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owlespresso · 14 days

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the red fruit which ripens

alpha!blade/beta!reader you are a beta courier. one of your clients is getting too close. tags: blackmail, mind games, nonconsensual touching, blade and luocha are just weirdos idk pt 2 of my part in @lorelune's a/b/o collab. the first part can be read here.

You have never known peace. You doubt any emanator ever has. The Mother of Harmony, of peace, bestowed upon you a fraction of her immortal grace. She cored herself, tore out a seed—jewel like and glistening, and beckoned you to feast. The taste went down so smooth and sweet.

That was the first and last time you held your blessing in awe. Xipe sentenced you, that day, to never know the peace she covets. You could catch glimpses of it, inhale the scent of it deep, but it would fade like morning mist, chased away by the winds of chaos and whatever awful business you were to tend to next.

When you strayed from The Family, tore yourself free of their clutches and hid where their millions of bulging eyes could not find you; you believed it possible to know peace. Perhaps not immediately. There was so much to take care of during your first days on the Luofu, paperwork and apartment hunting. It was all jarringly normal. You were mystified by the mundanity, delighted by it even. The world suddenly closed in for the better. There were no enemy factions to worry about corralling, no petty politics, no attempts to usurp you or take your life.

The world became the Luofu. It became your apartment. It became your favorite food stalls and your neighbors and the little birds fluttering about in the trees.

But it was not peace. Soon, you came to realize that even the average Luofu citizen did not know the concept as intimate as you hoped. They live in fear of Mara, of the Abundance, which they are so intimately intertwined with. Every pain is a life threatening risk, a potential trigger to a deadly malady. Outside of the Abundance, so many run themselves ragged, weighted by long work hours and petty squabbles with loved ones. The kindly folk by the docks find themselves cornered by the IPC.

No mortal knows peace, you have come to realize. Perfect tranquility is a ripe and red lie, birthed gold and glistening from the Goddess’s many lips, spread carelessly and listlessly across the universe. Unattainable by the emanator’s closest to her.

You believed once, and it hurt you. Not again. You will heed no honeyed words. You can only believe in what is cold, concrete, and solid.

—

“I feel like—” you begin, pushing through the rusted metal paneling of the dilapidated fence. “—you could have gotten here by yourself.” You usually don’t talk this much, but Blade’s habitual silence combined with your burgeoning irritation leaves you uncharacteristically eager to complain aloud.

The abandoned warehouse looms an eerie, empty monument of crumbling sheet metal and shattered glass. Long columns of broken machinery are gutted in pieces across the concrete yard. You make note to return later, just to make sure you’re not leaving valuable goods out to waste.

“I have never been here before. Kafka thought it wise to come with a guide.”

“And what do you think?” you pause, shoulder buried in the outside paneling of the building itself.

“What I think… does not matter.” Blade says cooly. “A blade is meant to be wielded. It does not choose who it cuts down or where it goes.”

“Hm,” you don’t have much to say to that. You shouldn’t have opened your yap in the first place. The less you know about the bizarre relations of the Stellaron Hunters, the better. You squeeze into the building through the gap. Blade hardly two paces behind. The metal groans and squeaks as he forces his way in. It feels like the loudest sound you’ve ever fucking heard, an offensive and high pitched screech that probably rings through the yard and neighboring alleyways.

“At least try to be a little quieter,” you grumble, squinting into the dark. The main room is made a maze by haphazardly laid out storage containers, many cracked open and already emptied. Wires hang from the ceiling, which has become an amalgamation of mechanical matter and rotting parts. It’s a disaster waiting to happen.

Black grunts his assent.

“Well. You’re here, safe and sound.” you waste no time, doubling back towards the Blade-shaped hole in the wall. Did he just walk straight through!? What are they feeding this guy? “So I—”

The sound of thundering footsteps and approaching shouts freezes you mid-step. Momentary panic jars you still. The Cloud Knights? Here? Now?

Your pulse thrums in your ears as you turn tail, ready to haul ass in the opposite direction, only to collide face-first with Blade’s firm chest. He jostles you to the side with his shoulder, ignoring your grunt of complaint. His hand rests on the hilt of his blade. Your stomach jumps into your throat.

“Where are you going!?” you hiss.

“To take care of the vermin,” Blade replies drolly, looking down his nose at you. His lips twitch into the beginnings of a puzzled frown.

“Absolutely not!” you say, and his frown pulls deeper. “Where there’s ten, there’s bound to be twenty waiting to back them up.”

It is unlike you to be so bold, but you seize him by the wrist, pulling him further into the jagged steel labyrinth. He allows himself to be led, surprisingly docile as you round corners and scuttle down corridors. Pale moonlight covers the room in a silvery sheen, providing just enough light for you to make out a door embedded into the outermost wall. Footsteps echo around you, calling voices made cacophonous by the echo. Blade’s grip on your hand tightens, likely annoyed and sorely tempted to begin the slaughter, but you yank open the door and jam yourself inside what seems to be a cramped server room.

A few circuit towers stand side-by-side, dark and dusty with disuse. Blade shuts the door behind you, opening his mouth to speak, but you’re already wedging yourself into the lone aisle between the wall and the towers, pulling him behind you.

A few moments later sees you crammed in the narrow space. The back wall and server towers rise on either side of you, caging you up against your troublesome accomplice. One of Blade’s thighs presses tight to your own. Warm and firm. The proximity betrays what you’ve expected since your first meeting. Blade is an alpha. Only now, brought so obscenely close, are you fully able to realize that. It’s a footnote in comparison to your agitation, which swims and simmers just beneath the surface of your skin.

“How long were they following us for?” you grumble aloud. “Tell Kafka she owes an extra 20% when you see her, and that I’m not doing this ever again.”

Blade sighs out of his nose. You can’t see his face well enough to make out his expression.

“You’re wearing a mask. Your identity is safe.” he says.

“The threat of being arrested still remains,” you grumble, listening to the clamorous noise outside. Trained troops rush back and forth, kicking up dust and old grease. You can’t quite make out what they’re saying, beyond a few paltry words, but no one has yet knocked on the door. Surely a good sign.

Blade squeezes your hand, and subsequently reminds you that you are holding it.

“That won’t happen. Destiny’s Slave would not risk your safety over something so simple. No harm will come to you, tonight.”

Well, isn’t that comforting. You wrest your hand away with a scowl, and clamp down on the pressing urge to let him know what you really think about his boss. He stares down at the place where your hands were once joined.

The next half-hour passes in relative silence. His eyes are all that is visible in the empty dark of the room, candlewick embers extinguished when he shuts them and leans back against the wall.

Eventually, the outside noise quiets. No more thudding boots or searching shouts, the warehouse silent as it had been when you arrived. Shimmying out from the pitch dark crevice is much more awkward without the frantic adrenaline, but you manage it, emerging in a new layer of dust.

“Alright. I’m heading out. Be careful.”

“They won’t return anytime soon,” Blade remains inside, arms crossed and impassive. Your frown deepens. You clamber through a hole in the wall. No Knights have remained behind. You feared a few would have stayed just in case, but none leap out from behind the rubble. Which means that the horrible feeling prickling up the back of your neck is just Blade’s cold, empty gaze trained on your retreating form.

Strange beast, you think to yourself, scuttling into the nearest alleyway.

—

One of your favorite things about Luocha’s home is that he is hardly ever in it. The first time you met him after helping him with his pre-heat, he pressed a silver house key into your palms, before turning and leaving. Not even allowing you to splutter a single, indignant protest. Back then, you mentally swore that you wouldn’t use it.

Now, you use it almost everyday. His neighborhood, smack dab in the middle of the Luofu, intersects with several of your regular routes. It’s just too easy so slide in between deliveries for a quick rest. It helps that he’s hardly ever home, leaving you to pilfer snacks from his fridge and take brief naps on the couch. You haven’t been bold enough to stay overnight. You’ve become far, far too intimate with the man.

No more, you decide, and stay firm to that decision even when he beseeches your company not a week later. It’s rude, but you can’t risk getting anymore attached than you already are. He’s become a bothersome burr stuck to your side, a looming presence in your thoughts even when he’s far across the stars, doing Xipe knows what.

There’s a knock at the door. You startle, because this has never happened before. You remain stock still on the couch. If you remain still, surely whoever is out there will get the message and bugger off. Another knock. You should have known that any solicitor determined to walk through the forest of a front yard would be too stubborn to give up after only seven knocks.

At the eleventh, you get up and stomp to the door. It’s mostly to preserve your own sanity.

You throw open the door, prepared to give the nosy bastard on the other side an earful.

It’s Blade. Blade is stood there. He blots out the afternoon sun, leaving you in the shadow he casts. It’s like seeing your clothes in the fridge. You blink several times.

“Ah. It’s you.”

“It is,” He’s holding a bouquet of flowers in his left hand.

“What… why are you here?”

“Kafka’s orders. She wanted you to have these,” he hands you the bouquet. You receive it. Fresh petunias and sprigs of rosemary curl next to daisies and tulips. It’s a nonsensical thing. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. Nothing particularly artful about the presentation besides the pretty colors.

“I see… Is this your home?” He looks like he already knows the answer.

You decide not to humor him. You tuck the bouquet underneath your arm and lean up against the doorframe. “What’s it to you?”

He blinks, looks confused, and then responds after a moment of silent thought. “I… there is someone else who lives here. I remember it clearly, now.”

“You two know each other, huh? What a coincidence. But… how did you know where I was?”

“I asked the woman next door. She directed me here. I’ve been searching for you since the early morning.”

“All morning?” you tut, somewhat sympathetic. “That’s a lot of walking.”

“It is nothing compared to other pains I have endured.” Blade says, solemnly. “And I have traveled far greater distances on foot. You shouldn’t worry.”

“...Well,” you stare down at the bouquet for a moment. “I’d feel bad if I didn’t give you anything for the effort. You know that big, red maple by the pond? Go sit there. I’ll get you something to drink.”

Two minutes later sees you outside, cradling two crystalline glasses filled with lemonade. You didn’t get him the fancy stuff—the strawberry-kiwi-whatever fruit stuff that you hand mixed. But it’s something.

He’s hunched beneath the red canopy. There’s a dark, inky type of handsomeness he possesses. Dark hair tumbles down his back, shaggy bangs frame that wolfish face. He looks dour almost all the time. Like the frown lines and cold apathy have permanently creased it. He’s hunched beneath the shade. Like it sits on his shoulders as a physical weight. He looks up at you as you settle next to him, accepts his glass without fuss or thanks. Which is just fine, with you. You probably shouldn’t be doing this, anyways. He’s an intergalactic criminal. The less time you spend together, the better.

But at the same time… you can’t help but be curious. Curious about the mara which buzzes underneath his skin, yet somehow never breaches it. Curious about what manner of creature he must be to withstand the final stages of Yaoshi’s curse. Curious if there’s any real, lingering emotion beyond the stoicism he treats… well, everything with.

The two of you sit in silence and sip. You don’t feel any need for artificial conversation. It’s easy to sit down and simply exist next to him. No impulsive need for niceties.

“This house isn’t yours,” he says.

“No. The owner is a client of mine. He lets me stop by here, in between deliveries. It’s convenient.”

A few beats of silence. “How well do you know the man that lives here?”

“As well as I know any other client,” he looks at you expectantly, as though waiting for you to finish that statement. “Which isn’t very well. He’s not here most of the time.”

“You should remain cautious while in his presence,” he says, and you nearly raise a brow at the unsolicited advice. He levels you with his dull, candlewick gaze, as impassive as ever. A leaf flutters from the lowest branches onto his head. “That man draws his power from the source of the mara. He wields it under the guise of a blessing, and yet…” Blade frowns, almost a grimace, and doesn’t say anything else.

“I know.”

“Yet you take shelter under his roof and exist willingly in his space.” Blade stares at you. There’s a faint bristling in the air. A shuddering of the atmosphere that emerges from him. Thorny tendrils of bitter gold crackle beneath his pale skin. You don’t know exactly what aggrieves him so, but you get the feeling that you should say something to appease him, quickly.

“Well. I don’t know any other rich diplomats willing to offer me a free, mostly empty house to take a break in for… around twenty minutes a day,” you shrug. “It’s convenient.”

That seems to settle him.

“Do you… not like him? The merchant?” Does he even know Luocha’s name? What kind of relationship do these two weirdos have?

“In the strange purgatory of my existence, he acts as both poison and cure.” Blade informs you, as if it tells you really anything. As if sensing your befuddlement, he deflates a little, nose scrunching. He looks like a dour cat, stuck out in the rain. “He wants something from me. I can’t tell what it is. His unseemly fascination means it can be nothing good.” His attempt at elaboration gives you somewhat of a clearer picture, but it’s still some insanity that you’ll have to unpack later.

“I see. I’ll make sure to remember that,” you’re not sure if it’s possible to forget a conversation with Blade. Especially one that lasts more than a few moments. What prompted this? Genuine concern for your well-being? You have a hard time believing that. There are many things that are better off left unsaid, in your experience, so you don’t ask.

The rest of the visit passes in relative quiet. Blade finishes his lemonade.

You reach over. His gaze snaps to you immediately, a beaten dog evaluating a potential threat.

“You have something in your hair,” you inform him helpfully, plucking the leaf from his sable locks. You curl the stem around your fingers.

He doesn’t say anything after that. The two of you stand. He murmurs a brief farewell, and is off through the yard, slipping through the ferns to become one with the cast shadows. You’re not sure how long you remain after he leaves. The pond water ripples with each gentle breeze. Glimmering koi bob to the surface, in search of mid-afternoon snacks. When they find none, they dive beneath, water droplets flickering off their lashing tail fins.

Well, you think after another moment, at least you learned something.

Now, it is high time that you tend to the bouquet so generously sent your way. You dump the glasses in the sink, halfheartedly vowing to deal with them later, before taking a closer look at the arrangement of flowers. As you expected, it’s more than a paltry, sentimental gift. Tucked into the plastic wrapping is a small card.

Bladie said you got in quite the mess, the other day. You have my deepest gratitude for handling it so cleanly. He’s not that good at talking things out. He seems to like you, though! I wonder what makes you so special?

P.S. Next Tuesday, please escort Bladie to the address written on the back of this note. Please? Do it for me. :)

—

You hate working with criminals. Criminals other than yourself.

Though, you don’t fancy yourself much a criminal. Deliveries are an entirely different beast, simple points of contact which last at most for five minutes. Escorting a known, intergalactic criminal through multiple layers of the Luofu is completely different—something you would never do if anyone besides Kafka asked. You’ll dance to her tune, run her errands if it keeps you off her shitlist. But is there even a point if keeping off of hers just puts you onto someone else’s?

You’ll have some fierce thinking to do after you shake off the six Cloud Knights currently on your tail. You dive between market stalls. You leap over a counter, sending an array of fruits and vegetables tumbling onto the pavement. You ignore the enraged shout of the peddler behind you, pulse thundering in your ears as you weave between the passerby, narrowly avoiding a stack of crates.

The air stings at the corners of your eyes. The marketplace blends together to the point of featurelessness. You don’t know who you pass or what else you know over, too focused on what’s ahead to care about the wreckage left behind. At the very least, it may hamper the Knights as they shout and stomp and rush after you—and Blade, whose fault all this is.

You slide around a corner and into a red-bricked alleyway, lanterns strung between the two rooftops, gold and glittering against that fake, blue sky.

“Dead end.” Blade grunts. You hear the telltale click of his sword being unsheathed.

“No! Just follow me!” you snap, seizing his wrist and pulling him forward, all the way to the end. As you trudge forward, you tap a sequence into the walls on either side. The worn clay surfaces are coarse under your fingertips. None move after you touch them, but you feel a subtle shift in the energy as it rushes down to the focal point. The pattern ends at the back of the alley. You tap a chipped, ragged brick embedded into the dead-end wall. The slabs unfold, layer-by-layer, to form an opening.

You pull him through.

It folds shut behind you, the quiet sound of grinding stone following you through the passage. The hollering and thudding of the pursuit have been silenced. Their chaos of the market sealed away behind the otherwise impenetrable seal. You doubt the low-ranking footmen who chased you will know the way.

Yellow-green vines crawl up the pulsing walls. Luminous particles bob and float in the air like fireflies. The place is silent, leaving you with only the sound of your own panting and Blade—Blade’s rasping, spluttering wheezes.

You stop, right where you are, because you have never heard him make such a sound before. Even after a chase, or a fight.

The passage opens to a wider tunnel up ahead. You drop Blade’s hand, and turn to look at him. The adrenaline is fading, now leaving room for fresh, common sense.

Blades hunches up against the wall. The air enters and leaves his lungs in winded, rushed wheezes. His eyes are wide and unseeing. Those candlewick irises dart from the floor, to the place where your hands had been joined, and finally, then, to you.

A scent, like firewood charred too long, blistering into crumbled charcoal, blooms in and clouds the thin space. It’s like nothing you’ve ever smelled before, the vicious pheromones of an alpha at the very end of their tether. Something more, too, something earthen and ancient and charged. A flavor which has graced your palate only once or twice before.

Encroaching mara. You don’t know what he’s like, when his symptoms flare. You’re not eager to find out. The capricious nature of his mara has not once posed a threat to you. But his composure is slipping, his hands curling like claws and flexing. Like he’s getting a feel for his own body. Like the joints are sore and need stretching.

“Blade,” you stumble forward, pressing your palm to the cold, pale pane of his cheek. “Blade, look at me.”

His shaky irises hover awkwardly over your shoulder, before at last meeting your gaze.

“It approaches,” he rasps, looking as haunted as you have ever seen him.

“Blade, do not let the mara take you.” you take in a deep, steadying breath. The violent pulsing in your ears returns in full force, the unhinged mass of his disease gnawing at your physical form.

Bracing yourself, you reach within. You touch the very bottom of your long neglected wellspring. Harmonic Essence leaps to the surface, warm and loving and so eager to be put to use. It feels like an old coat slipped around your shoulders, a familiarity you wouldn’t dare indulge in under ordinary circumstances. It is a power long wasted on you, but useful this very once. It pulses from underneath your fingertips, washes underneath his pallid skin.

The acrid taste of his mara brashes against the tip of your tongue for a single, fleeting moment. It then skitters backwards. Retreats into the dark, churning void of what you assume to be his subconsciousness. It’s a temporary balancing of the scales, but his wild pulse settles.

You sigh, shoulder slumping in relief. The tension winds out of your body, hand dropping back to your side.

He still looms above you, jet black hair curtaining you in. When did he get so close? Or had it been you in your haste to soothe him? He runs hot as a hearth, the warmth which radiates from him thick enough to feel. This close, you can see his every breath, soft mounds of his chest straining the fastenings which hold his shirt together. Slender stripes of pale skin peek through his chest wrappings. You swallow and look away, up at the strong column of his neck.

“Are you with me?” you murmur. You don’t dare move, lest your retreat trigger the chase instinct which some alphas are known to possess. You don’t like making assumptions. You feel like Blade would be among that number anyways.

“Yes,” Blade’s voice is sandpaper rough. He moves before you do, shouldering past you into the wider tunnel. “You make use of these often, I take it.”

As though nothing had ever happened. Something bitter churns in your gut, but you don’t bring it up. There’s no reason to. He probably wants to distance himself from this episode as quickly as possible. You don’t blame him. The mara must be a humiliating affliction to live and cope with.

“It’s the fastest way to get around,” you break into a brisk walk, overtaking him. You’re the one who knows your way around, here.

“The mara would rend asunder the minds of anyone not wearing the correct protective gear,” Blade observes. There’s nothing pointed in his voice, but the weight of his gaze makes your skin crawl. Its keen focus is that of an apex predator’s, a beast somehow sated enough to keep his teeth from your throat. How long will that last? Fifteen minutes? An hour? The air here swelters with abundance. His mara must sup on it like a starved prisoner, far stronger and fuller than it could ever be on the surface.

He could easily match your pace, but he chooses to walk behind you.

“I could say the same for you.”

“I am an abomination of Yaoshi. The abundance has already taken hold of me.” Blade says, grimacing. You toy with the fraying edge of your sleeve between your forefinger and thumb. “All the saturation here does is spur on the symptoms.”

You make a face. He must sense your unease.

“I should be able to resist the pull until we surface. Provided we do not linger overlong.” Blade replies. It does remarkably little to reassure you.

A predator stalks at your back, one whose sanity may pop like an overfilled balloon at really any moment. Against your better sense, you feel anxiety lash at the bottom of your stomach, guts churning with that primal fear.

“Reassuring.” you bite out thoughtlessly.

“It would be in your best interest to focus on finding a way out, rather than back-talking me.” Blade says, and you swallow.

“Back-talking? I think my frustration is quite justified. You’re the reason we’re in this mess, after all.” you pointedly remind him. The words roll bitter off your tongue. Prickling discomfort coalesces with the saturation of abundance in the air, becoming a consistent buzz against the back of your skull.

Blade makes a ragged little noise, wedged between a wheeze and a laugh.

“Another do I make pay the price. I was not always like this. deathless beast borne of blind ambition and hubris…” he trails off. “I was once a man. Death walked with me as it walked with every other. It was never meant to—to become—”

A distorted warble slowly creeps into his voice. Shit, you just shouldn’t have said anything. The hovering energy coalesces, thin whispers congealing into thick, mist-like mass around him. It’s drawn to him.

“What’s your favorite food?” you turn on your heel and ask, crossing your arms. He looks down at you, brows furrowing as he roots around for an answer. “You haven’t thought about it, have you?” Do the mara-struck even have to eat? Blade is a particularly unique case among them, but you wouldn’t be surprised if he even remembers to eat. He is a blade, according to his own words. And a blade doesn’t need to eat. How desolate an existence he must have lived. Must still be living if his own preferences evade him.

“Well. Try to find an answer while I get us out of here.” you command. He’s quiet for the remainder of the trek. You emerge topside and immediately feel several pounds lighter. The air is fresh and sweet, the skies blue and open. You’re two blocks from your apartment in a dark, neglected alleyway.

“You can find your way back from here,” you sigh, chancing a glance at your companion as you stretch your arms above your head. “Right?”

He’s still quiet. You don’t sense the acrid tang of the illness. He looks thoughtful. You wish he would just give you an answer already. You’re not eager to be chanced upon again by a patrol, or by any other witnesses for that matter.

“Your question. I don’t have an answer.” Blade says. He sounds almost regretful.

Over your few interactions, you’ve come to realize that not much bothers him. Very little manages to budge that glacial mien. His demeanor, as you have come to understand, either sits as stoney neutrality or maniacal, giddy rage. The shades between are so very visited.

“It’s no big deal. You can just tell me next time, if you want.” If he even remembers. The idea of turning your back to him still riddles you with unease, but you do it anyway. Your steps are slow and measured. He stares you down until you disappear around the corner, meld into the crowds like just another thread in a blanket.

—

The sky above hangs a pale grey. It’s the threat of a light drizzle rather than a raging storm. You slip through the abundant foliage of Luocha’s front yard, unable but to notice that the shrubs and vibrant blooms have somehow grown in size since your last visit. The greens are hearty, fresh dewdrops glimmering off grass and unfurled leaves.

It’s not difficult to spot him. He’s lounged beneath the sole scarlet maple of the yard. He’s a spot of red himself, swathed in a richly-colored, likely richly-made, robe of it. The fabric pools on the lawn chair he lounges atop of. His eyes are shut, blonde lashes fanning against his perfect cheeks. Those eyes open as you skirt along the jagged stone edge of the pond, manilla envelope clutched in your left hand. He smiles, but does not lift his head. Sumptuous locks of golden blonde fan out behind his head like a halo. The very picture of serenity.

“Well, well. To what do I owe this visit?” he tilts his head, smiling like a contented cat. You huff, and avoid looking below his neck, where the plush robe parts to reveal the pale soft of his chest. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, but any sliver of intimacy you may have granted him has long passed. The moment you look down, he’ll notice and impose upon you another outlandish favor.

“Don’t get excited.” You hand him the package, and begin to pull back, but he’s faster. He darts for you like a viper. Long fingers curl around your wrist to hold you in place. The look in his eyes is beseeching. He gently deposits the envelope on the side table next to his seat. He doesn’t look away from you for even a moment.

“Always so busy… doesn’t it exhaust you?” he murmurs, a sympathetic coo. He’s putting just enough strain on your arm to make standing uncomfortable, in hopes that you’ll sit down beside him.

“No. I’m used to it. I like being busy,” you bear the ache in your arm with unyielding ease. It is so small and insignificant in comparison to every other you have endured.

“Do you… like being busy, or is it that you’ve never known anything else?” Luocha tilts his head to the side, smiling. Your skin prickles. You resist the urge to swallow.

“You know what they say about assumptions.”

“Which is why I’m glad I’m not making one. You go to awfully desperate lengths to not be known, Courier.”

The corners of your lips twitch downwards, and his eyes gleam. “Don’t be coy with me. Did you talk to them?” You ask. The question has lingered on your mind for weeks, leaving you restless and more unkind than usual. The persistent threat of him is always at the back of your mind, represented in the throbbing between your temples, in the harshness of your voice as you snap at someone who might not deserve it. There’s no sense in beating around the bush, anymore. Not if you want to preserve your sanity.

“How very vague, for someone who just accused me of being coy. Be at ease, I haven’t had any contact with The Family. Merely some… particularly useful informants who have heard a thing or two. Hunches based on speculation that you’ve proven by being cagey.” Luocha assures you.

“...So, what do you want from me?”

“Merely conversation. I do find our interactions so compelling, however short they may be.”

“Being blackmailed doesn’t put me in the mood for conversation. There’s not much for us to talk about.”

“I beg to differ. I know so very little about you, despite all we’ve shared. I’m curious—what set you on the path of Harmony?”

“...” You look away, internally evaluating the pros and cons of going along with his little game. “Peace. She promised us peace. Because that’s what Harmony was supposed to be.” His eyes soften. The indignation sizzling inside of you sparks into a raw flame (he has no right to look at you like that), but you smother it.

“Did it live up to your expectations?” he asks. His thumb rubs circles against the hollow of your wrist. His gaze sweeps from your face, down your arm, to where he’s still got you. He’s waiting for you to be vulnerable, you just know it. A shark that smells blood in the water, circling and searching for tender flesh to lay its rows of teeth into. How does he imagine it will taste? Soft and meaty, melting underneath teeth and tongue? Layers of skin peeled back and pried open, made thin by older slices?

“It didn’t work out.” you reply. sagacious enough to play along only minimally. When you elaborate no further, he releases you with a smile.

“How interesting,” he hums. He reclines further, eyes fluttering shut. You could pounce on him so easily, like this. You could fix your teeth into his jugular and make it so he never threatens you again. The blood would be so warm in your mouth. His skin would be so sweet.

Don’t be gross. You grimace.

He drums his fingers on the armrest of his chair.

The fluttering of wings erupts in the canopy above you, a flock of songbirds taking an afternoon flight. He cracks open his eyes, then. He tracks some sort of movement (you aren’t looking up), idle, like you aren’t even there. He tilts his head to the side, the slender column of his neck completely exposed. The robe slips off of his shoulders, curvature of his collarbones and soft expanse of his chest open for your viewing pleasure. You’re annoyed.

“I’ve held you long enough,” he sighs. “Thank you for sharing. Though, I do hope we can manage a longer conversation next time.”

“We’ll see,” you just barely keep a sigh out of your voice as you turn to leave, speed-walking up the grassy slope.

—

“That old man’s damn cat has been coming into the yard and bothering all the birds,” you grumble, squinting into the aforementioned patch of forest.

Blade makes a noncommittal noise, indicating that he’s heard you.

“It pisses me off.”

“You care about the birds in someone else’s yard.” Blade observes. You frown deeper.

“It’s annoying. Cats are an invasive species, here. They slaughter all of the native wildlife—and sometimes they don’t even eat what they kill,” you sigh, tampering down your rising agitation. If you’ve learned one thing in your short and storied life, it’s that being impassioned isn’t good for you.

“So, how would you suggest the problem be solved? If the owner insists on letting it out…”

“I don’t really live here, so it’s not like I have any right to get involved,” you shrug, “It’s just… if you’re gonna be that irresponsible with an animal, you don’t deserve to have it. You know?”

Blade makes another noise. Closer to a hum, this time. You don’t know if he knows or not. But you do know that he’s listening. You stare into the yard, and in your periphery you can see him staring at you.

—

You see Blade more in the coming days. Despite your best attempts, a routine slips into being, like weeds through cracks in the cement. Silver Wolf doesn’t show up to accept her own packages nearly as much, anymore. It’s almost always Blade. You see him so often that you question if he even has a job anymore.

He glowers. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He says, low voice almost lost amongst the bustle of the crowd. The markets are especially full today. Nestled in the crook of your elbow is a plastic shopping basket, loaded with some bread, some spices, and some vegetables. The stall you’re at rests beneath a red tarp, casts warm shadows onto his pale, bone-weary skin. “There are currently no tasks which command my presence at the moment.”

“Well. It’s good to have time off, but you don’t need to follow me around.”

“...” he doesn’t reply, but he does follow you all the way up to the counter. You can’t tell if he doesn’t understand the nuance, or if he’s just being bizarre and stubborn. Regardless, tailing you like a lost puppy seems to alleviate his boredom. To each their own.

“If you’re just going to walk behind me, can you—” you shift the basket from the crook of your arm, preparing to offer it. He snatches it from you before you can even finish speaking.

“...Thanks.”

He takes his newfound job as the basket carrier very seriously. His dour face doesn't budge an inch as you peruse the rest of the wares, plucking a few items from open crates and wooden shelves to add to the bundle.

“So, see anything that piques your interest?” you’re not sure what prompts you to speak up. You should get through this as silently and as quickly as possible. The less time you spend in public with this man, the better. The presence of the Cloud Knights isn’t nearly as felt on this level, making it as safe a haven for criminals as can be. You suspect, sometimes, that it’s purposeful. In your many travels, you have come to realize that the criminal class is a valuable part of any economy, no matter how much those at the top may protest it. Those who disavow it the most fervently are usually the most involved, under the table.

Blade doesn’t respond, at first. His crimson gaze glances over the nearby shelves. He grabs a bottle of cloves and presents it to you, completely straight-faced.

You get the overwhelming sense he’s appeasing you more than anything.

“...Yeah,” you pluck it from his hand and halfheartedly eye the label. It’s hard to muster the energy to argue with him, especially when he looks so resolute. The fact that he’s continuing to tail you through the market is cause enough to ignore him. You drop the bottle into your basket and move on.

Thankfully, the rest of the trip passes in peaceful silence. You can feel Blade’s gaze, unreadable, lingering on your form as you pull your wallet out of one of your many pockets. The shopkeep, a sprightly young man with a head of bouncy, brown hair beams at the sight of you. You don’t remember his name, but you’re familiar with him. He opens his mouth to speak, but shuts his mouth tight before he can get a word out.

He glances over your shoulder. You swivel just barely to look at your stubborn shadow. Blade looms closer than you remember him being, leaving you with an up close and personal view of his chest. You tsk and look up at his face.

“Can you get a bottle of white cardamom for me? It should be with the rest of the spices.”

Blade looks at you, and looks at the shopkeep. He is silent. The lines of his face are harsher than usual, burdened with deeper shadow. For a few, agonizing moments, you fear he may object, but he turns almost robotically and walks off. You’re not sure what’s upset him this time. You don’t particularly care. If you troubled yourself with the qualms of every pouting client, you’d be just as miserable as you were with The Family.

“Thanks. I could hardly get a word out while he was giving me those evil eyes,” the shopkeep says, shuddering.

“I guess his manners still need work,” Not that men in his line of work really needed any.

“Alphas that smell that strong and don’t even try to put a lid on it are the worst,” he gripes, bagging your produce with nimble hands, before pausing and looking back up at you. He wrings his hands, contrite and sheepish. “—er, no offense.”

“He smells strong?” you tilt your head to the side.

“Well, yeah. He’s all over you,” the man blinks. Some of his bangs fall over his big, brown eyes. He swipes them behind his ear thoughtlessly. “You guys just get together? He’s probably trying to flaunt it. Stake his ‘claim’, y’know?” he says with a sympathetic roll of the eyes.

You don’t particularly care what he says about Blade. A man able to lift a three-thousand pound sword doesn’t need defending. It’s his misconceptions about your relationship that irks you, for some reason. You don’t care about the opinions of others (you try not to care about the opinions of others) but you can’t resist the sudden urge to correct him.

“We’re not together.”

“Oh,” he blinks at you. “Does he know that?”

“Ugh. Enough. It’s none of your business.” your lips twist, a sliver of teeth exposed in your displeasure.

The shopkeep nods and beams at you, all previous curiosity wiped clean off his face. “Heard loud and clear!”

He finishes ringing you up and sees you off with a “have a nice day~!”. Blade follows you to your next stop, a stall that sells fresh fruits.

The frustration builds within you slowly. It’s a candlewick of a thing, at first. Blade is following you around. Irritating, but you can cope with it. He would leave if he was asked. Maybe Kafka told him to stick around for a while. She’s gotten into a bad habit of pawning him off on you, like he’s a child that needs watching rather than one of the universe’s most efficient killing machines. That’s fine. You’re not keen to get on her bad side.

Blade is scenting you. He��s sticking to you tight as a cobweb and giving dirty looks to people you talk to. That, you cannot abide by. It takes you at least five minutes to simmer, from the crate of apples to the lefternmost all of the stall to the bundle of leeks close to its middle. You’re not really looking at anything. Lost in thought.

“I am not an omega for you to covet. I don’t need your protection,” you tell him, letting your gaze idly roam over the prices. They’re written on fancy little labels with red accents, each one neatly stickered just below the lip of each crate.

“I never said you did,” Blade replies after a moment of deliberating. You look over a crate of cantaloupe. Selecting a ripe one is a practiced art.

“You didn’t have to,” you pause, melon held in your hands as you give him a scathing look. “Control your pheromones. You’re not an animal.”

“No. Worse, I am a blade.” he sighs, suddenly sounding unusually surly. Your lips twitch in the barest beginnings of a frown.

“Not an excuse,” you helpfully remind him. A shadow is cast over his face, then, dark and brooding. The space between his brows wrinkles, an uncertainty you haven’t quite seen from him before. There’s so little need to deliberate in a life like his own, so what troubles him now? It nettles something in you, makes you feel in a way that you don’t care to name and don’t want to look into. You deliberate asking, but he makes the choice for you.

“I will leave you, now.” When you turn to look at him, he’s already walked away from your side, strides longer than usual. He dissolves into the crowd like a sunset shadow, naught left in his wake but the scent you know still clings to your clothes.

—

“My, my. You rarely ever visit at this hour,” Luocha says, giving you one of those mirthful smiles where his eyes scrunch, unabashedly delighted (and undeniably smug) to see you. He lounges on the ottoman, slender fingers parting the pages of a furniture catalogue. “To what do I owe the honor?”’ He’s already deduced that you want something from him. You take no excessive pride in your poker face but it still pains you to be so easily read. Luocha stands apart from the crowd with his soft hands and feigned delicacy, but he smells blood in the water just as easily as any other follower of the Hunt.

“I just wanted to talk,” you see no reason to dance around it.

“You came all this way for a conversation?” He rests his chin on the palm of his hand in a haughty way that pisses you off.

“Isn’t that what you’ve wanted this whole time?” you grouse, and he laughs.

“I’m flattered, regardless. Come, sit and tell me all that is on your mind.” he beckons to a seat at his side, which you stiffly sink into, unable to relax beneath his hunter’s gaze.

“You’re an omega—”

“Yes, quite,” his smile is now coquettish. You feel your face wrinkle in annoyance, line of your brows dipping low.

“I wasn’t done. You know more about secondary genders than I do—and I don’t have anyone else to talk about it with, so…”

“I appreciate you confiding in me like this,” Luocha says, sweet as honey, timbre smooth as silk. There’s an ease about him here, in his own domain, that soothes and disarms you despite your best efforts. “It couldn’t have been easy for you to ask, so unused to relying on anyone else. I’m no professional, but I will answer your questions as best as I am able.”

He steeples his fingers with a smile, way too delighted for you to feel good about his generosity. He just likes knowing something you don’t, doesn’t he?

“Well. I’ve been spending time with an alpha, lately. It’s a work thing, but he keeps hovering around. Even after I tell him he can leave.”

“Ah.” Luocha says. The corners of his smile grow taut with something you don’t quite recognize.

And it’s a question you suddenly have to wonder for yourself. Is Blade bothering you? You can count on one hand the amount of times you have been genuinely upset with him. He’s quiet, most of the time. He answers your questions and attempts to appease you whenever possible. He carries your bags whenever you happen to be at the markets, together. Even if you really wish he wouldn’t, you can tell he’s trying to be kind.

“He hardly speaks. And when I does, I don’t really mind. But he hovers and keeps grabbing my shopping bags whenever we’re at the markets. I don’t get it. Is it some sort of courting gesture?”

“He certainly sounds like a character,” Luocha muses, sounding far off for a moment. “You have the right idea. He’s carrying your things to both lessen your burden and to prove himself capable, even if he himself does not realize it.”

You grimace, face twisting up, The truth has an acerbic tang to it. Luocha laughs unabashedly at your dismay, the sound melodic and trilling. The longer you spend in his presence, the more convinced you become that the Aeons crafted him specifically to vex you. You give him a scathing look.

“Come, now,” Luocha wheedles. “My humblest apologies, Courier—it’s simply so rare for you to be so expressive. I was caught off guard. Shall I get you something to drink? Come, please, sit back down. Surely you have more to ask of me?”

Reluctantly, you drop into the armchair closest to the door, leaning back as far as you have the space for, You fold your fingers together, elbows perched on an arm rest each.

“I don’t envy you. It must be difficult to bear the attentions of such a peculiar alpha,” Luocha says.

“You know him, then.” You can’t keep the accusation from your voice, something frenetic and ugly kicking up your pulse, making your stomach go sour. How deeply do they know each other? Enough for Luocha to consider spilling your secrets? Enough for them to conspire against your purposes unknown?

No, don't be ridiculous. You're not important enough a figure to be the center of any such elaborate scheme. Weak, as far as emanators go. Painfully average, even as far as betas go. Unremarkable in status and career. All that threatens you is what you have long left behind.

“I do know him. Quite well, in fact.” Luocha muses, undisputed fondness in his voice. How close are they? The question lingers bitter on the tip of your tongue. It vibrates underneath your skin, wild and desperate and gods, you want to know so badly. “Though he may deny it, he can be shy. You’re alike, in that way.”

“I am not shy,” you bristle. It’s your curiosity alone that keeps you in his company.

“An argument best saved for another day. Let’s not get off track—Blade is an alpha, but he bears few of the typical mannerisms associated with his secondary gender, which makes this newfound attachment to you all the more significant.”

Progressively, throughout your conversation, you’ve been able to feel the wrinkles on your face multiplying and darkening.

“It makes sense, if you ask me. You’re quite the extraordinary individual,” Luocha says, drumming his fingers idly against the armrest.

“So how do I get him to stop?” you brush past his superfluous flattery with practiced indifference. He wants to fluster you, to see you squirm. It’s one of the ugly truths behind the chivalrous front he wears in polite company.

“Are you sure you want him to stop?” he inquires.

“What are you getting at?”

“If you truly wanted to no longer be the object of these behaviors, you would have no problem telling him yourself.”

You laugh, and it’s a cold and bitter thing. “Not all men take rejection well.”

“As I well know,” Luocha reminds you. He’s so haughty, so utterly confident that sometimes you forget he’s an omega, a demographic as subject to unwanted advances as any you are a part of. He stands up, empty glass cradled in hand. The sheer material of his robe billows around him like fine mist, treating you to the outline of his smooth, toned legs. Blade is more built, the thought comes to you unbidden. You squish it like the raspberries you juiced only a week ago on Luocha's kitchen counter. You wonder if the stains ever came out.

“Objectively speaking, you have more of a reason to hold your tongue around me than you do him. Yet, you hardly hesitate to make your displeasure known in my company,” he points out. “It’s not because of my secondary sex. You hardly ever remember that I’m an omega, unless my heat is soon.”

“And your point is?”

He seizes your chin, then tilts your head up until you’re forced to look into those grass green eyes. Cradled between his forefinger and thumb, you are left with nowhere else to go. You wonder briefly if it thrills him to do this because he is an omega. If he finds some kind of perverse pleasure in subverting the roles society espouses about his kind.

“You could have told him off on your own. Instead, you went out of your way to consult someone you deeply dislike, looking for another, less direct way of handling it. All of that implies some degree of care, whether you want to admit it or not.”

He’s right, and you hate nothing more than when he’s right.

“Thank you for your time,” you dip back into your customer service with a placid and empty drone, because you know how much he hates it. You say it to his chest, refusing to give him the eye contact. Unwilling to expend the effort. For plausible deniability, because you don’t know what you’ll find on his face. The air has grown balmy and cloying and fragrant. You stand up, and he steps backwards. “But I must be going, now.”

“How unfortunate,” Luocha coos as you awkwardly find your way around him, having been sandwiched between his body and the coffee table. “I was going to put the kettle on…”

—

The shroud of night has settled over the Luofu. A crescent moon winks down at you from the artificial sky, peering between the treetops. You’re laid on your back, on the concrete patio near the shed.

Footsteps head in your direction. You already know who it is. There’s no one else that has that blistering, writhing aura. Blade comes to stand over you. His brows wrinkle in displeasure. You don’t know why. It’s not his patio that you’ve gotten your blood all over.

“You’re injured,” he says, frowning. He crouches over you. A pale thumb smears the drying crimson on your upper lip. Your entire face scrunches up, gnarled like a gargoyle, recoiling from the unexpected touch.

“Nosebleed,” you mutter. The space behind your eyes throbs in protest, accompanied by a fierce pressure at the bridge of your nose. All typical symptoms. The gifts bestowed upon you as Emanator unfortunately do not shield you from your allergies. To think, an Emanator could still be laid low by something as mundane as allergies.

“Who gave it to you?” Blade looms a little closer, gaze steely.

“No one. Sometimes my allergies act up. That’s all.” you assure him, squinting irritably. You hope your judgmental flower will shame him out of your personal space, but he lingers.

“You should remain indoors, then.” he draws. He lifts his bloodied hand and looks at it, too contemplative for your liking.

“I take medication for it. Just forgot today,” it feels wrong to justify yourself. He isn't owed an answer, but this is a rare moment. Blade showing such outright concern over something so novel is interesting (a more sentimental person might call it touching). Has his immortality rendered him incapable of distinguishing a few pesky allergies from a deadly ammonia? You can’t imagine someone so riddled with regeneration to register the difference between a gaping gash and a papercut.

“Then remember to take them.” he advises coolly.

“I will.”

You lay there, then, in silence unperturbed for a few moments. The hard ground is cool against your back. It’ll fix your aching spine, you’re sure.

“Are you not going to get up?” Blade asks.

“No. It feels nice to be on the floor, sometimes.” you assure him quickly, lest he assume your nosebleed has robbed you of all mobility. He stares at you, blank-faced, but you somehow can tell he is skeptical. You pat the space next to you, a silent offering.

You don’t expect him to take you up on it. This rare creature, crackling with the energy of his divine “gift”. You don’t indulge in typical sentiments, and you spurn love and limerence for your own sanity, due to the madness you have seen both inspire. To adore is to give of yourself, to exhaust what limited energy you have left. Yet, there is no arguing the fact of his beauty. His hair pools like fresh slick pitch. Faint moonlight catches on the sable strands. His jaw cuts a sharp and handsome shape, eyelashes long and thick. He stares up at the sky, unreadable.

“Kafka has no need of me in the coming days.” “It is… strange. The Stellaron Hunters are few in number, so our hands are always full. To be bereft of any responsibility… is rare.”

“You don’t sound thrilled about that.”

“No. It will leave me restless. And the silence will only give the mara room to spread. It’s better—more manageable when there is a task at hand.” Blade admits, a shiver in his voice.

“I do. I believe you are familiar with the place,” he says. That catches your attention. And makes you just a little nervous.

“Do you even have anywhere to stay?” The Stellaron Hunters surely have a vessel of their own where he can lodge. You’re ultimately not too concerned. You shut your eyes and listen to the midnight breeze, feel the black of the night against your skin.

You turn to look at him, almost afraid to ask. “Familiar?”

“The merchant has opened his home to me. I will remain there for the duration of my… off time.”

Again, you are sorely tempted to question the exact nature and origin of their relationship, but it’s truly none of your business. You’ve long espoused a policy of isolation, but there’s no denying how thoroughly entangled you have become in them. Elbows deep. You’re not quite sure how it happened. They’re infiltrated your monotonous life, moved in so slowly that you didn’t even notice until this very moment.

“Well. He’s not there most of the time, so it’ll be like having your own place,�� You can’t imagine Blade as a homeowner, for some reason. It just invokes the image of him mowing a lawn in khaki shorts with that same, placid face he always wears. He’s too ethereal and strange to trim the hedges or fix a leaky faucet. Sometimes, you think he’d look more in-place if he levitated instead of just walking everywhere.

“I had lemonade the other day,” he says, and this fascinates you, because it is so very rare for him to initiate conversation about something so little.

“...And? Did you like it?” Perhaps it’s petty, but you already have a feeling that he didn’t. You hate to presume, but you think you have similar palettes.

“...It was too sweet, and burdened by a lingering, chemical taste,” he confirms your vague conjecture and you very nearly laugh. Or make some sort of short, wry noise like a horse’s snort.

“Yeah. Ones that aren’t made from scratch tend to be like that.”

“And that is why you make your own.”

“Exactly,” you lift your gaze from him and return it to the sky. “When you make something from scratch, you can make however you like. Ones you buy pre-bottled have too much sugar.” He hums in acknowledgement, but says nothing else.

The twinkling stars are no more authentic than the clouds which hover during the day. But you wonder how many far off stars he has visited across the span of his long un-life. How many civilizations he has seen toppled, how many lives have ended at his hands. What a terrifying beast Yaoshi has created. Yet, here he lay beneath a sky he has likely long tired of, humoring your purposeless requests for reasons unknown.

—

You’re tucked on the steps off the side door, head leaned back and eyes shut, drinking in the warmth of the artificial midday sun. Blade leans up against the wall next to you, arms crossed. You don’t blame him for staying in the shade, not when he’s always dressed so darkly.

You shouldn’t show your stomach to a known apex predator. Your instincts are tampered down, but you still curl your spine and lift your knees to your chest when you usually it on the stoop. You haven’t done it, today. Anxiety thrums in the space right behind your eyes. The scared animal inside of you writhes in his presence. You look at him, gaze by happenstance falling on the profile of his chest.

Breasts, you think stupidly, and laugh aloud. The noise is so sudden that you almost don’t realize it came from you. Blade looks down at you like you’ve grown a second head, and you're still too caught up in your own disbelief. Spending so much time with him has softened your skill, started to fry your remaining brain cells. He’s always been handsome. But you’ve started to too keenly note the bow curve of his lips, the narrowness of his waist.

And you hate, hate, hate proving Luocha right.

“What is it that you find so amusing?” Blade speaks slowly, like he’s talking to a scared dog or a lost child.

“Nothing,” you shut your eyes and tilt your head back, letting it thump against the top step. Blade inhales sharply. “Just remembered a stupid joke I heard a few days ago.” When you open your eyes, Blade has turned away, inspecting a row of gladiolus planted next to the nearby shed. The line of his shoulders has gone tense.

“Pretty, aren’t they?” you muse.

“Did you plant them?”

“No. I delivered the seeds. Only a week ago, I think. They wouldn’t have been able to sprout this fast.”

“Under normal circumstances, perhaps,” Blade skates a finger over a bright orange petal. “That merchant utilizes his gift so shamelessly. Even while at the heart of his natural born enemy.”

“And it’ll all be for nothing if that damn cat comes and eats them,” you grunt. You’ev stumbled upon torn up patches of grass and bitten through flower patches, stems snapped and petals crushed. You briefly, in one of your pettiest and cruelest moments, nearly suggested Luocha plant lilies next. The callousness of your own thought had startled you into silence, so gladiolus it was.

“Ah. About the cat,” Blade begins. You blink, wide-eyed. A cold pit forms in your stomach, because—

“You didn’t,” you gape.

“I did not kill it,” Blade says sourly, clearly affronted by the assumption. “I brought it to Kafka. They seem to get along.”

The tension melts out of you at once. Your petty grudge isn’t worth the blood of an innocent animal. You let yourself fall back against the stoop. The edges of the stairs dig into your spine.

“That makes sense,” you say, a touch wry.

Blade grimaces. “They send me images of the little beast every day I am not there. If Silver Wolf is to be believed, it ‘eats better’ than she does.”

Does Silver Wolf eat well to begin with? “That was kind of you,” you say instead.

“Was it? Or was it cruel to the man who will wonder where his pet has gone?” Blade inquires. He doesn’t sound particularly bothered by the possibility.

You scoff. “I doubt he’ll even notice.”

—

You are natant in the dull haze of half-sleep. The soft scent of camelias and fabric softener and linens. A cloying warmth cocoons you, keeps you mired in a state of partial sleep. Burrowed beneath the comfort exists a nagging feeling of wrongness, like a pebble in your boot. You cling to the sensation, let it pull you from the inky, peaceful depths. You’re not sure how long it takes for you to breach the surface. It feels like ages by the time you pry your weary eyes open.

There’s a body crushed into you. An unyielding, solid mass of muscle. The scent of something charred wreathes around you. Your cheek is pressed up against a heartbeat, steady and strong. It would be comforting if you knew where you were, or who you were with.

Alarm, molten hot, jots down your spine. Shaken from your stupor, you begin to writhe. Your palms slap against the chest of the man beneath you. You brace yourself against him in an effort to pry yourself free.

An arm around your midriff tightens, and the panic grows. You lash out, snarl, a hand reaching behind you to grab onto the assailant’s wrist.

The room blurs, then. The breath is knocked from your lungs as you’re reoriented and pinned with minimal effort. Your eyes blow wide, gaze caught by those candlewick eyes. Blade’s hair is mussed from both sleep and the struggle. His lips are pulled into a snarl. Your gut squirms at the flash of those deadly canines—sharper than you’d imagined (he’s never bared his teeth at you).

“Stop,” he commands, low and throaty. You shudder, foolish hindbrain moved to obey the order. This, you realize, is what an alpha’s command must sound like.

As you lay beneath him, chest to heaving chest, the pieces of the previous night return to you in fragments and shades.

Blade came to your door at dusk’s end. The shuttles had shut down for the night. You let him in, quickly, before anyone could witness a known fucking criminal at your door. You fed him dinner, anyways. Spoke late into the night—about what you cannot truly recall. Somewhere around three in the morning, you must have nodded off.

“Have you calmed down?” Blade asks.

“Yes,” you grumble, feeling thoroughly chastised despite his flat and empty tone. You attempt to dislodge yourself a second time, but Blade stops you fast. “Blade—” The beginning of a feeling you cannot quite name crawls up your spine, up the back of your skull. It’s a creeping, white hot sensation. A sudden deprivation of air. His eyes have closed. You feel your pulse spike. “Blade.” You try again. “Let me up.”

He draws a shaky breath.

“You don’t understand, do you?”

“What is there for me to understand?” you ask, voice a tepid little thing. He laughs. The sound is manic and bitter. When he opens his eyes, they’re hot enough to burn a hole in you.

“I… remember you,” he begins slowly. There’s a creeping breathiness there, you feel it under your palms, writhing inside of his ribcage. “When you are not there. I remember how warm your hands are, the smell of your sweat—the taste of when we are… together. And I crave it every moment we are apart. It’s—maddening.”

“What.” you’re taken back, all the sudden, to the sixth time Sunday called you to his office. A servant of the Harmony, you were, still protected by your naivete, still convinced by the smiling faces and open arms which surrounded you. A child. A seed, among the older and wiser trees in Xipe’s forests.

You remember the exact shape of his lips when he said it—you remember how it felt. You feel the same way now, pinned like a little butterfly. Lost in the reeds.

“I remember you,” Blade continues, slower and calmer, now. Burning wood to dead charcoal. “When we are apart, you are all I remember, and the emptiness that exists in your shape is too much to bear. I need—” he licks his lips, his empty pupils blown so very wide.

“The mara becomes quiet, when we are together,” he whispers, like he’s sharing a secret. His eyes close. His forehead is a wide rash of heat, pressed against yours. He takes a single, shuddering inhale, breathing your air.

And you—you’re still frozen there, caught up in the vice of his body and the couch. You stare emptily beyond him. His face settles into the crook of your neck.

The lamplight flickers on and off.

#oz write #hungering for hsr #blade/reader #hsr/reader

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miguelswifey04 · 10 months

Text

miguel’s suit glitches

as the glitches within miguel’s nanotech suit continued to dance and flicker, you both attempted to troubleshoot the issue. the lab remained a whirlwind of confusion, with screens flashing erratic patterns and sparks dancing in the air. frustrations and tensions filled the room, and in a moment of chaos, the unexpected happened.

one particularly intense glitch caused the suit to malfunction, and in the blink of an eye, it disappeared, leaving miguel entirely exposed before your eyes. the gravity of the situation settled upon you, and your cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and intrigue.

time seemed to freeze as you beheld miguel’s naked form, his toned body standing before you. your eyes traced the contours of his strength, the sculpted muscles and the sharp angles. desire, sharp and undeniable, crashed over you like a tidal wave, mingling with the forbidden nature of the moment.

in that charged instant, you found yourself captivated by miguel’s vulnerability, his raw presence. the air crackled with pent-up tension as your gaze traveled up his body, locking eyes with his own, the red depths of his irises inviting you into an unspoken exploration.

a connection sparked between you, an invisible thread weaving its way through the charged atmosphere. time seemed to slow as desire shivered in the gap between your bodies, temptation beckoning, and boundaries blurring. the room pulsed with a newfound intensity, an enchanting symphony of longing and surrender.

wordlessly, your gaze conveyed the depth of your desire, silently granting consent in the uncharted territory of desire. your hand reached out instinctively, fingertips grazing miguel’s chest, tracing the lines that defined him. the electric charge surged through your touch, setting both your bodies ablaze with anticipation.

leaning closer, your breath mingled with his, words hovering on the precipice of spoken desires. each heartbeat amplified the intensity of the moment, the temptation to indulge in this newfound realm of passion overpowering the rational thoughts that sought to maintain control.

but before the moment could fully unravel, reality shattered the hazy mist, breaking through the veil of temptation. miguel’s consciousness snapped back, the glitches in his suit stabilizing just as quickly as they appeared. the nanotech fabric shimmered back into place, concealing his nudity from your gaze.

his eyes widened, and a wave of realization crashed over him. heat suffused his cheeks, and he instinctively stepped back, creating a respectful distance between you. it was as if the universe had intervened, asserting its boundaries and reminding both of you of the potential consequences that loomed in the shadows.

“m-mi vida," miguel stuttered, his voice awash with a mix of desire and regret, "i…i’m so sorry. that wasn't supposed to happen. It was an accident, I swear."

you, still caught in the aftermath of those heated moments, your breath quickened and your heart pounding, offered a small smile tinged with both disappointment and understanding. "it’s okay, miguel," you reassured him, your voice gentle yet laced with unspoken longing. "sometimes accidents happen. we’ll just... pretend it didn't."

“you sure? i know you saw every-” you cut him off as you placed your hands on his chest as you craned your neck up to look at his red irises that flickered with brown in them, “yes i did, so what?” miguel was taken aback as his cheeks flushed red and his hands held onto your biceps. he cleared his throat and gave you an awkward smile, “uh, yeah i supposed there’s nothing much we can do…just promise me you won’t go telling the others.”

———

a/n: i love teasing y’all

tags 🏷️: @kairiscorner

#spiderman atsv #miguel o'hara #miguel o’hara x reader #spider man: across the spider verse #miguel spiderman #atsv x reader #miguel o’hara x y/n #spider person #spidersona #ao3 works

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ineffabildaddy · 5 months

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Solitude - an Aziraphale POV poem

Solitude blackens my vision like a starless sky. Then there’s you, with your “let there be light.”

Solitude holds me firmly in place, like a stone wall guarding a fragile paradise. Then there’s you, with your “didn’t you have a flaming sword?”

Solitude fills my lungs until it pours out of my mouth, like salt water in the throes of a great flood. Then there's you, with your "not kids, you can't kill kids."

Solitude scratches at my skin, like grains of desert sand swept up into a lashing draught. Then there's you, with your "go on… have an ox-rib."

Solitude wails for me, like a virginal mother at the feet of her dying son. Then there's you, with your "yeah, that'll do it."

Solitude mollifies me, like the house wine at a bustling tavern. Then there’s you, with your “I’ve never eaten an oyster.”

Solitude obscures me, like a fine silver mist in the country air. Then there's you, with your "be easier if we’d both stayed home.”

Solitude compels me, like an actor performing an existential monologue. Then there’s you, with your “nobody ever has to know. Toss you for Edinburgh.”

Solitude threatens me, like the glint of the blade on an awaiting guillotine. Then there's you, with your "so… what's for lunch?"

Solitude renders me stagnant and unchallenged as a statue in a graveyard. Then there’s you, with your “that’s lunacy!”

Solitude keeps me afloat, as if I am a duck on the surface of a murky pond. Then there’s you, with your “look, I’ve been thinking. What if it all goes wrong?”

Solitude shatters me into infinitesimal fragments, like a bomb landing centimetres away from a stained-glass window. Then there’s you, with your “little demonic miracle of my own. Lift home?”

Solitude confounds me, like a law that many thought would never be passed. Then there’s you, with your “should I say thank you?”

Solitude cradles me, like a favourite armchair settled in the tranquility of an empty bookshop. Then there’s you, with your “it’s not that bad, once you get used to it.”

Solitude beckons me to come home, like a bus which will drive me wherever I want to go. Then there’s you, with your “you can stay at my place, if you like.”

Solitude finally dismisses me, like an angel besieged by a miracle, rendered unable to identify her old master. Then there's you, with your "don't bother."

Solitude glows bright upon my return, like an ‘up’ button in a lift.

This time, however, there’s no you at all.

thank you for reading! i hope you liked it:-) very simple and quick, i know.

feedback keeps me going & reblogs are endlessly appreciated<3

tagging the legends: @celestialcrowley @crowleys-bentley-and-plants @sad-chaos-goblin @raining-stars-somewhere-else @bowtiepastabitch @sabotage-on-mercury @iammyownproblematicfave @createserenity @sentientsky

also on ao3 here:

#good omens #poetry #ineffabildaddy

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tryan-a-bex · 12 days

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A masterlist of my Lucienne fics in honour of Librarian Day! (I’ve been reblogging things all day and just now realized only new posts show up in the tag 😭)

Sometimes when you fall, you fly My first Gaulcienne fic, with art by @athymelyreply

Spill the tea A meta discussion of fanfiction by the characters!

Fireflies and a Missing Person Where is Mervyn? With art by @ibrithir-was-here

The Dragon’s Tongue Lucienne has words with Queen Titania of the Fae. Now with an amazing sequel by @lostelfwriting

Eldritch Horrors and the Chaos Gremlin Lucienne tries her hand at matchmaking

The Dragon Rider Gault is the dragon, and after Jed leaves Lucienne cuddles in.

Naga No-Go Lucienne gets called on to help; she’d rather not talk about it, okay?

Trials of a Shapeshifter in Love possibly my sweetest Gaulcienne fic. Gault wants to surprise Lucienne, but Lucienne recognizes her no matter what form she takes.

Murder at the Greenhouse a human au murder mystery based on an idea by @seiya-starsniper

Muhulhu: the introduction helm crack. I’m sorry, and so is Lucienne.

Biker Dream and Traveller Hob human au where Lucienne is a normal everyday heroic librarian

The Library Cat Lucienne’s Library is invaded, first by a cat and then by even more chaos

A Mystery in the Library Why are the unpublished Agatha Christie’s resolutely backwards? (I didn’t set out to make this a detective series and yet here we are)

Categorization Systems Lucienne receives a late night visitor in the library, during the events of Season of Mists. From a prompt by @orionsangel86

#lucienne the librarian #dreaminglibrarianday #dreaming librarian day #tryana find it back

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emeritusemeritus · 6 months

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Vulnera Sanentur [Weasley Twins x Reader]

Part 10

Part 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

Title: Vulnera Sanentur

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader x George Weasley {established relationship}

Timeline: DH1&2- Initially set during the battle of the seven potters. Canon and certain plot points have been altered for the needs of the story.

Summary: The battle of the seven Potters throws your world into chaos when one of your boyfriend’s is cursed. As Snape’s ex-potions assistant and previous protégée, you recognise the inflicted curse immediately and demand answers from your mentor.

Warnings: Angst, mentions of war and Voldy, descriptions of injury and blood, descriptive smut, p in v sex, shower sex, tension. Outside sex. Semi public sex. None sexual nudity. Crying. Snape has a soft spot for reader. Arguments. Probably some cursing. Mentions of nightmares. Reader is part of the Order of the Phoenix. Mentions of death (Dumbledore). Mentions of Tonks’ pregnancy. On it got a angsty. So much angst I can’t tag it all. Not spellchecked nor beta read, we die like Madeye.

You sat on the cold floor of the corridor, amidst the rubble and mess of strewn books and splinters of broken wands, trying to focus yourself. You pushed everything out of your mind, all the warmth and love, all the hope of ending this night in victory. You placed your hands on the stone floor, feeling the dust and gravel beneath your palms, the chill penetrating your skin and seeming to slowly drop your internal temperature. You closed your eyes, trying to ignore the figures of Ron and Hermione who watched on from a short distance away, allowing you to focus whilst still keeping a watchful eye on you, incase something went wrong.

You pictured the snake in your mind, fighting to keep the rest of your mind blank and filled with darkness, allowing all those negative emotions you so often pushed down to rise to the surface. Grief, pain, sadness, desperation to return to your loved ones, you allowed it all to bubble up to the surface, knowing that being in such a dark headspace would only help to bridge the connection between you and the snake. You reached out in your mind, as if surveying the area, probing with your mind, searching for any hint of where the snake may be.

The further you drifted in your mind, the less you felt like yourself, all your personal identifiers leaving you as you fell deeper into your subconscious.

Then, the first faint prickles of pain flared in your shoulder, a simmering burn beneath the surface that you'd become accustomed to. Though Bill had numbed the tenderness in the non-healing wound, it had not blocked the pain receptors that were still very much bridged with your mind. You twisted your shoulder around as the pain increased, the wound feeling hot and cold at the same time, beginning to creep up your neck and into the base of your head, as if a stream of lava was climbing up from your shoulder to your brain.

Then, like a switch had been flicked, the blank, black vision behind your eyes became illuminated. Light crept through into your vision and you were suddenly able to see and feel everything the snake could, the misted grass on the floor which would have been cold if your body had not been of similar temperature. It was still somewhat dark, as if the light around you was shaded by something, the first light of dawn only slipping through uneven cracks in the sky, like trees blocking your right to the sun. You fought to push deeper, allowing to bridge the connection further with the snake, forcing yourself into it's mind.

You could feel the limited patience of the snake, their thoughts showing displeasure at remaining still, expected to remain at it's masters side as he does his bidding. For a brief second you catch the sight of a body on the floor, the snake glancing over it before turning once again to look at it's master, the dirty robes and dirty pallid skin a deeply unsettling sight. The snake was hungry and malnourished, only able to eat or attack on her master's orders, you learned. You pushed further and sunk deeper into the snake's thoughts, your own body and consciousness slipping from you as your own senses disappeared, only a thin a thread of yourself remained in order for you to get back to yourself.

Then, with a shock that made your real body flinch, the snake began speaking in it's mind, the voice not serpentine or hissing as you had expected but rather female and quiet, an ominous and haunting thing to experience.

"You seek me here."

You're too stunned and spooked to reply, not even knowing how you could as you realise all too late that the snake is addressing you specifically, knowing your presence. There's a tense pause and you wait for the snake to speak again, anxiety bubbling in the last piece of yourself that you were so desperately clinging too, having realised too late that you had sunk too far away from yourself.

"You seek something, an ending," the women's voice speaks again, rendering you frozen again.

"Yes," you reply, though you don't know how you are doing it. Are you speaking out loud? Is it just in your mind?

"So little you know," she says, though her voice holds no tone of torment or condescension. "My master is unaware of our connection."

You didn't believe her, something in your mind denying the claim, knowing that it would be too dangerous to trust her words. Was this a trick to lure you in? Was it the voice of the Horcrux speaking? Voldemort's slither of soul attempting to twist your mind.

Suddenly, the image of a woman appears in your connected mind, a young and beautiful woman you had never seen before. She was of Asian descent, dark hair and dark eyes that held a beauty and a torment within them. She was familiar somehow, a look in her eyes that you seemed to understand, the faintest idea of her identification tugging at the very edge of your mind, as if a recollection had been triggered. You hear the voice one more time and it only furthers your theory, the voice fitting perfectly with the memory she was showing you.

"Seek me and this shall end, seek, seek."

The words repeat and overlap in your mind, an echo that fills your head like smoke until it's the only thing you can sense. The words twist and shift, sounding unfamiliar at first, merging and joining all at the same time as you're forced to listen to the haunting words over and over again. Without warning, your mind goes completely blank and you are back in your own body, though your vision is black and your senses are muted. She had blocked you out entirely, slammed the door on your connection and forced you back into yourself.

Your entire body trembled as you began to sense things around you again. The gravel on the cold and dirty floor under your hands, the smell of the dust and smoke. Her words still played in your head like they were stuck in your ears as you opened your eyes, seeing the view of the familiar corridor sharpening.

Your breathing is rapid and your heart thumps in your chest at an alarming speed as you watch Ron and Hermione directly in front of you, their faces showing terror and their mouths moving quickly though you could not hear them, Nagini's words filling your ears still. Eventually the voice fades as you stare blankly into the distance and Ron and Hermione's voices become intelligible once again, increasing in volume slowly until you wince and try to pull away, hearing them too loudly now.

You see that your body is contorted into a strange position, one that you hadn't started out in and for a moment you consider how deeply your own physically body had merged with the snake. You immediately recoil and sit back on your haunches, still panting as you attempt to regulate yourself, mentally scrambling to grounding yourself.

"Think of Fred and George," you hear Ron say, attempting to help centre you. "They're safe, they're in the Hall with everyone you love. You're safe. Come back to us y/n."

You force yourself to picture your boyfriends, seeing visions of them in various years at Hogwarts and after in your mind, from emerging out of the passageways in fifth year, snowball fights in your third year to night at home in the flat all cuddled together as you watch rubbish muggle TV.

Almost straight away it helps and you feel yourself returning, the feel and thoughts of Nagini slipping from you entirely.

Your eyes slowly rise from your point of fixation and look up to the worried eyes of your friends, struggling to find the words to explain what you had seen.

"I, I think she's a woman," you say quietly, your voice croaking and sore as if you'd been screaming for hours. You frown, looking down at your lap, the image of the woman she'd shown you so clear in your mind.

"You think he's keeping her transfigured?" Hermione asks quickly, horrified at the thought. You shake your head, your brain still foggy as you try to think of logical reasons or possibilities.

"No, it's more than that, she's a snake but her thoughts are so human," you say, involuntarily shivering as you try to remember the feeling you felt at seeing the memory. "She knew I was there."

Hermione gasps and her hand flies up to cover her mouth, eyes horrified at the notion. Ron audibly gulps, trying to swallow back his reaction but you calmly breathe, trying to explain.

"She said he doesn't know, that our minds are bridged," you explain, "at first I didn't believe her but there was something more to it, she meant it. She showed me a memory, a woman, seek me and this shall end."

"We have to find someone else? Hardly got bloody time when they're beating down the doors."

"No it's not that," you say, quickly shooting down Ron, "I think she's trapped in the body of the snake. I think that's why Bathilda was so believable, because she knew exactly how to be human."

"A maledictus," Hermione says with a gasp. Ron looks beyond puzzled at the word tumbled from Hermione's mouth and at another time you'd probably have chuckled at the harsh glance she gives Ron. "Honesty Ronald do you not read your necessary textbooks?"

It slowly begins to connect in your mind and Hermione's theory makes complete sense.

"A maledictus is a woman born with a blood curse, able to turn into a predetermined beast but destined to transform into that creature permanently," Hermione explains and as far as you can remember it's recited verbatim from one of the dark arts textbooks. "But I thought that they lost all sense of humanity after the change had been made?"

"That's what I thought too," you say, moving slowly to stand and brush off the dust that cling to every inch of your clothes. "Maybe the piece of Voldemort's soul inside of her prevented her humanity from disappearing?"

"Yeah because you-know-who's known for his humanity," Ron mutters and you shoot him a thunderous look that tells him to shut up.

"What if it's a trap?" Hermione asks as you all stand now, suddenly whispering even quieter though no one was around.

"I thought it might be at first but she seemed so real, it wasn't like before when the Horcruxes tried to twist our minds, it was like she was asking for help."

A moment of quiet passes between you all as you considered what this meant for the larger plan.

"But she still needs to die," Ron says, breaking the silence. You nod, not seeing any other way around it.

"I have an idea but it's mad," you say, casting a glance to your bag that sits beneath your jacket, across your body for protection. The sounds you heard during your connection had prompted a very prominent memory that seemed to explain so much of the answers you'd been missing, finding that for once, you felt secure in your knowledge, knowing what you had to do.

"It's better than nothing," Ron shrugs.

Suddenly a brief but startling pain erupts in your mind, not too dissimilar to how it had when Voldemort had tried to communicate in your mind, though this time there was no cold sensation or sense of impending doom.

"He's coming," a female voice says within your head, though you knew it was not your own voice inside your head. The voice echoes as it fades and you quickly shake your head to try and make the voice disappear.

"They're coming back," you say quickly to Ron and Hermione, still trying to stretch out your neck as you can feel the lingering discomfort from Nagini's interruption.

You immediately began gathering everyone and began walking outside towards the courtyard in a strong group, both of your boyfriends standing protectively behind you as you stand beside Hermione, her hand entwined with yours for support as you looked towards the bridge, seeing a dark and solemn procession approaching.

Neville leads the way outside, searching in the depths of the rubble to find the sorting hat, lost in the battle and cast aside, dirty and ripped. He blows off the dust and studies it warily in your peripheral vision as your eyes fix on the approaching parade.

"Who's that? Hagrid's carrying?" You hear Ginny say from just behind you as she steps around you, Fred and George towards Neville, who doesn't reply.

"Neville, who is that?"

Her words fall on deaf ears as everyone watches in fear as the deatheaters, led by Voldemort, drawers ever closer. The figures have just come close enough to be able to focus on them, able to distinguish them apart from the sea of withered faces. You could see Bellatrix and her wild hair and movements, the Malfoy's who moved slowly and sullen in expression and you could see Nagini. There's a moment where it seems you catch each other's gaze and you feel a strange sort of connection to her, even though you'd watched her kill your friend only hours ago, forced to live through it. But you couldn't think of Severus now, instead you focused on the Weasley family surrounding you and the vision of death in front of you, coming ever closer as they cross the threshold to the courtyard from the viaduct.

You can see Voldemort's pale and serpentine features now and the faint smirk he emits as he surveys the ruins of the castle is enough to make anger flare deep in your soul, seeing his cruel and twisted satisfaction. The deatheaters fall into a line behind Voldemort and Nagini, a human barricade to anyone who wished to escape. Hagrid is forced to stand at the side, still cradling the body of someone you had quickly realised it to be, all hope leaving your body as you look upon his limp, lifeless figure. You'd been right, the pain you'd felt had been the result of a loss of life, of which you now knew to be Harry. In quick succession your thoughts drift flicker between devastation, loss, hopelessness and then twist to vengeance and determination, never losing focus of the main goal even if Harry is no longer around to lead the way.

"Harry Potter is dead!"

"No... NO!" Ginny screams, her primal cry pulling at the heartstrings of everyone around, the noise echoing through the stone courtyard. Arthur leaps forward to hold her back as she rushes towards the middle, wrapping his sobbing daughter in his arms, only holding her tighter as she struggles, tighter, closer, safer.

"Silence!" Voldemort shouts, raising his wand to cast a warning spell towards the sky in anger, "Stupid girl."

Voldemort surveys the scene before him, walking forwards slowly but with poignancy, repeating, "Harry Potter is dead. From this day forth, you put your faith in me."

Silence follows his address, his followers remaining mute whilst your friends and familiars stay silent in fear. You can hardly take your eyes away from the haunting sight of a beaten Hagrid holding the body of Harry.

"HARRY POTTER IS DEAD!" Voldemort turns towards his disciples and shouts with jubilant celebration and with arms wide open in victory, earning the cackles from his followers. He laughs and it's unlike anything you'd ever heard, like it was the first time in his life he'd ever made that noise, the sound of it so odd. With a toothy grin and open arms, he turns back to address you all, his body language opening up though his words remain cold and threatening.

"Now is the time to declare yourself! Come forward and join us... or die."

Silence once again passes after his words, not a single sound is made from the crowd. You daren't look around or catch anyone's eye, too afraid in what you'd see.

"Draco," you hear Lucius Malfoy from the front of the ranks gesturing for his son to join him. "Draco," he says again, quieter now as the entire eyes of the courtyard fall upon him. There's a brief hesitation in Draco where he stands still, the conflict within him never more obvious as he stands looking at his father's outstretched hand, feeling every ounce of pressure for him to move forward. Only when his mother softly calls his name does he begin to move, reluctantly walking over until he's embraced by Voldemort, another mildly haunting sight as he awkwardly places his grimy hands on Draco.

A few tense moments pass as you wait for anyone else to make their move and shoot your eyes to Neville as he limps towards Voldemort, dragging the sorting hat along with him. For a brief moment you are outraged and heartbroken as you watch Neville break ranks, watching in disbelief as he shuffles ever closer to the dark Lord. Voldemort regards him with amusement, attempting humour as he looks down upon the limping, bleeding Neville.

"Well, I must say, I'd hoped for better," he grins with twisted amusement before his face drops and he begins walking towards Neville, who doesn't look him in the eye. You see Arthur gripping his wand tighter as he keeps a fixed, watchful eye on Neville, the look of disbelief in his eyes mirroring your own.

"Who might you be, young man?"

"Neville Longbottom."

The deatheaters laugh, none louder than that of Bellatrix who cackles loudly, her face twisted in delight.

"Well, Neville, I'm sure we can find a place for you in our ranks."

"I'd like to say something." Neville's gaze finally rises from the floor as he looks directly at Voldemort now who seems to balk at the suggestion, his face grimacing as he snares, pushing down his rising anger.

"Very well, Neville. I'm sure we'd all be fascinated to hear what you have to say," he goades, sending a hateful look towards Neville who in return looks upon him in contempt.

"It doesn't matter that Harry is gone."

"Stand down, Neville!" Seamus says, urging his friend to stop, knowing that no good would come from his speech.

"People die every day. Friends. Family. Yes, we lost Harry tonight. But he's still with us, in here," he taps his chest directly over his heart, turning his head to address you all, "So is Remus and Tonks and... all of them. They didn't die in vain." He turns to Voldemort and spares a pointed glance at Bellatrix. "But you will. Because you're wrong. Harry's heart did beat for us. All of us!"

Neville takes a step forward, looks Voldemort in the eye and with one fast move, he draws the sword of Gryffindor out of the sorting hat, shouting and preparing to swing. Voldemort stands frozen for a moment as at that very time, a movement from the top corner of the courtyard has everyone gasping. You look on in amazement as you see Harry alive and Neville wielding the sword all at the same time, two unexpected events back to back that were enough to make you pause for a moment as you observed.

Harry launches himself out of Hagrid's arms and falls to the floor, not dead at all as he runs for cover between the stone pillars. It's mayhem as deatheaters begin to disperse, running for their lives and disappearing into thin air. Voldemort suddenly wheels wildly in Harry's direction, as he fights to shield himself behind the pile of rubble.

"Potter!" You hear a familiar voice say and look on with rapt attention as Draco's hand whips forward and tosses Harry a wand, in complete disregard of the looks from his parents beside him.

"Well done Malfoy!" Ron says from beside you, quickly muttering in a much quieter voice, "can't believe I just said that."

Voldemort fires on Harry with a burning fury, sending curse after curse in his direction as he weaves between the stone pillars of the courtyard; effectively blocking each one of his vengeful attacks. More deatheaters flee with a cloud of black smoke, leaving less than half of your original opponents gone.

"Everyone back in the castle," you say quickly, your eyes instinctively going to Arthur's who seems to have the same thought, quickly herding the group back into safety. Kingsley moves to shield the group, though Voldemort it much too preoccupied with Harry in the moment and quickly draws everyone back into the Great Hall. Fred and George run beside you, George's hand briefly entwining with yours.

Neville is blasted with a curse that propels him straight back into the castle, flying up into the air and landing with a sickening thud.

"Confringo!" Harry fires upon Nagini as he bounds towards the castle's entrance, luring Voldemort inside. Flames run the entire length of Nagini and though she hisses in displeasure, nothing happens, to her at least. You wince as the pain in your shoulder intensifies immediately, feeling scorched by the spell that Harry had cast. You fall behind, the last to enter the hall, except for Harry as George's hand slips from yours, the twins slipping into the stream of people pouring to safety. Hermione's head whips round and you notice Harry sending a brief glance in your direction as he fights off Voldemort who had taken rather badly to Harry's attempt at killing his prized pet. From the look in their eyes, you realise that if you could feel her pain, the connection was much stronger than you'd known, the implication of what was to follow allowing a lingering sense of doom to wash over you.

Harry runs back further into the castle in anticipation of Voldemort following him, your gaze fixed on the snake at his feet. Harry quickly stopped upon realising that Voldemort was not pursuing him as anticipated, but rather had stopped just by the threshold of the doors, his cold, hard gazed locked on you. He's seen everything that had happened, he was no longer unaware of your connection to Nagini.

"You."

You meet his eyes, showing no fear. A hardness had come over you, void of emotion as you looked at the man you had feared for too long. A man who had both directly and indirectly taken so much from you, the man you no longer feared.

Fred and George remain at the door to the Great Hall after discovering you were no longer beside them, as does Arthur, all of them watching with rapt attention as he addresses you, their wands fixed on his figure. You don't look at their faces but can clearly see the outline of their figures in your peripheral vision, too worried to look at the expression on their faces.

"You are the one who resists me," he sneers, taking a singular step forward as you grip your wand tighter, saying nothing, though your face shows nothing but distain. "The one that resisted my attempt to communicate, the one who forced me to push harder, to weaken myself to get through a single witches mind when everyone else was so easy to manipulate. The one who senses the shift in Nagini, thinking I am ignorant to it. You are the one that shall die next."

"No!" The twins scream in sync, though Fred is the one who rushes forward with his wand aimed, all of you watching in horror as Voldemort draws back his arm and points his wand at you, ready to curse you before turning it on Fred in anger for the interruption.

Three things happen at once that leave you and the people around you utterly shocked and astounded.

Firstly, the Lebetum in your pocket begins to violently shake, more than a vibrate at is had before, physically shifting the material of your pocket as it then explodes inside your pocket. Secondly, the beam of light that you believed to have disappeared with Severus' life, shone brighter than ever, enveloping you in illuminated blue tendrils of light, the now incorporeal Patronus effectively shielding you from harm. Thirdly, the beam of light that has encased you and protected you reaches out to also block Fred from Voldemort's curse, rebounding it and creating a ricochet of the curse that physically knocks Voldemort back, though doesn't harm him.

He quickly bounces back and shoots another curse at you, fury evident in his face at being bested but no hit comes, the tendrils of blue light still surrounding you. Harry quickly fixes his wand upon Voldemort and tries to curse him but he deflects it with precision. You spare a glance at Nagini but realise quickly that it's the wrong thing to do as Voldemort suddenly reaches out towards the snake and disappears into a cloud of black smoke, along with the snake. There's no time to question what had just happened, nor implore the quizzical looks of the people around you at the device in your hand.

Harry turns to you and you know what needs to be done, the others still frozen in horror at what had just happened.

"I'll go after him."

"I'll get the snake."

"No," Fred begins to protest, George also vocalising his displeasure but you look at them with your hardened face, seeing no other way. You didn't want to leave them again, feeling as if you'd already done too much leaving and reuniting, but there was no other option and it was too dangerous for them to accompany you.

"It has to be her," Ron says, sullen but with a hardness to his tone you'd never seen him use in his family, a tone that said no questions would be answered at this moment. You step forward and kiss Fred with a fiery passion, completely ignoring the fact that there father was mere feet away before turning to George and giving him the same heated kiss.

"It'll be over soon, this is the last thing. Keep everyone here safe, your family needs you, I love you both. So much."

You don't hesitate any longer and turn on the spot, running through the corridor and out of view, in search for the snake. You knew looking inside yourself for the connection would leave you vulnerable and right now that was too much risk to take so you quietly hid around the stair bannister and closed your eyes, hoping for at least a small peek of where Nagini was, checking first that you had your bag and everything you would need.

You saw rubble, harsh against the frame of her body and Voldemort's billowing robes as he ascended stair after stair, firing at Harry.

You ran as fast as your feet would allow and crept around the lower staircase, seeing Harry and Voldemort duelling higher up, completely unaware of your presence. You grabbed a rock from the pile of rubble beside you and hurtled it at Nagini, trying to get her attention. You threw another and backed out of the back, hiding behind a wall as to not draw attention to yourself from the other two who were locked in battle.

Suddenly, there's an explosion from above that causes Nagini to topple over the bannister and come hurtling down onto the floor not far from where you were hiding. She hisses wildly, body coiling and uncoiling before she freezes, spotting you.

Your shoulder burns the closer she gets, the tingling sensation only growing stronger as she fixes her gaze on you.

There's a tense moment that passes as you regard eachother but there's something wrong; there's no recognition there, no connection. It's like she's possessed, cursed. The trunk of her body extends and she pulls back before launching directly at you, making you swerve out of the way, casting a curse upon her as you move that narrowly misses.

"Nagini, you're free, I'll free you!" You say, trying to reason but it's pointless, the snake keeps attacking, drawing you further and further out of the staircase hall.

You know that it may be the last opportunity for you to do what you need and you summon the vial from inside your bag that had been stored there since the night of the attack. The thick, black, ominous liquid seems to swirl on its own accord, the iridescence shining as you look upon the venom that had been pulled from your body.

You take a breath, steady yourself as you keep a close eye on the snake that seems to be preparing to attack again, body coiling and pulling back. There's a brief moment when Fred and George enter your mind, their smiles and laughter, exactly how you want to remember them, hoping that if you are to die in the next minute, they remember you that way too.

The snake lurches forward and you cry out in pain, watching with absent eyes as your blood drips down and pools onto the stone floor beneath you, succumbing to your fate.

Taglist: (if your tag is pink please look at your privacy settings as it will not allow me to tag you)

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#emeritusemeritus #harry potter #emeritusemerituswrites #fred weasley #fred weasley x you #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley masterlist #george weasley #george weasley x you #weasley twins x reader #george weasley x reader x fred weasley #george weasley smut #george weasley x reader #weasley twins masterlist #weasley twins x you #fred weasley x reader x george weasley

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gracieryder · 1 month

Note

⛵⚓🏝️💰🏡🥞🍵☕⛵🗺️🧭

I sent this to @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels in DM, and she's very offended that you're trying to take her place.

She said, and I quote, "Hey now if anyone is going to sail the world with you and find buried treasure on a desert island and make you pancakes it's ME. Your WIFE."

So, you're outta luck, anon. 😔

#🥞👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩💍🏴‍☠️⛵#anonymous #mist answers #mists chaos tag

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dreadheadmadi · 2 months

Text

- I’M GONNA CLAW THOSE PRETTY LITTLE EYES OUT

Chapter 1

A/N: If you enjoyed this chapter, let me know by reblogging or just dm me! Let me know if you want to be added to the tag list! I hope you have a wonderful day or night, bye angel!

BLACKWOOD MANOR loomed on the outskirts of New York like a gothic monolith, its sprawling grounds shrouded in mist and mystery; its imposing design was a testament to the wealth and power of its enigmatic owner, the elusive billionaire Alexander Blackwood. The grandeur of the mansion enveloped the night like a cloak of decadence, its opulence a stark contrast to the darkness that seeped through its polished corridors.

Usually, the manor would lay dormant and dark, with no sounds or persons going in or out. However, tonight was a special night, a masquerade-themed birthday, of whom it belonged to but none other than Alexander Blackwood's spouse. She was different from her loner husband - a city girl and an active member of New York's rich folk. Such a figure would earn as many friends and connections as possible - and she invited them all. Within the manor's walls, the wealthy elite danced and revealed, their laughter echoing against the marble floors as they indulged in the spoils of their privilege.

Among them, Alexander's favorite niece, Sofia Blackwood, navigated the sea of masked faces, her steps hesitant as she struggled to mask her discomfort beneath a façade of poise and grace. That night, she mustered the courage to ask her uncle to fund her college education, considering that her parents disapproved of her choice of study and promised to cut ties if she pursued it.

The air was heavy with the scent of expensive perfumes and the sickly sweetness of excess, but beneath it, a palpable tension lurked—a sense of impending doom that clung to the shadows like a vengeful specter. As the night wore on and inhibitions faded, Sofia was drawn to a secluded balcony overlooking the sprawling gardens below. She needed a moment to think, to gather herself before locating her uncle. Taking deep breaths, Sofia closed her eyes before looking at the scenery. A small smile appeared as she reminisced about when her uncle would play tag with her in the garden - tiny Sofia would run around the hedges, past the fountain, and up the staircase leading back to the manor as Alexander chased her. As her eyes followed the path, her smile quickly dropped as a cold chill shot through her blood.

There, amidst the ivy-covered trellises and moonlit fountains, she stumbled upon a sight that would forever haunt her nightmares. A figure lay sprawled across the cold stone tiles—a man, his once-immaculate tuxedo now stained with the crimson evidence of his demise. His eyes, wide with terror, stared unseeing into the night while multiple grotesque gashes marred his throat, the blood still warm and viscous against his pallid skin.

Sofia recoiled in horror, bile rising in her throat as she struggled to comprehend the brutality of the scene before her. The metallic tang of blood filled her nostrils, and she fought to suppress the urge to hurl as the reality of the situation washed over her in sickening waves. Instead of vomit coming out of her mouth, a guttural, heart-wrenching shriek replaced it. Multiple footsteps rush towards her before halting abruptly, filling the evening atmosphere with their wails. Around her, the party descended into chaos, the revelry shattered by the specter of death that now loomed over them all. Sofia was grabbed by her mother and father and ushered into an enclosed room where she finally regurgitated her evening meal onto the pristine marble floors.

Guests screamed and fled in panic, their masks slipping in their haste to escape the scene of the carnage unfolding before their eyes. All but one remained rooted to the spot, their gaze fixed on the lifeless form before them. Taking off their mask reveals a Black man with a scowl so deep in hatred that one would have thought he was the one who committed the murder. His dark brown eyes glower down at the body before being covered by the full face mask again. Quickly, he returned to the building, stomping down the velvet-covered stairs and pushing his way to the front of the small crowd around the crime scene.

As the crowd prayed, cried, and cursed the murderer to hell, the man's eyes focused on the wound on his neck. The gashes weren't a nice clean slice as if it were with a standard knife; they were thinner, deeper, and jagged with bits of flesh dangling and sticking out on the sides. No, a knife hadn't done this, but a set of claws-

"It was the Prowler!" a voice declared, "Look at the claw marks! That fucking bastard killed Alex!"

"I heard he's working with Fisk now. That fucking mammoth hated Alexander," another voice added, "He probably put a hit out."

"But on his wife's birthday? At a big event like this when we're all here?" A third chimed in. The second shook his head while pointing to Alexander's dead body.

"You don't know those men like I do; Alex was his number one enemy. When Fisk's family died, he asked Alex to help with some investments on some secret project; the hell if I know what it is. Alex said the fucker went batshit crazy when he lost his wife and was all over the news saying it too. It was supposed to be a wake-up call, but Fisk took that as disrespect and has been an enemy to the Blackwood family ever since. Dropping sponsorships, buying out companies, blocking his political power, I know that son of a bitch got something to do with this!"

The first voice suddenly reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a gun. "Fuck," he spat, "Fuck, fuck! To fucking hell with Fisk! I was THIS close to buying off those fucking votes! All that money gone to shit - where the FUCK is that purple bastard?! I'm putting a bullet through his head and then into Fisk's next!" With the sudden uproar, the first voice stormed back into the manor, which prompted others to do the same, all looking for the Prowler. He was already gone, however - he snuck out of the manor and into the thicket surrounding the manor, climbing onto his motorcycle and speeding off towards Brooklin. As he blares down the road, he tears off his mask again - brown eyes darkened as a single thought runs through his head.

That bitch stole my fucking kill.

Aaron swore to his momma that he’d never hit a girl, but this bitch was asking for it. It wasn’t the first time Black Cat had killed someone on his list; no, it’s been months since their first encounter. But for how long will this keep happening? The year is almost over, and he’s only been responsible for the deaths of four unlucky souls. Four, while she had six. Five of which were stolen right from his grasp. To say he was upset is an understatement. Annoyed? Oh, that’s long gone. Pissed? Maybe two months ago. Enraged? Closer, but not quite.

It’s gotten to the point where his work has become sloppy - disregarding his usual planned and strategic approach for a quicker and easier route just in case she was around. One time he even took a gunshot to his shoulder because of his blatant tunnel vision - Fisk gave him shit for it and benched him for a few weeks to heal before shoving him back into work. Aaron figures he’s going to be hooked on painkillers for a long while.

Speaking of the Kingpin, Aaron wasn’t sure how to explain what happened tonight, hell he doesn’t even know what happened tonight. All he knew was that he had only been at the party for around fifteen to twenty minutes before Sophia’s screams were heard. The party had only been going on for about ten minutes before he arrived, so within that thirty-minute window, Black Cat had arrived at the party, isolated Alexander, and killed him.

Based on his wounds, Aaron deduced that they weren’t deep enough to make a swift and easy kill. As he studied the evidence photos of Alexander after he hacked into the BPD police files, he zoomed in closely on the gashes. While it did look like claw marks, they were uneven and choppy. It wasn’t a clean strike either - it was slanted and angled more vertically than anything. A clear indication of a height difference, Aaron noted.

Alexander was six feet tall exactly; if Black Cat had struggled to get to his neck, she’d be closer to five feet in height, five feet and five inches at max. Aaron paused and wondered if she were wearing heels or platforms that night - it would make sense, considering she’d have to blend into a masquerade-styled party. That would put her shorter than five feet and five inches, the average height for women in Brooklyn. He wrote that down on a notepad and kept examining the photos.

The pieces of flesh that stuck out kept drawing his attention. It looked like the results of his prototype claw gauntlets. They were made of random and uncut metals that weren't accurately measured or maintained. The metal would often be too sharp or dull and get stuck underneath the victim’s skin due to the curvature of the claws. Once he drew back his hand, he would quite literally rip out the area of flesh he had made contact with. While it got the job done, it was a messy and loud kill, prompting him to update his weapon.

It was evident to Aaron that Black Cat’s weapon was similar to his prototype; however, one thing still bothered him - it was a silent kill. The initial contact had been on the side of his neck, still leaving enough airway to scream out for help or in pain. No one heard anything, and according to the witness statements, no one had noticed that Alexander was not present at the party. Aaron frowned at that detail - Alexander Blackwood wasn’t stupid. Someone, be it a guard or even his wife, had to have known he was separating himself from the partygoers. A man who has many enemies wouldn’t dare leave without alerting someone.

Another thing that bothered him was that Alexander wasn’t some snobby old rich guy. Blackwood was a black belt in his youth; he competed in and eventually founded various boxing matches and fight clubs across the United States. He was highly trained in artillery and probably would have been a military commander by now if he wasn’t in control of New York’s corrupt legal system. Simply put, Alexander Blackwood was a force to be reckoned with, just to be cut down by some female in a black leather jumpsuit. It just didn’t make sense.

All of Black Cat’s six kills before Alexander Blackwood had been young men and women of minor importance—quick money, as Aaron called it. The targets Fisk had assigned to the Prowler were gang leaders, drug dealers, and old henchmen whom Fisk no longer needed. This jump from stepping on an ant to straight-up maiming a lion was highly unusual for some uptown thief in a bodysuit. A whole year with little to no gains was starting to get to the mercenary; he needed to get to the bottom of this shit and quickly.

Aaron rubbed his hand across his face and turned towards another monitor, clicking on Google and searching up “Black Cat Brooklin.” He was hoping something new would pop up, but all he found were a few articles and stories he’d already researched.

There was a video that had gone viral a month ago; it was the CCTV footage of a jewelry store that the villainess had broken into. She wore her classic attire, mask, and a white straightened angled bob. Strolling around the store, she opened the displays and bagged all the merchandise, even trying on some and posing in a mirror hanging on the wall. Afterward, she shouldered the duffel bag, blew a kiss at the camera, and left out of the vent system she had used to get into the building. The uproar on memes and parodies of the event were all over Aaron’s feed for days. Women were gushing over her bad bitch aura, creating fan pages, and even going out and buying white wigs, dyes, and bundles just to look like her. And, of course, the men were practically fapping their dicks, saying how she was too delicate to go to prison, how they too would steal some shit in this economy; they were lowkey gassing her up more than the women did.

Aaron didn’t care enough to have an opinion; at that time, she was just some thief. But it’s different now, he thought, she’s more than a thief, she’s a killer. This year was the first year of her dipping her toes into homicide, and from Aaron’s knowledge, she hadn’t even been caught yet. Aaron wondered if those men and women would still support her after it’s exposed that she killed six people in over a year, but he figured they probably still would - the world is fucking crazy nowadays.

Right now at the moment, he was just mindlessly scrolling, clicking on the fan pages and profiles for any information he could gain on her. And then, after refreshing for the tenth time, a new video popped up titled “BLACK CAT HAS A NEW WEAPON (and it reminds me of someone 🤔) | New Look, New Tactics.” Aaron immediately clicked on the video and recognized the person in the commentary as an influencer who was one of the ones who made the robbing video famous by creating a whole trend based on it. The video started with random filler topics, which Aaron graciously skipped through before getting down to the central part of the video.

“Okay, guys, so let’s get to the tea; last night, Black Cat was seen scaling buildings and rooftops downtown with a new look, baby! Let’s look at what Miss Cat got going on for us,” the influencer starts, clicking on a Twitter thread showing a few off-guard pictures and videos of the thief.

“Oh, my God, you guys! Look at that fur, okay, hold on, I’m getting ahead of myself,” she laughed before viewing the first picture and zooming in. “Okay, first thing’s first, that hair, baby! Miss Cat said new hair, new me, and rocking this new do! Gone is her angled bob, replaced with these cute goddess passion twists; I love this! Of course, it’s colored in her signature platinum. Is it platinum? Platinum feels more yellow to me, maybe just plain white? Or maybe more like a frosty white, you know? Yeah, let’s go with that, haha! Edges are laid to perfection, makeup always looking fresh, ugh I’m telling all of you Miss Cat needs to open up shop cause I would pay-“

Aaron skipped ahead a little more; it’s nothing new that Black Cat constantly changed up her hairstyle and makeup looks. It's a smart move, considering how easy it is to track someone nowadays. Her indecisiveness is the sole reason no one has found out who she is; by the time they get comfortable with one look, it’s on to the next.

“Alright, so let’s talk about this new suit. So, I do get why most people say this isn’t a new suit. I mean, it is just the same suit with more fur, probably to keep warm since we are in winter, but I like to call it a new suit solely for these!” The influencer moves to the following picture, a close-up of Black Cat’s arms - which had two slender gauntlets with claw-like attachments. Aaron sat up and leaned towards the screen. Those looked familiar - real fucking familiar.

“That’s right, guys, Black Cat has a new weapon! This kitty has claws, and she is not afraid to use them! Many people say they love it; it’s on brand with the whole cat thing and a way better choice than the staff she used. I love the claws; they bring her a new, dangerous vibe. Like, before, she was just this common thief we all made jokes about, but now it’s like, damn, she's pretty serious about this. Miss Cat said to put some respect on her name; she isn’t any weak runt of the litter; she is THE Black Cat. Quit playing with her; this is serious business! Now, next, we have a quick little video of this new weapon in action, but before that, a quick word from our sponsor-“

Yeah, no, fuck that. Aaron skips again to where the video starts, and his leg bounces. There’s no way, there’s no fucking way, right? Right?

The video in the thread plays, and it shows Black Cat using the claws to climb up a brick wall, leaving significant scratch marks and puncture holes etched into the concrete. Then, once on top of the roof, she raises her hand and flexes it, which seems to trigger some mechanism as the claw part of the gauntlet shoots out and attaches itself to the edge of another roof two buildings across. Black Cat then runs and jumps off the roof she was currently on and uses the rope-like connection lodged between the claw part and the rest of the gauntlet. She swings towards the building, and on the video, the connection shortens, creating a grappling hook. The video shows her safely landing and repeating the action for another building before it ends.

The video cuts back to the influencer as she comments, “So, as we can see, it’s like a grappling hook, kind of? That’s cool; I wish I had a grappling hook. Then I could properly get to work on time when there’s traffic-“

Aaron exits the video before finding the Twitter thread and checking the comments. There are screenshots of the gauntlet from different angles and a few claims that it had sometimes glowed purple. After reading more and more comments about the description of the gauntlet, Aaron leans back in his chair and blinks.

That’s my gauntlet, he thinks; that’s my prototype.

Immediately, he calls Fisk - the one person Aaron trusted enough to leave the prototype with due to his high-security level warehouses and marked a sign of mutual trust between the two business partners. After quickly catching Fisk up to date, Fisk left to check the warehouse himself before confirming that the prototype was indeed missing - stating that they had numerous techs slowly disappear since the end of the previous year but couldn’t pin who it was or how they broke in.

The whole reason he wanted Alexander dead was because he was the only other person who knew where Fisk’s warehouses were, so the Kingpin thought he was the one who did it. Regardless, Fisk seemed intrigued that Aaron had made the connection to Black Cat, but Aaron was too busy breathing fire to even tune in on what the Kingpin was saying, causing him to drop the line altogether.

Aaron could feel the uncomfortable heat of anger creeping up his spine and seeping into his brain, as he returned to the thread and checked the new comments.

It didn't take long before the public started to bring up the Prowler’s weapon and their similarities. After rewatching the video five more times, Aaron noticed the prototype was tampered with. Every major flaw Aaron had trouble with had been fixed to a degree. Aaron closed his eyes and leaned back, his leg bouncing rapidly before suddenly stopping.

“It’s my prototype, he mumbles, “And she fixed it. She took my shit and made it better.” He slowly opens his eyes; green envy returns to his dark brown eyes. “First, she steals my kills, and now she steals my tech,” he chuckles before laughing and slamming his palm down onto his desk. “I am,” he laughs, “I am going to fucking end this bitch.”

Tag list: @mordeiswrld @arielpanda1 @young-dc @fossilizedbeetle @super-nova-2006 @chelsea-xxx2003 @fandom-multiamory @leahnicole1219

#black tumblr #x reader #across the spiderverse #miles morales #x female reader #aaron davis #aaron davis x reader #the prowler x black cat #the prowler x reader #the prowler #black cat #x black reader #x black oc #into the spider verse #spiderverse x reader #madiwrites

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zeciex · 16 days

Text

A Vow of Blood - 74

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

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

Chapter 74: Salt and Smoke

AO3 - Masterlist

Daemon lingered in the hall outside of the room he shared with his wife, his posture rigid as he leaned against the wall, the chill of the stone offering no comfort. He was held in place, not by chains or locks, but by the haunting echoes of Rhaenyra’s cries of distress that filled the corridors of Dragonstone. The sound of her agony, as piercing and relentless as a barrage of arrows, struck him with a visceral pain, each wail an arrow embedding itself within his flesh, tearing at him with the promise of leaving deeper wounds upon extraction. Inside him, a tempest of anxiety and helplessness swirled, a tumultuous storm that found no outlet, only manifesting in a physical itch, an urge to move, to do something, yet he remained rooted to the spot.

Daemon yearned to be at her side, to envelop her in the comfort and support she so desperately sought as she called out to him, yet an unseen force held him back, rendering him unable to step into the shared sanctuary of their anguish.

Her voice, frail yet imbued with a desperate hope, cut through the oppressive atmosphere of the chamber. It rose and fell like wisps of mist at dawn, a tender, soulful plea to the child she carried. “Please, please, please… Please, come out…”

Her words, though faint with exhaustion and pain of labor, carried the weight of her longing for seeing the child into this world and the love she held for it, reverberating poignantly in the silence that engulfed Daemon. The air around him seemed to carry the echo of her voice letting it linger over him like a shadow.

Consumed by frustration and powerlessness, Daemon gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, his head recoiling against the hard, cold stone wall with a muted thud. This act of self-punishment, his head banging repeatedly against the unyielding surface, served as a silent confession of his failure to comfort his wife in her hour of need. Each thud was a painful reminder of his powerlessness.

Daemon wished he could take on Rhaenyra’s suffering himself, fully conscious, however, of his own limitations. Words of comfort felt hollow, stuck in his throat and unable to grow into something more, and the soothing touch he yearned to offer felt out of his capability, far out of his reach.

A haunting fear gripped him – the dread of history’s cruel repetition, the possibility of losing another wife to the merciless fate of childbirth. The agonized cries of pain that reached him were a haunting echo of Laena’s.

Daemon preferred the clarity of warfare, a realm where victory’s cost was clear, measured in the resolve of his men and the strength of his sword, to the uncertainties of childbirth. He found solace in the order of battle, the straightforward nature of leading his forces against a tangible enemy. The thought of being confronted with having to choose between the life of his beloved wife and that of their unborn child was a torment far greater than any battlefield could offer.

In warfare, decisions, no matter how severe, followed certain logic; they were clear, direct, tangible. But in the dim, uncertain shadows of childbirth, the specter of loss loomed large, an adversary for which Daemon felt profoundly unprepared.

In the dimly lit corridor, Daemon stood enveloped in the shadows, his stance mirroring the inner chaos that raged within him. It was there that Ser Brandon Piper, the Captain of the guard, made his approach, his demeanor carrying the weight of formality yet laced with an underlying current of tension that seemed to pervade the halls of Dragonstone.

“My Prince,” he began, his eyes momentarily drifting towards the door of the bedchamber, the source of Daemon’s anguish, before locking back onto Daemon. “The men have been gathered and await your presence.”

Acknowledging the message with a mute nod, Daemon detached himself from the support of the wall, the lingering echo of Rhaenyra’s distressing calls shadowing his movements. Each step he took away from her side felt laden with the heavy specter of what more he stood to lose.

Daemon’s voice carried a blend of urgency and fatigue as he inquired, “Any tidings from King’s Landing?”

“No ravens from King’s Landing, my prince. The only raven that has arrived bore a message from Driftmark. Lord Bartimos has it,” Ser Brandon reported. “I’ve stationed a reliable man at the rookery, ready for any news that may arrive.”

Acknowledging this with a grave nod, Daemon issued a directive, his mind racing with thoughts of King’s Landing and its current state. “Dispatch someone to the capital. Endure it’s someone whose loyalty is beyond question. I wish to know any and all things that transpire within the city.”

He had hoped to have received some news of Daenera’s condition and circumstances–awaited the information with a wary anticipation.

Daemon made his way into the expansive hall, where the grand map of Westeros dominated the space, crafted from rich, aged wood. Descending the steps to the lower level, he approached the gathered assembly. The group encircled the map, their attention fixed on him, awaiting his directives, a blend of staunch loyalty and barely concealed unease carved into their expressions. Positioned at the center of the advisors, Daemon was cast in the flickering light of the torches, their flames casting long, dancing shadows over the ancient stone underfoot, and the scant rays of sunlight that managed to breach the chamber’s tall, slender windows lent a subdued, almost melancholic light to the scene of impending strategic discussions.

The air was thick with the tension of looming conflict, the room filled with the distinctive aroma of burning wood from the nearby heart, which crackled intermittently, punctuating the otherwise heavy silence.

Daemon stood as the focal point of this assembly, projecting a sense of resolute command, even as the weight of the moment rested heavily upon his shoulders.

“I want patrols along the island’s perimeter, looking for any small ships that might set ashore.” Daemon issued the orders with a sense of urgency, acutely aware of the vulnerability of their position. “If the Greens attack now it will be by stealth…”

The very stones of Dragonstone appeared to carry the torment of Rhaenyra’s cries, her voice weaving through the corridors and lingering in the shadows. As her pained groans finally subsided into the surrounding silence, an unsettling calm took hold. This quiet, heavy with implication, seemed almost solid, imbuing the air with a foreboding weight. The absence of sound was not a relief but a harbinger of unease, casting a tangible shroud of apprehension over all within its walls.

“...not directly,” Daemon continued, momentarily steadying the wavering focus of his men. “We don’t have enough men to surround the island, but we can make ourselves appear stronger than they are.”

Just as the heavy stillness seemed to settle, another of Rhaenyra’s anguished groans tore through the solemn quiet. The sound seemed to take on a life of its own, threading through the ranks of the assembled council and embedding a tangible sense of dread in the air. The discomfort was evident in the eyes of the men surrounding Daemon–heavy with implicit critique of his decision to focus on military preparations at such a critical moment.

The men shared uneasy looks among themselves, their discomfort and unease evident as they shuffled on their feet. Daemon chose to ignore his wife’s shrinks, just as he chose to disregard the men’s apparent disquiet at his composed, unwavering demeanor. His presence was marked by a confident and focused calm, a stark contrast to the tension around him, concentrating solely on the matter at hand–the only thing he could do.

Turning his attention to Ser Lorent Marbrand with a resolve that cut through the thick atmosphere, Daemon issued a firm directive. “Conscript the Dragon Keepers. They’re capable fighters. Waste no time.”

“It will be done, my prince,” Ser Lorent replied, his acknowledgement grave yet resolute.

“Until reinforcements arrive, we’ll have a dragon patrol the skies,” Daemon asserted, the underlying tension palpable in his tone.

The silent scrutiny from those surrounding him bore heavily upon his shoulders, each of Rhaenyra’s distant cries of pain echoing within him, sharp and cold as a blade drawn across his soul. Her torment resonated deep within, its icy grip enchasing his heart, yet he steadfastly quelled these swirling emotions, burying them deep within the recesses of his mind.

Lord Bartimos Celtigar broke into his thoughts, “A raven flew in this morning. The Sea Snake’s fever has broken, he has left Evenfall.”

“Where is he sailing?”

“That much is unclear, my prince.”

“We’ve dispatched ravens to our closes allies,” Daemon relayed to the council, his tone carrying the urgency of their situation. “Lords Staunton and Emmon are expected to arrive soon, and by nightfall, Lord Massey and Darklyn should join us. With their forces combined, we might manage to keep watch over the skies without relying on dragon patrols.”

In an instant, the haunting clarity of Rhaenyra’s voice broke through the tense atmosphere, her call for Daemon slicing through him with the intensity of a blade twisting in his gut. Yet, undeterred by the interruption, Daemon’s determination only solidified. “Our true power resides in our dragons and in Rhaenyra’s rightful claim. It is imperative that we get to the great houses before the Greens…”

Once more, Rhaenyra’s voice echoed, this time laced with unmistakable pain and urgency, “Daemon!”

As Daemon issued his commands, the sound of his voice reverberated off the stone, mingling with the distant moans of pain from his wife, creating a dissonant chord that seemed to echo with the solemnity of the moment. The men gathered around the map, their faces a mixture of resolve and worry, shifted uneasily, their movements barely audible against agony that haunted the halls of Dragonstone.

“Do you want to speak with the maester, my prince?” Ser Lorent inquired, his question hanging precariously between them.

Daemon responded not with words but with a look that carried the weight of a thousand responses. It was a gaze sharp and penetrating, meant to dissuade any further questions. Faced with the intensity of Daemon’s glare, Ser Lorent averted his eyes in deference.

Undeterred, Daemon declared his next move, “I’ll fly to the Riverlands myself and affirm Lord Tully’s support.”

“You will do no such thing,” Jace proclaimed, his voice resonant and clear, seeming to reflect a command from his mother. His entrance immediately captured the attention of all present with his assertive presence. Standing tall, with his shoulders back and his head held high, he exuded an air of authority that demanded respect.

Daemon’s eyes slowly shifted to focus on the young prince, whose bold interruption sparked a mix of irritation and frustration within him.

With an audible sigh, Daemon turned his gaze from Jace, his response tinged with vexation. “It is good that you are here, young prince. You’re needed to replace Baela in the sky on Vermax.”

“Did you not hear me?” Jace shot back, his retort brimming with the boldness and tenacity reminiscent of his mother’s when she was his age.

At that moment, Rhaenyra’s cry once again pierced the tense silence of the room, the sound resonating ominously, adding a palpable layer of urgency and stress to the tension.

Daemon’s frustration swelled within him, igniting with the intensity of a dragon disturbed by a pestering dog. How could Rhaenyra wish for them to remain passive, allowing the Greens the advantage yet again? His actions were calculated and strategic, each command made in effort to protect their rightful claim to the throne, as well as that of her sons. Neglecting to rally their closest allies would leave their position open, susceptible to the cunning plots of the Hightowers. Without securing the support of the realm’s great houses, their disadvantage would persist.

With the strategic alliance of the great houses–Tully, Baratheon, and mayhaps even Tyrell–arrayed around King’s Landing, they had a chance to swiftly recapture Rhaenyra’s crown, preempting any similar strategies by the Greens.

To Daemon, conceding more time to the enemy was unthinkable; they had already lost enough time as it was.

Securing the allegiance of these houses could enable them to surround King’s Landing, compelling a surrender. Should resistance arise, they were prepared to besiege the city.

Rhaenyra’s plea for inaction was a dangerous echo of his brother’s own reluctance to act, a path fraught with missed opportunities and regrets. Daemon stood firm, unwavering as he refused to allow the errors of his brother to be repeated under his watch. Inaction was a risk too great to entertain.

Driven by a resolve to avenge his brother, to reclaim his wife’s stolen throne, and to rectify the injustice the Hightowers had put into this world through years of scheming and plotting, Daemon was prepared to move forward.

This time, his actions would be swift, decisive, leaving no room for hesitation.

“The ravens, Lord Bartimos,” Daemon instructed, his tone imbued with an unchallengeable command.

Lord Bartimos Celtigar, momentarily locking eyes with Jace, displayed a hint of hesitation, a silent struggle against defying his Queen’s explicit orders. Yet, under the weight of Daemon’s imposing presence and hardened gaze, he acquiesced with a resigned nod, “I shall see it done.”

Turning his focus, Daemon addressed Ser Lorent with equal decisiveness. “Summon Ser Steffon. You are needed on the Dragonmont.”

Having issued his orders, Daemon proceeded to leave the room, his steps marked by an assured, deliberate pace indicative of his resolve. Approaching Jace, his gaze intensified, sharpening with a silent censure for the prince’s earlier challenge. Yet, without pausing, Daemon extended an implicit challenge to Jace with a compelling proposition, “Come with me. I’ll show you the true meaning of loyalty.”

Exiting the castle, the distant sounds of Rhaenyra’s distress fading behind them, Jace hastened to match Daemon’s pace, positioning himself a step behind. “She’s calling for you.”

Daemon remained silent, his jaw clenching tight against the subtle challenge in the boy’s tone. He gritted his teeth against his rebuke, keeping his silence. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, feeling the familiar groves dig into his palm. They moved down the stone steps leading to the courtyard. With each stride, his boot crunched against the gravel, a stern rhythm in the early morning quiet.

Jace pressed on, undeterred by Daemon’s silence. “You should be with her. She needs you–”

“What she needs from me is this,” Daemon interrupted abruptly, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. His sharp glance towards Jace was enough to halt any further protests. “There’s nothing more I can offer her now but to ensure the loyalty of the great houses–to secure her rightful place.”

Leaving the confines of the castle behind, Daemon and Jace traversed the stark, rugged terrain that characterized the island’s unique landscape. Their destination was one of the numerous ascents forming the imposing silhouette of the Dragonmont. The day was caressed by a soft breeze, which mingled with the briny tang of the sea with the pungent, sulfur-laden exhalation from the vents leading to the smoldering depths of the earth.

The ground underfoot was unforgiving, strewn with rocks and boulders, amongst which lumps of switchgrass emerged with resilient tenacity. It seemed nature had a way to survive even the harshest environments.

Daemon led them to one of the natural plateaus that offered a clear view over the island, the sea and Dragonstone castle, positioning himself atop it, while Jace, clearly disgruntled, positioned himself a short distance away, his arms crossed behind him, wearing an unmistakable scowl.

The relative silence of the plateau was soon disrupted by the rhythmic sound of armor clinking, signaling the arrival of Ser Lorent Marbrand and Ser Steffon Darklyn. Their approach was marked by the graceful billow of their cloaks in the wind. They paused a respectful distance from Daemon, their position lower on the slope, helmets cradled under their arms as they looked up at him expectantly.

The knights’ demeanor reflected the pervasive sense of unease that seemed to cloak Dragonstone itself. Their subtle, restless movements betrayed a sense of discomfort, perhaps in anticipation of the weighty discussion to come. The air around them felt heavy, and not just with the natural blend of sea salt and smoke that permeated the air around the island.

With an authoritative air, Daemon addressed the gathered knights, his voice carrying the weight of command and the gravity of the situation. He invoked the depth of their loyalty and the solemnity of their vows, reminding them of the sacred duties they agreed to when they first put on the white cloak. “You swore an oath as knights of the Kingsguard.”

“As all do who wear the white cloak, my prince,” Ser Lorent responded, his tone respectful yet firm.

“To whom?” Daemon pressed, his question sharp, seeking clarity.

Ser Steffon Darklyn adjusted his posture, his discomfort obvious as he shifted on his feet, the frown growing ever deeper on his face. “I swore first to King Jaehaerys, my prince. And then to His Grace, King Viserys, when he succeeded him.”

“Do you acknowledge the true line of succession?” Daemon asked, his stance relaxed yet imbued with inherent power, his hands casually resting on the pommel of his sword, embodying the natural ease with which he wielded authority. Daemon knew his reputation preceded him, the Rogue Prince, a moniker that inspired both reverence and apprehension, and he wielded this reputation with the same precision and decisiveness as he did Dark Sister. His mere presence commanded respect, a palpable force that demanded attention and obedience. Just as Dark Sister was an extension of his skill and resolve in battle, his moniker as the Rogue Prince served as a warning for his unpredictability.

“Yes,” Ser Lorent answered promptly, his response unwavering.

“Yes, my Prince,” Ser Steffon echoed, his agreement firm yet accompanied by another subtle shift in his stance, betraying his unease over this line of pointed questions.

Daemon’s gaze shifted towards Jace, intent on impressing upon the young prince the significance of the moment. He sought to teach Jace about the fragile nature of oaths sworn to those now dead, and how even the most honorable could falter in their loyalty when presented with freedom of choice. This was a lesson in loyalty, a demonstration of the weight and consequences tied to breaking the oaths they once swore.

“Do you recall,” Daemon began, his voice carrying a softness filled with gravitas, pausing momentarily to ensure his words would carry the intended impact. “Who King Viserys named as his heir before his death?”

“Princess Rhaenyra,” came Ser Lorent’s immediate response, with Ser Steffon nodding his concurrence.

Allowing a brief, reflective silence, Daemon weighed the significance of their acknowledgement. “I am grateful for your long service to the crown…So I am presenting you with a choice.”

The Kingsguard’s vow was one of unyielding dedication–they were loyal hounds bound to a single master. Yet, with the king’s death and the contested legitimacy of succession, their loyalty found itself upon a precipice of uncertainty–they now had the ability to choose which master to serve, and Daemon was determined to secure their unwavering loyalty to the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms–his wife, Rhaenyra.

The stillness of the moment was shattered by a sharp whistle, a precursor to the looming demonstration of power. Caraxes, embodying a menacing beauty, climbed over the rock formation behind Daemon, his whistling reverberating in the air. Each movement of the dragon was a testament to his formidable presence, claws scraping against the rock in a manner that could unsettle even the bravest soul. With a deliberate heaviness, Caraxes positioned himself behind Daemon, the impact of his landing sending a tangible vibration through the earth, a clear assertion of dominance and strength.

Daemon’s gaze never wavered from the knights, capturing their reactions as Caraxes made his imposing presence felt. The sight of the dragon commanded their undivided attention, their eyes widening with fear and uncertainty–reminiscent of prey caught in the clutches of a predator. A nervous shuffle passed through the knights, faces pailing as the dragon’s whistle evolved into a formidable roar–a high pitched sound that seemed almost like the chirping of a bird if that bird had long sharp teeth and could breathe fire. This chilling sound, slicing through the air with ferocity, compelled a collective, instinctive step back from the knights.

“Swear anew your oath to Rhaenyra as your Queen,” Daemon’s command pierced the tension, his voice steadfast against the backdrop of Caraxes’ menacing growls. “...to Prince Jacaerys as the heir to the Iron Throne.”

His words lingered, heavy with implication, as the knight’s eyes darted between the formidable figure of Daemon and the dragon beside him. “Or if you support the usurper, speak it now and you will have a clean and honorable death.”

This decisive demand, set against the primal might of Caraxes, left no room for ambiguity. It was a moment of reckoning, of declaring loyalties and acknowledging the true order of the world. And Daemon stood ready, Dark Sister at his hip. Should they declare for the Usurper, he would grant them a swift end–more than any traitors deserved.

“But if you choose treachery,” Daemon’s voice deepened, echoing with ominous intent, “if you swear your fealty now only to later turn your cloaks…”

As Caraxes unleashed a chilling, chirping hiss, cutting through the tense silence, Daemon felt the sound reverberate deep within his chest as though he was the one emitting this rumble. He sensed the dragon’s immense shadow enveloping him, its latent power merging with his own, imbuing him with a fearsome energy akin to the devastating flames Caraxes was known to unleash.

“...know that you will die,” Daemon continued, his tone laced with a grim promise, “screaming.”

At this declaration, Ser Lorent Marbrand and Ser Steffon Darklyn knelt, their movements graceful, the soft billowing of their cloaks contrasting sharply with the seriousness of the moment. The tip of their swords grazed the ground as they submitted, bending their heads in reverence–in fear.

“We swear to ward the Queen,” the knights pledged in unison, their voices resonating with unwavering commitment. “With all my strength and give my blood for hers. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, and father no children.”

Daemon’s gaze found Jace, taking in the prince’s steadfast posture, an embodiment of the regal stature that was his birthright–the inherent power of the Targaryen lineage. This was what being blood of the dragon meant – to wield power with an innate authority, secure loyalty, and demand the respect that was owed to them.

“I shall guard her secrets, obey her commands, ride at her side, and defend her name and her honor,” they continued, their vows solemn and profound, echoing the depth of their commitment to their Queen and the realm they served.

Addressing the knights with a voice rich in command, Daemon spoke, “The vows you’ve pledged today bind you in service and loyalty to the one true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, Rhaenyra Targaryen. I will hold you to this oath, and your dedication will be remembered.”

A resonant roar emanated from Caraxes, its powerful cadence echoing with dominance. The dragon then shared a moment of silent communication with Daemon, an understanding without words, before spreading its grand wings. The breeze embraced them, filling the air like the sails of a great ship ready to embark. With a force that stirred the very earth beneath, Caraxes beat his wings, lifting dust and smoke into a swirling dance. The grass rippled as if caught in a tempest’s grip. With an awkward grace, the dragon took to the sky, heading towards the coastline, its departure as commanding as its arrival.

After a brief nod of dismissal to the knights, signaling the end of the ceremony and affirming their sworn duties, Daemon watched them adjust their attire and swords, their movements brisk as they returned to the castle’s embrace. He remained, eyes following Caraxes’ flight until the dragon was but a silhouette against the horizon.

Stepping down from his vantage point, Daemon’s boots met the earth with a sense of finality.

Jace positioned himself beside Daemon, his youthful inquisitiveness shining through the skepticism in his eyes. Together, they stood gazing out towards the bay, where fishing boats bobbed and weaved through the swells. Breaking the silence, Jace ventured, “How exactly was that demonstration meant to teach me about loyalty? It appeared more an exercise in fear than a lesson in earning respect.”

“Fear and respect are but two sides of the same blade,” Daemon elucidated, drawing Dark Sister with an elegance that belied the deadliness of the act. He allowed the blade to catch the sunlight, its rippled steel gleaming as he expertly manipulated it, displaying its dual nature. “Both are potent tools in forging loyalty.”

Jace watched the blade, his interest evident, though his skepticism remained. “But loyalty born from fear seems to me as though it would be inherently weak. Respect, by contrast, seems to build a stronger, more durable allegiance.”

“Fear has the ability to dissolve the bonds formed by respect, just as respect can dismantle the barriers constructed by fear.” Daemon executed a series of deft maneuvers with Dark Sister, allowing the sword to rotate gracefully from one side to the other. Each movement was precise, the sunlight catching and dancing along the intricate ripples of the Valyrian steel. This ballet of steel and light showcased not only the blade’s deadly beauty but also the skill and ease with which Daemon wielded it–like an extension of himself.

And with just as deft a movement, Daemon sheathed Dark sister, its message delivered. “Men are motivated by one or the other. As Targaryens, we wield the authority to invoke both.”

The silhouette of Dragonstone loomed in the distance. Surrounded by the harsh landscape, the castle stood as a beacon of power, its sturdy walls ready to withstand the onslaught of time and turmoil. The castle appeared as if it were an extension of the very stone that formed the island’s mountains–cut from the very stones the same way House Targaryen cut out a seat for themselves within this ruthless world.

Daemon set off towards the stronghold with Jace in tow.

With one hand nonchalantly resting on the pommel of Dark Sister and the other hooked at his belt, Daemon clarified, “Each knight of the Kingsguard has a choice to make, and it was my duty to present them with the consequences of that choice.”

“The Greens would have given the Kingsguard in King’s Landing the same choice,” Jace countered, his tone carrying a slight edge of criticism.

“The Kingsguard pledged their loyalty to a now deceased king and a crown that has been stolen. If they truly believed the usurper to be the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, then, as his Kingsguard, they would have been prepared to embrace death for that conviction.”

“You would have executed them on the spot,” Jace observed.

Daemon met Jace’s inquisitive look with a steadfast gaze, his declaration unambiguous. “They would have been traitors, subject to the justice merited by their betrayal.”

Jace’s expression settled into one of deep contemplation, reminiscent of the focused demeanor he often exhibited during lessons with the maester. “They would have died in service to the one perceived as the true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. It would have been an honorable death.”

“As honorable as a traitor's death can be,” Daemon remarked dryly.

“Had you not held their convictions in some esteem, you wouldn’t have offered a swift end by your blade,” Jace countered with a thoughtful observation, drawing a rare, slight smile from Daemon, amused by the prince’s astute conclusion.

Indeed, Daemon found a sliver of truth in Jace’s insight. The swift justice of his blade was far a more dignified fate than what he envisioned for the usurpers entrenched within King’s Landing. While he might let them taste the bitterness of his steel, he would give them anything but a dignified death.

“The Hightowers are the true traitors,” Jace declared, his voice intensifying with passion. “They, along with the other houses of the realm, pledged their allegiance to my mother as Viserys’ rightful heir. Yet, they have usurped her, resorting to the same treachery they used to challenge Luke’s claim to Driftmark.”

“And what should we do about it?” Daemon challenged.

“Mother has instructed us to refrain from taking any action without her consent,” Jace answered, frowning deeply as his head shook.

“Every second we delay, the Greens consolidate their power,” Daemon asserted, his eyes scanning the horizon as the silhouette of the castle loomed closer. “My brother refused to respond to the threat when the Triarchy tested our borders and destroyed our ships. He allowed them to ravage our merchants and seize control of the Stepstones. He let the blight grow until it threatened the security of the realm.”

“Until you defeated them.”

“They learned why our words are; Fire and Blood,” Daemon stated, his grip on the pommel of his sword tightening just perceptively, feeling every grove of the iron against his skin. “Viserys’ reluctance to act made him weak. Had he decisively cut off the head of the snake, he would have shown that dragons far outmatch any serpent’s cunning. Instead, he allowed the serpent’s venom to poison his mind.”

Stopping in his tracks, Daemon captured Jace’s attention fully before continuing. “While your mother is preoccupied by the labor of childbirth, and we withhold action, the Hightowers are undoubtedly plotting their next move. Do you really think they would simply wait idly by for our response?”

“No,” Jace conceded, the weight of Daemon’s words seemingly pressing upon his shoulders.

“Your mother’s claim isn’t the only one the Greens are usurping,” Daemon pressed on. “They mean to steal your rightful inheritance as your mother’s son and heir, and that of your brother’s claim on Driftmark. They mean to rob you of all that you are. They will take your name and your claim, and they will take your blood.”

A surge of anger flashed across Jace’s features, his youthful face setting into a mask of determination. “I’m well aware of their tactics. I know what they’ll say. They will start by calling us bastards. And then they’ll use that to undermine the whole legitimacy of mother’s claim.”

Continuing their path towards the castle, their progress was heralded by a sharp shout that pierced the air. The call originated from a vigilant guard stationed within the guard tower, directed towards his counterparts on the ground. This timely alert ensured the guards at the gates were promptly made aware of Daemon and Jace’s approach. The heavy doors creaked open, protesting the movement.

“There’s no need for them to question your legitimacy if you’re found dead in your bed, your throat slit,” Daemon states, his voice carrying a cold edge.

Jace’s gaze darted towards Daemon, the severity of the statement seeming to hit him like the stinging rebuttal of a palm. His hands instinctively balled into fists, a visible tremor of apprehension flickering across his features. “Would they truly resort to such measures? To kill a man in his bed seems exceedingly callous, even for them.”

“Otto Hightower is nothing if not efficient,” Daemon responded with a stern tone as they made their way into the courtyard, the crunch of gravel underfoot marking their passage. “A swift assassination is both effective and eliminates all threats to Aegon’s claim to the throne in one swift move.”

Around them, the courtyard was dominated by an imposing dragon statue, carved from the same dark stone that made up the fortress. The beast’s features were sharply defined, a growl eternally etched into its visage, while moss and time had begun to claim parts of its form.

“If they resort to sending cutthroats to murder children in their sleep, they’ve abandoned all pretense of honor,” Jace retorted, his voice laced with contempt. The thought of his younger siblings, vulnerable and defenseless in their beds, seemed to spark a fierce protectiveness in him. “There’s a clear distinction between facing an opponent in combat and the cowardice of killing children in their slumber.”

Daemon couldn’t help but find a sliver of amusement in the young prince’s ideals–naive perceptions of a boy untouched by the harsh realities of war and the bloody burden of leadership. Jace appeared to view the world through the lens of nobility, expecting adversaries to possess the same sense of honor to his own. Yet, Daemon knew too well how elusive and costly honor could be, having witnessed many valiant men fall victim to its demands.

He understood that the world harbored a much darker side, a realm where retribution was meted out in kind and where insults were avenged with ruthless efficiency. History had shown time and again that adherence to rules seldom secured victory in war. Daemon recognized the necessity of confronting this reality, prepared to navigate the murky waters for the sake of his family.

“What are–”

“My Prince!” Ser Brandon Piper, the Captain of the Guard, interjected with urgency, his voice cutting through the air and halting Jace’s words. He descended the stairs from the battlements rapidly, his expression grave, signaling the importance of his message. “A ship approaches from the east, now making its way into the bay.”

Jace ventured a guess, “Staunton? Massey?”

The gravity in Ser Brandon’s voice held a note of surprise as he shared the news, casting a significant look between Daemon and Jace. “The ships sail carry the colors and sigil of House Velaryon.”

“Corlys?” Jace mused aloud, the possibility lingering between them.

The air of speculation was abruptly dispelled by the formidable roar of a dragon, followed by the stirring dust as Moondancer executed a flawless landing in the courtyard. The arrival was a display of Baela’s skill as a dragonrider and Moondancer’s precision, sparing the castle’s structure from any damage. Baela, seated majestically on her dragon, appeared every inch the embodiment of a dragonrider, with her hair tousled by the wind and her cheeks flushed from the flight, her eyes alight with intensity.

She called out to them from above, “The ship!”

Ser Brandon responded, having already relayed the news, “We’ve seen the ship.”

“It’s Meraxes!”

Jace exchanged a meaningful look with Daemon, realization dawning as Jace echoed, “Daenera’s ship.”

In the midst of the rapidly evolving events, Daemon issued his directive with decisive clarity to Ser Brandon, his tone imbued with the unmistakable authority of command. “Take a contingent of guards with you to meet them on the beach, and have them brought to us.”

Understanding the urgency, Ser Brandon acknowledged the order with a quick nod and gesture to the guards wearing the distinctive red cloaks of Princess Rhaenyra’s personal guard. With their swords at their hips, they advanced with deliberate strides towards the gate, which groaned on its hinges as it swung wide to facilitate their swift departure.

Daemon offered Baela a nod of recognition for her timely message, observing as she adeptly commanded Moondancer to take flight once more. At her signal, the dragon lifted off, the beat of its wings garnering a powerful gust of wind as it ascended gracefully into the sky. Jace instinctively raised a hand to shield his eyes, caught in the whir of dust and debris, before turning away to protect himself from the bluster stirred by Moondancer’s departure.

Ascending the battlements, Daemon positioned himself to observe the unfolding scene on the beach. The bay was alive with activity, with local fishing boats bobbing on the choppy waters and the imposing figure of Meraxes making its deliberate approach, its sails proudly bearing the emblem of House Velaryon–a silver sea horse on sea green. By his side, Jace joined, both fixed on the sight of the ship's longboat being lowered into the water before making its way to shore where an escort of guards awaited.

With quiet anticipation, Jace ventured, “Do you think Daenera managed to escape after all?”

His voice carried an undercurrent of hope, a vivid contrast to Daemon’s stoicism. Daemon remained silent, choosing not to voice his thoughts, his attention firmly on the procession of figures now advancing towards the castle. The answer would reveal itself soon enough, rendering speculation unnecessary.

And so, the fleeting hope that Jace held seemed to ebb away as the entourage made its entrance into the courtyard, revealing not Daenera but another figure

“Jelissa,” he exhaled, a note of surprise mingling with recognition.

The girl stood amid the group of seasoned sailors, evidently worn by her ordeal, her gaze reflecting exhaustion. Under the shifting light, her eyes seemed to flicker between shades of blue and gray, while her once vibrant dark blond hair appeared dimmed by the castle’s gloom.

The young prince’s stance momentarily faltered, a visible sign of his disappointment. Yet, almost instantly, he gathered his composure, straightening his back as he masked his initial disheartenment that his sister did not stand among them.

Ser Brandon, with practiced efficiency, guided Jelissa from the group, leading her towards the high vantage point where Daemon and Jace awaited. After acknowledging Daemon with a nod, the Captain of the Guard stepped aside, leaving them to converse.

“Lady Jelissa,” Jace began, his voice brimming with concern as he launched into a flurry of questions–seemingly oblivious to the way her cheeks flushed at being called ‘lady.’ “What happened? How did you manage to escape? Is anyone else with you?”

“Jace,” Daemon interjected with a sharpness that instantly commanded attention, his stern gaze effectively halting the young prince’s torrent of questions. Jace’s expression twisted into a scowl, his frustration and reluctance to pause his inquiries plainly written across his face. Yet, heeding Daemon’s directive, he begrudgingly stepped back, allowing the conversation to unfold without his immediate input.

Jelissa grew noticeably tense under the weight of Daemon’s gaze, her fingers entwining nervously as though she sought to squeeze the anxiety from her very skin. She lowered her gaze. The tension became palpable until Jelissa, unable to retain her turmoil any longer, showed signs of imminent tears, her eyes glistening and nose reddening as she fought to maintain her composure.

Struggling to voice her thoughts, Jelissa finally broke the silence, “My Prince… I…”

Daemon remained unmoved by the tears, his response chillingly indifferent to Jelissa’s visible distress, his voice as cold as the sea breeze that swept the battlements, offering no comfort in her evident anguish. His opening words cut through the tension with the precision of a finely honed blade.

“You abandoned the Princess you were meant to serve,” he stated, each word laden with accusation. “You failed in your duty to protect her. Tell me, why shouldn’t I throw you from this wall?”

The relentless waves below underscored his threat, crashing against the cliffs with a relentless ferocity as the wind howled around them. The girl cast a wary, fearful glance towards the precipice of the wall, visibly paling.

Out of the corner of his eye, Daemon noted Jace’s shift, a subtle readiness to leap to Jelissa’s defense. However, with a sharp glance that brooked no argument, he quelled any attempt by Jace to intervene, then redirected his attention to the woman standing anxiously before him.

Jelissa struggled to form words, her voice faltering into a choked sob, “I–I–”

“Stop,” Daemon commanded, his voice slicing through her emotional turmoil. “Explain yourself. Now.”

With a deep, shaky breath, Jelissa composed herself enough to speak, her voice fragile yet determined, “J–Joyce received word from one of the kitchen servants… about the King’s demise. She–she insisted we flee King’s Landing at once, and she tasked me with alerting the crew of Meraxes. Joyce and Fenrick went to get the Princess and… We waited by the dock.”

Her account laid bare the desperate measures taken in the wake of his brother’s death. Despite the chaos of her recounting, Daemon remained focused, parsing her words for truth, his expression unreadable as he considered her explanation. His hand clenched tighter around the pommel of Dark Sister, his intense gaze fixed unwaveringly on Jelissa.

“You abandoned her,” he accused, his voice sharp.

With tears threatening to spill from her eyes, Jelissa managed a shaky response, “Joyce instructed me that if they couldn’t make the ship in time, my foremost duty was to inform you of what had transpired.”

“She made the right decision,” Jace declared, his eyes burning with conviction as he aligned himself with Jelissa’s reasoning, giving the girl a small nod of reassurance. He challenged Daemon’s stern judgment, jaw set as he met his gaze.

“We lingered at the dock for as long as we could,” Jelissa added, her voice laden with remorse. Her face was etched with the toll of recent events, and bore the signs of fear and fatigue. “Tylan Moot gave his life for us to leave the harbor, holding back the guards on his own as we set off.”

Daemon regarded Jelissa intently, the silence charged with tension before he posed a cutting inquiry, “Is it possible that the Princess chose to remain in King’s Landing of her own volition?”

Taken aback by the suggestion, Jelissa stumbled over her words, a mix of confusion and distress evident on her face as she dabbed at a tear on her flushed cheek. “I–what, my Prince?”

“Why would she do such a thing?” Jace interjected, his disbelief and exasperation apparent.

Despite Jace’s interjection, Daemon’s attention remained unwavering on Jelissa, his determination clear as he dismissed the prince’s contribution with a focused intensity. “Tell me, how long have you served the princess?”

“Since she set out for King’s Landing,” Jelissa answered, her voice wavering slightly as she twisted her fingers together, betraying her anxiety. “It’s been over a year now, almost two.”

Daemon’s response was precise, his tone unyielding as his fingers rhythmically tapped against the pommel of his sword, a manifestation of his growing impatience. “Given your role as the Princess’s handmaiden, it stands to reason you’d be entrusted with her confidence.”

“I…” she began, her voice no more than a whisper.

“Given your proximity to the Princess, you would have been privy to her most confidential matters,” Daemon pressed, his patience clearly wearing thin. “You surely must have been aware of her involvement with the Prince, Aemond. Could it be that she remained in King’s Landing by choice, to be with him?”

Jace’s reaction was instantaneous, his voice cutting sharply across the brewing storm, “What?! No, Daenera–”

But Daemon was unmovable, his stern glance enough to once again quell Jace’s protest. “It appears your sister took advantage of certain… liberties during her time away from Dragonstone.”

“Daenera wouldn’t,” Jace insisted, his voice laden with a mix of disbelief and stubborn resistance, his stance betraying his internal conflict with the revelation. He was quick to dismiss the notion, adamant in his belief–and seemingly clinging to it like a boy clung to his mother’s skirts. “She would never willingly be with someone so vile, someone capable of–”

“Usurping your mother’s crown and calling you bastards?” Daemon concluded for him. He watched as Jace’s face turned a deeper shade of red, anger and disbelief burning in his eyes – a young prince, vehement yet naive in his refusal to face an uncomfortable truth. Regardless of Jace’s readiness to accept it, the truth remained unaltered, and it was time he confronted the implications of his sister's fallacy.

“She wouldn’t,” Jace repeated, seemingly more to convince himself than to challenge Daemon’s assertion.

Shifting his focus back to Jelissa, Daemon’s stare bore into her with such intensity that she seemed to shrink back, her vulnerability evident. Her gaze fell to the ground, her eyes glistening with the effort to restrain her emotions, while her hands twisted together guiltily.

“Speak,” Daemon demanded, his voice carrying a commanding weight that reverberated against the venerable stone battlements surrounding them.

The girl, visibly flustered, struggled to articulate her thoughts, her voice a fragile murmur that risked being carried off by the gusting wind. “I… I’m not privy to the same insights as Joyce.”

“Even so,” Daemon responded, his voice threaded with disbelief, “As her handmaiden, it is reasonable to assume that you might have observed or overheard discussions leading you to draw certain… conclusions.”

As silence filled the air, Daemon’s patience visibly frayed, his next words edged with a clear note of frustration. “While I value your loyalty to the princess, silence on this matter serves no one. Speak.”

“I had no knowledge of any… liaison she might have had, much less with whom should she have one…” A moment of hesitation flashed across her face as she dared a brief glance at Daemon, only to avert her eyes once more, her confession dissolving into a murmur of doubt. “However… I did notice oddities. Marks that appeared overnight, belongings out of place, her smallclothes needing to be cleaned or changed more often than usual, or simply going missing only to later turn up…” Her eyes flickered anxiously in Jace’s direction as he reacted with a noise of dismay and exasperation, before she refocused on her clasped hands. “When I brought up the things that I had noticed to Joyce, she reminded me of our place–to serve, not to infer or question…” Jelissa shifted nervously on her feet. “All I know is that the Princess seemed content, happy even.”

“Happy?” Daemon repeated, his tone dripping with skepticism.

“Fenrick voiced his worry over her well-being, and Joyce too,” Jelissa muttered. “I overheard bits of their conversation… I heard them discuss the princess’s affection–whether she… was in love… I–I didn’t know who they were talking about, but Fenrick was infuriated at the thought of it. Joyce tempered him, reminding him of his place too.”

Daemon’s frustration simmered just below the surface, his contempt for Fenrick’s lack of a spine obvious. He internally berated the man for his failure to communicate the crucial information of Daenera’s misgiven affection for the one-eyed cunt, even if it was just mere speculation–speculations that Daemon was convinced Fenrick harbored, and not merely as baseless doubts. No, he was sure Fenrick knew and failed to report it. And while he understood Fenrick’s hesitation to convey these matters, given how Daenera responded the last time she perceived something to be an act of betrayal. Nevertheless, the sworn knight should have informed him so that he could put an end to the matter.

“Yet, you must have formed some opinions of your own,” Daemon pushed, demanding clarity with a tone that allowed for no diversion. “When did these ‘oddities’ first come to your attention?”

“I do not wish to damage the Princess’s good name or question her honor,” Jelissa confessed, almost as if speaking only to herself. Yet, Daemon’s persistent questioning afforded her no opportunity for silence. “It began shortly before the wedding. Then, for a time, it stopped and I dismissed it as trivial. I don’t believe she would–she would engage in something that could compromise her honor… And after her husband’s death…” Jelissa shook her head, as if dismissing what happened after that. “It is not my place to question her actions.”

Jace couldn’t hold back, his response sharp with incredulousness, “Are you absolutely sure about this?”

“Jace–” Daemon started to respond, only to be cut off by a defiant glare from the prince.

“Such allegations are severe,” Jace snapped fervently, his words fueled by a desperate grasp at the semblance of his sister’s honor, driven perhaps more by his love for her than by conviction in the claim’s falsity.

“It’s no mere insinuation, young prince. It’s the truth,” Daemon stated, his tone stripped of any warmth. “Your sister was involved with Prince Aemond, blatantly so, both prior to her marriage and after. They’ve carried on this affair for months. She admitted as much to us.”

“She admitted to it?” His voice was an echo of bewilderment.

“She did,” Daemon asserted, “Which is what prompted your mother to call her back to Dragonstone. Your sister was supposed to settle her affairs in King’s Landing and meet us here.”

The impact of Daemon’s revelations visibly shook Jace, his body jerking back as if struck. And for a long moment, he appeared utterly deflated, his chest rising and falling in quick succession, the frown on his face growing. Yet, almost as quickly, he rallied, his jaw clenching in determination, signaling a fierce resurgence of will in the face of disillusionment.

Daemon delved deeper into the crux of the issue, his words laden with a gravity that seemed to draw in the air around them. “Daenera was seen standing with the Greens, aligning herself with them in a show of open support of Aegon’s claim to the throne.”

The statement hung heavily in the air, seeming to cast a shadow of doubt over the small gathering as the words settled around them.

“Given her involvement with Aemond, do you think it’s possible that the Princess could have been swayed to abandon her mother’s rightful claim in favor of supporting her lover’s usurper cunt of a brother’s ascension?”

“I don’t think…” Jelissa began, her voice barely above a murmur of resistance, only to be silenced by Daemon’s scornful interjection.

“You don’t think?” He retorted, his presence looming over her, his shadow casting a chilling expanse that nearly enveloped her. “You were by her side in King’s Landing, in her most private moments. Did she ever hint at a willingness to betray her mother’s claim?”

“I don’t know,” Jelissa started, head shaking vehemently. “The Princess has always been steadfast in her belief that her mother is the heir, and I find it difficult to accept that she would change that belief.”

Daemon inhaled deeply, the salt-laden breeze providing a brief respite from the weight of the conversation and the burning of anger that seared within his chest. Exhaling slowly, he addressed Jelissa with a solemnity that emphasized the sensitivity of their discussion. “Your honesty is appreciated, and understand this: what has been disclosed here must remain confined to us, never to be uttered elsewhere.”

“My Prince,” Jelissa intoned, offering a respectful nod, acknowledging Daemon’s directive. With a quick curtsy, she pivoted, retreating from the intensity of the conversation, her departure as swift as it was silent.

Daemon dismissed the girl by shifting his focus to the restless ocean before them, its waves savagely colliding with the coastline. Each assault against the rocks below unleashed a shower of spray, the airborne droplets catching the light and sparkling amidst the tumult. The wind, ever capricious, seemed to echo the turmoil within, scaling the ancient stone walls of Dragonstone with a fierceness that spoke of an impending gale–dark clouds growing on the horizon, distant and foreboding. The wind whirred against the stone, brushing past the battlements to wrap around the flags, the fabric snapping in the wind with sharp reprimand.

“Your knew,” Jace asserted, his words sharp and brimming with recrimination, hinting at a sense of betrayal. “You were fully aware and yet you allowed her to remain in that viper’s nest! You did nothing as Aemond preyed on her.”

Daemon faced the onslaught of Jace’s reproach with a measured calm. “Your sister isn’t some unwitting prey caught in the claws of a predator. You do her a disservice painting her as a hapless victim. She has more agency than that.”

The young prince bristled.

“It was her choice to entertain his advances,” Daemon continued, a reproachful note remaining in his tone as he spoke. “Had there been any manipulation on Aemond’s part, any intent to dishonor her, he wouldn’t have hesitated to use it against her, aiming to discredit your mother’s claim by shaming Daenera openly. Her actions, her decision to engage in an illicit affair with him, were her choice.”

“I knew something was wrong,” Jace admitted, his voice growing heavy with realization and the lingering slivers of denial. “Aemond flaunted their… closeness, goading me with it. Daenera refused his claims, she denied everything and I… I chose to believe her against my better judgment. I wrote it off as merely a way to get under my skin, to provoke me into action.”

Jace found solace on the cold stone of the battlements, leaning against them as he peered into the tumultuous sea below. His arm rested atop the barrier, his hand clenched so tightly it seemed he was trying to draw strength from the stone itself. “The way he spoke of her–what he insinuated… He referred to her as ‘byka ābrazȳrys,’ his little wife.”

Daemon’s reaction was swift and fierce, his gaze locking onto Jace with predatory precision. The taste of anger was almost palpable, and his response was edged with it. “At the coronation, the Hightowers announced her betrothal to Aemond.”

This revelation hung between them like a drawn sword, its implications as sharp and menacing as any blade. Questions swirled in the aftermath of Daemon’s statement, each one striking against the loyalty and trust they had placed in Daenera. Had she decided her path even while they were still in King’s Landing, mere days before? Was this betrothal her doing? How deeply was she entwined in these plots? How deep was her love for that one-eyed cunt?

The shock on Jace’s face was palpable as he tried to process Daemon’s words. It was clear that he was struggling to reconcile his sister’s actions with the loyalty he had always assumed. “You think she has turned against us…”

Daemon’s reply was carefully controlled, his tone marked by a cold, dispassionate clarity. “Considering the intimate nature of her involvement with Aemond and their concerted efforts to keep the affair hidden, it stands to reason she may well have aligned herself more closely with their interests than ours.”

“No.” Jace’s denial came swift, fueled by a mix of conviction and fervor. “I refuse to believe that Daenera would support Aegon over our mother–she despises him and everything he is. She has always been adamant in her belief that our mother is the rightful heir, and her actions have always been in line with that. She’s always done her duty–”

“‘Her duty,’” Daemon reiterated, a note of skepticism and scorn in his tone as he shifted his gaze back to the sea. “She was tasked with fortifying your mother’s claim, forging alliances, and securing support through a strategic marriage. Yet, her actions have fallen short of these obligations. And now, she stands with the Greens.”

The weight of deciding their next steps hung heavily in the air.

Jace, his frustration evident against the backdrop of the chill wind that reddened his cheeks, argued for intervention. “We can’t just abandon her.”

“And if her staying was her own choice?”

“And what if it wasn’t?” Jace responded with a blend of urgency and defiance. “We can’t conclusively say she willingly sided with the Greens. It’s entirely possible she was left no option but to adhere to their will, and as a hostage she has little choice but to comply with their demands.”

It was entirely possible, Daemon agreed. But it was also entirely possible that she had stood with the Green’s of her own volition. He hoped that she was nothing but a mere hostage, that she had no choice but to comply, but the thought that she might have chosen them over her own kin gnawed at him, undermining the trust he had once placed in her. This betrayal stung deeply; he had seen her as capable and loyal, someone who understood her duty and the weight and importance of her position. Her deceit and the risks she took with not only her own reputation but also that of her mother, for the sake of that one-eyed cunt, had shattered that trust.

Loyalty and trust, once broken, were difficult to mend–and Daemon valued both above all else.

The sting of betrayal was more piercing than even the usurpation itself–a twist of fate Daemon had anticipated. This sense of treachery was like a thorn lodged deep within his flesh, its constant irritation serving as a relentless reminder that a girl he once trusted might have turned against her own blood–not only would she be a traitor to the crown, but a traitor to her own flesh and blood, and that was unforgivable to Daemon.

He harbored a deep-seated hope that Daenera had not become the traitor her actions seemed to declare. In pursuit of clarity, he had dispatched ravens to his friends and allies within King’s Landing, alongside a rider who was tasked to penetrate the heart of the capital within a fortnight, all to unearth the veritable truth of Daenera’s circumstances–not only to soothe his wife’s restless worry for her daughter, but to ease his own.

He was acutely aware of Rhaenyra and Jace’s hesitation to label Daenera as a usurper or betrayer, understanding their reluctance stemmed from a place of love and denial. Yet, Daemon saw their unyielding belief as a potential vulnerability. He positioned himself as the counterbalance to their blind faith, armed with skepticism and suspicion. His resolve was clear: to ascertain Daenera’s loyalty, or lack thereof. Until then, he would anchor his family with caution and readiness to confront whatever truth lay waiting.

“Regardless of where her loyalties lie, Daenera will become a pawn, a means for the Greens to bend Rhaenyra to their will,” Daemon declared, his voice imbued with a somber intensity. “A war is upon us, one that has already begun, even if your mother denies it, one that goes beyond the mere exchange of letters. It will be a war fought with steel and fire and blood. A war that will decide the true ruler of the Iron Throne.”

Jace held firm, unwavering in his conviction, “Still, we cannot act against the Queen’s explicit orders. There’s no action to be taken while she labors bringing your child into the world.”

Daemon’s patience wore thin, and with a sigh that bore the weight of his frustration, he looked skyward in a clear sign of his exasperation. “Have you not heard a thing that I’ve said?”

“I’ve listened–” Jace began, but Daemon’s sharp gaze and stern demeanor cut him off, making it clear that such explanation fell short. His posture, authoritative and resolute, both hands resting on the pommel of his sword, signaled the depths of his annoyance that his message had seemingly gone unheard.

“We are on the cusp of war, Jace. Every moment we delay, every opportunity we squander, tips the balance further in favor of the Greens,” Daemon sneered, hoping to pierce the veil of idealism that seemed to shroud the young prince.

The air between them crackled with a palpable tension, embodying the struggle between adhering to orders and the necessity for immediate action, between youthful hope and the harsh realities of leadership. Daemon was fully aware of the idealistic lens through which Jace viewed their situation, nonetheless he felt the pressing need for firm, decisive measures.

“With Rhaenyra indisposed, the responsibility to act falls to us,” Daemon stated, his expression hardening. “My loyalty to your mother is unwavering, as it was for my brother. Yet, there are times when they might not grasp the necessity of certain actions or what must be done. It is then our duty to guide them to take the right course of action.”

Closing the gap between them, Daemon stood so close that Jace had to look up to maintain eye contact. He noted the rigid set of Jace’s jaw, indicative of the prince’s internal conflict. “Defending our birthright and legitimate claim requires tough decisions, decisions we’re obligated to make, even in the absence of direct orders. Failure to take action now will leave us at the mercy of the Greens.”

Jace’s response was a tight-lipped silence, a testament to the weight of Daemon’s argument and the complexity of the situation at hand.

“If we do not quickly secure the support from the great houses, we will soon find ourselves surrounded by men who have long forgotten their oaths,” Daemon continued. “Be assured, the Green snakes will undoubtedly court the favor of the great houses, sowing their venom far and wide. They will vilify your mother as the Great Whore of Dragonstone, and you, along with your siblings, will be denounced as bastards. Any claims you might have will be effectively nullified. The Greens will take every measure to eliminate any challenge to Aegon’s rule.”

The young prince’s gaze drifted to the sea, gritting his teeth as though holding back his response as he absorbed Daemon’s grim forecast. Yet, Daemon pressed further, needing him to understand the severity of the situation they were in, and what it meant to be a leader.

“What will it be? Are you still a boy, or have you become a man?” he prodded, aiming to reach the very depths of Jace’s resolve with a look sharp enough to cut through doubt. “If you remain a boy, then shrink away, clinging to your childlike fantasies as you might cling to your mother’s skirts.”

Stepping back, Daemon surveyed Jace more critically, “But if you are truly a man, then rise to the occasion, shoulder the burden of leadership, and make the bold decisions required.”

“Do not speak to me like you would a child,” Jace retorted furiously. “I am a man grown.”

“Then listen well, for leadership demands the strength of a man,” Daemon asserted, firmly. “For the common soldier, war may be straightforward, but for the leader, it is a labyrinth of difficult choices. You will be forced into corners where the decisions you make will determine the fates of those under your command–decisions that will weigh the lives of your men against the scales of victory. There will come a time when you must decide who among them to offer up in a sacrifice for the greater good. And know this: it could very well be someone you hold dear to your heart.”

His words carried the heavy truth of command, a burden that tested the resolve and moral fortitude of those who sought to lead–and as the heir, he would have to lead one day. Daemon’s gaze was unflinching, driving home the solemnity of the responsibility that came with command–emphasizing that war was not just in winning battles, but navigating the harrowing choices that could alter the course of history

Jace’s countenance dipped slightly, his gaze lifting to meet Daemon’s through the veil of his eyelashes, a silent acknowledgement of the profound burden those words imposed upon him.

“I don’t want to lose my sister,” he confessed, the vulnerability in his voice reflecting the fear of a brother who loves his sister.

“I, too, do not want to lose your sister,” Daemon admitted, his voice suddenly wrought with the weariness he had attempted to keep at bay. The burden of regret and fatigue pressed heavily upon him, and for a fleeting moment, he allowed himself the luxury of closing his eyes, surrendering to the weight of what might have been–a silent acknowledgement of his oversight not to bring Daenera to Dragonstone with them, or leaving King’s Landing entirely.

How different would it have been then?

When he reopened his eyes, his gaze settled on Jace, whose young face was marred by concern. The set of the boy’s brows and the firm line of his lips betrayed his attempt at maintaining stoicism, a look so reminiscent of Daenera under stress. Yet, where Daenera’s worry would manifest in the relentless dance of her fingers, Jace’s was in the tightness of his expression–a silent echo of familiar concern.

“Your sister possesses a sharp mind,” Daemon attempted to provide solace to Jace, albeit knowing the truth of Daenera’s perilous situation in King’s Landing, amidst the vipers. “She is also spiteful–she will be of great annoyance to the Hightowers.”

A subtle smile touched Jace’s lips, a reflection of Daemon’s own, as he said, “I have every faith in her resilience and her ability to persevere.”

Daemon recalled Daenera’s spitefulness, evident from the very first encounter at Laena’s funeral. Her defiant scowl towards Vaemond, amidst his thinly veiled slanders, while her comforting grip on her supposed father’s hand. He had seen her strength and courageous stance against the Queen on the night Aemond lost his eye to the skirmish with her brother. And he had seen the sharpness of her mind that evening when she had come to him demanding answers upon the marriage to her mother–none of the other children dared to question it, but she had.

Throughout the six years they lived together as a family on Dragonstone, Daenera had consistently demonstrated her fierce loyalty and a profound understanding of her duties–and he had come to see her as a daughter. It was for this reason Daemon had trusted her to go to King’s Landing. He had believed her capable of withstanding whatever poison the snakes of house Hightower threw her way. However, he hadn’t anticipated that one of those serpents would not not only infiltrate her chambers but also her bed, seducing her with honeyed lies and false promises.

Had it been anyone else, Daemon might have been more forgiving.

Daemon released a weary breath, feeling the last day's turmoil claw at him, settling as a pounding behind his eyes. “Losing your sister is not something I want either, but if she has sided against us–should she prove to be a traitor, we must accept that she has already been lost.”

Daemon’s gaze drifted towards the bay, observing the distant approach of the ship emblazoned with the sigil of House Massey–a vivid display of a triple spirals in the hues of red, green, and blue, set against the backdrop of the white sails, making their way from the south.

Doubt had taken root in him when Daenera had shattered his trust, and that suspicion had only deepened with time, questioning her loyalty. He hoped that she remained true, yet the harsh circumstance of the situation forced him to brace for the possibility of her betrayal. He wished against it, but duty and caution nudged him to consider that she might indeed have turned against them.

“If we do not act, your losses will extend far beyond a sister,” Daemon intoned, his voice carrying the weight of what they faced. “You will lose your inheritance, and your life will be forfeit, you can be sure of that. Should the Greens achieve what they wanted, all our lives will be lost. Your mother, your brothers–Luke, Joffrey, Aegon, Viserys. All of us, none will be spared. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Jace responded, his voice heavy with it. The urgency in Daemon’s warning seemed to resonate deeply, finally setting in. “But, what if she hasn’t betrayed us?”

“Then she remains a hostage, set to marry Aemond,” Daemon conceded, acknowledging one of the deep-seated concerns that nurtured his doubts–the arranged marriage to Aemond. This was the man for whom she had killed her first husband, burying the alliance she was meant to keep. While Daemon reserved judgment for the murder of her husband, it was her love for Aemond that constituted her gravest transgression, severing the trust between them.

“Assuming your sister is a hostage, her union with Aemond wouldn’t change her loyalty to us. And if she remains loyal to us, she would understand and ensure that nothing comes of this union.”

“You mean a child…” There was a blend of anger and revulsion in the utterance.

“Indeed, a child,” Daemon acknowledged with a grave nod. “A child would complicate things–and I’m sure your sister knows this.” He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle. “If she remains true to us, she’ll prevent any offspring from this union.”

A child would complicate matters significantly, binding her irrevocably to Aemond and the Greens. Such an event would blur the lines of her loyalty, anchoring her to their cause. The conception of a child would, in essence, be an act of betrayal, entwining her fate with theirs in a manner too intricate to unravel.

Jace, however, was quick to contest, “You’re assuming she would have a choice in the matter. What if Aemond were to force himself upon her?”

Daemon acknowledged the grim reality, “She’s aware of ways to avoid having a child–”

“But he would still be raping her!”

Daemon’s expression hardened, a storm brewing behind his calm exterior. “If Aemond truly cares for her, he wouldn’t resort to such an act. But if he does…” His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. “Then we shall ensure that his end is both slow and excruciating.”

“My prince…” A subdued voice broke through the tension, emerging weakly from behind them. As Daemon turned to identify the source, he saw Lady Elinda Massey standing on the battlements, her figure outlined against the wind that tousled her red gown. Her expression, laden with worry and sadness, bore signs of recent tears, evidenced by the slight reddening around her eyes and the tip of her nose.

A feeling of dread descended upon Daemon, prompting him to inquire in a hushed tone, “Rhaenyra, has she… has she passed?”

“No,” Elinda responded, her posture tensed as if bracing against the chill, “She’s still with us. She’s…”

Before she could continue, Jace, his breath coming in rapid succession as if he’d sprinted across the castle grounds, eagerly asked, “And the child? What of the babe?”

Closing the gap between them, Lady Elinda’s expression–a woven tapestry and empathy, fear and grief–ignited an unforeseen flicker of annoyance within Daemon. With a moment’s pause, her voice barely above a whisper, she delivered the heartrending news, “The birthing was fraught with difficulty, my Prince. It grieves me to say, the child… did not make it.”

At her words, Daemon closed his eyes, grappling with the news, “What happened?”

“The child was not… formed correctly. It seems unlikely it would have survived, even under different circumstances, and the maester believes that the child was lost before the princess even commenced her labor,” Elinda explained, her voice wavering, her hands clasping tightly together. “The princess is deeply affected by the loss. She refuses any form of care from us, and I am concerned that if she continues to remain in her current state, she’s at risk of falling ill with fever.”

Daemon’s gaze hardened into an icy stare, concealing his emotions beneath an even expression. The notion that his child was no longer of this world seemed unfathomable. He vividly recalled the gentle thumps against his palms, the unmistakable signs of life from within his wife’s womb. Those moments of quiet connection, his head bowing against her, feeling the stirrings of their unborn child, were too real, too filled with life to end this way.

Attempting to shift the focus, Elinda started, “Maybe if you–”

“Jace,” Daemon interrupted sharply, diverting his focus to the young prince, “have Baela land before the gale hits us, and inform Ser Brandon about Lord Massey’s imminent arrival. Ensure a contingent of guards is sent out for their reception.”

Jace’s response was a silent stare, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, a frown etching deeper into his expression as disbelief and shock took hold upon hearing Daemon’s commands. Daemon sensed the scorn radiating from Jace, its intensity almost tangible, pressing down on him with the force of silent condemnation. Jace’s eyes sharpened with censure, echoing unvoiced reproaches that seemed to reverberate through the charged atmosphere between them–accusations of absence and neglect that hung unspoken yet palpable: You should have been by her side. You ought to be with her now. Why weren’t you?

Without another word, Daemon pivoted, his steps firm and unyielding as she moved along the battlements. Jace’s voice trailed after him, “Daemon! Where are you going? She needs you! Come back!”

Yet, Daemon continued forward, undeterred.

Daemon walked along the battlements, each step echoing against the ancient stones, before entering one of the towering structures that pierced the skyline. Inside, he descended the spiral staircase, its steps worn by centuries of use, coiling downwards like the innards of some great beast. Crossing the open expanse of the courtyard, his silhouette cut a solitary figure against the backdrop of the castle’s imposing walls. Without hesitation, he veered towards an internal staircase, embarking on a descent into the deeper, shadow-laden recesses of the keep, where light of day scarcely touched. The further he ventured, the more pronounced the scent of the ocean became, mingling with the chill that seemed to cling to the cavernous walls.

He found himself drawn towards the sea, facing the brunt of the wind as it lashed against him, and listening to the ceaseless rhythm of the waves that shattered the stifling silence enveloping Dragonstone.

The horizon was as dark and foreboding as the stone walls of the castle, heavy with the promise of an impending gale as it rolled in from the sea. The last rays of sunlight fought their way through the thickening cloud cover in streaks of gold. The sun, in its slow descent, painted a faint glow across the landscape, its light waning but still casting a soft illumination against the encroaching darkness that threatened to envelop Dragonstone and everything within.

With each step on the sandy beach, his progress slowed, the grains clinging to his boots, seeming to anchor him with their weight, and in a fluid motion, Daemon drew his sword and planted it firmly into the sand, the blade flashing briefly. The leather belt and sheath were quickly shed, left to reside beside the sword embedded in the sand.

As though compelled by an unseen force, he waded into the churning waters, advancing until the waves lashed against his knees. A primal scream tore from his throat, raw and guttural–full of loss and rage, the sound carried away by the sea’s own roar. Overwhelmed, he succumbed to his knees, the sodden weight of his garments dragging him downwards as the ocean encircled him, indifferent to his mourning as it embraced him.

The waves battered against Daemon’s sunken form the same way it relentlessly crashed against the shore. The chill of the water penetrated him, sank into his bones and settled there, as his gaze fixed on the turbulent dance around him–dark, gray waters interspersed with relentless white froth. He had not even had the time or ability to mourn his brother before this–he felt the loss of him as only a brother could, but his death had not surprised him. His brother’s decline had been long, transforming him over the years into a distant, cherished memory rather than a constant presence, effectively estranged by Viserys’s actions long before his passing.

Daemon would have gone to him, had he been called, but the Greens had robbed him of his brother long before death claimed him.

And now, they had robbed him of his child as well.

Daemon harbored a conviction that the turmoil surrounding her father’s death and the usurpation of her rightful claim had cast a shadow over the unborn child, corrupting it within the womb.

Wave after wave battered him, the water’s force against his chest, his attire plastered to his form. Daemon mustered the strength to stand, to fight against the drag of his soaked clothes and the beach’s resistance, his boots heavy with sand and water. He managed only a few steps towards the shore’s boundary before the sand ensnared him once more, forcing him to his knees.

The grief of losing a child was a familiar torment, yet the anguish over this particular loss carved through him with a raw, unprecedented intensity. It ignited a fierce, consuming blaze within his chest, a pain profound and uniquely agonizing.

Amidst the relentless surge of waves, the solitude was pierced by Caraxes’ eerie call, a sound that resonated with the depth of Daemon’s despair. Perched high upon the cliffs, the dragon remained a silent witness to its rider’s grief, its gaze fixed upon him.

In his torment, Daemon buried his fingers into the damp embrace of the sand, desperately seeking something tangible amidst his grief. The coarse grains, unyielding beneath his battle-hardened hands, clung to him as he clutched the fleeting solidity of the earth, even as the relentless waves washed over him. Each surge of water not only drenched him further but also rinsed the sand from his grasp, leaving his hands empty and washed clean.

A surge of rage overwhelmed him, and with a guttural cry, he released his sorrow into the vastness, his voice tearing through the quiet, a raw challenge to the ocean’s incessant din.

Spent, he allowed himself to fall back against the saturated sand, the world tilting precariously as he stared up into the sky. The sun, which had been a beacon of light, now retreated behind the advancing army of clouds, reflecting the shadow that loomed over his soul.

Daemon lingered on the sand, his eyes cast upward to the ever-darkening sky, surrendering to the relentless caress of the waves that leached the warmth from his body, leaving him hollow. He forced himself to sit upright, his eyes drawn to the line where the tumultuous sea kissed the stormy horizon. In his heart, he named the Hightowers makers of his misery–they who had poisoned his brother against him, who had conspired with the council to usurp them, and who had stolen the life of his child, corrupting it within the womb. Their treachery knew no bounds it would seem.

The anger within him surged and receded with the waves’ rhythm, engulfing him until he felt nothing but a chilling emptiness. That emptiness rang hollow, seemed to reverberate with a dark echo–a vow of retribution, a vow of vengeance.

Inhaling deeply, Daemon collected his resolve. He stood and walked towards the cavern from which he came. With determined strides, he pulled the blade out of the sand and sheathed it, its weight a comforting presence in his hand. He walked back through the cave and up the steps towards the keep.

The silence that pervaded the halls of Dragonstone was suffocating. This was not the serene quiet of peace but a dense, burdensome quietude steeped in grief, pervading every crevice and shadow with its sorrowful grasp. The echo of his footsteps in the empty halls rang out in the solitude. Each step towards their chambers, the quietude seemed to grow louder with its emptiness, his boots leaving a trail of his somber journey. The doors to their bedchambers, once a gateway to solace, now stood as a daunting threshold to a realm of sorrow and loss.

Pausing at the threshold of the chamber he shared with his wife, Daemon found himself unable to move any further as his eyes settled on his wife. Positioned on the ground, she swayed gently, enveloping their lifeless child in her arms, her voice tenderly humming a lullaby. His heart seemed to cease beating for a moment as he watched her continue rocking their child, humming to it as though it could hear her.

The surrounding midwives bore expressions mingled with pity and sorrow, yet Daemon’s attention remained on Rhaenyra–there was a devastation in her tenderness, and a despair in the way she mused to the child.

Compelled by a strength he scarcely felt, Daemon took measured steps towards her and with deliberate care, he descended to his weary knees at her side. Extending a hand, he tenderly brushed her skin, which, though pale, felt warm against the cold that had entrenched itself within him. Her acknowledgement of his presence was fleeting; her gaze lifted to his before it was drawn back to the silent figure she cradled.

As Daemon looked over her shoulder, his gaze fell upon the tragic form nestled within his wife’s arms: a tiny being, grievously misshapen and sightless, with scales and strangely reptilian features.

The sight clenched Daemon’s heart with a cold grip. The child, marked by such profound deformities, bore the unmistakable sign of a life that would have been mercilessly brief, had it even begun. The child was an abomination. With this harsh acknowledgement, Daemon found a sliver of mercy in the fact that it had not endured the cruelty of life.

Rhaenyra continued her gentle, rhythmic sway with the child, lost in a world of grief and silent contemplation–a wordless lament that filled the air with an unbearable weight of unspoken sorrow.

“We must burn it,” she finally uttered, her voice a broken whisper.

In response, Daemon closed the distance between them, offering a kiss to her temple and resting his head against hers.

“It was a girl,” she whispered into the silence.

A girl. Another daughter. Their daughter–their only daughter.

“Visenya,” Rhaenyra breathed out, her fingers lightly caressing the lifeless form swaddled in a thick blanket. “I’ve always dreamed of a Visenya–Daenera nearly bore that name, but I named her after you…”

Daemon closed his eyes, a knot forming in his throat. “Visenya, second of her name. She would have been as fierce as her namesake.”

Rhaenyra lamented in a low murmur, “So much has been taken from us. My right to rule, Daenera, and now, our daughter–our Visenya.”

In response, Daemon’s embrace tightened, his lips brushing her temple in a whisper of a kiss. “We will rescue your daughter and we will reclaim what is rightfully ours. They will rue the day they set their eyes upon the throne.”

Rhaenyra’s voice was laden with exhaustion as she spoke, barely a whisper, “I don’t wish to talk of war and succession.”

The vibrant spark that once lit in her eyes now seemed extinguished, replaced by a profound weariness and the sheen of sorrow. She glared up at him in silent reproach, before returning her eyes to the babe.

“Princess,” came Elinda Massey’s gentle interjection, her expression one of deep sympathy. “The Silent Sisters should tend to her preparations.”

“No, I shall see to it myself,” Rhaenyra answered, determination weaving into her expression. Her voice lowered to a soft murmur. “She is mine to care for.”

“You should rest, Princess,” Elinda said, attempting to coax the princess to hand over the child, but a firm look from Rhaenyra stifled her efforts.

Rhaenyra’s imploring eyes met Daemons, seeking his support. Daemon drew in a measured breath, then acknowledged her wish with a nod. He helped her to stand, his hand supporting her as they prepared to make their way through the halls.

Their progress was measured and painstakingly slow, with Rhaenyra’s every movement betraying her fragility, each step accompanied by a faint exhalation of discomfort. Perspiration coated her pallid skin, which had lost the warmth it once held, now replaced by a cold that matched the air around them. Daemon’s arms encircled her, providing her a steadying presence, ensuring she remained upright as they moved forward, while she cradled their child close to her chest.

Nestled deep within the castle, the Silent Sister’s chambers exuded a bone-deep chill that seemed impervious to the flickering warmth of the heart that burned brightly. The room’s dimly lit corners appeared to cradle the cold, as if the ghostly presences lurked just beyond sight, their icy fingers trailing whispers of unease.

Upon their entrance, the Sisters, with their faces partially obscured by veils, turned their attention to Daemon and Rhaenyra as they entered. Each of them carried a banner of the Seven-pointed star. The Silent Sisters carried themselves with an air of solemnity, sworn to a life of silence and keeping vigil over those who had passed. This aspect, their pervasive silence coupled with an air of implicit judgment, unsettled Daemon profoundly. They seemed spectral, akin to phantoms themselves–shifting shadows that dwelled in the liminal space between life and death, their presence an ever-present whisper of mortality.

Daemon released Rhaenyra’s hand, stepping back to meld with the chamber’s shadows, observing as she moved towards the table. Each step seemed to carry the weight of her loss, her form outlined against the slender beams of light that managed to pierce through the room’s tall, narrow windows–the last slivers before disappearing entirely. Rain began to plet the windows and a low rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance.

The chamber was permeated with heavy, lingering dampness, the air tainted with the unmistakable, pervasive scent of mortality. Attempts to mask this grim reality with dried herbs and burning incense only succeeded in creating a thick, almost suffocating atmosphere that seemed to stick in the throat.

Daemon’s damp clothes clung to him, a discomfort magnified by the bone-deep cold that seemed to seize the very air around him. He watched in silence, a solemn observer, as his wife gently unwrapped their child from its swaddling. Each of her breaths was a battle against the surge of grief that threatened to overcome her. The sorrow that marred her countenance seemed to cast a heavy, dark veil over her, aging her with its profound shadow.

Rhaenyra dipped the sponge into a bowl filled with water, subsequently caressing the infant’s skin with it. Her movements were gentle and deliberate, imbued with a tenderness that spoke of the love she held for the child. In her actions, there seemed to be a silent hope, a desperate wish that this act of cleansing might undo the finality of their loss, erase the marks of their child’s brief existence. The spine, dragging up the remnants of birth, gradually tainted the water in the bowl, muddying the clarity with a silent testament to what was and what might have been.

Daemon swallowed thickly, a knot forming in his throat as his heart contorted with pain as he silently observed his wife’s solemn rites for their child. The pressure of his fingernails against his palm served as a grim reminder, anchoring him to the moment as he stared at her with a sharp form of detachment.

After Rhaenyra had meticulously cleansed their child, delicately erasing any traces of birth, she tenderly wrapped the infant in cloth. With a gentleness that belied the tragedy of the moment, she cradled the still form, wrapping it securely before placing it back on the table, now enveloped in the soft embrace of cloth, hidden from the cruel gaze of the world.

It was at this moment that Rhaenyra seemed to allow her grief to surge forth unbridled. Tears cascaded down her cheeks, her visage crumbling under the weight of her sorrow, a visual echo of her heart fracturing anew.

Leaning heavily against the table, a sob wracked her body, the sound raw and heartrending. She then sank to her knees in a posture of utter desolation before their swaddled child. Her hands, shaking with the force of her sorrow, lingered in the air before tenderly enveloping the tiny form. In a final act of maternal love, she brushed a kiss across the covered feet of their daughter, a gesture of farewell steeped in anguish and love.

The sight of his wife crumbling cut through Daemon–a profound despair sharp as a blade sinking between his ribs, leaving an indelible mark of sorrow on his heart.

Rhaenyra rested her forehead against the table’s edge, her hand pressed firmly over her mouth in a futile attempt to silence her sobs. Daemon crossed the room then, in quiet determination and knelt beside his wife. He wrapped his arms around her, offering the support she needed. Her fingers grasped desperately at the damp material of his doublet, clinging to him as if he were the last thread that kept her from falling into the depths of her despair. He held her close, his lips finding the crown of her head in a soft, reassuring gesture as he swallowed the pain of his own grief.

“We must get you to bed,” he whispered softly. “I refuse to lose you as well.”

Daemon carefully positioned her arm around his neck while sliding his own arm under her knees, preparing to lift her. As he raised her from the cold, hard floor, the weight of her form pressed heavily against his fatigued muscles, each movement stiff with the chill that had seeped into his bones. Yet, he held her securely, transporting her with unwavering resolve along the shadowed corridors of Dragonstone.

Upon reaching their room, he gently lowered her onto the bed with a care that belied his own physical discomfort.

“The midwives will look after you now,” Daemon told Rhaenyra, his voice a mixture of reassurance and command as he gestured subtly to the waiting attendants, signaling them to proceed with their duties.

Rhaenyra did not respond, she merely stared out into emptiness, a weary expression on her face.

“I’ll return soon, my love,” Daemon softly promised, sealing his vow with a gentle kiss upon her forehead before stepping back to allow the attendants to care for her.

Once he had shed the cling of his wet garments for dry attire, Daemon made his way back to their shared quarters, meeting maester Gerardys at the doors.

“My condolences for your loss, my prince.”

“Has lord Massey arrived yet?” Daemon asked pointedly, disregarding the condolences.

“Yes, Lord Massey has arrived, as has Lord Staunton,” the maester informed him. “They’ve been accommodated in the west wing of the keep and have been notified of the recent events… “

Daemon’s response was a gaze of steely resolve. “Inform everyone that the funeral for our daughter will be held on the morrow.”

“Understood, my prince,” Maester Gerardys acquiesced.

“And what of King’s Landing? Any word?” Daemon inquired, his voice carrying a hint of underlying tension.

“No news, my prince,” came the reply.

With a sharp nod, Daemon dismissed the maester, his expression unreadable as he turned towards the bedchambers. There, he found Rhaenyra enveloped in the bedding, her hair spilling across the pillow in waves of silver, her gaze lost to the gale raging beyond their window. The relentless downpour and the mournful wail of the wind created a symphony of sorrow that mirrored the turmoil within.

Silently, Daemon joined her on the bed, enveloping her in his embrace. He kissed her temple, sharing the heat of his own body in a silent offering of comfort. Rhaenyra remained still, her reaction to his closeness imperceptible, but he did not press for acknowledgement. Instead, he chose simply to be there, a steadfast presence in the midst of their shared desolation.

Tears began to fall from the corner of her eye, like the rain pouring down outside, as if the gods themselves grieved with them.

And heres for Next chapter: It's not done yet, and so far its around fucking 19K words as we follow the funeral, the green envoy, the black council pt2+pt3, a Rhaenys/Corlys scene and the deleted Jace/Rhaenyra scene. So... It will likely be cut into 2 parts, and I will update one on Fridays and hopefully again Monday, and then Friday again--depending on how far I've gotten with editing the chapter after 75 (which is then 75-76, and then 78 as a new chapter)

#a vow of blood #hotd #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen x oc

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