#next chapter coming soon i promise

[littlerequiem]

a little something coming tomorrow!!

[jaimeslanisters]

the pawn in every lover’s game (part thirteen)

Aemond Targaryen x Lannister!Reader

When you’re ten, your father sends you to King’s Landing to befriend a princess and woo a prince. A lioness growing up amongst dragons is a dangerous thing indeed.

crossposted on ao3 masterlist word count: 8.1k notes: no one kill me i’m sorry 😭 i hope all the aemondwives are still around to read this <3 pls enjoy!

King’s Landing is as ugly as a city can be. Famously, it stinks of shit and sweat and, though the city was only built two centuries prior by the Conqueror, it always looks grimy and unkempt. As fond as you are of the Red Keep and the family that lived within its walls, you can’t say the same for the city that housed them.

But in the dazzling sun, with golden and green streamers strung high above your head and Targaryen and Hightower flags streaming in the wind, you can almost be fooled into thinking that King’s Landing is as beautiful as your beloved Rock.

Smallfolk have come out to watch the spectacle and, held at bay by rows and rows of City’s Watch, they crowd the side roads and lean out of buildings’ windows, all of them clambering to catch what little they can of the royal family. A vast majority of them clutch little pennants in their hand, waving them high in the air. While some look homemade with a wayward stitch here and there, the vast majority look professional and sharp, as if done with a practiced hand rather than by a commoner in their spare time.

You wonder if Queen Alicent had them distributed, if she knew that the smallfolk would look at that small, pretty square of fabric days and months and years after this and remember the time that the royal family had thought them worthy and important enough to warrant a role in the first royal wedding in decades.

You wonder what else she has planned, what else she kept hidden behind her pretty smile and her placid nature.

The charger moves forward steadily, slowly and purposefully, its bulk an asset rather than a constraint on its journey. Next to you, Aemond commands his own horse with far more confidence than you feel, keeping it carefully in step with your own.

The cheers start before you ever even step out.

For a moment, you can’t make out any individual sounds in peoples’ screams. It’s all just an indistinguishable wave of sound that crashes down all around you, drowning out any chance of recognition. Someone could be whispering in your ear and you doubt you could make out what they’re saying.

But then it calms, barely, but it calms.

And then you can hear your name. Yours and Aemond’s.

They cheer your name and, when you look over in confusion, they scream louder, waving the pennants in their hands even faster as if to call your attention to them. The screams blur together again but this time you can pick out another phrase.

The dragon and his treasure.

Your cheeks explode in heat and Helaena’s voice echoes in your mind, loud even with all the screams surrounding you.

The dragon’s treasure.

You don’t dare look over at Aemond, suddenly and uncharacteristically shy. You can only imagine the look on his face, his smug pride, and the thought of meeting his heated gaze in front of a crowd of thousands threatens to light your every nerve on fire.

Taking a deep breath, you smile out at the hoards of people, nodding your head in thanks when they wave at you and call your name. If anything, it only encourages them even more and they cheer, their waving hands moving like a rippling ocean. Never before have people driven themselves into this much of a frenzy over you. Even in Lannisport, where Lannisters reigned like kings even now during the rule of the dragons, people hardly paid your presence any mind. The more polite, or should you say more overtly eager, smallfolk would bow or do a quick facsimile of a curtsey but the vast majority would simply nod their head at you if that. Jason would warrant a bigger response, being the Warden of the West and Lord of Casterly Rock, but nothing like this.

You’re not sure if you’ve seen such a friendly response from the smallfolk - ever. Perhaps when Rhaenyra was younger and she was still known as the Realm’s Delight or when Prince Daemon had still frequented the capitol and was a mainstay at the tourneys, this was how they were received but that had ended before even your birth and, somehow, you can’t imagine even they were cheered like this on their rides out into the city.

This wasn’t something to do with either your’s and Aemond’s noble lineage or with being a prince and a lady. This was something else entirely.

No, this was the tourney. This was the singers getting what they wanted with their songs and their stories.

As you move forward through the streets, towards the areas that aren’t as densely packed as by the Red Keep, the calls die down and people clap or whistle, still waving their pennants in the air.

It’s as quiet as it will be for right now and, pulling on a well of confidence, you look over at Aemond.

For once, the gods do not embarrass you by having you be caught off guard with him already looking at you. Aemond is sitting tall on his horse, looking more warriorlike than ever, as he rides in silence, staring straight ahead almost stoically. For a moment, you think that he’s unaffected by the almost impossibly warm response from King’s Landing, that, perhaps, as stern as he is, he’s not caught quite as off guard by the welcome as you are.

Then one particularly heavy step from his charger shifts his hair, disrupting the silky sheet, and, underneath his silver tresses, you can make out just one of his ears poking out.

The top of it is tinged pink.

Aemond is blushing.

You can’t hold back your delighted laugh and, when Aemond’s eye darts to meet yours, he looks almost sheepish to your well-trained eye.

With a gentle tug on the reins, your charger breaks free of the steady path it had been on, moving to walk closer to Aemond. You’re not so close that it is inappropriate but you’re close enough to finally talk to him and you beam, feeling something dangerously like joy on such a terrible day.

“My, oh, my,” you tease, fighting back another laugh when Aemond pointedly looks away, keeping his body angled towards you as to make it clear that he’s still listening to you. “Does the love and admiration of the people of this city embarrass my prince?”

“Enough,” he hisses, no real heat behind his words, and you shake your head, still plainly delighted. “They’re all still amused by the scandal. It’ll pass.”

You tilt your head in thought. “Perhaps I should send a thank you present to poor Erren Florent. He and his son have done more for our image than I could have ever dreamed possible.”

Finally, Aemond jerks his head to look at you, his sole eye narrowed. “The continued survival of his House is present enough.”

You throw your head back and laugh. There’s no bite in his tone, no real anger or heat, and when you look back at him, the corner of his mouth is quirked up in a small smile. “I told you that tourneys were good for some things.”

“People would love you given the opportunity. You did not need Victor Florent for that,” he says, shaking his head, and you smile despite yourself, feeling your cheeks heat up.

“You’re giving me far too much credit,” you reply after a moment, laughing again. “And perhaps the smallfolk too little. They love a good story, a good song. They’d be just as happy with another lady in my position.”

Aemond hums. “They’d be happy with another Targaryen prince in place of me. Happier even if the prince was Daeron.”

“Perhaps but the Gods have seen to make it fit that we are the lady and the prince that the smallfolk love - at least, for now.” You look back over at them, at the endless crowd with countless people. They all cheer for you, they all smile for you, but you know how quickly they could turn.

Princess Rhaenyra was once the Realm’s Delight, loved and adored. Now, the smallfolk are more liable to call her the Whore of Dragonstone and spit and sneer at her name than they are to ever remember they once had worshiped her.

They love you and Aemond - for now. Gaining their affection had been the easiest part. The struggle would be keeping it.

You look over at Aemond and, this time, you’re not surprised to see he’s already looking at you.

He doesn’t say anything but he doesn’t have to.

He knows.

——————————–

As you near the Dragonpit, for once, you don’t hear the growls of dragons muffled by tons of stone or the sound of the earth shifting and moaning under the tremendous weight of the beasts that call the hill home. It is instead drowned out by the drone of the crowds, some cheering, some speaking, all of them focused on you. Unlike the procession with its narrow roads and alleys, with the buildings stuffed with people leaning out of the window, the Dragonpit sits on Rhaenys’s hill, surrounded by trees with the structure itself serving as a rocky, jagged scar onto the greenery. Smallfolk line the base of the stairs leading up into the building, a massive crowd not unlike the tourney, and you know only from hearing from the Queen that a lucky few have been ushered into the Dragonpit itself to witness the exchange of vows personally. On the stairs, it seems that every septa and septon in the Seven Kingdoms has come to honor Helaena and Aegon’s nuptials. They line the sides, one septa for each septon, and they all bow their heads as you ride past, averting their eyes from you as if you really were the Maiden incarnate and not just a lady playing dress up.

As you near the top, you glance behind yourself, your grip tightening on the reins of the charger to steady yourself and stay rooted to the saddle. The look down the stairs is almost dizzyingly tall and your grip tightens that much more but your eyes focus and, far in the distance, you can see the crowd moving, pressing close all around two small figures. From here, you can just make out Helaena, the shockingly white ivory of her dress and cloak a beacon amongst the dark tones of everyone around her. You can’t make out any details - you can’t see the emeralds that have been woven into the mass of braids in her hair, the shiny rubies in her tiara that glitter and catch the light. You certainly can’t see the blood red of the thread you had used to help her embroider the three-headed dragon of the Targaryens onto her cloak, the swirling black thread Helaena had carefully woven into her sigil to make the dragon more living, more dimensional.

While embroidering, Helaena had pricked her finger and some blood had splattered onto the white cloak. You had hidden it with a carefully placed claw but it was there, staining the heavy fabric. There hadn’t been time to attempt to wash it out. You had just covered it up.

There hadn’t been time.

You feel dizzy, faint with nerves and something you can’t identify, and you turn back to face the front, taking a deep breath, wrapping the reins around your hands and squeezing tight. There’s been an attempt to dress up the Dragonpit to look warm and welcoming with impossibly tall columns of flowers and delicate streamers of silk creating a canopy to lead the guests in. It does little to soften the harsh architecture, as much as placing a bouquet on the Iron Throne would lighten the throne room, and your stomach twists up into impossible knots when servants move to meet you and Aemond, their hands reaching up to grab at the reins and pull the chargers to a stop.

Closer to the massive doors of the Dragonpit, you can see Rhaenys, Daeron, and Alicent, the three of them talking amongst themselves as attendants flutter all around you. In Daeron’s arms, he holds a folded mass of fabric close to his chest, squeezing it tight as if someone was going to rip it from him.

The wedding cloak.

It had been the same one that Viserys had pinned around Alicent Hightower’s neck. The same one that had been pinned around Aemma Arryn and Good Queen Alysanne and Queen Rhaenys. It was old and most of it was patches rather than the original fabric but it had been hung on the shoulders of all the old queens before. It would be hung from the necks of all future queens.

You wonder how many of them had wanted it to be.

You sense Aemond next to you more than you see him or hear him and, just like in the courtyard, he grabs you at the waist and you lean down to grab a hold of his shoulders. Carefully, he picks you up and sets you on the ground. Your legs sway slightly from the ride and you grip his shoulders tighter to steady yourself, his own grip tightening in response.

Breath caught in your throat, you look up at him through your eyelashes, wishing you could say something or do something. You wish he could reach down and press his forehead to yours as he had in the training yards, as you had in his room in Driftmark. You wish he could cup your cheeks, trap you in the heat of his body again.

But he can’t. Not here. Not in front of the whole of Kings’ Landing.

Not now. Not now.

“Thank you,” you murmur as you pull away, letting go of his shoulders, moving your hands down to needlessly pull at your dress in an attempt to distract yourself, to ground yourself.

Aemond doesn’t say anything but he squeezes your waist one last time before he pulls away, offering you his arm. You reach for it, pulling it closer to your body than is technically allowable but not too much for anyone to notice. The chainmail is cool against the thin fabric of the linen, a welcome relief, and his arm is firm, years of training evident. He’s strong and unyielding, relentless and resolute.

He can be my strength today. You tell yourself, holding on tight. If Aemond can be strong today, so can I.

His hand comes up to cover yours, squeezing it, and you glance up at him, biting the inside of your cheek.

“It’s what is honorable,” he murmurs. “They’re doing their duty to our family - just as we do.”

Why are some duties so horrific? Why are some so easy? Why her? Why us?

You nod your head back to him after a moment, feeling off-kilter and dazed. If Aemond wasn’t standing with you, if he wasn’t walking and holding you, you think you would have already run down the steps to Helaena, to beg and plead with her to run, her honor and duty be damned,

After all, what was honor and duty in the face of the death of her girlhood?

It’s loud enough that the Queen and her two companions don’t notice your approach until you’re right up next to them. Rhaenys offers a polite smile while Daeron grins but Alicent looks dazed, eyes staring off towards the stairs, looking endlessly past it.

“When are we set to begin?” You ask in lieu of a greeting, forcing a smile on your face for good measure. You don’t dare to look up towards Aemond, don’t want to see the look of sympathy in his eyes.

Be as unyielding as the Rock.

Daeron nudges his mother slightly, just a brush on the arm, but the Queen startles nonetheless. Her brown eyes stare up at her son, wide and guileless like a little girl, and for a moment, it’s clear to all that she’s completely and utterly lost, that whoever she sees when she looks up at her youngest is certainly not her son.

But then her face clears, there’s light back in her eyes and she shakes her head firmly. “Soon,” she says, voice firm, hardened. “Aegon is already inside and, once Helaena reaches the stairs, he will walk down to the altar by himself. Then it goes Crone, Smith, Mother, Warrior, Maiden, before Father walks in with Helaena herself. Then the ceremony.”

Alicent goes on to explain the ceremony but you tune her out - your part was done. The Maiden was a largely ritualistic role with your role being done before the wedding itself, through your fasting and prayer and song and your continued purity. All you would have to do during the wedding itself would be to stand in the front row, alongside the other attendants, and bow your head and pray when it was proper. Daeron was the only one who would actually have to do something - he would have to approach the alter to hand off the cloak when it was time to exchange vows - and, from the looks of it, he was approaching it as seriously as he had approached the tourney with the same steely-eyed determination.

You suppose it was like the tourney in a way, only that the warriors wore the finest of silks and had capes of velvet as their armor.

You just wish there was a way to win this particular tourney.

“It’s a lovely ceremony,” Rhaenys muses after a moment, and, almost in relief at the distraction, you look over at her. She’s staring up at the Dragonpit, her dark eyes roaming over the banners and flags and streamers. “Lovely day as well. Bodes well for a union.”

Aemond makes a sound of agreement and the princess looks over at her kin, eyes flashing as she takes him in.

Contrary to what Aemond had said in the library days ago, Rhaenys does not look at the rider of Vhagar with hate or malice in her eyes. That is not to say, however, that she looks at him with warmth or kindness. No, she looks at him and she is searching, digging in deep and deep and trying to find something.

Trying to find whatever it was that the Queen of All Dragons had found in Aemond Targaryen that she had also found in Laena Velaryon.

Princess Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was, could see what her granddaughter could not - a dragon could not be stolen. It could only be won. That did not mean that she was happy with it or angry or sad. It simply was and all she wanted to know was the truth of it.

“Is that a Valyrian belief, my princess?” You ask, standing steady when she pulls her piercing gaze away from Aemond to peer at you.

Rhaenys smiles, her face softening ever so slightly, a joke dancing in her stormy blue eyes. “I do not believe so. It is simply my belief. It was sunny when I was married - good weather for sailing.”

“It is different for the Andals,” you reply, absentmindedly tapping your fingers on Aemond’s arm. “If it rains, that means that the bride will not weep during her marriage for the Gods have already cried for her.”

“It’s not raining,” Daeron says, the smallest hint of anxiety creeping into his tone.

Against your will, a smile creeps on your face as you watch him tighten his grip even more on the cloak, his mouth tightening. “It certainly is not but they’re not Andals, are they?” You tease, raising your eyebrow, and leaning forwards slightly. “Perhaps the sun is what they need.”

“Fire and blood,” Aemond murmurs, glancing upward toward the blazing sun. “Dragons were born from the flame of the earth. Perhaps the fire in the sky will keep their union warm.”

Alicent nods, more forceful than need be, as if she’s forcing herself to agree. “It is a blessing. The Gods have declared it so.”

You eye her with her stiff lip and her tense shoulders and, for the first time today, you realize you don’t feel anger or contempt when you look at her. Not towards her, not towards yourself.

You feel endless pity. You feel your heart breaking.

She’s trussing her children up as sacrifices, wrapping the nooses around their necks so no one else would do it, leading them to the slaughter so it would have been a gentle hand that coaxed them to their death.

How can you do it? How do you find the strength? How do you wake in the morning?

Please tell me how. Please teach me. Tell me that I haven’t done the same to Cerelle. Light the way forward so I know there is one.

You almost ask it. You almost beg.

But then the bells begin and it sounds like death.

Alicent jerks, as if yanked by strings on her back, and her brown eyes flit around until they land on you, and, for a moment, it’s only the two of you standing here, at the gateway to a fathomless pit.

How do you do it? You ask.

There is no answer in her eyes. There’s only the awful knowing.

——————————–

You used to practice walking down the aisle with Helaena. You’d take these deep, dramatic steps, dipping nearly impossibly low to the ground as you moved. More often than not, you’d tumble to the side and break down into giggles, laughing as if it was all a silly game that the two of you were playing.

Even as a little girl, you had known that that was what it could only be. Lords and ladies did not marry for love. They married for honor, for duty, and for family.

It had been nice to pretend.

There’s no way to pretend now.

Tucked away in the back, a row of goldcloaks shielding you from the massive crowd of nobles and peasants alike, you watch as Aegon makes the long, lonely march.

He’s always been the smallest of his brothers but you wonder if he’s ever looked as small as he does now.

You watch him go, staring at his diminishing back, at the crown-not-crown tucked away in his curls.

Eventually, you’ll return here, you realize, only it won’t be a wedding. That time, no one else will follow him. He will walk by himself, a lonely ruler of man, and his hair will be free and clean. That is, until the High Septon anoints him with the seven blessings and the seven oils and when the crown is placed on his head, until you all have to bow to him and declare fealty. Then his crown would be heavy.

But he would be lonely nonetheless.

Before long, he reaches the altar and for a moment, he stands cluelessly, plainly staring helplessly at the High Septon until that old man with the strange pale eyes subtly directs him to his spot, on the right of the seven-pointed star glass window.

There’s a beat where everyone stares at Aegon, at his slim and narrow back that stands, shockingly, without a tremor.

Then voices begin to sing.

It’s a long, old hymn, the first one any child born in the Light of the Seven ever learns. Even if you went deaf, if you lost all sense of hearing or even sight to see someone’s lips moving to the words, you know, deep in your soul, that you could recognize the tremor of the ground when the bards begin to play their instruments, the vibrato from the singers shaking the very air.

It’s never shaken like this, never as strong in your soul. It feels like defeat. It feels like a victory.

You watch as Rhaenys moves with nary a falter. Her arm must sting from the entire ride from the Red Keep holding up the lamp but you could never tell now. She’s as steady as the statues you had prayed to in the Sept, as unyielding as the columns of rock that hold the dome high above your heads. This is nothing to her. She cares little for the children of Alicent Hightower and, even if she did, she’s a Targaryen. A brother marrying a sister was what she was accustomed to. That if she had been born with a brother, she might have married him instead of Lord Corlys.

Your stomach twists. You can’t even imagine. The thought feels sickening and unbearable and the mere idea of looking at little Loren, your tiny baby brother that you love to rock in your arms and kiss on his chubby cheeks, and having to see a potential husband rather than merely your brother makes you want to throw up here and now.

But they’re Targaryens and they will do as they need to keep their blood pure. It’s a burden that Helaena has grown with. A duty that Aegon and Aemond and Daeron have had to live with.

You can’t even imagine how they bear it. How the mere sight of their own family doesn’t make them want to scream and scream and beg for anything else.

The hymn continues and you feel rather than see or hear the Smith slip away. Even though you know deep in your rattling bones that it is Daeron, you still turn to stare. He’s gone pale, with nerves or sickness you’re not sure, but he’s moving forward steadily. Rather than hugging the cloak to his chest, he holds it out like he’s carrying something precious and, with the way that’s folded, you can see the crimson dragon curling, the roar of its head.

An offering.

You tighten your hold on Aemond.

Who could ever want to be a Targaryen?

You feel possessive of your two, of Helaena and Aemond both. You wish you could keep them chained to you. They’re mine you want to scream. But they’ve never belonged to just you. They’ve always been each other’s, been Aegon’s and Alicent’s and Daeron’s, been the Realm’s.

The smallfolk had cheered for you as the dragon’s treasure but Aemond gets to possess you in a way you can’t possess him, in a way you can’t possess Helaena.

The blessing and the curse of the Targaryens.

Alicent moves next and you know that Aemond will go after and something in you roars.

You are a lioness of the Rock. You are the blood of kings. Not even two hundred years ago, princes would be fighting for your hand. We may have bent the knee to the dragon but you will never cower before them.

Your mother’s voice reverberates, stronger than the hymn, stronger than the singing and shaking. It doesn’t rattle your bones - it is your bones. It is everything about you, from the curve of your eye down to the blood that runs in your veins.

They’re Targaryens but you’re a Lannister.

That means something. Maybe not to the smallfolk. Maybe not to the Targaryens themselves but it means something to you.

Aemond’s arm twists in your grasp and, for only a moment, you tighten your grip - not to draw strength but to claim him.

He had pressed a bloody kiss onto your forehead and crowned you in golden and crimson. Only he could have done that. Only a Targaryen could have such audacity, could survive the scrutiny and the attention that would follow such an act. You can’t do the same - you can’t wield a sword or slay your enemies yourself, your name wouldn’t survive such a show of your power.

But you can claim him.

Not like you want. Not like you need.

But you can claim him as he had claimed you.

Aemond stills, looking down at you, and your eyes flicker to the golden flower tucked in his chainmail. It’s not enough. You want more and more and more.

“My lady?” He asks and, finally, you glance up at him. His purple eyes are dark, swallowing all the light, and, when he looks at you, you know that he only sees you, is only concerned with you.

The Dragonpit was blessed by the High Septon - it’s as good as a sept now. Promises mean more now. They have more weight if it’s in front of the gods.

Instead of saying it all, of promising him that you’ll be as good as any sword in defense of him and his, instead of bleeding your enemies dry if only to trace the marble cut of his cheekbones with the blood, you pluck another poppy from the braided mass of your hair. It’s red, the deep crimson a striking stain between the two of you.

Golden and red - the Lannister colors. He crowned me with it too.

You can’t do the same. Not here and not how you like but you want him to be yours like you are his.

With a steady hand, you tuck the poppy in with its golden companion, twisting the stem around the delicate chain, securing it so tightly so it was interwoven with the armor as the other links themselves were. His hand comes up to cover yours, pressing your hand to his chest, close enough so you can feel the thump of his heartbeat underneath your palm. It’s steady, strong. You feel it in the own echo of your own.

The hymn turns to the verse of the Warrior and you feel Aemond’s hand flex as if he means to pull it towards his mouth again. You beat him to the punch though.

Quickly, you push yourself onto your tiptoes, rising up so you can press a kiss on the sharp angle of his cheekbone, right underneath his eyepatch. You overshoot slightly, your lips brushing the seam of the leather and his skin. He’s almost impossibly warm underneath you like the heat of a fireplace when you curl up in front of it during a cold winter night.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you can hear your father’s warning, can almost feel the accusing stares of King’s Landing if they could see you being so intimately close to a prince of the realm. For once, you tell him to leave.

You’re safe here, behind the goldcloaks’ backs, tucked away towards the entrance of the Dragonpit. As relatively safe as you can be away from your table in the library.

You settle back down onto the ground and, after a beat, pull away. You drop your hand from his chest, pull your arm out of his grasp.

Then you smile at him, nodding your head.

He looks you over, carefully. Behind him, a servant steps forward, the panic in their eyes evident the longer that Aemond delays his procession down to the altar. Aemond doesn’t move for them, however, not until he’s satisfied that you’re fine.

Honor and duty. This will protect their family.

You’re a lion of the Rock. They’re the blood of dragons. If none of you can bear it, there is none who can.

Aemond looks at you for a moment longer and again, you nod, feeling something in you crack and harden.

It must. You have to.

Finally, after a second that feels like it stretches into eternity, he gives you one firm nod of his head before he pulls away and is ushered down into the aisle. There’s a soft murmur in the crowd when they spot him, nowhere near the screams of the streets but somehow that much more holy against the background of the constant hymn.

You’re alone.

You look over your shoulder, towards the massive doors of the Dragonpit. Helaena is there, still making her way up the stairs, her grandfather at her side.

Soon. Soon there would be no going back, no return.

It doesn’t frighten you as bad as it once had even if it does not lessen the nausea.

You wonder if that anxiety will ever go away, if there will ever be a moment when you look at Helaena and not wish things could be different. She was made for this but that didn’t mean she had to be, didn’t mean you couldn’t pray that her husband could have been someone who loved her for her rather than her older brother that drank and whored his way through life.

The hymn continues, wrapping its way around your throat and squeezing tight. Your turn is coming. Soon you will walk down the aisle as the very image of the Maiden, representing all of her virtues and purity in the eyes of the capitol. When they speak of this wedding, they’ll speak of you as well.

You wonder what they’ll say - if they’ll swoon over your beauty or whisper about whether or not a lion could truly be as kind and gentle as the songs promise the Maidens always are.

You don’t think you can. You know you don’t want to. Maiden that you are, there’s nothing more you want in the world than to sink your teeth in King Viserys and tear and tear and tear until there’s nothing left of him and wear his blood and gore as a mark of honor, carry the title of Kingslayer as a prize rather than an insult. You had prayed for Victor Florent’s death, had mocked and taunted him, had smiled as he had laid dying. You had sent spies into his grieving family’s home. You had sent your sister into the frigid and frozen North, away from her family and into danger.

And the worst part was that you would do it all again.

You couldn’t change a thing and, most damning of all, you wouldn’t change a single thing.

You had already done awful things for your family. You would do even worse sins in the future.

The hymn changes and it is high and piercing in your ears. It’s almost an insult, shrieking and shrill. You want to grimace and pull back and away.

You smile instead. When the servants turn to guide you down to the aisle, you broaden your smile into a grin, making sure to make your cheeks burn with coquettish joy and, when you float past the servants to the starting point, you bow your head towards them in respect. When you glance up at them, they look almost impossibly pleased, unable to keep their glee to themselves.

Let the singers write about that.

Soon enough, they gesture you down the aisle and, when you step out, there’s a notable whisper in the crowd, eyes turning to stare at you. Someone close to the exit, a peasant girl clinging to her father’s hand, exclaims excitedly about the poppies in your hair, about the matching ones in Prince Aemond’s chainmail. The whispers spread from there and you make sure to keep your head bowed in solemn devotion, hands clasped to your chest in a soundless prayer, seemingly above it all. It doesn’t stop their enthusiasm, however. It’s nearly the exact opposite - they’re charmed by your faith, thankful to see a fellow devotee of the Seven in the lady they already loved.

The journey down to the front row before the altar drags. People are interested in you, invested in you even, but you’re not the main attraction, not even close. As much as they stare at you, their eyes keep sliding over to the entrance, the anticipation growing and growing until it's a palpable swell looming over everyone’s heads, ready to crash down at any moment.

As you near the destination, you raise your head up to look up towards the altar, moving your lips in a whispered prayer that is more instinct than any actual thought. Aegon still faces away from you and, slightly below him with the bridal cloak still cradled in his arms, Daeron stares at you with a small smile, trying his best to look encouraging even if it's tempered by his clear discomfort at being so close to the center of attention.

But you don’t focus on either of them. You stare at the High Septon. In front of the stained window of the Seven-Pointed Star, he stares at you, as implacable as any stone made of stone. His crystal crown breaks up the light, scattering small rays of shining colors, a rainbow that undulates with every small movement of the sun. He’s a king of a different type of kingdom, ultimate power of another kind.

His eyes don’t frighten you anymore. Instead, you feel a tight ball of envy as you stare up at him. He was no more royal than you were. Maybe even less so. For all you know, this High Septon was plucked from obscurity, from a noble family far lesser than yours, or, even possibly, from a common one. You wouldn’t know - they give up their names when they rise to their position. For all extents and purposes, the High Septon’s life only began when he became the High Septon. He’s less than nobody.

But he’s powerful. Far more than you. Far more than Aemond. Perhaps, traitorously so, more than the King himself.

You want it.

You smile at the High Septon, bowing your head so he doesn’t see the jealousy on your face and decide you’re the unholiest Maiden to ever exist. When you look up, he raises one arm to welcome you magnanimously and you curtsey deep, your knees feeling as if they’ll brush against the cool stone beneath you if you drop even a smidge shorter. You move to join the other attendants, settling in your spot next to Aemond, keeping your head low as you do so.

The room holds its breath.

Then the air leaves the Dragonpit entirely.

The rattle of the hymn feels minuscule compared to this. Everything feels entirely too small to describe this moment. The only time you’ve ever felt everything shift beneath you like this was when you first saw Dreamfyre all those years ago, when her roar had shaken the very foundations of the earth and her fire had lit the air itself on fire.

You can’t turn around to stare like you want - it would be entirely too uncouth coming from a royal attendant - but you tilt your head slightly, staring at the aisle. Across the way, you can see Baela standing with the Velaryons and the Hightowers. She has no qualms about turning to stare and, judging from her slightly agape mouth, Helaena is a sight to be seen.

For the first time since the ride with Aemond, you feel a genuine smile rise up on your face.

It’s what she deserves, what she’s earned.

Finally, they’ll see her like you always have.

Like a wave rushing towards the shore, you feel Helaena move closer and closer, the song faltering as they see her, as if a hymn for the gods themselves can’t even compare to the sight of her.

Anticipation mounts in your chest and you close your eyes.

In your mind, you can still see her as the little girl she was when you first met her when she had said one of her strange ramblings rather than her name. You can still see her smiling at you over a mantis carefully cupped in her hands. You can still see her in the gardens, turning her face out to the Blackwater Bay.

When you open your eyes, you see her as she is now.

Lord Hand Otto walks with her, arm in arm, but you don’t even register him, not when you’re looking at her.

She glows. She’s unreal. She is who they whisper about when they talk about the perfect, unattainable beauty of the Targaryens.

You want to cry.

Her hair is braided out of her face, a crown that is not quite a crown, gleaming emeralds nestled within it. The rest of her curls fall around her face and down her back, perfectly twisted to fall in identical ringlets. The bodice of her white gown clings to her like a second skin before flaring out at her shoulders, her sleeves dragging on the ground next to her, and at the waist.

The cloak is pinned around her neck.

Your eyes catch on it, on the embroidery you had worked with her with. Your gaze fixes on one of the dragon’s delicate claws, at the curve of it, and you wonder if the blood is still there, if it’s as bright red as it had been, or if it’s faded to an ugly and dull brown.

You wonder if it makes a difference. You wonder why you care.

Helaena doesn’t turn to look at you, doesn’t even falter as she moves towards the altar. She walks with such a confidence, with such a grace, that it’s difficult to reconcile her with the pale waif of a girl that had trembled with nerves in the throne room and had torn at her napkins. This is a Queen.

You wish it was a real crown on her head. You wish this was a coronation instead of a wedding.

In the end, you suppose it is.

When Helaena and Otto reach the altar, the hymn finally, finally ends and, with a deep breath, Aegon turns to face his sister.

This close to the altar, you can see how Aegon’s face is a careful mask, a delicate shield that protects him. He stares at his sister, at his bride, and you wonder if he sees even a piece of what you see, if it’s possible. You wish you could even fault him for it.

Lord Otto holds out Helaena’s hand and Aegon stares at it for an impossibly long second and, just as the first whisper of fear begins to rise up in you, he takes it. As he does, he manages a smile at his sister. A shaky, timid smile as if he’s unsure of what he’s doing, completely lost and clueless like a child, and that familiar sympathy rises up in you. Viciously and without remorse, you push it down as far as you can.

There’s no more time for that.

Helaena moves up to her spot on the altar and, together, the two siblings kneel together in front of the High Septon, hand in hand.

The seven vows begin.

The High Septon speaks in a booming voice, near deafening this close to him. Even still, you wonder if, in the back, the common folk can even hear a single word he is saying. You wonder if that little girl with her father is mouthing along to the seven vows or if she’s still whispering about the poppies, maybe even squealing about the beautiful princess in her wedding gown.

The seven blessings are invoked.

Your heart thuds loud and relentless in your chest. It’s dragging by. It’s speeding past. Suddenly desperate to be moored in this moment, you reach out for Aemond’s hand, his own immediately wrapping around yours in response. It's scalding, the heat surrounding you, and you want to pull it into you. You want it to light you up from the inside. You want it to be the only thing you can feel.

The seven promises begin.

Helaena and Aegon turn towards each other, hands still clasped tightly together. With hardly a falter in their voice, they go through the seven promises with each other. Like this, it almost looks right. It almost looks like this is how it is meant to be.

Now, it is time for the exchange of the cloaks.

Otto Hightower steps forward, tall and proud, and, with zero hesitation or reluctance, unclasps the bridal cloak from Helaena’s neck. You squeeze Aemond’s hand, your heart pounding even harder, and dimly, you recognize that he’s pulling your hand closer to him, pressing it into his stomach as if knowing that you need more than he can give right now.

The Lord Hand steps down, leaving the altar, and Daeron surges forward, almost skittish in his nerves, but for a moment, Helaena stands bare. It’s just her. No cloak.

You hope years into the future, this is what you’ll remember. Not the fear. Not the nausea. Not the anger and the rage. You’ll just remember Helaena, free of any familial obligations, beautiful in the golden light of the sun.

Daeron passes the cloak to Aegon, retreating back down to join his grandfather and the rest of the attendants at the bottom. After only a moment, Aegon unfurls the cloak with a flourish, shaking it out.

It’s beautiful because it must be but up close, you can see where seamstresses have tried to match the patches to the existing fabric. No one will see it, certainly not the smallfolk in the very back of the Dragonpit, but you can see it. Surely, when Aegon the Conqueror first pinned it to the neck of his sister-wife Rhaenys, it must have been a thing of beauty. Now it just seems sad, a fading remnant of glorious days.

Aegon steps closer to his sister, his amethyst eyes glowing with frantic energy, and, with barely trembling hands, he drapes it on Helaena’s shoulders, clasping it in front of her. Helaena doesn’t sway under the heavy weight and doesn’t react other than bowing her head in respect.

A part of you wishes you could laugh about her switching out one dragon cloak for another but you can’t. Not when there’s still a scream building in your throat no matter how hard you try to press it down. Your nails dig into Aemond’s hand and you know it must be painful but, try as you may, you can’t force your hands to loosen.

He bears it though. He doesn’t yank his hand away or shake you off. He remains steady, flexing into your sharp nails, teetering on the line of drawing blood and bleeding for you.

You want to tell him thank you. You want to echo the vows that Helaena and Aegon are saying to each other.

I am yours and you are mine you want to whisper, want to protect between the two of you.

But you can’t. Because you know the moment you open your mouth, you will cry or scream and neither can happen.

“With this kiss,” Aegon says in a tremulous voice. Helaena looks up at him and you can’t see her face but she’s steady, strong.

She’s a dragon like the rest of them.

Aegon looks at her face, openly pleading, but whatever he sees in his sister’s face drives him forward. “With this kiss,” he repeats again, this time firmer. “I pledge my love.”

He doesn’t hesitate. He leans down and presses his lips against his sister’s - against his wife’s - and the Dragonpit explodes with cheers around you. For a moment, you feel dazed and this doesn’t feel real. It feels like you’ve been pushed underwater and you’re watching this all play out on the surface.

But then it is real. You can’t pinpoint when. You can’t pinpoint how. But as you look up at them, suddenly you can force yourself to see this new reality - Helaena is married to Aegon in the eyes of the gods and the realm.

Your grip loosens before you let go of Aemond entirely. Your arms feel heavy but you bring your hands together to clap, clapping hard enough to feel your palms sting. Next to you, Aemond only waits a moment for you before he joins in, less enthusiastic than you but then again, you already know you’re overcompensating.

Helaena and Aegon pull away from each other and the High Septon says something but even this close, you can’t make out his words over the cheering. The future King and Queen of Westeros turn towards the whole of King’s Landing and they look beautiful.

This is what it was meant to be.

They stare out into the crowd, their matching amethyst eyes shining with emotion as they take in all the excitement and the adoration of a people meeting their future rulers for the first time.

“The people will love them,” You say after a moment, tearing your eyes away from them to look over at Aemond.

He hums, turning to look at you, tilting down slightly so he can hear you over the roar. “They’ll love Helaena by any means.”

You smile. “She’s easy to love. It’ll be impossible for them not to.”

“That will be the easy part,” he replies. “We can help them with the rest.”

“Of course, they have a student of history and philosophy as their brother,” you tease, fighting with all you have to not look over to Helaena and Aegon still standing on the altar.

“And they’ll have a lion as their good-sister,” Aemond murmurs, leaning down far enough so you can feel the ghost of his lips brushing against your forehead.

You can feel your face explode with warmth but you still manage a nod and a small smile. “Aye. They’ll have that as well.”

[snowflakesnsundry]

So I started making my fic an audiobook.

Why? I wanted to for a while now, and I'm procrastinating hardcore. Also, its been a good chance to see how my writing has changed over the last couple years ^.^

Please forgive any voice cracks. I'm a touch sick (so obviously i decided to do this??)

Anyway, I would love to hear what y'all think! I don't know that ill ever get through all 100+ chapters but, its something fun for now.

Until Dust: Chapters 1-5

[hannibard]

"I'm choking from the taste (but I can't help but swallow)"

Chapter 4: Brutal Punishment

Summary: Jaskier is summoned by Radovid and is served a cruel punishment for his mistake.

click here to read on ao3

When Jaskier was 13, he started getting closer to the stablehand, who was a few years older than him. He used to skip his lessons just to meet up with the boy, and they spent hours chatting about anything and everything, and the more Julian got to know him, the more a strange desire for him grew. He had only ever had crushes on girls before and it took him a while to realize that what he felt for the stable hand wasn’t much different, but when he did, he wasted no time in making a move.

It was late afternoon and they were huddled together in an empty stall in the stables. The hay pressing on young Julian’s back felt softer than the most high quality eiderdown when their lips touched for the first and last time, and the faint sunbeams peaking through the cracks on the hardwood wall lit up the space just enough for him to be able to see the other’s flushed face. It was a magical moment that ended all too soon.

After a servant caught them in the act they hastily informed the Viscount, who came and dragged Julian back to the manor by the hair and proceeded to give him the beating of his life once they were safely behind closed doors.

What under different circumstances would have become a fond memory for Jaskier to look back on ended up becoming lifelong nightmare fuel.

What he was feeling presently wasn’t dissimilar to the all-encompassing dread that once filled him as he stared at his father’s furious face. His breath was coming in short as cold sweat clammed up his entire body.

“Rad- Y-your majesty, this isn’t-“

Radovid raised his hand in a swift motion and Jaskier took the hint and shut up.

The king stared at him for a long moment that felt like it lasted hours when it was probably just a minute or two, his lips pressed in a firm line, before turning his gaze towards Blade, who was looking down at the floor with their hands clasped together behind their back, posture rigid.

“You.” Radovid addressed them at last. “Follow me. Julian, you are to remain in your quarters until you’re summoned.” He said and started walking away towards his office. Blade didn’t spare Jaskier a single glance as they hurried to obey.

Jaskier stayed frozen in place until both of them were out of sight and then didn’t wait a second longer before entering his room and slamming the door shut behind him. He leaned against it as he slowly slid to the floor.

He sat there for a long time, with his eyes pressed shut and his hands pulling at his hair as he tried to calm his hyperventilating with some simple breathing exercises. Despite what his father had said when Jaskier had voiced his ambitions, his chosen profession could be unexpectedly useful. 

How could I have been so stupid?

Things with Radovid were already strained enough as it were, but, maybe due to some lingering sentiment, the king hadn’t subjected him to any actual punishment after the bard’s little show of defiance- save for the forceful nature of their bedroom activities that had lost any pretense of mutual consent. Jaskier doubted that would be the case this time.

The room was dark and he could barely see anything, no matter how much his vision had adjusted since he entered, but he had trouble dealing with fire on a good day so lighting a candle in this situation wasn’t even worth considering. Once he felt stable enough, he got up and made his way to an armchair where he discarded his doublet and vest before throwing himself to the bed face down.

It was big enough that when he turned his face to the side he could pretend Geralt was laying right next to him, sharing a bed like they’d done so many times before while on the Path. But, like mere moments ago in the hallway, when he reached out his hand empty space was the only thing waiting for him. At some point he must have dozed off because he was startled awake early next morning by a few hard consecutive knocks on the door. A guard’s voice followed soon after.

“Lord Pankratz, the king has demanded your presence at once. Please make haste.”

Jaskier tentatively entered the luxurious throne room, whose decoration featured a massive crystal chandelier and intricate tapestries covering the walls, which was uncharacteristically empty save for the king and the two knights that flanked him. Curiously, blankets and cushions of various sizes were strewn across the floor. Blade was nowhere to be seen but Jaskier had suspected as much.

He didn’t dare look Radovid as he went to the middle of the room and kneeled in a show of submission that he hoped would somewhat mollify the king, before steeling himself to take the liberty and talk first.

“Your Majesty, what happened yesterday was but a mere accident! You see, I was heavily inebriated and I didn’t have the mind to think straight. It led me to unfortunately resort to old habits, which are known to be hard to die. I beseech you to show mercy.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind he felt pride at the fact that his voice didn’t shake, yet another use of his “waste” of a profession.

There was a long, charged silence before Radovid finally responded.

“Old habits you say. Is it your debaucherous reputation that you’re referring to?”

Jaskier gulped. “Yes your Majesty.”

Radovid hummed. “Interesting. Well, to be honest, while pondering on what your motive could’ve been for such insolence, I arrived at the exact same conclusion.”

Jaskier blinked rapidly and looked up at the king, not expecting that in the slightest. “I-Is that so?”

Radovid stood from his golden, jewel encrusted throne and motioned for his knights to stay put as he walked down the carpeted marble stairs. He came to a halt in front of Jaskier, his expression unreadable. He extended a hand towards the bard and helped him up just as a servant appeared, carrying a tray with a silver goblet.

The king took the goblet and handed it to the bard, who had no choice but to take a large sip under Radovid’s expectant gaze. It was some sort of high quality red wine that left a familiar bittersweet aftertaste, though Jaskier couldn’t quite place what that was.

“Indeed. I should have taken better account of your personality before bringing you here. I promised to give you everything you’ve ever dreamed of while neglecting your infamous disregard for monogamy. It’s no wonder you took matters into your own hands to fullfil such core needs. But worry not my sweet, I’ve taken measures to correct this oversight.” He said and went to sit back on his throne, settling comfortably with his elbow perched on an armrest and the side of his head laying on his fist.

The bard’s mind was reeling, confusion evident on his face that quickly switched to horror as various scantily dressed nobles, some of whom he recognized from banquets, entered the room from the side doors and made their way towards him with hungry expressions. Suddenly it hit him. The aftertaste from the drink was pomegranate, an ingredient frequently used in aphrodisiacs.

He tried taking a few steps back but whatever was used to spike the wine was potent and he was already feeling dizzy, so he stumbled and fell to the floor, landing on a large cushion, whose intended use he just realized. By then a middle-aged couple had reached him and they wasted no time by pawing at his garments.

Jaskier tried to resist, or at least voice his objection, but it was like his limbs had turned to goo and he had little control over his tongue so he could only sit there and make high-pitched keening sounds. With the last of his will he turned to desperately look at Radovid, who was watching him with a perverse sort of excitement and showed no sign of budging despite the bard’s pleading gaze.

His eyes were ripped away from the king as the man from the couple grabbed Jaskier’s face and turned it towards him. He and his wife had succeeded in removing his clothes, with the rest of their brethren having joined them and already touching him all over. Despite his disgust at the situation, Jaskier felt relief from their touches because his body was burning hot and the feeling of need that overtook him was bordering on painful.

The man maintained his grasp of the bard’s face as he used his other hand to untie the front of his breeches and pull himself out. Jaskier sobbed, big fat tears streaming down his cheeks, and closed his eyes as the noble fed him his cock with a quick thrust that made him gag.

Whenever Jaskier found himself in trouble, Geralt was there to save him more often than not, but no matter how much he wished for the witcher to come to his aid at the moment, he knew it was a lost cause. And even though he had stopped believing in any sort of deity a long time ago, when his instructors at temple school first started using corporal punishment on him, he couldn't help but pray with all he had as a last resort for this situation to stop.

Predictably, no one listened.

[muzzlemouths]

Wait a damn minute. What is Phoenix eating? How do the boys deal with bird poop and keep her beak from getting too long?

Phoenix has plenty of natural ways to keep her beak trimmed, such as climbing the mall's palm trees and opening nuts and seeds, but she also has a number of toys to help keep it neat. She eats the same thing that y/n eats! Fruits and veggies from— well, you'll have to wait and see :3

As for bird poop, she's been trained (like many parrots) to only poop in certain areas. This doesn't mean the cleanup process is any less tedious, though!

[ultimaid]

i am utterly consumed by amatojo thoughts.

[sparrowmoth]

Written in the Scars • [AO3]

Teen | 3.2K+ | Marlos-centric/OT4 | Heavy Angst, Devotion, Whump

A/N: More detailed notes on AO3, if you're interested, but here, I will just say thank you to my lovely friend Blake (@finitevoid) for talking through this fic with me and inspiring me to push the plot further, plus impressing upon me the image of an insanely tall Maleficent, which has now become secret canon in my mind dajkgsjdkg <3

CW: Heavy angst, verbal and physical child abuse, emotional manipulation, non-graphic usage of medieval torture implements, threat of self-harm, a lot of swearing, and a hurt/no comfort kinda cliffhanger in this first chapter (sorry).

Chapter One: Birdcage Religion

The knife isn’t dropped with a clatter to the stone floor. It is thrown at the feet of the Mistress of All Evil—Mal’s mother, her queen and, at a whim, her executioner. She’ll be that today, from the look on her face—the way her eyes flick to the knife and she tells Mal to repeat that.

“You heard me,” says Mal, stepping out in front of Carlos.

He doesn’t try to pull her back, though from the corner of her eye, she can see his hands twitch, like he’s thinking about it. His face has gone blank, but she reads fear in his quiet, the way he stands like a ghost, trying not to be seen. He thinks he’s caused enough trouble.

That makes Mal want to cause more.

She doesn’t shrink when her mother stands slowly from her throne, rising to her full height of seven feet and then some. Her horns add another foot and she’s standing on the dais. The candlelight behind her casts a shadow that much longer—a monstrous form, in all—

“So disappointing,” says Maleficent, voice dripping sickly sweetness. She takes her staff from where it’s leaning and takes a slow stride off the dais, almost gliding toward her daughter. “It seems your heart’s grown like a tumour in that precious little chest of yours.” Her words warp to a snarl as she lifts her staff up, spearing it forward, striking Mal hard in the sternum, sending her stumbling back into Carlos.

Mal grabs the end of the staff to keep from losing her balance, eyes flashing green as she glares at her mother, whose own burning gaze comes down the length of the staff. Only hatred there. No, intent—

“PROVE YOURSELF, GIRL,” roars Maleficent, wielding the staff in an arc as she kicks at Mal’s shin, sending her down and out of the way, leaving a path to Carlos. “THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE.”

Carlos, in a slight daze from having hit the stone floor—hard—recovers quickly at the sight of Maleficent encroaching, her staff poised to strike, coming down like a falcon, everything a blur—

Mal throws herself in front of him just in time to take the blow.

In some far part of his mind, still dazed, Carlos hears her ribs crack like a shot. He feels the part of a rabbit having watched the hound dog take a bullet for its prey, right from its master’s rifle—

Then, Mal is slumping across him, wheezing for breath, and he’s trying not to panic as he tries to sit up, tries to drag Mal away, tries to think through the thought stream of stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid—because he’s scared and he’s angry and he doesn’t understand. Why didn’t she just do it? Why didn’t she just hurt him? Why didn’t she…

“Ah, so it is a cancer,” says Maleficent, practically in a purr. She’s put the end of her staff under Carlos’ chin now, forcing his gaze up. She smirks when his open, vulnerable face turns quickly to something vicious. “You don’t fool me, boy. I can see your weakness…”

Mal’s arm shoots up and she grips the staff hard, pushing it away.

“Leave him alone,” she grits out, struggling up while half in Carlos’ lap still. “This is…” She coughs, blood speckling her lips. “Between you and me…” she manages, craning her neck to meet Maleficent’s eyes, high as a god’s above hers, staring ever down, down, down.

Maleficent smiles, something sinister, and she yanks her staff back easily out of Mal’s fist. “Do you know what I think?” she asks, the point of her staff hovering just above the stones. “I think… what’s between us are three little problems… and he happens to be one.”

With that, her staff comes down in an almighty bang, cracking open the stones and ushering in the guards—a group of boar-headed men with wide-set, matte black eyes set in wiry, mud-brown fur. They are dressed in leather armour with a dragon scale design, and various weapons hang from their belts or are carried in their hands—

They need no instruction beyond the simplest nod.

Carlos bites down on the first hand that reaches past him, trying for a fistful of Mal’s hair to drag her up. He draws a crude noise from the guard he’s wounded, but another moves in quick enough—

Mal is grabbed tight around the waist, weakening her kicks as she gasps for breath. Carlos is hoisted by the scruff of his jacket, but he writhes so much that he slips out from it easily, landing light on his feet, where he would normally make a break for it, except—

“Carlos,” Mal chokes out, a note of pleading in her voice.

He knows what she wants, what she’s trying to tell him.

He knows, if she could manage, she would say it’s an order.

But he doesn’t try to run.

Mal’s desperate eyes are the last he sees before a guard comes up behind him, pulling a sack down over his head and drawing the string tight, making him reach for his neck before his hands are roughly yanked away and burly arms lift him off his feet again.

Thick as the bag is over his head, the noises around him are slightly muffled, but loud as his breathing now sounds in his own ears, he hears Maleficent sigh, like this is all some inconvenience—

“Prepare the birdcage,” she addresses the guards, “and some chains for the mutt. No food, no water.” She pauses, then adds with a dark sense of promise, “If even one escapes, there will be pork roast for dinner, do you quite understand? Good. Now, to the dungeon.”

Maleficent’s dungeon is not unfamiliar.

Mal, Carlos, Jay, and Evie had plumbed the depths of the castle when they were all children. That was different than this, being carried down blind, hearing the echoes deepen, feeling the damp press in, a chill like death’s hands, goosebumps spreading—

There is sobbing, screaming, quiet moaning, and pleas behind the first door that opens at the bottom of the stairwell. They pass on through without a word from the guards or Maleficent herself.

Several more doors open and all sense of presence in the cells fades away to nothing. Now, there is only the footsteps, the rattle of chains and the clank of metal, words exchanged between the boar men in a guttural language, and underneath it all, the faintest of whimpers—

“You see now,” says Maleficent, “what your defiance will cost you, so I wonder…” She trails off and Carlos hears some shuffling, feels the bodies shift around him, and a hand pressing down on his head—

He’s forced onto his knees.

The bag is ripped away to reveal Mal, standing in front of him, with her mother behind her, one clawed hand on her shoulder—the other holding a knife, offering it for Mal to take—

But Mal’s just looking at Carlos.

“Slit his throat,” Maleficent whispers into her trembling daughter’s ear, lips close enough that she must tickle the flesh, “and I may just reconsider your punishment.” She trails her hand down from Mal’s shoulder, grabbing her wrist and guiding her puppet-like to grasp the knife. “Go on,” she urges. “His life is yours. He belongs to you. That’s what you’ve told me. Now, I’m telling you… to prove it…”

“Mal,” says Carlos, barely audible. I’ll come back goes unsaid.

She knows that. She knows that. Why won’t she just kill him?

This is the closest to mercy she will get from her mother.

Mal’s fingers twitch and Carlos holds his breath. He watches, heart pounding, as she slowly takes the knife, and then—much quicker than he can process such a stupid fucking decision—she’s whirling around, poised to stab her mother’s chest, no hesitation at all—

But Maleficent reacts, too fast for Mal to land the blade.

Her wrist is ensnared. Her mother’s face is stony.

This time, the knife is dropped.

It clatters to Mal’s feet and lays there, abandoned.

The silence that follows seems almost unnatural, as thick as it is—like a spell that can be broken by only Maleficent. And she does, but at her leisure, first gripping Mal’s chin with a punishing pressure—

“Do you want so much to die?” she asks, voice low and predatory.

Mal just stares at her, breathing hard and ragged, a soft-edged anger in her eyes, like fear is threatening to resurface—

She has no time to react before Maleficent withdraws her hand and brings it back with a hard slap that echoes off the stone walls and almost seems to make the torches flicker. The force of the blow should send Mal to her knees, but Maleficent grabs her, fisting her jacket, yanking her up. She takes a fistful of Mal’s hair and whips her head toward Carlos, forcing her to meet his eyes again—

“ANSWER ME, GIRL. WOULD YOU DIE FOR THIS DOG?”

Carlos, holding Mal’s gaze, almost imperceptibly shakes his head.

Mal stares at him for a moment, eyes bright with unshed tears, then her expression hardens and she spits blood at the ground, a trickle of red spit dribbling down her chin as she strains to tilt her head back and look at her mother, saying everything with her silence—

Maleficent’s lip curls. Her knuckles whiten, paler than pale—as though her skin is translucent, showing the bones. “Very well.”

She stoops, bending down to Mal’s ear—

“But know that, this time, you will not be buried.”

Maleficent straightens to her full, monstrous height, shoving Mal to her knees before she commands her, voice thunderous, to surrender her weapons, her jewelry, her outer clothing and her boots—

Pridefully, Mal looks back up at her mother as she moves to comply, slipping out of her jacket to show the knives strapped to her arms.

She removes them, one by one, and simply tosses them aside.

Carlos watches, breathing ragged, red creeping in at the edges of his vision. She’s giving up—and for what? “FUCK YOU, MAL!” he bursts out, startling the guards on either side of him; their grip on him had slackened, so he slides easily to the ground. “I’m not fucking worth it,” he growls, staring dead into Mal’s eyes. She looks stunned, on the verge of anger; then, the knife’s pulled from his boot, and—

“NO!” She’s up on her feet, lunging for Carlos before a pale, clawed hand hooks her upper arm, dragging her back with an effortless tug.

Carlos’ knife is at his own throat, and the guards who, at first, had moved to disarm him, are melting slowly back away. Their eyes are ever on their mistress, who has one hand raised—a silent command.

“Carlos,” Mal gasps softly, straining hard against her mother’s hold.

His eyes are raised above her head.

Maleficent is smirking.

She… wants him to…

Carlos falters, lowering the point of the knife from his throat to his collarbone. He looks at Mal, takes a breath, makes his decision—

And plunges the knife into the nearest boar man’s knee.

They squeal and the sound of it, so piercingly loud, rings in Carlos’ ears as the guards bear down. He thinks, for a second, somewhere through the din, that he hears Mal laugh—in spite of everything—

The thought is interrupted by a boot to his gut, leaving him winded. No time to catch his breath before he’s dragged up by his arms—and Mal is screaming now. He’s sure of that. He can’t focus on the words because there’s too much stimulation—the rattling of chains, the icy bite of metal, the hot breath on his face. He tenses under large hands checking over him for weapons, taking each as they’re discovered—

Carlos’ too-small boots are yanked off and he briefly feels the stone floor, burning cold beneath his bare feet; then, the chains hooked to his wrists are pulled up sharply toward the ceiling. The ground goes out from under him and he struggles not to flail, feeling panic swell up in him. He strains to touch the ground, but only manages on his tiptoes—and that’s only for a moment before a hard shove sends him swinging, shooting pain down through his shoulders—

The boar men snort with laughter as Carlos struggles, seemingly in vain. He gets a grip on the chains attached to his shackles and, with all the upper body strength he can muster, swings himself with legs outstretched—just when the guards have turned their backs to him.

He catches the nearest one around the neck, legs quickly constricting until the boar man starts to choke, clawing at Carlos’ skinny ankles as two of his fellows rush to assist him—

One grabs hold of Carlos’ leg and tries to pry it back, even almost succeeding—until his sweaty hands slip and Carlos’ leg snaps back with force, catching the choking man right in the snout. His tusks dig in to Carlos’ flesh, but the pain is distant from Carlos’ fury—

Until the weight of a spiked club connects with his hip.

He bites down on a cry as his legs come loose from around the boar men’s neck and heavily succumb to gravity. His shoulders ache and his hip throbs and he feels numbness in his fingertips.

Still, when a guard stoops to seize his good leg, Carlos spits down at their head and meets a snarl with a snarl. His ankle is shackled to a short length of chain, attached to an iron ball that’s set a little away.

His toes can touch it if he stretches, but it’s too heavy to drag nearer in any hope that he could stand on it, so he just glowers at the boar men as their numbers start to dissipate—

And Mal comes sharply back into focus.

She looks beaten down, quite literally, on her knees in front of her mother, wearing nothing but her thin, black underwear. There’s an open cage behind her, in the shape of a person much taller than her, albeit nowhere as tall as Maleficent, with her horns that scrape the ceiling. She is a god here on the Isle and she carries herself as one.

Huge, even at a distance, Maleficent’s stare turning suddenly on Carlos makes him feel like a lame deer in a grizzly’s line of sight.

“Still alive, I see,” Maleficent remarks.

Mal’s head jerks up and she meets Carlos’ eyes.

“There’s cruelty in you yet, child, to not have spared him this torture when I gave you the chance.” Maleficent smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “His pain will be immeasurable, and all because…” She tips forward, bending at the waist, one hand slowly extending until she cups Mal’s stubborn chin and forces it upward. “You are a sadistic, selfish little girl,” Maleficent coos, her voice like poisoned honey.

Mal tries to shake her head, but her mother holds her chin tight.

“He begged for a quick death, but you denied him…”

“SHUT UP!” Carlos bellows, writhing in his chains despite the pain that lances through him. He can’t listen anymore. He can’t just feel this helpless. “YOU STUPID FUCKING BITCH! WHAT THE HELL DO YOU KNOW?” He glares at Maleficent, all fear in him burnt up.

The air seems almost to coagulate, growing thick with a tension that holds the guards in their places, their eyes on their mistress as she rises to her full height, reaches out to take her staff, and—

“DON’T HURT HIM!” Mal bursts out, struggling up to her feet. She puts her arms out like a pair of spread wings—a feeble sort of shield.

Maleficent simply takes her staff in hand, face plain and unmoved.

“Speak again,” she says, addressing Carlos, “and I will cut out your tongue.” She looks at Mal, eyes dead of emotion, then lifts her staff and slams it down against the stone. “Enough of my time has been wasted on you.” She circles behind Mal, who turns to face her, wary as a mouse in the presence of Bastet. “Had I only known you’d be so human, so stupid and WEAK…” She takes a menacing step forward, backing Mal up to the birdcage. “This would have been your cradle.”

Maleficent shoves Mal and she goes stumbling backwards, right into the cage. Her head slams against the iron bars and she sinks dazedly down onto what feels like a stove with the switch just flicked on—

Her mother steps back and gestures for a boar man—one who shuts the iron cage, turns the key in the padlock, then—throwing his head back, jaws open to the ceiling—drops the key right down his throat and forces a swallow. He suppresses a cough before opening up his mouth again, presenting his throat for Maleficent’s inspection—

She perks an eyebrow, leaning over him, then gives a curt nod of approval. “Finish it,” she says with a snap of her fingers, and two boar men rush to operate a pulley made stubborn with rust—

Maleficent watches as the birdcage is raised several feet in the air—then higher still at her direction. Only when it is hanging out of the reach of any normal person does she utter, “There. Now secure it.”

Mal chokes down a whimper, just now starting to squirm.

Her mother regards her without any emotion, and somehow, that’s worse—worse than laughter or gloating or even… disappointment, because if Mal’s blood were pure, she would already be screaming.

“Mom.” The word escapes Mal as Maleficent turns her back—

She stops—and from his vantage point, Carlos sees her teeth flash.

It’s a moment, only, and then she’s icily calm. “Guards,” she says, and they come quickly to attention, awaiting her orders. She holds the room in silence uncomfortably long, slowly tapping her fingers against her staff. “You will inform Jafar and Evil Queen that I have withdrawn protection of their wretched whelps. Furthermore, that I will not tolerate any sight of the two in the shadow of my castle—and should they appear to darken my doorstep… I expect you will report to me with a body to be buried. Do you quite understand?”

She glances over her shoulder, then starts toward the door.

Mal stares after her wide-eyed, fists clenched tight around the iron bars. Her knuckles are bloodless, but her palms are reddening.

Her lips are parted, but she doesn’t speak.

Carlos is quiet, too—teeth grit so hard, his jaw aches. He’s breathing hard through his nose, glowering at Maleficent as she glides through the door, and all the boar men with her. The door slams shut and the jail keys jingle, locking up this cell that will, in days, become a tomb.

When all the footsteps have faded, Carlos finally screams—

Pure fury. Unspent anger. Hatred. Bloodlust. Wrath.

He’s not afraid. He will come back. He will come back. He’s not afraid. Death is familiar. He will come back. He’s not afraid. It isn’t that. It’s not the dying. Not the torture. Death’s familiar. So is pain.

It’s just that—if he hadn’t kissed her—

Thank you for reading! Reblogs are always appreciated. And feel free to subscribe on AO3 if you want to be alerted when the next chapter comes out. Kudos and comments are lovely, as well! ♥

[fevervoidthing]

“It looks like me.”

Drew a scene from my Tails Doll rewrite, Cloth and Fur! You can read it and see the image here:

[edwardallenpoe]

Hullo! So this is just my opinion, buuuut for the "what vibes do I give off" post, I'd say chaotic, artistic genius!

omg thank you so much!!!! 😭😭😭 This is very high praise coming from you, bc you're amazing!!! If anyone is the artistic genius, I'd say it was you, but we can both be hobbit-nerds together lol.

To me, I'd say you give off sweet, compassionate, welcoming and creative vibes!!! You're like, half the reason I let The Hobbit evolved from a hyperfixation to a special interest bc you make the fandom a brighter place 🌟

[ywnzn]

hey gurliee!! how was ur day/night and how have u been?? i hope it was good... and also eunseok calling yn baby?!??! omg 😦😦 AAAAA i cant wait for the next part!!! bnd is sososo good

-✨

hiii <3 i skipped uni today and slept in so my day is only starting now sksjjsh (its nearly 5pm…) i hope you had a great day/night though!!!

yesss seoki called her baby!! but did he do it on purpose? 🤔

[skz-streamer]

HI MY POOKIE WOOKIE BOOKIE BEARS BOO LIL SHNUCKUMS🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

AWHHHH HELLO TO YOU SNUGLE WUGGLE BEAR😍❤️❤️❤️

[uhbasicallyjustmilex]

oooft the post gig blues are well and truly here

[awriterlivinginaconstantdream]

A Piece of Eden

Teaser 1

Tears falling

Scars forming

How do I get out of this alive?

Images are found on Pinterest

[perfectly-clear-from-here]

omg inhaler just reached 1000 hits i feel like a proud mum-

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

haaaaappy 3.5 day!! please no spoilers for Dainsleif’s quest yet, i won’t have time to do it until hopefully this weekend!! aaaaa new Abyss lore,,,,,, yessssss,,,,,,,,

[journey-to-the-attic]

is it just me or has it gotten quiet around here lately...?

i mean, i guess you could say so? but interaction on the blog has always been proportional to my own activity, so it's to be expected that it dies down when i go quiet myself - especially considering the gaps between chapter updates are so large right now (sorry!)

that doesn't mean i'm not still here, though! and if you're lacking in content, there's still a huuge amount of posts to scroll through here - i think we're at like 1000 by now, so there's something to kill time with ^^