, Abomination, yes- but also Queen Rhaella the Just, Queen Rhaella the Breaker, and the only Rider of a dragon in the known world takes the throne and the crown of the Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.

She declares crafty, clever Olenna Tyrell her hand of the queen, reaffirming the Riverlands' loyalty to the crown, and attends Council meetings with Bitterwing by her side until Bitterwing grows too large to fit into the castle. Then Rhaella moves the Council out into the courtyard, erecting a series of stone seats for the Council to meet under the watchful gaze of her beloved Bitterwing, her hand on Bitterwing's scales a constant reminder to the Council of her power.

She is the only one with a dragon. Thus, she is the only one with power, and it tastes oh so sweet.

She passes laws regarding the welfare of wives and the punishments upon men that dare to lay hands on their Brides. The realm thinks her delicate, unwilling to enforce her laws, but Bitterwing snaps her teeth and the Lord's head goes flying and none dare question Rhaella's iron grip on justice. She destroys male primogeniture in favor of the eldest child inheriting, as in Dorne.

And years later, she will take a queen consort. She has an heir and a spare; she has no need to marry a man that she has no desire for. She has no need to give some man the power of Targaryen kings. She will marry a widowed Meria Martell, who came on a visit in the name of her mother's Dayne house and her husband's Martell house. She is woman with a harsh face, all long lines against dark skin, but has a sparkle in her eye, a clever wit, and a quick laugh. She shrieks with joy the first time Rhaella takes her up on Bitterwing in a saddle crafted for two souls, a wedding gift from the leather workers of the North.

(Rhaella does not give a shit what the Faith says about homosexuality. The Stranger was the only one of them to ever treat her kindly, and she has no desire to embrace any of the others. There is already one Targaryen exception; let there be another until she can persuade the Council to expand the freedom to all.)

Meria leaves her sons in Dorne—heir Doran and the vivacious Oberon- but she brings young Elia with her to court, where she becomes one of Rhaella's ladies.

But in the meantime, Rhaella raises her unruly boys not to be violent, to insist on control, to understand gentleness. To be tender with their women while being stern enough to be fair and just leaders of the Seven Kingdoms. She slaps Viserys the first time he lays a hand on a woman in a way he shouldn't. She does it right in front of the court, and raises the baseborn girl, a bastard of her husband's, to one of her ladies. Ceryse and Elia get along like a house on fire, and it is to no one's surprise that Elia and Ceryse elope. It ends up a scandal that will be remembered for decades, the two of them disappearing off to Essos without a second glance, but Rhaella and Meria receive letters at least thrice a year updating them on the adventures of their daughters-turned-explorers, and they don't mind the mark on their legacy. Neither Ceryse nor Elia will ever die on the birthing bed nor under the hand of a man, only as a consequence of their own ventures, and that is the greatest fate they can ask for.

Rhaegar doesn't turn prophecy into madness. His mother has a dragon. He has no reason to go seeking for a way to save his house and his world. Rhaegar marries Robarra Baratheon, the closest cousin he has, while Viserys crowns Lyanna Stark the Queen of Love and Beauty at his brother's engagement tourney.

Meria suggests matching Cersei Lannister with Stannis Baratheon, an entreaty to Tywin Lannister to darken the gleam in his eye when he learned his daughter would be passed over for Princess of the Realm.

Neither Rhaegar nor Viserys hatch a dragon, but when Rhaegar and Robarra place one of Bitterwing's eggs in the cradle of their eldest daughter and heir, silver-curled Argella Targaryen, who has eyes as dark as ink, it hatches, a squat dark blue she-beast with a nasty snarl, guaranteed to be a mighty war beast. Robarra chooses Elenei, the storm goddess, as the name of her daughter's dragon.

Argella grows stubborn and quick with a sword and even quicker to learn. She is no delicate flower like her Targaryen grandmother; if she falls down, she bounces right back up. If she wasn't a Princess and the heir to the throne, Rhaella suspects she would spit on the ground.

And Argella and Elenei bond like none in modern history. While Bitterwing was as melancholy as her Queen at first, Elenei is a rambunctious dragon who loves to spin in the air, seemingly taking great joy from the shrieks of laughter and urging towards speed that her Princess desires.

Robarra births a son next, but he is not an heir; Argella will be the Iron Queen after Rhaegar. Rather, dark-haired and blue-eyed Jaehaerys is betrothed to Margaery Tyrell. He hatches no dragon, but does make a name for himself in tourneys. Some day, he will be the Prince of Dragonstone and sire heirs for House Tyrell; for now, he squires for his father, as his sister did before him.

Robarra's third child, golden-haired and sallow-faced Steffon, inherits his father's love for books, and becomes a maester. He is curious but lacks all Targaryen or Baratheon temper, and will do well integrating Rhaella's new laws into the beliefs of Oldtown.

A year after Jaehaerys's birth, Viserys and Lyanna's raven-haired, long-faced babe Lyarra hatches her own crimson-scaled beast. Night Breaker, they decide to name him.

Lyarra does not have her cousin's temper. But she does have a mind for tactics, for history, for politics and diplomacy that Argella's storm blood sometimes lacks. She and Steffon get along well, debating war tactics and history and politics in the solar. Someday, she will be her cousin's Hand. For now, she gets the best training in the world and embraces Night Breaker as her trusted mount for traveling the Realm, learning everything she can about the people.

Rhaella presides over all of her grandchildren, satisfaction burning in her chest at the knowledge that none of their mothers were pressed into the marriage bed unwillingly. She checks in with Robarra and Lyanna regularly, treats them as Princesses and ladies in her family. Family banquets are joyous affairs, full of boisterous laughter and japes and healthy debates and good-natured needling. Fear does not make itself any of her family’s bedfellow.

Meria holds Rhaella’s hand and kisses her cheek in front of the children and grandchildren and Rhaegar teases them for being too scandalously affectionate. Viserys rolls his eyes at his brother and japes that nothing a Targaryen does can be scandalous- they are the exception, not the rule. Viserys’ she-wolf wife flicks him on the upper arm, and Viserys offers her a chagrined smile.

And above it all, Rhaella smiles, unburdened by abuse and fear.

Rhaella is not Visenya or Aegon or Maegor. She does not know how to wield a sword, how to command an army. She is no warrior. She never becomes one. She never wanted power for its own sake; she wanted it to guarantee safety and happiness for herself and those she loves.

But she commands a dragon, and her family, and that will win her the Realm.

***

When the Others begin to rise in the north, the women of House Targaryen will be ready. Lyarra, Argella, and Rhaella will soar through the sky, the three violet-eyed heads of the dragon. Baratheon and Stark and Targaryen, Elenei and Night Breaker and Bitterwing. One silver, one blue, one red.

They will write songs about this battle. About the swinging of uncovered Valyrian steel, about the roar of dragonfire, about the Storm Queen, the Princess of Ice, and the Queen of Fire and Blood.

A song of ice and fire indeed.

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