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lady-phasma · 6 months

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A willing pawn

Daemon Targaryen x fem! Dornish!reader

A huge thank you to @zaldritzosrose for this amazing board. You read my mind and I don't know how you did it! An equal thank you to @black-dread for providing the missing puzzle piece to make this fic work.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, hurt/comfort if you squint, little bit of size kink, use of an infantilizing pet name (because Uncle Daddy Daemon), flimsy plot, creampie (and I truly did not plan what was going to happen there, Daemon just does whatever he wants in my brain, cheeky bastard)

Summary: You had a mission in the Stepstones, but he wasn’t as fearsome, this prince, as you had been led to believe. I’m not sure about my soft!Daemon but here he is. 4k words

The encampment was dark, lit only by dying fires. This night had been chosen because it would be moonless. Your soft-soled shoes were silent on the rocky earth as you crept between tents. You had planned your path at sunset, marking in your memory where the prince’s tent stood. As the orange light had faded from the sky, your stomach had begun to knot and twist with anxiety.

Could you really follow through with this? You knew you were able but were you capable of such a thing. The circumstances didn’t offer you any choice in the matter. Prince Qoren Martell wanted to avoid the costs of war, in gold and lives. His war counsel thought of every possible measure they could take to win this war, including involving House Yronwood. You were a cog in a larger plan and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

You ducked around another tent and tiptoed to the edge of the large royal tent. This is as far as you had gotten in your strategy. From this point forward you could only hope for luck, as stealth wouldn’t matter when faced with the prince’s guards. You were sent here with the barest of plans and what little plan there was, was foolish. You listened for movement inside the tent and heard none. As you neared the front you expected a half-dozen guards but saw only two. You held your breath.

You couldn’t walk right up to the tent and demand to be let in. Sneaking in seemed to be impossible, but if you could, what next. Your heart pounded in your ears. Godsdamn it, you thought. You let out a shaky breath and slunk back into the shadows. When you turned around you almost walked face-first into a giant wall of armor.

The guard almost threw you into the tent but did not relinquish his grip on your elbow. You grunted and jerked your arm away from him as you stumbled into the large room. You caught your balance and stood up straight. The ground was covered in rugs. A table laden with maps and documents stood in the center. Next to it sat the Prince.

“We found this creeping about outside, your highness,” the guard grumbled.

Prince Daemon lounged in his chair, legs outstretched, crossed at the ankles. He was peeling a pear, paused mid-knife-stroke, and looked up from under his brows. They raised slightly, seemingly amused, but he didn’t bother to lift his head. He resumed his peeling.

“Leave us,” he commanded without looking up. You heard the guard’s armor as he left but didn’t take your eyes from the prince.

“What terrible deed have you been sent to do child?” He didn’t look at you, only sliced a bit of pear and popped it in his mouth. When you didn’t respond he brushed aside papers to make space on the table and laid down the knife and pear. He wiped his hands on a napkin, dropped it next to them, and stood up. Finally, he looked at you. He finished chewing, swallowed, and wiped one corner of his mouth with his thumb.

He strode toward you, sucking the pear juice off his thumb and assessing you. Much of your face was covered by your hood, stay strands of dark hair were visible but your features were cast in shadow. He dipped his head slightly and looked closely, standing only a few paces in front of you. His silver hair swung loose from his shoulder. The violet of his eyes was unnerving. You squared your shoulders.

“I am no child,” you replied, leaving off the honorific. He was no prince of yours.

“Is that so?” Daemon reached for your hood and flicked it back from your head. The only hint of surprise he allowed to show was a brief widening of his eyes. You were well aware the effect your father’s blue eyes had when set against the sienna skin you got from your mother. You narrowed your icy eyes at him.

“I’m gown enough to make it this far into your camp, am I not?” Daemon chuckled and flipped his hair back over his shoulder. He clasped his hands behind his back and smiled at you.

“I suppose so… but you did get caught, little one.”

Your cheeks flamed and you wanted to strike him but the smile on his face caught you off guard. Had he just winked at you? You were too frustrated to think and that wink made your blood boil. This was not going at all how you had expected when the guard snatched you up. Daemon didn’t so much as blink when you moved your hands from inside your cloak to push your hood back further. He was amused with you. The handle of your dagger glinted in the candlelight and caught his eye.

“So you were sent here to assassinate me?” He smiled that infernal smile. “Would you say it is going well?”

“Time will tell,” you answered through gritted teeth. Then he laughed at you, actually laughed. You clenched your hands into fists at your sides.

He took a step toward you and you tensed. You hadn’t the faintest idea what this man would do. You had only heard the rumors and propaganda in Dorne. When he reached out, you tried to take a step back from him.

“Uh-uh,” he commanded quietly. Then his hand dipped into your cloak and before you could move to stop him, he snatched your dagger out of your belt. He spun it lazily around, watching it dance in the light.

“This might have done the trick,” he spoke to the blade, not to you. “But I imagine someone with more experience should have been entrusted with it.” His eyes flicked back to your face. “Though, perhaps there were none as fierce as you.”

With absolutely no thought in your mind, you lunged forward and tried to grab the weapon from him. He deftly moved it out of your reach and grabbed your wrist with his other hand.

“As I said: fierce,” he quipped. You tugged your arm against his grasp to no avail.

“But I must!” You almost snarled at him. His expression wasn’t surprise but interest. He let you go and turned to lay your weapon on the table. When he faced you again a small smile was set on his mouth.

“Must you?” He raised an eyebrow. “If a child assassin has been sent to slay me, Dorne must be desperate indeed.”

“I am not a child! I am a woman grown, of 20 years!” You had no idea why this infuriated you but the prince knew that it did. He grinned again.

“Pardon me, my Lady. I should have said a ‘small’ assassin,” he mocked you. It was somehow kind. You were taken aback by his jest, by his demeanor. You hadn’t taken the time to pause and evaluate Prince Daemon. You had only been concerned with the ramifications of your failure.

Now that you looked, you saw a man not much older than yourself. A man who moved with experience in battle, with an ease not unlike your own. Graceful, even. Then he did the most unexpected thing. He extended his hand, offering you to sit in the chair opposite his. You had come here to threaten his life and now he was treating you like a guest! You gawped.

Before you could decide what to make of the situation, Daemon slid down into his chair and stretched his legs out again, completely unwary of you. He glanced at you one more time as he reached for his unfinished pear. You were too shocked to do anything other than sit. You closed your mouth and sat down across from him. You slipped your cloak off of your shoulders as you sat. Your common clothes weren’t uncomfortable but you weren’t used to them. You tried to adjust them as you sat but instantly became more frustrated. Daemon’s eyes on you didn’t help to easy your new-found insecurity. You were meant to have been unseen.

“Who sent you?” The blunt nature of his question startled you.

“And why should I tell you?” you retorted. You were behaving as if you were at home entertaining men you had grown up with. This was madness.

“I believe I am owed an explanation as it was my life you were planning to take. Also, what else is there to do?” He popped a slice of pear in his mouth. His eyes didn’t leave yours. “Let’s start with your name, shall we?”

You hesitated, but he was right: what else was there to do. You could sit in silence until he decided to have you executed. You could try to run from the tent only to be caught and executed sooner. So you told him your name and your house name.

“Very good,” he tossed the knife and pear back on the table. “What did Martell threaten? What predicament did he put you in?”

Your eyes widened. Was Prince Martell’s reputation so tainted, so sullied, outside Dorne?

“Not him,” you spoke quietly. “Though I suppose, ultimately, he knows. We are not a political house but we have wealth that is necessary for Dorne to succeed.” Your eyes flicked down from his at the last word. You weren’t sure why but you felt ashamed for being in this position, had all along if you thought about it.

“So if not the prince himself…” Daemon paused, waiting for your answer.

“His war counsel,” you replied. “They have many strategies in play, I’m sure, but one is to ‘motivate’ certain houses to bring the war to an early end. I have no knowledge of the other plans. I only know that my father was threatened. Whatever that threat was, it was powerful enough for him to send his youngest daughter to the Stepstones.”

There it was. You had spilled it out to the enemy in a gush and felt like vomiting or crying or fleeing. You looked up from your lap. Daemon was studying you. Once again he surprised you. Perhaps you expected him to mock you but the kindness on his face somehow made your situation more real. You bit your lip to stop the tears. You would not cry. You were angry and frightened and when the prince had called you a child it made those feelings more real.

“What choice did you have?” He sounded almost compassionate. This couldn’t be the petty tyrant you were warned against, who would rape, or torture, or kill you if you were caught. “You came all this way on an errand not of your choosing and meant to go through with it. That’s more than a little honorable, don’t you agree?”

You had no idea. You were confused and overwhelmed and angry. You had never been a zealot, but you had been more sure of your mission when the target was evil or cruel. Perhaps he was at times, but not now.

“I suppose so,” you muttered, trying to look anywhere but at him.

“Well what do I do with you now?” He leaned forward in his chair. “I can’t set you free. Yet I don’t want another prisoner. And you don’t want to return home as a failure. I can see that. I could keep you as a hostage and demand gold for your safe return. Would that keep your honor intact?”

You blushed, not just from his nearness but from the fact that he could see your thoughts so clearly on your face. You and your family would be dishonored if you returned unsuccessful. It would also be unfavorable to the prince to appear compassionate to would-be assassins.

“It would,” you answered. “But I do not think the ransom would be paid.”

“No? Not for a young woman as fierce and cunning as yourself? Not for someone so precious?”

Your eyes flicked up to his at this curious word. You watched him, suspicious, as he slid out of his chair and knelt in front of you.

“I think you’re quite frightened of either choice: being sent home or being held here. I don’t want you to be frightened. Maybe the Crone had a purpose for bringing you here.”

You felt your breath catch. He looked so sincere. He was intoxicating but you believed him. You didn’t want to feel relief at the prospect of no longer sneaking, hiding, being a stowaway, but you did. Almost instantly, you imagined a hot bath, a dress and not these rags, and food that wasn’t brown. Then something else flashed in your mind and the heat returned to your face.

Daemon slowly reached out to you and stroked the side of your face. He skimmed a lock of your hair with his fingers, watching it catch the light. Its deep brown shown with hints of gold. You studied him closely. When he turned his gaze back to you, your heart pounded in your chest. His eyes searched yours as he cupped your cheek in his palm.

“Gevie,” he whispered. You thought it was High Valyrian but you weren’t sure. Your lips parted almost involuntarily as you looked up at him. He leaned toward you, silver hair cascading off his shoulders. You felt his lips on yours and closed your eyes.

His hand holding your face felt safe. His lips were warm and tasted of pear. You dared not move. You were overwhelmed and confused. However, there twisted in your belly some need, some desire for him. Your chest ached with the delicious feeling of being safe. You didn’t question how this was possible so far away from home and with your “enemy” no less. So you kissed him back.

Daemon slid his other hand to frame your face. His kiss wasn’t rough, but it was deep. You had kissed men before, you were experienced in the most basic of ways. You realized now that all the men before had not kissed you, they didn’t see you. They saw a Yronwood daughter or practice for their marriage beds. You had made those choices willingly. You weren’t concerned with being married for political reasons and had enjoyed your freedom. Until now. In this moment, you felt… precious.

Tentatively, you raised a hand to him, your fingertips grazed his jaw and neck, and came to rest on his chest. He slid his hands from your cheeks as he broke the kiss. As if waiting for your permission, Daemon rested his hands on your upper arms. You kissed him in answer. His arms swept around you and scooped you up as he stood. Your head spun but you steadied yourself by putting your hands on the back of his neck.

Daemon sat you on his bed and smoothed your hair back from your face. He stepped back and pulled his shirt over his head. He dropped it on the floor as he leaned down to kiss you. You made room for him on the bed, drawing him toward you with your kisses. He knelt between your legs, kissed your neck, and slid a hand under your shirt. You arched your back, pressing into his palm.

He brushed the underside of your breasts with the tips of his fingers and his other hand glided up your ribs. He pushed your shirt up above your breasts, fixated on your hardened nipples. His hair slid over your chest as he took one nipple in his mouth. He propped himself up on one hand and cupped your breast with the other. You moaned and writhed under him. You instinctively ran your fingers through his hair and held him against you. Daemon groaned and the sound vibrated from your chest to your core. When he pulled away you realized you had been grinding against his leg and flushed. He smiled down at you.

Wordlessly, he guided you to raise your arms so he could remove your shirt. Then he began to unlace your breeches. You watched his muscles move as he slid your pants off. You lifted your hips and giggled a little when you plopped back down on the bed as he tugged them off your legs. You weren’t shy but the action was awkward and you were quite exposed now. He tossed the breeches on the floor and smoothed a hand up your thigh. He stared, rapt, at the dark hair between your legs, so different from the silver of his own.

You bit your lip as you looked from his face, down his chest, and to the evidence of his arousal. His breeches looked uncomfortably tight now. His hands absently stroked your legs and your lower belly but paused as you sat up. You held him between your legs. When you kissed his stomach he hissed in air through his teeth. Your hands grazed over his hips and to the laces in the front of his pants. You let your fingertips glide over the shape of his erection before undoing the knot. You kissed seemingly every inch of his stomach then looked up at him as your hand dipped inside. His face was curtained by his hair as he looked down at you. You smiled as you stroked him.

Daemon moved his hands from your legs, smoothed over your hair, and then gently pressed your shoulders back. You laid down, already missing the feeling of him in your hands, but the sight of him between your legs was almost as pleasant. He leaned over you, kissing your forehead gently, then your lips, and pressed his forehead against yours.

You gasped as his fingers slid between the lips of your cunt. He licked his lips and continued to explore your wetness. Stroking, searching, learning. He circled your opening, your clit, and back again. One finger slid in easily and he grinned. You lifted your mouth to his as you lifted your hips to his hand. He slid in a second finger.

“You are so tight, little one,” he grinned down at you. You rocked your hips against his hand and moaned in reply. You placed one hand on his arm, pulling him deeper into you. With the other you smoothed his hair behind his ear and trailed your fingers down his jaw. You drug your fingertips over his lips. His eyes were dark as he watched you pleasure yourself on his hand.

“More, Daemon, please,” you moaned, saying his name for the first time. Hearing his name come from your lips pleased him immensely.

“Say it again,” he breathed as he curled his fingers inside you.

“Daemon, please.”

Slowly and with a tinge of disappointment on his face, he pulled his fingers from you. He was enjoying the sight of you but couldn’t wait any longer. He freed his cock from his breeches. Then he slid his hands up your thighs to your lower back. As he sat back he guided you onto his lap. The transition was clumsy at first, legs bumping and twisting. You both smiled as you held onto his shoulders. When you knelt over him you rubbed your clit against his cock. You rested your lips against his forehead as you rocked your lips. You moved your mouth nearer to his ear and murmured his name.

Daemon lifted your ass and placed you above his cock. With one hand between you, he guided himself into you. You sank down onto him slowly, watching his face. He clenched his jaw tight. You felt his hand move back to your ass. He let you set the pace, let you move against him. You pulled up and then sank down again, taking all of him. The moan that came from your lips was lewd and deep. You clutched at his neck, the back of his head, fingers entwined in his hair. He groaned but did not move to meet your hips. You rocked back, then forward, finding your rhythm.

He kissed your chest and breasts. His hands stroked your ass and lower back, constantly moving. You leaned forward slightly and pressed yourself against him. At this angle he wasn’t as deep in you, but you found friction against his stomach. You ground your hips into him, almost, but not quite able to get what you needed.

“Seven hells,” he panted against you. His hips had begun to move in time with yours. Your fingers twisted tighter in his hair and you tried to find that much-needed angle again. When he realized what you needed he slid a hand between you. You threw your head back as his fingers circled your clit. You sped up, fucking him hard. He kept pace with you, circling and pressing his fingers against you. You couldn’t keep a steady rhythm. You felt him brace your lower back with his hand and pull you closer to him, steadying you, supporting you. You felt your climax tug at your core and sank further onto his cock with each stroke.

“Come for me,” Daemon whispered into your neck. You did. You cried his name, clinched your fists in his hair, and buried your face against his head. You sank all the way down onto him, thighs resting on his as you shook. Your cunt spasmed around his cock but he didn’t stop moving his fingers. He pressed into you with his hips, rocking under you, and bringing forth tiny gasps from you. You lips found his and you panted into his mouth. Tiny sounds mingled with his name flew out of your mouth with every movement of his fingers.

When you thought the overstimulation might be too much he moved his hand from between you. He slid his hand under your arm and pulled you down onto him by your shoulder. A new wave of pleasure crashed into you as he spilled into you. His hips stilled, holding his cock deep inside you. He came panting and moaning your name.

You wanted to sink all of your weight onto him. It took too much effort to support yourself on your aching knees. Neither of you wanted to move yet, though both of you needed to. You released your hands from his hair. You kissed him and smoothed his hair back from his face.

You smiled at him as you rose shakily from his lap. He helped you as much as he could, but your legs were numb and your head was empty. You all but fell back onto the pillows. He watched you grind your hips against the air as the last of your climax left you. His eyes were locked on his seed sliding out of you. He leaned forward, his legs shaking as well. You watched him through half-closed eyes and settled yourself on the bed. His fingers slid through his cum and you twitched as he grazed your throbbing clit. He looked into your blue eyes as he gathered more of it on his fingers. You smiled seductively as he leaned over you and raised his fingers to your lips.

You opened your mouth, your eyes never leaving his, and he painted your tongue with his seed. You closed your lips around his fingers and let him feel you swallow. He slid his fingers out and surprised you by kissing you deeply, tasting himself in your mouth.

You moaned into the kiss and wrapped your legs around his waist. You playfully pulled his weight on top of you. He let you but also guided you both to lay on your sides. Your legs intertwined and you were a tangle of limbs for a moment. Then you buried your face into his chest and breathed in deeply. You sighed as he smoothed your hair and rested his chin on the top of your head. You were quite small in his arms. Daemon breathed deeply as he stroked down your back, your buttocks, and up again. You curled against him, one hand between you, the other resting on his hip.

“I have you now, little one,” he murmured against the top of your head.

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zeciex · 3 months

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A Vow of Blood - 86

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 86: A Vow of Fire and Blood

AO3 - Masterlist

The incessant ringing in Daenera’s ears drowned out the clamor of the throne room, its persistence mimicking the relentless crash of ocean waves against rocky shores. A debilitating nausea twisted through her, churning in the pit of her stomach as she forced herself to remain poised and unyielding. Her eyes, sharp and blurry, swept across the gathered nobles–a sea of faces etched with varying expressions.

Her thoughts churned like a turbulent sea, threatening to engulf her from within. Aegon’s voice reverberated in her mind, each word a piercing echo of cruelty and mockery. His taunts were deliberate, designed to provoke and inflict pain-–‘what did you say, brother? You feed him to your dragon and you’ll feed the rest of them to Vhagar as well now that she has gotten a taste for bastards?’

Whatever Aemond had once claimed about what happened in the skies above Shipbreaker Bay now seemed a faint echo to the harsh truth laid out by Aegon’s cruel words–a bitter truth that sliced through Daenera more sharply than she had anticipated. It gnawed at the already tattered remnants of her heart, for had he not claimed, with a voice bordering on repentance, that it had not been his intention to kill her brother? That he had never meant for it to happen?

Had that confession been nothing but a lie? Was his semblance of remorse merely a facade crafted to soothe the sting of his actions?

Aemond’s face bore no sign of regret or guilt as he was being celebrated for his deed. Instead, Aemond maintained a composed, chilling demeanor. The corner’s of his lips were slightly upturned in what was almost a smirk, his eye sharp and discerning, as he bore the weight of what he had done with his head held high. And somehow, this managed to tear even more at the remnants of her heart–betrayed by love for someone more beast than man.

Daenera swallowed hard, her throat parched as she clenched her teeth, her eyes brimming with tears she refused to let fall. She fought to maintain his composure, even as her heart pounded loudly, its beats echoing in her ears like the relentless drum of war. The turmoil within her threatened to spill over, yet she held herself steady, by driving her nails into his hand–she could almost hear the crack of thunder in the depths of her mind and the haunting sound of wings beating against the tumultuous winds as her brother attempted to flee. The sharp, metallic taste of despair lingered on her tongue, as she thought of the terror her brother must have felt, and for a fleeting moment between heartbeats, Daenera thought she caught sight of him among the gathered guests–his dark curls matted and sticking to his skin, his pale blue eyes, flecked with hints of brown, catching hers. His skin appeared ghostly pale as if he had emerged from water, watching her with a deep frown. He was there, and then, he was gone.

Was there even anything left of him for her mother to find? The thought lodged itself like some terrible blade driven between her ribs, twisting and burrowing deeper with each passing moment. She could only imagine her mother’s agony, scouring the rugged coastline of Shipbreaker Bay, her eyes scanning every cliff and rock, her pleas directed at the stormy, unforgiving sea to relinquish what remained of her son. She imagined her mother’s despair, begging the waves to return even a trace of him so she could be certain, so she could properly lay him to rest.

‘A bastard in life, a Velaryon in death.’

The words reverberated in her mind, a haunting refrain amidst the cruel taunts of Aegon, who seemed to revel in her torment.

Laughter filled the grand hall, an echo of heartless mirth that mingled with the clinking of glasses and the swell of music, and Daenera felt as though she was going to be sick. They toasted the death of her brother as if it were a cause for celebration–a grand feast, complete with wine and song, treating his demise with a festivity that suggested his life had been devoid of any worth, as if his death were deserved.

Aemond was a monster, and Aegon, sharing in the revelry, was no different. None of them were. They had usurped her mother’s throne, they had killed Joyce and Darvin, they had hung Kevan and Sithric. They still held Fenrick, Eddin and Patrick in the dungeons, pawns to be used against her. They had coldly murdered Lord Beesbury and Lord Caswell for refusing to bend the knee. They had conspired, stolen and murdered to put a monster on the throne. And now, they exalted the slaying of her brother as if it were a heroic deed, celebrating his killer as though he had won a great battle. But it was neither great nor a battle. It was murder. What chance did a mere boy have against a dragon like Vhagar?

Every cheer, every toast added weight to her condemnation. They were all complicit, every last one of them–and the Greens most of all. Daenera damned them, her heart seething with rage and despair.

Daenera stood abruptly from her seat, unable to remain any longer. Her voice trembled, tinged with emotion as she excused herself, “If you’ll excuse me, I fear I have worn myself out.”

Aemond immediately rose to his feet as she did, a frown etching itself onto his brow as he watched her intently. His hand stretched out towards her, pausing mid-air to reveal shallow cuts across the palm of his hand, and the bruising indent of her nails on the surface of it, “Let me escort you to your chambers…”

“No,” Daenera responded coolly, her eyes fixing upon him with a chilling detachment. He still bore the visage of the boy she had once loved, yet now he seemed nothing more than a monster disguised in the remnants of that past affection. “This feast is in your honor; you shouldn’t leave. I have Edelin, she will escort me back.”

His reaction was immediate; his jaw clenched, muscles tensing as he gritted his teeth. He looked away, clearly stung by her rejection. Daenera turned her back on him, her movements graceful and deliberate as she gathered the heavy fabric of her skirts and moved around the table, descending the few steps from the dias and onto the floor.

Daenera drifted into the shadows cast by the columns, skirting the edges of the throne room where the dim light enfolded her like a shroud. Lacking the strength or inclination to take the same way back from which she had come, moving through the festivities, she chose a path less noticeable, one that avoided piercing through the throng of revelers. The thought of every eye upon her, scrutinizing her trembling form, was unbearable. It was already enough to have his gaze on her–she had felt it from the moment she had entered the throne room. His gaze had lingered on her, skimming across her skin like a gentle caress, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in its wake. Once a thrilling sensation, it now felt invasive, as sharp and unwelcome as a cold blade pressed against her throat. She had refused to meet his gaze, fearing what she might find there–feared finding the cold cruelty of his mask, more monster than man. Or worse, she feared that if she looked at him, she might find some semblance of warmth there, a flicker of something once familiar–something terrible and loving. It had been almost a relief to find the mask he wore with such seamless perfection that Daenera had been left wondering if his visage of steel and ice was not a mask at all but rather his true self, sculpted to slice through whatever lay in his path. She had once believed she could see beneath his mask of steel, foolishly finding something genuine and tender lurking beneath. But had there ever truly been anything there other than the darkness?

As Daenera retreated into the shadows, she could feel his gaze trailing her every move, its weight cruelly tearing at her heart. The sensation was disquieting–and she loathed it, despised the way her heart still responded, still tore itself apart under the burden of his attention.

Daenera’s heart seethed with hatred. She hated Aemond for murdering her brother, for the lies he had woven with such ease, each one a silken thread that tied her hands together. She hated him for the mask he wore–if any–and she hated herself for the inability to discern where the facade ended and the man began–if there was a man at all beneath the facade. She hated him for the deep, aching pain that gnawed at her day and night, for the accolades he received with smug arrogance, as though self satisfied. She hated him for ensnaring her heart, for making her love him.

But above all, amidst the swirling tempest of her hatred, a dark, insidious thread wove itself through–the hatred she harbored against herself for still feeling, for still aching, for still loving the shadow of a man who might never have existed at all. She hated herself for it, and this self-loathing gnawed at her as deeply as any betrayal.

Amidst the tumult of her thoughts and emotions, which threatened to shatter her fragile composure, a figure suddenly blocked her path. The man, tall and lean, was adorned in a dark green robe edged with black fur lapels, his chest bearing the sigil of the Hand of the King. Otto Hightower stood draped in the shadows cast by the revelry, his gaze imposing as he looked down at her, effectively halting her retreat. His voice, carrying a measured weight, broke through her thoughts. “Princess…”

As Daenera faced the man whose machinations had brought them to this, she clenched her jaw tightly, struggling to maintain her composure. A strained breath escaped her as she fought to keep her voice steady, her fingers curling into fists at her sides while a surge of bile burned in her chest. His discerning eyes wept over her with a cold, meticulous gaze, always analyzing, always assessing.

“I offer my condolences for your brother,” Otto began, his voice low and even, stepping forward with deliberate calm, his hands clasped behind his back. “It is a shame, had your mother agreed to our generous terms, it would never have come to this. Your brother would still be alive and the heir to Driftmark.”

Daenera’s voice was sharp with scorn as she addressed Otto, her eyes wide with indignation and disbelief. “Do not lay the blame at my mother’s feet for the actions of your grandson. He has marked himself a kinslayer, and that stain is his alone to bear. And don’t dare pretend that the terms you offered were anything but a mummer’s farce.” She paused, her gaze cutting through the space between them. “Do you truly think the realm is blind to your machinations? That it will not see through your schemes? That it will not condemn him?” Her hand swept towards the ongoing celebration, where the clamor of conversation melded seamlessly with the lull of festive music. “Condemn you for celebrating the death of a child, honoring the very man who murdered him.”

“And yet, it seems we are not the only ones who may face condemnation,” Otto replied, his gaze steely and chillingly calculating–filled with intent. “You’ve made a spectacle of yourself, and your attendance here will not go unnoticed by the realm.”

Daenera’s hand glided down the bodice of her dress, fingers tracing the cool, beaten metal of the dragon adorning it. The head of the dragon nestled snugly against her lower abdomen, its wings sweeping up to her shoulders and tapering to gleaming points just past them. The dress was elaborate and elegant, crafted from a heavy fabric designed to fall in perfect, graceful drapes around her form. It was dramatic and to that effect, was why she had chosen it–because of the spectacle it made of her.

“My mother’s colors are not only black,” Daenera asserted. They were also red. While the Hightowers had seen to the removal of all her black dresses, they had not thought to take the red ones as well. It was their mistake. “She will understand.”

“Will she?” Otto questioned, eyes flickering across her face. “Your grief is known–Maegor’s Holdfast has heard your cries. Yet here you are, adorned in finery, participating in the celebration. You sat by his side, holding his hand…”

The accusation twisted her stomach–that she had been there in support of him, that she had declared for Greens–draining the color from her face as dark spots danced at the edges of her vision. Through a sheen of tears, she met his gaze firmly. “My mother will know the truth of my heart.”

“Will Daemon? Will the realm?” Otto pressed, tilting his head slightly, his voice carrying a challenge.

Daenera felt a surge of nausea as the bile rose in her throat, her stomach churning–turning in on itself. A coldness nipped at her fingertips and crept up her spine, her limbs growing heavy and her chest tightening as if her ribs were constricting around her lungs. With effort, she swallowed the bile and responded with a bitter edge, “My presence will be spoken of as defiance–a spectacle. You may weave your web of lies, and some may indeed become ensnared, but the truth will stand firm; I wore red. I am the daughter of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, and I did not bow to your usurper king. The realm will recount my grief and my defiance, and it will also recount your cruelty.”

Otto inhaled thoughtfully–unconcerned–his eyes scrutinizing her intently, as if trying to peel back her skin and reveal the bloodied and broken girl beneath, and answered measuredly, “What is certain, is that you attended the celebration of your brother’s murderer. Your presence here will be noted across the realm, and whether you wore red or not, your intentions will remain in doubt–a grieving sister or a girl celebrating her betrothed…”

He stepped closer, his tone sharpening, “This is a dangerous game, Princess, one that I believe you do not fully understand. Remember, you hold no power here; you are playing on our side of the board, and it is only by our grace and mercy that you remain. I would advise you to think carefully about which… comforts you are prepared to forego, should you decide to defy us again. Or more pressingly, which of your men you are willing to sacrifice…”

With that, Otto stepped aside, making a sweeping gesture with his arm, indicating that she was free to pass. His demeanor suggested that the conversation was over, dismissing her with a finality that echoed the coldness of his warnings.

Daenera was certain that Otto would spin his web of deceit. He would craft the narrative to suggest that her presence at the feast was their decision–that it symbolized her endorsement of their regime.

Clenching her teeth tightly, Daenera forced herself forward, barely suppressing the urge to scream and expose the true depths of her grief and hatred and rage to the court–to the realm, to her mother across the sea. She managed to hold herself together, teetering precariously on the brink of madness. The abyss seemed to yawn open before her, beckoning her to succumb to its depths. It was unclear whether it was rage or grief that gnawed at her, but the sensation of unraveling was unmistakable–she felt an overwhelming sense of powerlessness envelop her.

Otto’s web, spun with masterful grace, ensnared her–tying around her lips, weaving through her intentions, and tightening its embrace with each breath she drew. She could not move without the tightening of the strings, she could not breathe as it strangled her, she could do nothing. She was lost–lost and suffocating.

Daenera's mind was a tempest, relentlessly revisiting the cascade of events that had shattered her world: from Viserys's untimely death to the usurpation of her mother’s crown, the myriad humiliations she had endured at their hands, and the grim reality of the position they had forced upon her. She agonized over all that she had lost, all that she still stood to lose, and the relentless barrage of insults and cruelty she had faced–years of mockery and taunts, years of belittling and undermining. Aegon's cruel words echoed ominously in her head, her ears pulsing with the rush of her own blood, effectively drowning out the raucous sounds of the feast.

Edelin was waiting at the doors of the throne room when Daenera emerged from the shadows cast by the columns. Her expression was tight with worry as she quickly fell into step behind Daenera. Her pace was quick, hand pressing against her bodice as she felt the harsh burn of bile rising in her esophagus, threatening to choke her.

As she moved through the dimly lit hall, her movement was silent, her footsteps absorbed by the swish of her skirts and the steady, oppressive pounding of her heart. Each step carried her further into the shadows, away from the light and laughter that seemed so grotesquely out of place, isolating her in her grief and fury.

Bile invaded her mouth, and Daenera quickly turned towards a secluded corner, away from the view of people, as she heaved, emptying her stomach onto the floor. Her body convulsed, her skin clammy and hands trembling as she braced herself against the cool stone wall. The sound of her sickness hitting the floor was harsh, and the acrid stench filled the air immediately. The ringing in her ears persisted as her stomach churned again, expelling more bile and partially digested food. Her eyes ached with the weight of unshed tears. Amidst the turmoil, she barely registered her name being called, but she felt the presence of a gentle hand at the small of her back, drawing soothing circles, comforting her with the tenderness usually afforded a child.

“Princess,” Edelin murmured, her voice laced with concern, yet it wasn’t her touch that drew Daenera’s focus. Instead, another hand gently pressed against her back, steadying her as she lifted her eyes.

“Princess,” Finan said softly, greeting her with worried eyes–gray as a gloomy day.

“I’m fine,” Daenera managed to croak, and with a trembling hand, she wiped away the residue of spite and bitterness from her lips. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she swallowed, her throat still burning from the acrid sting of stomach acid. “It’s nothing…”

“I should fetch the Maester for you, Princess,” Edelin suggested, her hands persistently soothing Daenera’s back. Her expression of concern somehow made her appear older than her age.

Swallowing hard again, and placing a hand on her unsettled stomach, Daenera answered, “No, that won’t be necessary. It’s just a minor upset, nothing serious enough to bother the Maesters with. A cup of mint tea and some crackers should help settle it, I’m sure.”

Tears of indignation and embarrassment threatened to escape as they prickled behind Daenera’s eyes. Her throat constricted as she swallowed hard, her mouth dry even as the bitter taste of bile lingered on her tongue. Her heart thudded loudly, the pulsing in her temples and the continuous whooshing in her ears contributing to her dizziness.

“Let me escort you back to your chambers, Princess,” Finan offered, his hand poised near her back–not touching, but ready to offer support if she faltered again.

“Thank you, Ser…”

“Finan Pyne, Princess,” He formally introduced himself, maintaining the pretense that they did not know each other. There was almost a palpable insistence in Finan’s posture–his silent urging for her to allow him to escort her, and perhaps, for a moment alone to speak.

“Ser Finan, that would be most kind,” Daenera accepted, feeling the weight of his unspoken plea. She then addressed the attentive Edelin. “Edelin, would you please see to cleaning up this mess? I wish to avoid any further embarrassment.”

“I am not to leave you alone, Princess,” Edelin responded, her voice tinged with hesitation. The conflict was evident in her eyes, a desire to comply with Daenera’s request despite it conflicting with prior instructions. She was kind, Daenera thought and she appreciated that, even as the girl was wary to comply–it was understandable, and showed that she was not too foolish in her kindness to be blind to the world around her.

“She won’t be alone,” Finan quickly assured, giving Edelin a comforting smile. “I will ensure the Princess’s safe return to her chambers.”

Edelin paused, considering the situation for a moment before finally relenting. “Very well, see the princess back to her chambers,” she directed Finan with surprising authority. Then, turning her gaze to Daenera, she added, “I will join you shortly and bring some tea to ease your stomach.”

Daenera expressed her gratitude to Edelin and watched cautiously as she departed, presumably to fetch a bucket and cloth to cleanse the stone of the unpleasant evidence of her sickness. The acrid smell would linger, even after being cleaned up–a minor inconvenience that time alone would erase. Beside her, Finan offered his arm, which she gratefully accepted, leaning on him for support as they moved through the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep. They passed through the main doors into the cool embrace of night.

The sky was overcast, heavy clouds masking any sign of the stars or the moon, shrouding their path in darkness. The night air was crisp, biting gently at her clammy skin as they crossed the courtyard towards Maegor’s Holdfast.

“How are you?” Finan asked, his voice low to ensure their conversation remained private. As they walked, the crunch of gravel and stone beneath their feet gave way to the solid, smooth surface of the steps leading to the Holdfast.

Daenera’s expression tightened slightly, her brows furrowing as she moved up the steps, her hand clutching her skirts to avoid tripping over the heavy fabric. “Alive… if you can call this being alive.”

“It is more than what others can claim,” Finan replied, his tone equally solemn. He quickly caught the harshness of his words, adding hurriedly, “Forgive me, that was cruel of me to say.”

Daenera remained alive, yet it was a bitter mercy–if a mercy at all. She was not dead, but her existence hardly felt like a life at all. To her, it felt more a burden than a privilege at the moment. Being alive hurt, and she was so awfully tired.

“No, you’re right,” she said, her voice raw and constricted. As she swallowed, the scratchiness at the back of her throat mirrored the jab her emotions took at the reminder. “I am better off than my men…”

I am better off than my brother. A sharp pang of grief twisted her heart and she averted her gaze from Finan, attempting to shield herself as though the acknowledgement of it would be too much. She blinked rapidly, fighting to keep the surge of sorrow at bay–a sorrow that threatened to break free from its confinement, threatening to engulf her and pull her back to that sea of emptiness where she had been adrift, lost in another world. “What news of my men?”

They made their way along the sheltered path of the inner courtyard, where shadows cast by the columns deepened and stretched across the floor and the opposite walls. The feeble light from distant fires did little to dispel the encompassing darkness. Maegor’s Holdfast was wrapped in an eerie silence, devoid of any other souls–a peace that was both soothing and unsettling, though not unexpected given the ongoing festivities in the throne room. This solitude offered them a semblance of privacy, albeit one that still required vigilance.

Finan stole a glance at her, his eyes nearly as dark as charcoal, framed by a brow furrowed with seriousness. “They survive. The boy is frightened and longs for home. And Fenrick worries for you.”

They ascended the grand staircase of Maegor’s Holdfast, their path illuminated by flickering torches that cast long shadows against the ancient stones. Finan matched his pace with her’s, giving her the time she needed to move up the steps. Her body was weary, weakened by the turmoil of the evening, her stomach hollow and head light and throbbing with a persistent ache. Each step seemed to demand more of her than she felt capable of giving, yet she moved with determination.

“He ought to spare his worries for himself,” Daenera muttered. “Will you be able to free them?”

If she could free her men from the clutches of the Hightowers, Daenera knew she could finally breathe easier. No longer would the lives of her men be held over her, a noose tightening around their necks with every defiant move she made. Yet, with each man she lost to their cruelty, the noose seemed to loosen, a bitter form of freedom–freedom through the absence of anyone left to threaten. She might be trapped, but perhaps there was a chance for them to find escape.

As they continued their ascent, the harsh light from the torches cast eerie shadows on their path, Finan’s head shook slightly, his expression somber. “The guards are vigilant, especially after the escape of Princess Rhaenys. Even if it were possible to free them from their cells, sneaking them out of the Keep is another matter entirely. All exits are either locked tightly or kept under guard. There are too many eyes, too few allies.”

Daenera had assumed as much. The usurpation had ushered in a regime of fear and uncertainty, with anyone daring to oppose or resist bending the knee finding themselves imprisoned or worse. The Keep now thrummed with an undercurrent of uncertainty and distrust, as people concealed their true opinions and allegiances close to their chest, wary of crossing invisible lines and finding themselves at the end of a noose.

“Perhaps you could use your influence–”

“I have no influence,” Daenera interrupted him sharply, her voice trembling with bitterness and indignation. “I am powerless. The friends that I had won’t go near me in fear that any association with me might brand them traitors.”

As they continued through the corridor, the flickering torches sputtering around them, Daenera’s mind turned to the faces of those she had once considered allies–friends, even. She recalled Trish Caswell’s averted gaze after her father had been hung, her eyes finding the floor or a sudden turn away whenever Daenera drew near–a clear sign of fear and caution she couldn’t blame her for. Lady Fell had suffered a harsher fate, thrown into the dungeons for her refusal to submit, alongside other defiant lords and ladies. Kaylys Merryweather had left the city to visit her mother, and Alan Beesbury had gone home to Honeyholt long before his grandsire’s death.

“I have no friends left, no allies, no influence,” Daenera’s voice broke through the silence of the hallway, tinged with a profound sense of isolation. “Too many of my men have been hanged. I am utterly trapped and alone. I have nothing…”

She was acutely aware of the confines of her invisible cage–sensing the web of intrigue that coiled around her neck like a noose, poised to tighten with the slightest misstep. It was as if she were balanced precariously on a tightrope, hands bound behind her back, every movement fraught with danger. She had been reduced to nothing more than a pawn to be wielded cruelly against her own mother in their sinister game.

As they reached the solitude of her chambers, a bitter taste of anger and shame filled her mouth. With a voice sharp and laced with frustration, she confessed, “I can’t protect anyone, Finan. I don’t know how to free them.”

A profound sense of powerlessness settled over her, a pressing weight that made her footsteps falter as her remaining strength ebbed away. She staggered, barely a few steps from the doors of her chambers, her hand reaching out to the cold stone of the wall for stability. Slowly, her knees buckled, and she found herself sinking to the floor, the harsh reality of her circumstances once again pressing down on her with unforgiving weight.

Seeming to sense her distress, Finan reacted swiftly. He slipped one arm supportively around her back and the other beneath her knees, lifting her with a quiet display of strength that nonetheless betrayed the effort required. Her dress was heavy, the fabric adding to the burden of her weight, and she could sense the strain it imposed on him as they approached the doors.

Using the hand supporting her knees, Finan deftly maneuvered the door open. The metallic head of the dragon adorned on her dress pressed uncomfortably into her lower abdomen, its snout poking against her upper thighs, creating a persistent discomfort–promising to leave a bruise. Clinging to him, Daenera’s fingers dug into the leather of his doublet, seeking stability in the warmth of his grasp as they crossed the threshold into the sanctuary of her chambers.

They moved through the quiet expanse of her chambers to the hearth, where Finan gently lowered Daenera into a chair positioned before the crackling fire. The warmth radiated from the lively flames, seeping over the cold stone and gently warming her chilled skin.

Daenera swallowed hard against the tightness constricting her throat, the sense of desolation and powerlessness wrapping tightly around her chest. As Finan knelt before her, his gray eyes were murky, reminiscent of the sky heavy with the promise of snowfall. He gazed at her with a depth of sympathy and something more–something that strained her already burdened heart with its intensity: faith.

“You possess more power than you realize, Princess,” he said, his voice soft yet earnest. “I could offer a poetic analogy about nature’s resilience–how even in the midst of the fiercest storm, flowers may be battered but still stand, grow, and survive. But I suspect you might find such platitudes wearisome.”

A small, fragile smile crept onto her lips, breaking through the solemn atmosphere–a fleeting moment of lightheartedness. “It does grow rather tiresome to be compared to flowers…”

As he rose from his kneeling position before her, a smile briefly brightened his features. Finan hooked his thumbs into his belt, a gesture so reminiscent of Fenrick that it momentarily caught her off guard–and though they didn’t share a drop of blood, it was clear that Finan had taken after the man he considered a father figure. The smile faded into a solemn frown again.

A pause filled the space between them as Daenera turned her gaze towards the hearth. The room was bathed in the warm, flickering light, illuminating the darkened space. When she spoke again, her voice was faint and weary. “Are there any news from Dragonstone?”

Finan shifted uncomfortably on his feet, his gaze also drawn to the flames. He spoke gently, his voice a low lull, as if trying to soothe her worries before they could deepen. “Your mother has left Dragonstone. It is said that she is searching Shipbreaker Bay for your brother…”

Daenera gritted her teeth, struggling to swallow against the overwhelming surge of pain that threatened to wash over her. Aegon’s cruel taunts echoed hauntingly in her mind, battering against her resolve like rain lashing against a windowsill: ‘‘With each passing tide, the rumors swell that our dear half-sister has lost her senses and is searching the coast of Shipbreaker Bay for her bastard’s remains… It appears she hasn’t realized that she ought to be searching a pile of shit just beyond the city walls if she wants to bury her son, but I suppose what Vhagar didn’t consume, the sea claimed. A bastard in life, Velaryon in death.’

Was there truly anything left for her mother to find, or would she be searching the sea for the rest of her life? The thought pierced her heart anew.

Her hand rose to her lips, fingers brushing lightly over the delicate, chapped skin, trying to hold back the sob that threatened to escape as tears blurred her vision. Daenera struggled to steady herself against the overwhelming tide of grief and fear that tightened around her heart. The image of her mother, alone and heartbroken, searching the cliffs of Shipbreaker Bay for any trace of her son, was almost too much to bear. “She shouldn’t have gone alone–she shouldn’t be alone…”

The chilling cascade of ‘what ifs’ flooded Daenera’s mind, each more harrowing than the last. What if the Hightowers had dispatched men to hunt her mother down? What if an arrow found its mark? What if an ambush awaited her at every turn? The most terrifying possibility of all crept into her thoughts: what if they’ll send Aemond after her?

Each thought tore her heart further, rekindling the embers of fear and anxiety that she struggled to contain.

Her mother, now a queen fighting to reclaim her throne, had to recognize the gravity of the risks she had taken by going to Shipbreaker Bay alone. Without her, the losses would extend far beyond the throne itself; the greens would not hesitate to annihilate her siblings, erase their names from history, and in doing so, destroy House Targaryen from within. Moreover, her mother was with child, making her safety and well-being paramount–not only for her own sake but for the unborn childs. She’d have to consider Jace and Joffrey, Aegon and Viserys.

“If she’s anything like you, I wouldn’t fear for her,” Finan reassured her, his voice steady as he turned his eyes from the flames and back to her. “No man can withstand a mother’s rage, especially not one who commands a dragon. Anyone foolish enough to challenge her would quickly be reduced to nothing more than ash.”

Daenera’s hand dropped from her lips as her eyes met Finan’s. A flicker of hope ignited within her at his words–her mother was a force to be reckoned with, that much she had always known. If they dared send men after her, she would surely turn them to ash before they could even notch an arrow. And should they send Aemond after her…

“You may think you have no power here,” Finan continued, his eyes reflecting the intensity of the fire before them, flames casting a dramatic light that seemed to lick against one side of his head. “But you are Daenera Velaryon, daughter of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon. Your name and blood speaks for itself.” He paused, taking a breath as if to gather his thoughts, brows furrowing slightly before adding, “You are held in high esteem both by the smallfolk and the nobility, and the Hightowers are aware of this. Your refusal to bow to them—that alone takes strength, far more than many can claim for themselves. They would be fools not to fear you–they do fear you, and rightly so.”

A thoughtful frown settled on her face as she turned her gaze from Finan and to the flames. The wood in the hearth popped and sputtered, glowing white-hot with orange tongues lapping voraciously at the air, consuming everything in their path. Within her, something stirred–resignation and acceptance seemed to twist and turn, growing teeth in the process, a latent ferocity that had always lurked beneath the surface. They had cornered her, confined her to a place from which escape seemed impossible, leaving her few options. Like a mistreated animal driven to desperation, she understood the dangerous lengths which such creatures would go to secure their freedom, even if it meant gnawing off its own limb to escape the trap.

They intended to use her as their pawn–and a pawn she would be. Daenera resolved to play her part in their game, biding her time with calculated patience. Once freed from the leverage they held over her–the lives of those she cared for–she would become a thorn in their side, she would make them suffer as they had made her suffer. Even a caged animal had its claws.

A twist of ruthlessness unfurled within her, coiling like a serpent ready to strike, as an inking of a plan began to form at the periphery of her mind. Daenera’s gaze remained on the flames as they devoured the wood, fierce and unyielding. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Finan turning to leave, perhaps interpreting her silence as an end to their discussion. Finding her voice, she spoke in a low, measured tone. “Can you arrange to be assigned as one of my guards? I am in desperate need of someone close whom I can trust.”

Finan paused and turned back towards her, his expression lighting up with a gleam of satisfaction–bordering on smugness. The corner’s of his lips curled slightly. “I can and will, Princess.”

Daenera adjusted her posture in the seat, straightening up as a renewed sense of purpose filled her. “I need you to reach out to Joyce’s informants,” she instructed, her voice carrying a quiet authority. “I’m certain she shared some of their names with you. We need to ascertain who still remains loyal to me. But tread carefully,” she added, her eyes narrowing slightly with the gravity of her words. “There are eyes and ears everywhere–spiders, worms, fireflies… Your safety is paramount. Do not expose yourself unnecessarily.”

Finan acknowledged her directive with a simple, resolute nod, straightening his own stance in a subtle mirroring of her determination. “And what shall we do about Fenrick, Eddin, and the boy?”

Daenera absently picked at the dry, chapped skin of her bottom lip, lost in thought. “The Hightowers are unlikely to release them.”

“Fenrick–” Finan started to say, but quickly stifled himself, stopping short of speaking out of turn. In that moment, it became apparent why he had come to her side this night; he wished to free Fenrick from the dungeons. “We must get them out.”

“Concern yourself with getting assigned to my detail and making contact with the informants,” Daenera instructed with a measured calm. “And there’s a girl in the kitchens–Cerys. Ensure her safety and well-being. Inform her that she must not take any action without my explicit command; reckless moves could doom us all…”

A look if inquiry flickered across Finan’s features, though he held back from voicing his questions. Nevertheless, Daenera responded, “It’s not my story to share, but understand this–it’s not easy for her to watch her tormenter ascend the throne. I need her to know that my life could very well be in her hands. If she acts impulsively to spill blood, she risks spilling mine as well.”

Finan regarded Daenera with a solemn expression, offering another cut nod. He refrained from pressing her for more details or demanding explanations, a restraint for which she was grateful. The intricacies of Cerys’s past and her incident with Aegon was hers to disclose, should she choose to share them with him. For now, Finan was left to his assumptions.

“Your dagger,” Daenera said, her gaze finally shifting away from the flames. “I would have it.”

At her request, Finan’s initial reaction was one of hesitation. His hand instinctively tightened around the hilt of the dagger at his hip, a protective gesture born of reflex. His gray eyes searched her face, seeking an understanding of her intentions and perhaps gauging the gravity of the situation that would warrant such a request.

“It would provide me a small sense of assurance that should the need arise for me to defend myself, I would have it.”

Finan responded with a firm tone, “I cannot give you my issued dagger.”

However, his hand moved past the weapon at his hip to a smaller blade discreetly concealed within his boot. With a skilled motion, he drew the hidden blade, its steel catching the light from the flames and gleaming with a cruel sharpness. He then expertly turned it around, extending the handle towards her. The dagger was slender and designed for precision, ideal for piercing rather than slashing.

As Daenera’s hand wrapped around the hilt, a modicum of comfort washed over her. “Thank you, Finan.”

“I trust you know how to use it?” Finan asked, taking a step back to give her space, his expression a mix of solemnity and curiosity. Behind his gaze, Daenera sensed a flicker of concern–perhaps fear that she might use it on herself.

“I know how to use it,” Daenera responded firmly, leaving no room for doubt. She then nodded towards the door, a silent signal for him to leave. Finan acknowledged her gesture with a respectful bow of his head before turning on his heels and exiting through the doors. The doors closed softly behind him, sealing her within the solitude of her chamber.

Clutching the blade firmly, Daenera rose from her chair and moved toward the hearth, drawn irresistibly closer to the flames. As she knelt down, the skirts of her dress spread out around her, pooling like a puddle of blood on the cold stone floor. The warmth of the flames caressed her skin, almost an embrace. The fire’s glow was brightest near the wood it devoured, white-hot and all-consuming.

What brought her here, she couldn’t say; it seemed almost instinctual. This feeling was inherent, both familiar and dangerous, wrapping around her like the heat radiating from the earth.

It was as if the flames echoed the same ancient song that coursed through her veins–a visceral melody of destruction and devouring, of death and rebirth, of fire and blood.

Daenera lifted her hand, her gaze falling to the array of wounds that marred her palm. Some of the deeper gashes were held together by a few precise stitches, while others were healing naturally. Amidst this intricate web of healing wounds, one stood out–a long-healed cut that traversed half of her palm, a permanent reminder etched into her skin.

Love, it seemed, was either a shrine for worship or a lasting scar. For Daenera, it was more akin to a bleeding wound–still fresh, unhealed, and raw, inflicted by the sharp blade of his love.

Daenera carefully positioned the point of the blade against the curve of one of her stitched wounds, its sharp edge slicing through the tread with ease. As she removed the stitch, the wound parted slightly, revealing a fresh vulnerability. She then pressed the blade deeper into the opening, parting the flesh anew. Blood welled up at the incision, the sting of the blade making her teeth clench. Drawing a deep, steadying breath, she watched as the blood began to flow, tracing a crimson line to the center of her palm where it pooled ominously.

The pain, though sharp and unwelcome, had become an almost familiar companion. How many ties had her blood been spilled? How many scars marked her body? How much had she endured?

Echoes of the tumultuous events following Viserys’s death reverberated through her mind–the usurpation of her mother’s rightful throne, her own imprisonment, the haunting image of Joyce’s body swaying alongside Lord Caswells, being forced to bow before the usurper, the vigil she kept over her men whose lives ended at their orders. She could almost sense their presence, specters standing among the shadows, silent and judging, aligned shoulder to shoulder with the other ghosts haunting the Red Keep. The firelight flickered, catching a glimpse of dark brown curls and blue eyes flecked with hazel–features set in a face she would never see again. The memory twisted inside her like a cruel blade, each flicker of the flame reflecting a moment lost, a face forever gone, stirring a deep and relentless ache within her heart.

They had killed her brother, mocking him even in death, dismissing him as a bastard as if his life held no value–as though he didn’t come from the womb of Rhaenyra Targaryen and had her blood flowing through his veins, as though Laenor Velaryon hadn’t claimed him as his own, as though he wasn’t a dragonrider, as though he deserved his cruel fate. Her brother, who was nothing but good and brave and kind, had been cruelly ripped from this world.

And it had been by the man that she loved.

The boy with the stars in his eyes.

Tears burned Daenera’s eyes as she felt the familiar tearing of her heart—a raw and relentless pain. Within her, a fierce wrath burned, fueling a desperate desire for retribution–vengeance–against those who had caused her such loss and suffering. She blamed them all, each one who played a part in her brother’s demise and her torment.

Daenera murmured a curse under her breath, her voice low and resonant against the hymn of the flames–her blood seemed to sing along with it’s own evensong. “I curse you, Larys Strong. May your deceitful nature lead to your downfall–may you meet the sword’s edge, and may the earth upon where your body lies barren. May the wolves feast upon your flesh and may you be forever remembered only for the worst of your actions.”

She extended her hand over the flames, allowing the heat of their flickering tongues to sear her skin–intense yet not enough to burn her flesh. And then, after a moment, she tilted her palm, causing the pool of blood that gathered at its center to cascade over and dripple down into the fire. The droplets sizzled as they struck the hot wood, sending up a scent of smoke and ash and burning blood that clung to the air and filled her nostrils.

With bitterness edging her voice, Daenera continued her dark litany of curses. “I curse you, Ser Criston Cole,” she declared, her hand curling into a fist above the flames. She allowed more droplets of blood to fall into the fire below. May you meet your end as you have lived, without honor. No songs shall be sung to commend your name, for you will be remembered only as the disgrace you truly are–a man who has sullied his white cloak with blood, whose vows mean nothing, a man bereft of any decency.”

Pressing her fingertips into the reopened wound, Daenera barely felt the sting, distant against the heat that licked at her skin from the flames below. The pressure coaxed more blood forth, dripping steadily into the fire. “I curse you, Otto Hightower. “May your ambition lead your house to ruin, and may you be stripped of the power you so desperately seek, and may you face the executioner’s block as the traitor you are.”

The shadows around her seemed to writhe and swirl, deepening as if alive, responding to the dark timbre of her curses–her heart beat discordantly within her chest, a strange litany that filled her with a sense of power. Her hand trembled slightly as she stretched it out above the flames, then curled it in on itself again, squeezing more blood from the wound.

“I curse you, Aegon Targaryen, second of your name,” she intoned, her voice solemn. “May history remember you as the usurper. May you know the fear and humiliation you seek to instill in others. May your existence be besieged by pain and torment–may you endure suffering at every waking moment.”

Her words emerged deliberate and somber, a dark incantation reflecting back the agony he inflicted, their resonance hanging in the air as densely as the smoke curling from the fire. The firewood crackled and popped lousy, sending up a gust of embers as the structure of wood collapsed inward. A muffled noise momentarily drew her attention away from the flames, her eyes searching the dimly lit room. The hairs on the nape of her neck stood on end, giving her an eerie sensation of being watched by countless eyes, though the room held only shadows. She was alone, accompanied solely by the flickering light and her own echoing curses. Finding only silence, she quickly dismissed the disturbance, refocusing her gaze on the fire.

“I curse you, Alicent Hightower,” Daenera continued. “May the weight of your decisions forever burden you, leaving you unable to flee the consequences of your own ambition. May your heart swell with regret as you come to understand the depths of the pain you have inflicted. May you lose all that you love, and may you endure the agony you have inflicted upon my mother.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks, tracing lines to the corners of her mouth where they mingled with the salty taste of her anguish–a bitter flavor of heartache, grief, and wrath. Each tear seemed to carve deeper into her soul, as the words lodged in her throat seemed to slice her heart open. With a voice quivering with emotion, she spoke her curse into the flames, a dark wish mingled with the blood that dripped from her palm, sealing her bitter hopes for his fate.

“I curse you, Aemond Targaryen. May you get a taste of that which you desire and may it turn to ash in your mouth–may it be forever beyond your grasp. May you know the sting of betrayal, and may you lose that which you have taken from me…” Her heart ached painfully within her chest as tears continued to stream down her face. “May you suffer as you’ve made my mother suffer.”

Blood dripped from her clenched fist, falling into the eager flames, sealing her curse. For a moment, Daenera held her hand suspended above the fire, indifferent to the heat that licked close to her skin, the flames that hungered for more than just the wood they consumed. She stared intently into the fire, feeling her heart beat a discordant rhythm within her chest–an ancient, chaotic hymn that felt beyond her understanding.

The world seemed to pause, caught between light and shadow, in a quiet so profound it felt like a breath held. Her voice broke the silence, a careful lilt of finality, “With fire and blood, I curse you all.”

Then, slowly, she withdrew her hand, uncurling her fingers to reveal the blood-smeared skin of her palm and the gaping wound from which it came. The act, though simple, felt immensely significant, if only to her.

Daenera rose, stepping back from the warmth of the hearth. As she moved away, she immediately felt the retained heat radiating from her skin, sharply contrasted by the cold air that lashed against her. She walked over to the table behind the settee, bending down to tuck the dagger into a previously unused hiding spot. The dagger couldn’t just be hidden anywhere lest the servants find it.

A wave of sheepishness washed over her as her gaze drifted back to the flames for a moment. It felt almost childish to believe she possessed the power to truly curse anyone–childish to think that speaking words into the fire and feeding it blood could actually wield any effect. And yet, she had done it, if only to soothe herself with the thought that one day, they’d face the consequences and come to understand the pain they have wrought. But she couldn’t rely on mere curses; if she truly wanted retribution, she would need to seek it for them. It would require time, planning, and sacrifices.

As Daenera secured the dagger beneath the settee, the doors behind her swung open, revealing a slightly disheveled Edelin, whose cheeks were flushed red. Their eyes briefly met before Edelin’s gaze dropped to Daenera’s hand, noticing the blood dripping from her fingertips onto the floor.

“Princess!” Edelin exclaimed, stepping quickly into the room. She set down the tray on the side table, which held a plate of dry crackers, some bread, and a steaming mug of tea, then swiftly grasped Daenera’s hand to inspect it closely. “What happened? Was it the man? Did he do this to you?”

“No,” Daenera reassured, gently extricating her hand from Edelin’s soft grasp. “Ser Finan was quite helpful. He carried me here after I stumbled on my skirts while ascending the steps. The fall simply reopened the wound.”

Edelin gave no indication of doubt; if she harbored any, she kept it to herself. Instead, she took a deep breath, brushing a stray strand of red hair from her face with a sense of urgency. “We should clean and bandage this.”

Picking up the tray once more, Edelin carried it across the room, setting it down on a table and gesturing for Daenera to sit, then quickly turned and disappeared into an adjacent room. Daenera obeyed, seating herself at the table, raising a hand to rub against the ache that prickled at her temples. Moments later, she returned with a small chest, setting it on the table.

As weariness began to claw at her once more, Daenera felt it nibbling at the edges of her consciousness, her eyes heavy and scratchy. The ache in her body returned gradually, accompanied by a creeping chill.

Earlier, when she had donned her dress and walked down the aisle of the throne room to face her captors, she hardly felt the ache. Her spine had been straight as a sword, her heart aflame with hatred, and the fire within her seemed to dispel all sensation of pain. It had burned away the aches in her muscles and the creaking in her joints, masking the weariness that now overwhelmed her, leaving her dizzy and exhausted.

Edelin meticulously cleaned the blood from the wound, and Daenera barely felt the sting of the water as her eyelids grew heavy with the struggle to remain awake and in her body. As her gaze drifted from her hand to the young woman tending to her, Daenera observed the freckles scattered across Edelin’s button nose and the youthful plumpness still evident in her rounded cheeks. She seemed about Daenera’s age, though at the moment, appeared younger.

“We should have the Maester look at this,” Edelin commented, her voice laced with concern as she dabbed at the blood that continued to well from the cut. “It is deep and needs stitches.”

Daenera traced her fingers along her forehead, feeling the onset of a headache beginning to throb within. “I do not want to disturb the Maesters at this hour. They’d insist on milk-of-the-poppy, and I do not want it.”

“But it will help with the pain.”

“The pain I can endure,” Daenera responded firmly, pinching the bridge of her nose to starve off the encroaching headache. She left the sentence hanging without further explanation, though her distrust of the Maesters was implied. The Maesters at the Red Keep were, first and foremost, loyal to the Hightowers, bound to do their bidding. She did not trust them, acutely aware of how simple it would be for them to administer poison under the guise of medicine–the line between medicine and poison was perilously thin, dictated only by dosage and deception.

Daenera offered a slight, reassuring smile. “You can do it.”

“Me?” Edelin’s face paled, her eyes widening with uncertainty as they flickered between Daenera’s bleeding hand and her face. At least she wasn’t squeamish, Daenera thought, if she was, she’d have fainted long ago.

“Yes, you. You know how to make a stitch; it’s much the same.”

“It’s not much the same at all! It’s flesh and–and it will hurt.”

“It will, but I trust you to do it gently,” Daenera answered. “It will hurt far worse if you don’t stitch the wound and it festers. I might even lose a hand…”

Edelin narrowed her eyes, a look of exasperation crossing her face. Nonetheless, she picked up the needle and thread, cutting a suitable length before expertly threading it through the needle’s eye. With hands that betrayed a slight tremor, Edelin took hold of Daenera’s outstretched hand. The needle hovered uncertainly over the tender flesh. She looked up at Daenera, her eyes flickering through her eyelashes, seeking affirmation to continue.

Daenera gave a nod, gently guiding Edelin’s efforts, instructing her on how to position her hand and where to insert the needle. The sharp point hesitated at first as it touched the tender skin, then decisively pushed through to the other side. The needle emerged through the parted flesh, drawing the edges of the wound together as Edelin pulled the thread through.

The sharp bite of the needle made her grit her teeth. Edelin, following Daenera’s guidance, pushed the needle through the opposite side of the wound, threading it carefully and tying off the ends with a simple knot. She then snipped away the excess threat. The stitching wasn’t as precise as the work Daenera might have done herself, but it was competent and held the wound closed effectively.

Daenera brought the tea to her lips, savoring the calming blend of chamomile with milk and honey, yet her voice was hoarse with fatigue as she asked, “What happened to your cheek?”

Edelin’s face flushed, her hand instinctively rising to touch the tender, reddened skin of her swollen cheek. “Lady Mertha wasn’t pleased with your presence at the feast. And she was even less pleased that I wasn’t with you…”

A twist of pity coursed through Daenera as she softly said, “I’m sorry.”

Edelin looked up, her expression settling into a frown that creased her brow. She continued to wrap Daenera’s hand with bandages, securing the dressing with a knot similar to the one used for the stitches.

“Don’t be,” Edelin replied, standing up and beginning to tidy away the medical supplies. “It wasn’t right to keep things like that from you…”

Silence enveloped them as Edelin assisted Daenera in removing her dress, the heavy fabric slipping from her form like a layer of armor. It felt almost surreal, as if the fabric itself had been what held her together, as though it was made of something more solid and impenetrable–fabric made steel. The dress pooled around her feet like a spill of blood, the metal dragon ornament on the bodice clattering against the stone floor, then scraping slightly as Edelin carefully lifted the garment.

With each layer removed–first the dress, then the crimson underdress and then finally the chemise beneath–it felt as though Daenera was shedding more than just clothing. And yet, despite getting lighter, her body felt heavier and heavier with each removal. A chill seeped into her bones, gooseflesh dotting her skin and prickling at the nape of her neck. The light blue nightgown she donned offered little in the way of warmth. Swiftly, Edelin wrapped her in a silk robe and guided her to the dressing table, the movements methodical and protective.

The intricate process of styling Daenera’s hair, brading it into a crown and weaving a ruby hairnet through it, was just as laborious to undo at the day’s end. As Daenera wiped her face with a damp cloth, removing the minimal powder and lip color she had worn, Edelin carefully removed the hairnet. One by one, the pins were taken out, and the braids loosened. Daenera watched her reflection wearily in the mirror, her gaze distant, barely recognizing herself. Her dark curls, finally released from their confines, cascaded over her shoulders, prompting her to emerge slowly from her reverie.

Edelin then assisted Daenera to bed, tucking her in with a tenderness that evoked the care usually reserved for a child. “Sleep well, Princess.”

“Wait,” Daenera called out, halting Edelin’s departure. “Would you… would you lay beside me?”

Edelin paused at the threshold, her red eyebrows lifting in surprise, her eyes widening slightly as she contemplated the request. It was an unexpected childlike plea, and Daenera felt a rush of embarrassment warming her chest.

Without uttering a word, Edelin returned to the bedroom, her footsteps echoing softly in the quiet room, accompanied only by the gentle crackling of the fire in the hearth. She sat down on the bed, carefully removed her shoes, and then lay down beside Daenera, bringing an unspoken comfort to the dimly lit room.

“You are kind,” Daenera murmured, lying on her back and gazing up at the canopy where a carved dragon chased dragonflies and birds in a perpetual dance. “Kindness is a rarity.”

“I try to be,” Edelin responded softly, her voice carrying the honest tone of children whispering secrets under the covers in the dark of night. “I try to keep my head down; it’s easier, I think. But I am not as stupid as Mertha would claim. I see things, hear them too, and I know when to pick my battles…”

“And yet, you are kind, even when you don’t have to be, even if it might put you at the hands of those who are cruel.”

Edelin shifted slightly, turning her head to meet Daenera’s gaze directly, and Daenera did the same. “Perhaps it is because I like you… You are kind too, even if your kindness is sometimes an act of deception.”

A tightness lodged in Daenera’s throat as she averted her gaze back to the canopy. A wave of shame suddenly enveloped her, burning beneath her skin. “I don’t have anyone I can trust.”

“I know.”

“But,” Daenera continued, turning her gaze back to Edelin, her eyes searching, “I do consider you a friend…”

Edelin’s face tightened, and she suddenly confessed, her eyebrows drawing together in a furrow of concern. “I report to Prince Aemond.” Her eyes held Daenera’s, filled with a plea for understanding. “He wishes to be kept informed of your health and well-being, and has ordered me to report to him. Mertha keeps the Queen Mother informed, and the guards report to the Lord Confessor.”

Daenera wasn’t exactly surprised to learn that Mertha was a pawn of Alicent, nor was it shocking that Larys had his spies within her staff too. Yet, hearing it confirmed aloud still seized her with a visceral tightness. She felt the bars of her invisible cage draw tighter, the intricate web woven by the Greens constricting around her neck. She blinked rapidly, struggling to suppress the tears threatening to betray her emotions.

“I wish to consider you a friend too,” Edelin continued, her voice carrying a gentle sincerity. “I do not have many of those, but I wanted you to be aware of my obligations. I do not wish to deceive you, and I thought it right that you should know. The prince… he cares for you. Deeply.”

Daenera turned her gaze away, the weight of Edelin’s words pressing down on her.

“Mertha insisted on having you removed from your chambers,” Edelin continued, her voice trembling slightly. “When you refused to eat or drink, she wanted to force it… but the prince stopped her. He told me that we should let you mourn in whatever way you needed, to leave you be until you were ready to rise. He was confident that you would… He was greatly concerned about you.”

Edelin’s words lingered in the air, resonating with sincerity that filled the silence of the room. The words twisted inside of her like a cruel blade, invoking a tightness in her chest and a tremor of grief in her heart that she detested.

“I understand,” Daenera finally managed to say, her voice steadying as she turned back to face Edelin. “Thank you for telling me. I understand the position you are in–I realize you must keep him informed… However, I would ask you to consider the information you share with him. Not always, but at times, discretion would be appreciated…”

“Of course,” Edelin responded, her agreement quick and earnest.

“Thank you, Edelin.”

Alicent sat silently before the hearth, her fingers deftly pushing the needle through the fabric as she added another stitch to the shirt. She had begun mending her husband’s shirts shortly after their marriage–a task he had once praised, claiming he favored the way she repaired his garments above anyone else’s. She had smiled and thanked him then, and from then on, had tended to every single shirt.

This act had evolved into a routine, another quiet way of caring for her husband, even as his appreciation waned, replaced by an indifferent expectation. This ritual had crystallized into habit, and habits, she knew all too well, were seldom acknowledged or thanked, and yet, she continued to do them.

On the fourth night following his death, Alicent found herself mending his shirts when it dawned on her with sudden clarity, and the sudden weight of desolation had settled on her. There was no longer a husband for whom to mend shirts; the expectation, like his presence, had vanished. She was a wife without a husband, a queen without her king.

How strange it was, to no longer bear such titles. It had been all she was for so long–it had shaped her existence for longer than the years she had lived without those titles. How much she had sacrificed and suffered for them, only to lose them with her husband.

The freedom that came with shedding her previous titles felt less like liberation and more like the burden of finding a new role to fulfill. Alicent had diligently preformed her duties as wife and queen, but now, in the absence of carrying such titles, she found herself assuming another set of responsibilities–that of the widow and Queen Mother. These new titles and the expectations accompanying them were chafed at her. Yet, despite the discomfort, she continued to carry them with the poise that was expected.

A part of her missed her husband. Over the years, she had found purpose in caring for him, attending his needs as a wife does, overseeing his well-being. This had become second nature to her. It wasn’t the love she had envisioned in her childhood fantasies, nor was it the love she had once envied in others, but it was something–companionship, a sense of duty.

Now, with her husband gone, Alicent had taken up the task of the mending of her son’s shirts.

The needle slid smoothly through the white fabric, and the gentle hiss of the thread pulling through was a strangely comforting sound in the quiet of the room. The fire cracked softly in the hearth, radiating warmth into her chambers–chambers that would soon become her daughters. Alicent rested her bare feet on the footrest, drawing warmth from the fire’s glow.

She had departed the feast earlier that evening. Her exit was timed carefully–not so early as to openly display her displeasure, yet not a moment longer than necessary.

The feast was an affair of excess, which Alicent found wholly inappropriate. She had voiced her objections clearly, both when Aegon had first proposed it and then again when it was brought up during a council meeting. The death of Prince Lucerys was a grave enough matter; to celebrate it was to compound the tragedy with insult. Aegon, however, insisted on the feast, deaf to her protests, and Aemond had not opposed his brother. Both her sons disregarded her warnings, failing to recognize the folly in the demise of a prince–bastard or not, and their nephew no less. Such actions, Alicent feared, would only invite trouble and scorn.

Alicent was certain that once news of the feast reached Dragonstone, Daemon would mount his dragon, fly to King’s Landing, and unleash fiery vengeance upon them all. There was also a part of her, a deeply unsettled part, that dreaded how Rhaenyra would react upon learning that her son’s death was being celebrated so brazenly.

She had harbored the hopes of avoiding a war and bloodshed, clinging to the belief that there was a path through this that did not end in death. The letters she had sent to Rhaenyra expressed as much, though there had been no word in return.

A seed of anger still grew within her. She had explicitly warned her son not to undertake any action that would invite scorn–to refrain from drawing first blood and ignite this war.

Alicent held her son responsible for the grave turn of events. There had been a chance–a chance to avoid a war, a chance for peace without bloodshed. Yet, he had extinguished that possibility when he killed Lucerys Velaryon in an act of vengeance. Any hope for surrender and peace had sunk to the ocean depths along with the boy her son had slain.

Her condemnation extended beyond the mere act of vengeance; it was what it wrought upon her son that distressed her most deeply. He had become a kinslayer, a man cursed by the gods.

Amidst her reflections, a troubling thought nagged at her–was she, in some way, to blame for his actions? This question lingered in her mind, adding a layer of personal torment to the already heavy burden of her son’s deeds.

For years, Aemond had been the son she could trust, the dependable one that she could rely on. While her eldest had shrugged his duties, succumbing to his own indulgences and vices, her second son had strived to uphold his responsibilities, bearing them with determination and integrity. He had always listened to her guidance–until now, until her.

The needle pierced through the fabric and unexpectedly pricked the soft pad of her finger, the sharp sting pulling Alicent from her thoughts. She glanced down at the small droplet of blood that had formed and drew her finger to her lips. The bitter taste of blood filled her mouth for a moment.

A knock at the door cut through the silence. She looked up at Lady Talya, who met her gaze and then nodded in understanding. She rose from her seat, carefully setting aside the dress she had been mending. Talya’s footsteps were soft as she crossed the room to answer the door.

Alicent could hear the door open, followed by low murmurs.

Returning to the room, Talay stood at the steps, smoothing her hands down her dress. “The Lord Confessor is here to see you.”

“At this hour?” Alicent responded, her tone tinged with surprise. She straightened up, withdrawing her feet from the footrest, and then slipped them into her slippers, letting her nightgown and robe fall over them neatly.

The rhythmic tapping of a cane echoed through the room, each click sending a spike of apprehension through Alicent as she rose from her seat. Lord Larys Strong entered, pausing beside Lady Talya, leaning heavily on his cane. He offered Alicent an apologetic smile.

“Apologies, Your Grace,” he said with a slight bow of his head. “I bring news from the feast.”

“What is so important that it cannot wait till morning?” Alicent asked, setting aside the shirt she had been mending and crossing her arms over her chest, suddenly conscious of her attire. She was clad in a long, silken nightgown with a thick robe of silk and green velvet wrapped snugly around her–and yet, it seemed not enough beneath his gaze.

Despite not having been invited to proceed further, Lord Larys advanced towards her, ignoring the customs and the discomfort of Lady Talya, who shifted uneasily at the edge of the steps.

“I thought you might wish to be informed of what has transpired at the feast in your absence,” he explained, his tone suggesting the urgency and significance of his news without revealing what he might bring. The tap of his cane against the stone floor punctuated his approach, drawing him down the steps into Alicent’s sitting room. While his demeanor remained friendly and unassuming, there lurked an undercurrent of something more calculating, a subtle assertion of dominance that filled Alicent’s stomach with dread.

Larys settled himself into the chair that Lady Talya had just vacated, his cold gray eyes meeting Alicent’s with an expression that was unassuming yet expectant. Reluctantly, Alicent looked up at Talya and gave a subtle nod, signaling her dismissal. Talya, her loyal lady-in-waiting, curtseyed gracefully before departing, effectively closing the doors behind her. The act seemed to seal Alicent within her chambers, leaving her in the company of a man, who despite his unassuming exterior, held a sickening twist of cruelty to him.

“Let it be quick, my lord. I wish to retire to bed,” Alicent stated, resettling herself in her chair with a visible hint of irritation flickering beneath her composure.

“Do you recall, years ago, when you first took to wearing green?” Larys began, his voice smooth, tinged with an amusement that seemed to taunt her. He always kept the true purpose of his visits hidden, only to be revealed once he had played his game. His manner was polished, akin to the deceptive smoothness of a well-honed blade. It always left her dirty.

“I remember it vividly–the entrance you made during the king’s speech, and the immediate silence that followed. It was then I knew I had made the right choice in serving you–”

“Where are you going with this?” Alicent interjected, her voice sharp with impatience, too wearied for such games at this late hour.

Larys offered a cold smile in response. “It is said history has a habit of repeating itself. Tonight, it appears, such repetition has indeed taken place. The Princess decided to attend the feast.”

For a moment, Alicent could only stare at him, perplexed, her heart pounding tumultuous before sinking into the pit of her stomach. Her brows furrowed in a frown, her head shaking slightly in disbelief. “The princess hasn’t been well these past few days. She has scarcely moved, or so I’ve been told…”

“It seems she found the strength,” Larys remarked casually, his fingers rhythmically tapping against his cane. “The princess was quite a sight to behold, clad in a dress as red as blood, adorned with a dragon on the bodice. She made quite a spectacle of her presence, refusing to bow to the king.”

Alicent turned away with visible irritation, her gaze settling on the flickering flames of the hearth. She absentmindedly lifted her hand to trace her finger over her lower lip as she contemplated the news, muttering under her breath, “Insolent girl.”

The dress, Alicent knew, was more than mere attire–it was a statement, a bold declaration for her mother as much as it was a direct indictment against their own actions. It was a declaration of war.

Honoring Aemond with a feast for the death of Lucerys Velaryon was contentious enough, but for the sister to attend such a celebration would be seen as exceptionally cruel. Yet, that very implication was why Daenera had chosen to appear. She knew how the realm would be likely to perceive her forced attendance at such a celebration as not just cruel but a calculated indignity.

Daenera had manipulated her grief into a public spectacle, wielding it as a weapon against those who orchestrated the event. In doing so, she wasn’t just mourning her brother; she was condemning those who celebrated his death.

“It is not all,” Larys interjected, recapturing her attention with his deliberate tone. “The king held a speech to commemorate his brother for his victory…”

The implication of Larys’s words hung heavily in the air between them. Alicent closed her eyes, a gesture of resignation as she rubbed her brow. She didn’t need Larys to elaborate on the details; she could well imagine them herself. Yet, he continued, and despite her expectations, the actual recounting of her son’s actions shocked her with its cruelty. Aegon had always possessed a certain callousness, a trait she had longed hoped he would outgrow.

Another knock at the door broke the tension-filled silence, followed by the creaking sound of a door swinging open. A low, urgent voice called out, “Your Grace?”

“You may enter,” Alicent responded, straightening herself in her chair. After all, hadn’t her chambers turned into an audience already?

Lady Mertha appeared at the doorway, descending the steps into the sitting area with measured steps. She moved to stand by the hearth, casting a brief, wary glance at Larys before her eyes settled on Alicent. And with a respectful curtsy, she spoke, “I beg your forgiveness for intruding. I have urgent matters with you that cannot wait until morning.”

Alicent, her tone sharp with reproach, responded, “I’ve just been informed of the princess’s decision to attend the feast…” She paused, her gaze fixed sternly on Lady Mertha. “Were you not tasked with ensuring that she did not leave her chambers unbidden, let alone make a spectacle of herself?”

Alicent stared at the older woman, her eyes sharp and discerning, as a flicker of annoyance twisted within her chest. This woman had been entrusted with the responsibility of keeping the princess compliant, tasked with keeping a vigilant eye on her to prevent precisely the kind of spectacle that had occurred. Did no one heed her any longer?

Lady Mertha had been part of Alicent’s staff ever since she’d moved from Oldtown to King’s Landing, when her father had assumed the role of the Hand of the King. For years, she had served her well and without complaint, a respectable woman who had always demonstrated faithfulness to the gods, to House Hightower, and to her duties. Alicent’s expectations had been clear, and the breach was not taken lightly.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Mertha responded, her hands folded in front of her. Her posture did not suggest cowering; rather, she bore the weight of Aliceent’s reproach with firm shoulders. “I left the princess in Lady Edelin’s care. She hasn’t moved in days, doing nothing but staring into the flames. She has scarcely taken food or drink, accepting it only when offered directly by the Queen herself. I did not expect that she would choose to leave her chambers, much less attend the feast–”

“But she did,” Alicent interjected sharply. “And she made a spectacle of it.”

“I will see to it that the girl is reprimanded for her lapse,” Mertha responded, her gaze briefly flickering towards Larys before settling back on Alicent. She shifted uncomfortably, an air of urgency and discomfort stiffening her movements. “But… that is not why I have come, Your Grace. I would prefer to speak alone if you would allow it.”

Alicent drew in a deep breath, the onset of a headache beginning to throb at her temples. She glanced towards Larys, intending to dismiss him with a silent look. However, Larys met her gaze with an expectant, almost challenging expression and made no move to leave. Instead, he shifted his attention back to Mertha, who remained standing, effectively ignoring Alicent’s unspoken command to leave. Feeling the invisible strings of influence Larys seemed to have tied around her tighten, Alicent’s irritation churned in her stomach. She gritted her teeth in exasperation, exhaling sharply before turning her full attention back to Mertha.

“The Lord Confessor has my confidence,” Alicent stated, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. Although she didn’t look at him, she could sense Larys’s satisfaction radiating across the room, palpable through the web of control he had woven around her. She supposed that his presence, though oppressive, was perhaps a lesser evil compared to other demands he might impose.

“As you wish, Your Grace,” Mertha responded in deference. “Not long after the princess had excused herself from the feast, I too took my leave. I had intended to look in on her when I encountered a most unsettling scene…” Her voice trailed off, tinged with hesitation, and her expression twisted into a deep, almost fretful frown. “The–the princess was sitting before the hearth…” Her gaze faltered from Alicent as she took a deep breath, seemingly gathering her composure. She reached up to touch the seven-pointed star resting against her chest, a gesture of seeking reassurance. “The gods protect me, the princess was spilling her own blood into the flames and uttering curses into the fire…”

“Curses?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Of what kind?” Alicent pressed, feeling the weight of dread settle in her stomach like heavy stone, her heart pounding painfully against her ribs. “What did she say?”

“It was the most vile of curses, those that are made in blood,” Mertha replied, voice laced with fear. She clutched the seven-pointed star necklace more tightly, as if seeking protection from the gods. “She condemned that your name alongside those of the Lord Hand and the King, invoking a life of anguish and despair for you—Your Grace, she cursed you to endure the same pain and suffering her mother has faced, to face the same loss as she has…”

Fear clawed at Alicent’s heart, its grip tightening, nails digging into the tender flesh as dread seeped into her veins. Her throat constricted, tears burning at the back of her eyes as her gaze shifted from Mertha to the flames of the hearth.

Alicent swallowed the rising tide of fear, steeling herself against the disturbing revelations, even as her heart trembled within her chest. Striving for composure, her voice emerged measured but with a discernible tremor. “Lady Mertha, thank you for bringing this to my attention. It is clear that the princess is suffering. Your guidance and the sanctity of the gods may be what saves her soul.”

And what saves us from her, she thought silently, the weight of the responsibility and the potential threat pressing heavily on her mind.

With a solemn nod, Alicent dismissed her. “Let us discuss our course of action on the morrow.”

Mertha hesitated, her eyes flickering uncertainly between Alicent and Larys. She released her tight grip on the seven-pointed star pendant and placed her hand against her chest briefly, taking a deep breath to steady herself. She then smoothed the fabric of her dress with a composed gesture and replied, “Yes, Your Grace.”

As soon as the door closed behind Mertha, Alicent rose from her seat and walked over to the hearth. Her fingers brushed anxiously over her lower lip, the impulse to bite down, to tear at the skin beside her nails, itched beneath her skin. She began to pace the floor, her mind racing with the weight of the night’s revelations.

“I wouldn’t concern myself with curses,” Larys spoke up, breaking the tense silence.

“What do you know of curses, my lord?” Alicent asked pointedly, pacing back and forth in front of the hearth. Her fingers pressed against her lips as she nibbled at the skin, the urge to bite down growing stronger still. Was this her punishment?

“They say Harrenhal is the most cursed place of all,” Larys answered, slowly rising from his chair. His cane tapped coldly against the floor as he leaned on it for support. “The only real curse is the one we forge for ourselves…”

His footsteps echoed heavily across the floor as she moved towards her, each step deliberately closing the distance between them and subtly invading her personal space. “If such things as curses exist, they are not brought into being merely by speaking them. If that were so, we would find ourselves cursed long ago.”

Sooooo the new episode is out and I've gotten A LOT to work with; so I've decided to go back to DS the next chapter, but the chapter will likely be wedged between existing chapters which means that while there might not appear to be a new chapter, there is, it's just added between ch. 82 and 83--so 83 will become 84 and so forth. You can also expect some events to be changed in order to fit with this story, as there's just about 7 months from the pregnancy reveal to B&C--which means in that time, we'll focus on characters and some minor events; a battle over the blockade, a battle near Harrenhal, trying to win House Tully and the Riverlands to each side + House Tyrell, 2 assassination attempts, trying to establish alternative trading routes to get food to KL which gives the Blacks chances for guerrilla warfare, and growing tensions between Daemon/Rhaenyra as Daemon presses for escalating the war while she tries to keep it together because the Greens has her daughter. I will do my best to finish next chapter by Friday, but I can't promise anything, it's a long one that stretches from the moment Daemon received word of Luke's death to the day after and contains multiple scenes. Some things will also be stretched because it didn't make sense how fast they all travel between great distances and I just need it to make sense. I will say, we will also get a chapter following Rhaenyra as she searches for Luke because I'm a glutton for angst, and I will add more details because I need it. But this chapter will likely be chapter 87? I think. or 88---we'll get a KL chapter before it and after.

#a vow of blood #aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #house of the dragon #hotd #aemond one eye #hotd aemond #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen x oc

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lemonzibus · 11 days

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I just realized what made Walter White become Heisenberg. In season 1 episode 5 during the weird family meeting/intervention for Walt, Walt takes custody of the talking pillow to stop his family members from bickering about whether or not his decision to not get treatment for his lung cancer is justifiable. Walter, after this moment, is never seen relinquishing control over the talking pillow. In the next scene, we see him agree to get treatment and, as a direct result, begins cooking meth again. This is the birth of Heisenberg. Throughout the show, Walter White is an extremely lucky character. He survives unbelievable odds time and time again. As Jesse says, Walter is smarter and luckier than anyone else. This isn't because he's breaking his bad. It's because the power of the talking pillow is controlling him and leading him down these paths. Dark, twisted deeds spurred on by the unrelenting urges given to this mere mortal man who has defied all reason and sought to bend such supernal forces to his will. Walt is the unluckiest motherfucker on the planet. This all changes immediately the second he takes up the talking pillow. Before this, he is a high school chemistry teacher who got fucked over by his friends from college. Immediately after, he's surviving explosions in meth dens. And it only ramps up from there. The last scene, Walter is shot. This isn't a coincidence. Clearly, Walt lost possession of the talking pillow. In his haste to get out of Albuquerque, he left it behind and it did not end up going with him to New Hampshire. The Heisenberg we knew could've easily avoided the random bullet that struck him and eventually led to him bleeding out. Without the talking pillow, however, Walter was once again mortal. His head cleared while he was in New Hampshire and thus he was able to do the right thing, but he no longer had the protection once afforded to him. I worry about where the talking pillow ended up after Walt loses it. We can only hope that it was lost when the feds RICO'd the White family home. That it is perpetually lost in some federal storage facility, never to be seen again. If the Whites kept possession of it, though… I weep to think what may happen to Skylar or Flynn. What horrors either of them may unleash upon the world in the footsteps of Heisenberg and his Godlike Talking Pillow. I suppose we can only hope--nay, pray--that, if the White family still does have it, it requires a certain personality to fall victim to its seductive whispers. That neither Skylar nor Flynn are the sorts of people who will become puppets to this evil artifact's machinations. Its whims. We can only pray…

#breaking bad #brba #bcs #better call saul #im right and you know it let's be honest #talking pillow

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savnofilter · 9 months

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Makeup Sex HCs

-> dabi/t. todoroki, s. todoroki, e. kirishima & k. bakugo

Dabi | Shouto Todoroki | Eijiro Kirishima | Katsuki Bakugo x [GEN]Reader

CONTENT WARNING(S): sexual content, makeup sex. 🧍🏽‍♀️

COUNT: 1.1K words [1-3 mins each].

READ MORE: masterpost + [students | bakugo | adults masterlists]

A/N: ive been wanting to write this for a hot min and now i finally did sjdjsjdn anyways this will be my last nsfw work for students. pretty anti-climatic but 🤷🏽‍♀️ i will be releasing the rest of my sfw stuff for them somewhere else so stayed tuned for that. 👀 ANYWAYS I AM SAUR READY FOR THE DABI CONTENT IM GONNA BUST 🥰 THANK YOU ANON AND HAPPY YEAR YALL. 🤢🤟🏽🤟🏽🤟🏽

if its serious & Dabi knows hes fucked up, hes gonna force himself to talk about it.

don't think that he’ll be mature 100% but he will communicate with you.

is a little manipulative (don't come at me we know he ain't at therapy) and might divulge to get into your good graces once again.

makeup sex with Dabi entirely depends on how serious he finds the situation.

if it's something super serious (to him) then he will not go for sex and will not want to be touched physically like at all. comfort wise too.

but when it's something where all you two need to do is properly communicate, he's actually more empathetic. you could almost say the makeup sex between you when this happens is more… intimate.

if submissive!Dabi is something you like, here he is!

don't expect him to go full on tho, he’ll just relinquish a bit more of letting you take control as a form of apologizing.

[+] only you have been able to see him in such a position… you better be thrilled.

gets more needy tho? the audacity… if you love brats there here he is.

tries to say stuff to throw you off, shit like if you're teasing him he'll say something along the lines of, “stop playing and come sit on my cock, doll.” or “look at you slobbering all over my dick, you greedy XYZ.”

a little whiney about it too, has no shame whatsoever, though.

if he's the one giving you head, it's very messy and sloppy like he's making out with your nether regions. his goal is to have you c(um)e undone and having you surrender your thoughts to him.

when you two actually get to fucking though, it's really rough and grabby at first. it's as if you two are trying to fight each other whilst also attempting to one up another in pleasure.

very much a lot of rough thrusting, pinning, bite marks, hickies and hand prints galore.

then it soothes out—once all the pent up energy is exerted you two transition into a more, and this is where I talked about earlier, intimate love making.

mumbling apologies, a teary eye if you manage to make eye contact with each other and soft mutterings of how good it feels.

it's like a rollercoaster ride of high and low emotions, the end result being the balance of both.

probably the same kind of style as Dabi.

honestly it wouldn't be surprising if the root of the makeup sex being unresolved things, as in the inner conflicts that you two don't even address.

quiet aggression waiting for its release between you two.

makeup sex would be more like a week or a few days after, where you two are probably having a normal session but then the pent up and forgetting energy comes up and gets released during the deed.

Todoroki grips you way more often and holds you close as if you might disappear in one second.

uses a lot of his hands and probably toys too to let out his pent out anger.

will have you bonded up so he can freely do what he needs to do with having to keep his attention divided by keeping you down and pleasuring you.

a ton of words of affirmation here, both you and him.

that's how it normally is, but he throws in some endearing terms a lot more this time around.

“that feel good, baby?” “who makes you feel good like this?”

his attention is solely focused on you and not so much his.

will probably edge you until the point where you both need to climax as he enjoys seeing you tear up and beg for him.

the makeup sex was probably about jealousy if we're being honest here.

Todoroki is just so emotionally constipated but he doesn't know how else express it.

is definitely working on it though.

probably the most emotional out of them lol.

Kirishima is the type to cry and be a mess, super emotional and empathetic.

isn't doing crazy positions or trying to rough you up, unintentional or not.

very much, “I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry” sort of attitude 😭

feel like when thinking of Kirishima, since he has this hidden, passive aggressive side that it'd transmute into rough handling but no I think he'd let all his barriers down for something like this.

would probably get rougher near the ending tho, like harder thrusts and more bite marks.

he wants to be in your good books again and is doing his best to be that again.

everything is sloppier too, just pure rawness tbh.

the makeup session may take place a few hours later or a day later, if it doesn't then that's how you know it's something serious that can't just be mended with a bit of physical bonding.

so in a way when you two make up like this, Kirishima feels grateful because of the unspoken common rules in your relationship.

he puts his all in to make sure that even with your disagreements he still loves you a lot. :’)

surprisingly so, i honestly believe makeup sex with this man would be soft.

it's passive aggressive at most, the only thing being harsh is the rough grip here and there or a little taunting whisper every so often.

lots of eye contact and just admiring you under him.

likes to be on top so he can shield you from everything else in the room and wants your attention all on him.

make up sex with him is smothering in the way that it's like he's trying to mold himself into you and only you.

doesn't care about what you guys fought about or disagreed earlier, he's more or so focused on the connection this will bring.

Bakugo is more quiet during this time, not really saying much but lets a few noises slip by every so often.

if he does talk, it's not very loud or aggressive, more of check ins like, “you okay?” “you like it when I XYZ?”

it's like Bakugo is treating you in a fragile manner, not wanting to shatter you or startle you. :’)

this is one of the times where his energy level isn't on 1000.

ALSO HAND HOLDING FOR SURE.

prefers to mostly do positions where he can see your face too, wants to make sure you're okay.

he's very mellow and the sort of energy is needed for the mending between you two.

#bnha x reader #mha x reader #bnha dabi x reader #mha dabi x reader #bnha todoroki shouto x reader #mha todoroki shouto x reader #bnha kirishima eijiro x reader #mha kirishima eijiro x reader #bnha bakugo katsuki x reader #mha bakugo katsuki x reader #bnha headcanons #mha headcanons #not sfw #sav's sinning

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theroyalhouseofwindenburg · 5 months

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The Illusion of Loyalty

For more than three years, Cordelia's whereabouts have remained a mystery. On Christmas night in the year 1353, the royal family gathered at Windenburg Castle for an opulent feast befitting royalty. The dining hall glowed softly in the dim light as snowflakes danced outside, lending a cozy atmosphere to the occasion. King Edward, now approaching his sixteenth year, sat solemnly at the head of the table, his mind preoccupied with thoughts of his absent mother. Despite the festivities and merriment around him, the lingering absence of Queen Cordelia cast a somber shadow over the gathering.

Since 1350, numerous events have unfolded in rapid succession. In the autumn of 1352, the Kingdom of Bagley faced a formidable threat as the French launched an invasion in a bid to seize control of the land. Their massive army forced Bagley's royal family into exile, seeking refuge in Willowshire. Tragedy struck when Finchwick fell to the invaders, culminating in a devastating ambush on Bagley Castle that left it in ruins, the billowing smoke a grim testament to the chaos that ensued. As the summer of 1353 arrived, the once-proud Royal House of Bagley found itself teetering on the brink of collapse under the relentless onslaught of war.

Back at Willowshire Castle, the suffering persists. Priscilla, the Dowager Queen of Bagley and the last living descendant of the Tredonian Dynasty, a pure Tredonian lineage that has endured since the year 999, has grown gravely ill in recent weeks. She lay in her chambers, surrounded by family, being comforted by her daughter Corrine. Suddenly, she awoke from her slumber, looked to Corrine, and asked, "Wherefore art thou, Cordelia? Hast thou unearthed her whereabouts?" Corrine looked at her mother with sad eyes, softly shaking her head. The look of fear lingered in Priscilla's eyes as she responded, "My dear Corrine, as I lay here, feeling the weight of time pressing upon me, I must share with you a heavy burden that rests upon my heart. My soul trembles with the fear of the unknown. In these moments of uncertainty, I urge you to remember that even in darkness, there is strength to be found. Hold fast to hope, for it is a beacon that guides us through the darkest of nights. Trust in the resilience of our family, and believe that love will prevail, no matter the trials we face. Remember, my child, that courage is not the absence of fear, but the determination to persevere despite it. Let these words be a balm for your troubled spirit, and may they grant you the fortitude to weather this storm with grace and resilience."

Corrine provided assurance to Priscilla that their search for Cordelia would never cease, affirming the enduring legacy of the Bagley Dynasty. The next morning, Priscilla succumbed to her illness at the age of 66. Her grieving family gathered around her, draped in mourning attire, grappling with the unfathomable reality of her passing.

King Henry perceived the ominous signs accumulating around Bagley, the economy plummeting as the French ravaged markets and homes, spreading chaos through the once-prosperous kingdom. Amidst this turmoil, King Henry discerned an opportunity that could not be overlooked. Meeting with King Edward of Windenburg and his trusted Regent and Lord Protector, Lord Richard, King Henry orchestrated a pivotal meeting.

Gathered within the solemn halls of Windenburg Castle, Henry, Edward, and Richard engaged in negotiations fraught with tension and urgency. Aware of Bagley's dire state and the looming threat of the French invasion, Henry proposed a bold exchange. In a solemn pact, Henry relinquished the deed to Willowshire, a symbolic gesture of trust and alliance, in exchange for a substantial amount of gold from Windenburg that would provide them security for years to come.

The terms were meticulously crafted to ensure Bagley's survival amidst the ravages of war, the gold serving as a vital lifeline to protect the kingdom's interests and fortify its defenses. Edward, recognizing the gravity of the situation and the importance of solidarity among neighboring realms, graciously accepted the agreement. In an act of magnanimity, Edward extended hospitality to Henry and his kin, permitting them to remain within the walls of Willowshire Castle until the tumultuous war had run its course.

After the grandeur of the Christmas feast had faded and the halls of Windenburg Castle quieted down, King Edward retired to his chambers for the night. However, sleep eluded him, and a gnawing hunger stirred his stomach. With a sigh, he rose from his bed and made his way to the dimly lit dining hall, hoping to find a servant to attend to his late-night craving.

As he stepped into the corridor outside his chambers, his ears caught snippets of conversation coming from nearby. Against the stone wall, he listened intently as Lord Richard and Father Paul Leudemond engaged in a discussion that sent shivers down his spine.

"Intriguing," Paul remarked with a sly grin. "First, Bagley Castle succumbs to flames, a spectacle fit for legends." Lord Richard nodded in agreement, a knowing glint in his eyes.

"And then, the Dowager Queen Priscilla's demise. Quite a coincidence, wouldn't you say?" The tone grew somber as they delved into the recent events, with Paul adding, "A cruel twist indeed. But let us not overlook the grand finale. Willowshire slipping through their fingers into Windenburg's embrace. Oh, the tragedy of Bagley seems boundless." Despite the gravity of their words, Lord Richard couldn't help but chuckle with a hint of mockery. "Ah, but there's one more delightful twist to savor. Our elusive Cordelia, hidden away amidst the chaos. Yet, we know precisely where she lies."

Paul nodded in agreement, summing up their thoughts. Both men erupted into laughter at their manipulation of power, oblivious to King Edward's vigilant ears absorbing every word.

Consumed by fury, Edward felt the weight of betrayal heavy upon his shoulders as he refrained from confronting Lord Richard and Father Paul. His mind echoed with their mocking laughter, each chuckle a dagger in his trust. As he retreated to the sanctuary of his chambers, the flickering candlelight cast shadows of doubt upon his once unyielding faith in those around him.

Inside, the room seemed to shrink around him, suffocating him with the enormity of his anger. His clenched fists trembled, his jaw tight with restrained emotions. The silence was deafening, amplifying the bitter taste of realization that trust, once a cherished virtue, had become a fragile illusion in the treacherous landscape of a political game.

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janeeyreofmanderley · 7 months

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Headcanon that Denethor’s animosity toward Thorongil/Aragorn is actually not primarily rooted in him being unwilling to relinquish the power of his family to a king nor in a rivalry over his father’s affection but more … personal.

Because one day Thorongil gave little Boromir, to the boy’s boundless delight and everyone’s horror, a tiny trumpet and a drum. The deed done Thorongil, like a coward, promptly left for 6 months patrol close to enemy lines, leaving the Steward’s family to deal with the REAL problem on their own.

#Aragorn #Denethor #Boromir #lord of the rings #lotr

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fanficapologist · 1 year

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Of Dragons and Maelstroms

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

Summary: Following the crowing of King Aegon, second of his name, Lady Maera Wylde, eldest daughter of Master of Laws, is called to return to the capital to assist her old friend, Helaena, in becoming accustomed to her new role as Queen. As well as navigating the complexities of court and discrediting the accusations previously made about her, Maera must also face Prince Aemond, having not seen him in three long years. Once allies, their relationship is no longer what it was when they were children, and they must find a way to live together for the sake of the Crown.

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

Prologue

King Jaehaerys and his Queen Alysanne sired thirteen children during their reign. The bloodline of this tale starts with the seventh born and forth son of these children; Vaegon Targaryen.

Vaegon the dragonless was considered as sour in personality as he was uncomely in his looks, known to be more drawn to his books than the sword. When he came of age and could not find a suitable spouse due to his general lack of personality, his eldest brother Aemon, successfully married, proposed a young friend of his wife to Vaegon, the Lady Edme Whitehead. Jaehaerys urged Vaegon to take this opportunity in order to further the Targaryen bloodline. Vaegon agreed but stated that once he had done his duty and produced a child, he would return to his books and studies

The marriage of Vaegon Targaryen and Lady Edme Whitehead began with great expectations, a union meant to strengthen ties between House Targaryen and House Whitehead. However, as the years passed, the once-promising alliance turned into a somber reflection of lost hopes and broken dreams. Vaegon was a man of ambition and charm, but his heart remained fixated on his interest in astronomy and mathematics. He had little interest in the domestic matters of marriage. The young Lady Edme, on the other hand, had been raised with romantic notions of love and unity, envisioning a future filled with affection and companionship.

The vast differences in their personalities became apparent as their courtship waned. Lady Edme longed for affection and attention, but Vaegon seldom found time to share in the joyous moments of married life with her. Despite the strain, they maintained a facade of unity before the court and their subjects. However, their inner turmoil was evident to those who cared enough to observe.

It took Vaegon 8 months to consummate the marriage. Thankfully for the Lady Edme, once the marital deed was done, she became with child. Edme birthed small twin daughters, Gael and Viserra, but shortly after passed away from child-bed fever. Relieved he was now released from the confines of marriage, Vaegon placed his daughters in the care of Edme’s parents, Lord and Lady Whitehead. Vaegon beseeched the newly crowned king, Viserys the First for another life path. The understanding King, seeing his uncles misery, suggested a life at the Citadel whereby he could serve the realm with his extensive knowledge. As Vaegon had only produced daughters and emphasised the sickliness of the twins to the senior maesters, insinuating that they would not live very long anyway, the citadel was happy for the prince to take the vows, relinquishing him of all titles and duties.

Lady Gael and her sister Viserra grew near the shores in the south of the Stormlands. Despite their small statures and shyness, both Gael and Viserra carried the unmistakable air of Targaryen nobility, their silver hair and violet eyes serving as a constant reminder of their illustrious heritage. Under the loving guidance of their Grandparents, the girls received the finest education, learning not only the customs and traditions of their own House Targaryen and the mother tongue of High Valyrian, but also those of the Seven Kingdoms.

The allure of marrying Targaryen women, even for a small chance to lay claim to the iron throne, attached many suitors for the twin girls. Both were married when they came of age. Firstly was Viserra, to Lord Byron of Morne, a house known for having strong Naval forces on the Straits of Tarth, an island off the coast of the stormlands. Gael, when she finally flowered, became the wife of Lord Jasper Wylde, shortly after his first wife’s passing.

Lord Wylde and Lady Gael produced 4 children during their marriage. On the birth of the 4th child, neither babe nor woman survived. Upon Lady Gael’s passing, Lord Wylde once again had to search for another wife. The twin sons he had produced with Lady Gael both caught the pox one year and passed at the young age of four. The only proof of this union ever existing was the survival of the third child; a daughter, Maera; The Jewel of Rainwood

Aemond returned to King's Landing on his dragon, Vhagar, following his visit to Storm's End. The journey had been a success; he had secured the Baratheon's support with a marriage pact. But in his pursuit of power and revenge, he had inadvertently murdered Prince Lucerys, the beloved son of Rhaenyra. News of Lucerys's death spread like wildfire through the Red Keep upon Aemond’s return. King Aegon, who had never been fond of his sister's bastard son, couldn't hide his joy at the tidings. He saw this as an opportunity to solidify his rule.

Queen Alicent, Prince Aemond's mother, wept bitter tears of distress and horror, fully understanding the grave implications this tragedy would bring to their family. The bonds of trust and alliances were unraveling, and chaos loomed. Aegon's wife, Helaena, was deeply affected by the news. She entered trance-like states, muttering words that no one could make sense of. She refused to eat, drink, or find solace in sleep. Her mental and emotional state deteriorated rapidly, and her suffering was a weight upon the entire court.

Desperate to support her tormented daughter, Queen Alicent sought help from the Master of Laws, Lord Jasper Wylde. They reached an agreement to send Lord Wylde's eldest daughter, Maera, back to the capital. Maera was to assume a role of friendship with Helaena and offer her support as the new Queen. The Red Keep, once a place of power and intrigue, was now fraught with tension and sorrow. The death of Prince Lucerys had set off a chain of events that threatened to tear the Targaryen dynasty apart, leaving those within its walls to navigate treacherous waters of political maneuvering and personal grief.

Notes: Hello! First fic I’m ever uploading and here’s a little summary to set the scene. PLEASE NOTE: whilst there will be events from the Dance of the Dragons within the fic, the timeline will diverge to suit the story

Also like this isn’t real, none of this is real, the universe is a creation of George R.R Martin. My writing won’t be perfect but constructive (not cruel) feedback is always appreciated.

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

#aemond fanfiction #aemond x oc #aemond x original character #hotd aemond #aemond targaryen #slow burn #enemies to lovers #smut #chapters #hotd fanfic #hotd #house targaryen #house wylde #Jasper Wylde #hotd helaena #maera wylde

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4dkellysworld · 8 months

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Heyyy so I want to realize self but I find that I forget I am not my body or mind. When something “bad” happens I remember I am not this body or mind and detach but when something “good” or “exciting” happens I get emotionally invested and forget it’s not really me. How do I remember that I am not this body when I have those “inherently good” moments

I am (body+mind) naturally such an emotional person, empathetic, and sensitive.

Yeah I get it. It's just something you need to make a habit of - not identifying with life or things just because it gets "good" or "exciting", it's still part of the illusion. Next time something like that happens, you could try the exercise I described in this - it can be used to release the "good" emotions too. Just watch the sensations as the witness, the character/mind/ego/body is experiencing all this, not you. Also stop labelling yourself as ______, detach from the label of being such and such a person. Detach from all labels. Detach from the person, it is not you :)

Also, I think this might help others who don't recognise that the "positive" is to be dropped too (he talks about pride but this can be applied to anything "positive" too such as emotion or experience):

The pride regarding negative qualities can be left fairly easily, but it is not so in the case of pride regarding good qualities. Nobody wants to admit that he has committed any error, but the pride that one harbors when he has given meals to thousands who have visited the four holy places, or opened lodging for holy people, or worshipped the deity millions of times, becomes so firm in him that it becomes almost impossible to give up. It is when one recognizes one's worldly ways and is ready to relinquish them that he soon finds a Sadguru. However, the one who is sought after by everyone for performing many good deeds, gets so deeply buried in the flattery that is showered upon him, that his way to the Sadguru becomes lost due to his pride. Realizing this, one must conclude that pride about bad qualities is tolerable, but the pride about good qualities is best to be avoided completely. Both the pride about one's good qualities and pride about one's bad qualities are thorns on the path to Self-Knowledge. When one thorn is pulled out with the help of another thorn, there still remains the second thorn (pride of good actions) that one carries around in the shirt pocket. Will this thorn not also prick the chest or rib? If a thief is shackled by iron handcuffs and a king by golden handcuffs, does that mean that the king is not bound? from Chapter 1: The Importance of Self-Knowledge - Master Key to Self-Realization by Siddharameshwar Maharaj

#asks #witnessing #exercise #releasing #practical #attitude #excerpts #siddharameshwar maharaj #mind purification

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notanodinarygirl · 3 months

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@sabineweek

Alt Day 6: Sabine Post-Rebels but Pre-Ahsoka

Type of Submission: Fanfic

Thought Process Behind This Story: Honestly when I posted the snippet of this story, that was the only thing I had written for this prompt. I had an overall idea but didn't knew how to shape it. But over the days I figured it out, you know it is easy to write something sad and heart-wrenching when you are yourself feeling it, so that's what happened and here's the result! I hope you like it!

Warning (Contains topics): Depression, PTSD, Mentions of Suicide Attempt, Angst, Heavy Angst.

It was that day again.

The day when she would become colour blind to all the colours she loved. And would see in the shades of grey that she could feel.

When she would feel like the whole world was sinking in and leaving her with no oxygen to breathe.

Maybe she should stop breathing and drown into the emptiness of the day.

No. She thought. Mandalorians are not coward, they die through sacrifices. Like the one of Ezra and Kanan.

But did she had that strength of a mandalorian in her anymore?

It's also been years since she last wore her armour. She forgot her armour the day she heard about what happened on mandalore. After the deed her family met. After she lost the last strands of hope she was holding onto.

That dark thought came to her mind again. She should give in.

Stop breathing.

Stop living.

Stop hoping.

Hope. The more she hoped the more she lost.

Hope was when Kanan died and she believed it would all be worth it to save the people of lothal.

Hope was when she lost Ezra and she knew she would find him again.

Hope was when she had the confidence that they could win the battle on Mandalore.

But they lost. Terribly.

And hence hope was lost when she pulled herself together only to breakup into a million more pieces. Pieces which were now too small to pick up.

It was always this day when she would feel like her heart was beating only to crack into bits of puzzle that could no longer be put together.

Her chain of thoughts were broken when she heard her communicator beep.

She knew who it was and hence didn't want to pick it up. But she also knew that if she wouldn’t answer, she would face consequences none better than her current situation.

So she ended up answering.

"Hera, I won't come to the celebration you know that", she said as she answered Hera's holo call.

"I know and that's why I am not here to force you. I just wanted to say that Jacen wants to visit the fair."

Sabine knew what Hera wanted.

Hera wanted her to take Jacen to the fair.

Not anyone else.

But Her.

Hera no longer trusted Sabine to be alone on days like these after she ended up with a scar of relinquishment on her wrist.

"You can take him too", she remarked.

"I would. But I am busy with the arrangements for the celebration and plus it was Jacen's wish to visit the fair with his favourite aunt."

A smile touched Sabine's face when she heard Jacen's name.

She couldn't be the reason for the kid's disappointment.

"I'll be there", Sabine said with a sigh.

She saw Hera visibly relax as she said that sentence.

"I'll drop him by 0500", Hera said as she turned to end the holo call.

"Hera", Sabine said stopping Hera midway.

"Thankyou", She said to Hera looking into her eyes.

Thankyou.

An expression of gratitude.

Gratitude for always being there for her when she was at her lowest points.

Gratitude for being her guiding light when her days were dark.

Gratitude for everything.

"Hey, you know I'll always be there for you", Hera said with an affectionate smile and ended the holo call.

Sabine got up to get ready. She certainly couldn't go the Liberation Day fair in her current condition.

Liberation Day.

It was today years ago when they defeated the Empire here on Lothal. When the people of Lothal got what they had longed for all their life.

Liberty. Freedom.

The day she longed for, all these years. The day, she thought all her pain and suffering would go away. The day, when she hoped that she would forget all her loses and mistakes.

In some ways it was the day she dreamed of. But as years went by the day became none better than a nightmare.

This why over the years she felt nothing but hatred for this day. At this point she didn't even like naming this day as The Liberation Day.

Because even if the day was The Liberation Day, she was not free.

She didn't get her freedom yet.

She was still not liberated from the pain, grief, desolation, suffering, remorse and a ton more synonyms of nightmarish emotions she was rotting in.

And therefore, for her, the liberty was futile if she couldn't feel it.

#lol this my first ever angsty fic i ever wrote and i think i did good 😅😅#I hope I was able to potray the emotions nicely and you were able to feel it!!#sabine wren #star wars rebels #ahsoka series #sabine week 2024 #hera syndulla #my fic

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bluestrawberrybunny · 14 days

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Garth from @ask-marios-apprentice asks

I don't think we have the same idea to what we are talking about.

I'm taking Mario's mantel of SUPER. Like the protector of the Mushroom Kingdom.

Mario is not the avatar of this world. I don't think our world works that way. Mario is going to die eventually from old age or something. And the universe certainly didn't begin with him.

The world didn't begin when the stork delivered him.

I think I'm just going to talk to SMG4 and SMG3 about the romance stuff though. Looks like I'm going to have to put my verbal abilities to use.

Also what's your Mario like even.

It looks like he's hanging out with some television headed guy. I've never seen that person before.

Let's see if our Mario's matchup

Mario was delivered with his brother by the stork on March 11th 1962.

His parents are Alejandro Alexander "JumpMan" Jupmin and Polly Anna "Pauline" Brickle.

He was delivered in the Mushroom Kingdom. But moved to New York to live closer to his dad's family. And to avoid perilous situations like the invasion of the Shroobs.

He graduated from the his University of plumbing in 1983. And was able to pay tuition with the contract they made with Kopai to make those Donkey Kong and Mario Bros arcade machines

In 1984. He and Luigi got warped to the Mushroom Kingdom by getting flushed down a tub drain.

He saved Princess Peach from Bowser.

Merida relinquished the title of SUPER to Mario for his heroic deed.

Then after Miyamoto flushed himself down the toilet to follow him and Luigi. Then they decided to make Super Mario Brothers for the Kopai Entertainment System.

Then a bunch of stuff happens.

In 2007. After the Peace treaty with Bowsers Kingdom. Mario and Peach get married.

In 2009. They adopt an inkling named Meggy after she escaped from a facility under Port Aurora.

They also meet SMG4 after he takes a USB looking spaceship from Australia to the Mushroom Kingdom.

The electro magnet scrambles everyone's minds for a while. Then the first war of the fats Italians happen so everyone turns back to normal.

Then in 2016 Mario meets me (I brought this up already)

Then in 2018 we had the whole Warp Point fiasco where Earth found out about the Mushroom Kingdom the rest of panko. Mario pretended to brake his leg so I can prove myself that I was capable to my mother. But then he broke his leg for real after he was eaten by Pipe Lion.

How much of this matches up with your Mario.

SMG4: Um... not a lot, from what I know?

SMG4: Mario is still dumber than a box of rocks. And he definitely wasn't delivered around that time. If I renember right... Mario was delivered more-so around 1998? Cuz he's 26 here. We don't know too much about his childhood though, either. He and Luigi don't talk about it much.

SMG4: He and Princess Peach had dated for a bit, but broke up. Meggy is actually closer to our age. She's just 3 years younger than me and 5 years younger than Mario and Luigi.

SMG4: He's definitely... something... he and Mr. Puzzles have been together for awhile now and they did get married recently too. They definitely have a lot of differences by the look of it too...

SMG3: Why Australia??

SMG4: Hm?

SMG3: Why did you come from Australia??

SMG4: I don't know man. Ask that other me.

#blue strawberry's answers #smg4 #smg4 au #apprenticeship au #smg4 apprenticeship au #smg3

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aussie-the-hedgehog · 11 months

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My gosh the volume 39 cover goes so hard (manga spoilers ahead).

(Image credit goes to Kohei Horikoshi, Shonen Jump, and anyone else involved).

I was really hoping for a solo Ochako cover for this volume, but this is still great.

Shoto, Ochako, and All Might are all wrapping up their arcs in this volume, so it makes sense.

Three things stand out to me - the looks on their faces, the flag behind them, and the color they're wearing.

Ochako has a look of hope on her face. She is desperate to save all she can (including a castoff like Toga) and bring harmony back to the world. All Might looks like an absolute madman like he did at the end of 402. He is ready to end All for One's reign on the world. Shoto has a look of solemnness because of the tragedy of his family. His whole family was abused by his father and caused Touya to go off and do the dastardly deeds he did. All of those stand out so beautifully in this cover.

For the flag, many have been drawing their own interpretations. I found a user on Twitter / X by the name of Caio (Foreverheroics) that pointed out that it seems to be the French flag, but in reverse. You can see the link here.

The French flag's colors represent three different things. Red means "for the people," which Ochako continuously stands for. She is someone who has spoken volumes about the sacredness of human life. She realized that more when she saw Toga suffering underneath her cold exterior. She does all she can to help people. That's all she wants to do as a hero.

Blue symbolizes nobility, which is based on Shoto coming from a rich family. Despite all the wealth in the world, the Todoroki's were a family caught in the patriarch's quest for heroic supremacy.

White is the King that unifies both together. All Might is the Symbol of Peace whose arc (and maybe his life?) is coming to an end. He has long been seen in hero society as the King that saves everyone with a smile. He keeps the world at rest knowing they have him in their corner.

This all segues into my third point. The characters are all wearing green. It characterizes a willingness to never surrender.

Shoto will not relinquish his fight with Touya. He desires his family to be restored to a state they have never seen before. The family has been long marked by suffering and tears, but he is willing to see it now marked by joy and laughter.

Ochako, despite a severe wound to the stomach, will not give up until she helps Toga see the value in herself as a human being. Toga was outcast by her parents and society as being weird for her blood quirk. Ochako sees her as a human just like the rest who needs a loving, supportive friend.

All Might will not stop at anything until his greatest nemesis has met his end. Long has he been plagued by the fact he hasn't been defeated. He wants to do one more act as the Symbol of Peace and restore Japan after much bloodshed and destruction.

An interesting side note - under Ochako is something that looks like Toga's syringes, and under Shoto is an engine that symbolizes Ida.

Not to mention Ochako's boots are so cool!

So much to love from this cover. Hori cooked!

#bnha #bnha manga spoilers #bnha volume 39 #boku no hero acedamia #all might #yagi toshinori #uravity #uraraka ochako #shouto #todoroki shouto #toga himiko #todoroki touya #all for one #shigaraki

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makingspiritualityreal · 1 year

Text

Jupiter Nakshatras - Ready to Die to be Good

This is a strongly repeating, heroic theme, that we can see as a part of evolutionary journey of Jupiterian natives, as they wrestle with their own fate, initially consumed by their own powerful nature.

We first have to distinguish that all Jupiter Nakshatras (Punarvasu, Vishakha, Purva Bhadrapada) come after Rahu, and thus are a direct consequence, a natural following of Rahu.

That process of transformation from Rahu to Jupiter represents a crossing of energy and revitalization. By the time we reach Jupiter, we are reborn, ultimately expressing the energy of what Rahu desired the best, as we approach the mature, self controlled Saturnian stage.

But before we experience rebirth, we must surrender ourselves to death. We must relinquish all the excessiveness and kill the overblown egos we acquired in the previous Rahu stage. We must take ownership of our mistakes and our flawed human nature. And that can be achieved by one decision only, passing a test of choosing death over making yet another mistake, which the Rahu stage was so full of.

This is where the Jupiterian goodness is born. In the feeling of “I would rather die than live lowering myself, being less than I could be”. In readiness to sacrifice everything, just to do the right thing. Of course, it doesn’t always necessarily go as far as a physical death, but the perspective of loss needs to be significant enough to feel like the person is relinquishing their former life. By the time our Jupiter matures and transitions into Saturn, we make these sort of sacrifices habitually, knowing we will always bounce back from them.

Of all the 3 Nakshatras, Purva Bhadrapada endures the most tests and suffers the most due to Saturnian influence. In Punarvasu, the test is about being forced into a Lunar responsiveness to another, or the collective’s needs, being a selfless symbol for the masses as opposed to looking out just for one’s own gain as Mercury would. In Vishakha, the Venus influence creates dependency earlier on in life only for one to transform into paving one’s own path, as more individual blessings come to the Native with time; they gain a wealth of knowledge, resources and influence from a vast circle of people. But in Purva Bhadrapada, Saturn puts an extreme amount of pressure, making the native suffer until they break into choosing righteous death, knowing the blow will be fatal but secretly looking forward to being released. This is perceived by the native as atonement, as often the difficult circumstances pushed down on them are a result of their own past scheming or cowardice (Shatabisha), causing harm that one irresponsibly participated in. This way, they close the karmic cycle, willingly paying the consequences of all their past deeds.

Jupiterian natives, Purva Bhadrapada in its extreme form especially, can live a life of torment until they make peace with having to pay the price for their actions. They can possess all the physical riches yet feel miserable with no escape, until they feel they can give back.

Jupiter is the stage, where a human being transcends being an animal occupied with nothing but its own survival, and earns the possession of a soul.

#astrology #vedic astrology #jyotish #making spirituality real #jupiter #nakshatras #vedic astro observations

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partypoisonzz · 1 year

Text

(yeah, right) he fucking loves me (trey parker x reader nsfw alphabet)

Era: 90s

Content:

- Sub!Trey

- Recreational drug use

- Nobody asked for this as my return lol sorry please still like me anyway

Disclaimer: This explicit story was written by an adult for consumption by other adults only. If you are under 18, please do not read or interact in any way.

Hope you enjoy.

- Pen

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

He gets cuddly, but in a borderline stupid way. He's clingy as fuck, so you're going to be stuck in bed for a while with his face buried in your neck and his arm wrapped around your waist. Even cuter, he gets absolutely giddy, giggling and referring to you by pet names that would totally negate his edgy satirist image if anyone ever heard him. You take the opportunity to play with his hair and dote on him for a bit, knowing that that's not a luxury that you often get without a lighthearted argument or joke being thrown in.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His favorite body part of his own is probably his hair. He's pretty damn vain about it and experiments more than is most likely healthy, especially where bleach is involved. However, he does allow you your own input and the opportunity to assist, which results in his impulsive makeovers being a little less disastrous, — and he let you put pink streaks in it that one time. That was cute.

As for you, he loves your chest. Though this isn't without its perverted reasoning, there's something sweet about the way that he buries his face there when you tease him, as well as how he falls asleep with his head over your heart.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

You had to beg him to come inside of you for months before he finally felt secure enough to do it. You'll never forget the way that he grabbed your hips and held you down the first time, whimpering as you told him what a good boy he was for filling you up.

D = Dirty secret (a dirty secret of theirs)

He bottoms at least once a week, without failure. He's so particular about being in control all the time, so tightly wound. He trusts you to take the reigns when it's time for him to relinquish his grip. In his opinion, there's no better type of break than when you fuck him stupid.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

He knows a good bit, but you've taught him most of it. Luckily for you, he's an eager learner. He doesn't just want to do what's worked before on his past partners, — he wants to please you . He's always happy to take your pointers, and he always makes good on them.

F = Favorite position

Either missionary or when you ride him. As basic as it all is, he just wants to get to look at you, no matter if you're above or below him. He likes to watch your face, and remember that this isn't just some random fling, — it's you, and he loves you more than anything.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous?)

You already know that he's absolutely ridiculous. He's hardly ever serious unless something's wrong. He frequently cracks (often objectively terrible) jokes mid-deed. You don't mind. You appreciate how he's always, — yes, always, — able to make you laugh.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they?)

You know that this man doesn't shave... Unless you ask him to. Then he would do it in a heartbeat, no questions, because, if you haven't gathered by now, you have him totally fucking whipped.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

He's so much sweeter than anyone would ever suspect. His entire brand may be playing the part of a massive jerk, but he's just so tender with you. Even when he's greedy, gripping and clawing at you, he's telling you through broken moans how much he loves you. Plus he can never seem to keep his mouth off you, kissing wherever he can while he's buried deep inside of you.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He's obsessed with phone sex, mostly so you can tell him when he can and can't come, even when you're not physically together. It's so much better when your voice is there to spur him on, and he knows he won't be able to deny himself like you deny him. He loves that you make him stop and wait, as well as the way that you assure him that he's so good, just for you. Hearing you get hot and bothered from listening to him jerk off is also a turn on.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

He has a massive praise kink. Nothing makes him weaker than hearing you call him your good boy. He loves the way that you spoil him, indulging him in ways that he's too shy to ask for. It's both hot and reassuring to hear that he's good for you, but hearing that he's yours does it for him on an entirely different level.

He loves when you're possessive of him. He likes it when you mark him up for this reason. He doesn't care if you leave behind hickeys or scratches, and frankly makes absolutely no effort to cover them when you do. He wants everyone to know that he belongs to you. Hell, you've joked that you could put a collar on him and he wouldn't mind. The fact that he turned bright red rather than arguing told you everything that you needed to know.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Whenever and wherever you can. The bedroom, the shower, the couch, locked rooms at work when Matt leaves to go get food, the backseat of his car. He's a red-blooded young man, and your living situation has not necessarily leant itself well to privacy over the course of your relationship. If you've got a free minute and getting caught is not a certain possibility, he's game.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

To reiterate: he's a guy in his twenties, and he's totally fucking in love with you. Sometimes all you have to do is look at him and he's begging you to find somewhere for the two of you to sneak off to.

He likes when you play with him a bit, deliberately teasing him before telling him that you shouldn't do anything right now. He would happily let you get him riled up over the course of an entire day, reducing him to nothing but a begging mess by the time you finally give him what he wants. He's your plaything, and he fucking loves it.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He's kinky, but some more extreme things freak him the fuck out. He wants you to take control of him, not put him in a position that could fucking kill him if either of you made a wrong move. That being said, weapons are off the table, and choking is a hard maybe.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Well, obviously he likes receiving, because what guy doesn't love a good blowjob? He loves the way that you dig your fingernails into his thighs and look up at him while bobbing your head up and down. It takes everything in him not to come on the spot, of course, but if you've taught him anything that he thought he might never learn, it has definitely been restraint.

But when it comes to giving, you absolutely have him trained. He does exactly what you like, and he's naturally good at it. He loves when you pull his hair and push his face further between your thighs. Going down on you is his main way of serving you. He would absolutely do it all day if he could.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He's fast, but not really rough, — not intentionally, at least. He's just impatient to a fault, which is something that you're trying to break him from. You frequently remind him to slow down and enjoy the moment. When that doesn't work, you edge him until he's reduced to a whimpering mess. Though you love the challenge that comes along with testing his obedience, you take satisfaction in the fact that he's so needy for you and let him go as fast as he wants on occasion. You're always pleasantly surprised when he accidentally gets rough with you. Knowing that he needs you that bad makes you come hard, which he most definitely appreciates.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

For better or for worse, quickies are a regular thing for the two of you. You've grown accustomed to getting each other off quickly at any opportunity. He's certainly not complaining about it, — if anything, it's made him all the more skilled at making you come, — but the times when you can actually enjoy yourselves without worrying about time constraints or somebody walking in are certainly a treat.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He has never experimented as much as he has since he's been with you. For the most part, he is at your mercy, letting you do whatever with him with only a few hard limits.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He has stamina in spades. It all comes down to how needy he is. It doesn't take much for you to get him hard again after he comes, and he's happy to go down on you between rounds. You've been known to make entire afternoons of your escapades, with him either letting you edge him or get him off again and again. Either way, there have been times where you haven't stopped until he got lightheaded and you had to go get him water and lovingly chastise him about stopping while he's ahead.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Toys are another thing that he didn't have any experience with before he met you. Now that he has quote-unquote "incidentally" discovered how much he likes, — ahem, taking it, — you've taken him shopping once or twice. You joke about how new and inexperienced he is while either making him fuck himself in front of you or listening over the phone.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He likes to tease you just for the purpose of being a brat. When it actually comes down to the act, he'll do whatever you want, whenever you want. Still, he's certainly not above playing with you just so you'll turn it around on him and make him fucking cry later on. He's a glutton for punishment, though he'll never verbally admit as much.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He's so fucking loud. Embarrassingly so, even. He goes the whole nine yards, — moans, whimpers, begs, cries for you. Though he always starts out attempting to keep himself under control, that never lasts. By the end of it, his face is always either buried against your skin or in a pillow, and Matt is usually loudly bitching on the other side of the wall, telling him that if he can't quiet the fuck down, he can at least "not sound like a fucking girl."

W = Wild card (a random headcanon)

He can't smoke weed, so you make pot brownies for the two of you whenever you have a weekend to kill together. He barely has any tolerance, so he gets baked out of his mind. Conveniently, when he's high, he can't keep his hands off of you, and everything feels much more intense for the both of you. All of the stoned, giggly sex that ensues makes you fairly certain that your culinary endeavors are beneficial.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

He's a big, tall guy, and the rest of him is proportional to your expectations. (He just about died when you told him he was the biggest you ever had the first time that you slept together.)

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Stupidly high. You like to inform all your friends that he "fucks like the Energizer Bunny." Unless he's sick or super depressed, he'd probably be o-kay with you climbing on top of him and taking what's rightfully yours. The two of you just never seem to get enough of each other.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

If there's nothing else that needs immediate attention, he stays awake just long enough to clean up, curl up against you, and sleepily mumble a series of far-too-sweet sentiments while you rub his back. After that, he's out cold and still holding onto you in his sleep.

#my writing #trey parker x reader

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torreshalstead · 11 months

Text

It Seemed Like a Good Idea - Chapter 21

Summary - Hailey’s US visa was due to expire, which normally wouldn’t be an issue as the CPD would get it renewed but due to a backlog of paperwork, this wasn’t possible. This meant Hailey was faced with the real possibility of having to leave the country, her job and everything she held dear. That was until Jay offered up a solution which would allow her to stay in Chicago, in Intelligence, with him - they could get married. Getting married was a good idea, right?

Chapters - 21/21

Chapter Title - The Honeymoon

Notes - I can’t believe we’ve reached the end of this story. All of your love and support has meant the world and I hope you enjoy this final chapter. Thanks so much for reading ❤️ AO3 Link

‘Are you going to tell me where we’re going?’ Hailey asked after they had been on the road for a little over an hour. Jay just turned and threw one of his signature smirks her way before returning his gaze to the road.

‘Not a fan of surprises?’ He asked, already knowing the answer. His wife, he couldn’t believe he could actually call her that now without any additional pressures being attached to the word, was a planner. She liked to know what was happening and when, and relinquishing control was not something she succumbed to easily. But he also knew; she would love this surprise.

‘Jay,’ she sighed, shaking her head a little but when Jay looked at her out of the corner of his eye, he could see she was smiling. He reached across and took her hand, linking their fingers together and letting them rest on the centre console.

‘We’ve got about two hours left to go,’ he admitted, watching as the cogs started to spin in Hailey’s head as she put together the direction of travel, the familiarity of the route and the arrival time. She was an elite detective after all, putting clues together and coming out with the right answer was her forte.

‘Wait,’ she said, curling up her legs as she spun in her seat to look at him, her eyes wide in excitement. ‘Are we going to your cabin?’

‘We’re going to our cabin,’ he said with a grin. He let out a small chuckle as he heard Hailey’s intake of breath.

‘Our cabin?’ She asked, clearly confused by his choice of words.

‘Well, we are married now, what’s mine is yours and all that,’ he said with a shrug. He had spoken to Will about it already, about adding Hailey’s name to the title and deed of the cabin and he was completely on board. That way, should anything happen to him and/or Will, it would still stay in the family. Because that’s what she was, his family.

‘Jay, you don’t need to-’ she started but Jay cut her off with a gentle squeeze to her hand.

‘The cabin belongs to the Halstead’s,’ he said calmly, ‘and you’re a Halstead now, maybe not in name but you are Hailey. The cabin belongs to you too.’ He chanced another look at her although the traffic on the highway was starting to pick up. ‘It’s the family cabin Hails,’ he added, ‘you’re my family.’

‘Jay,’ she said and Jay didn’t need to look at her to know her eyes would be brimming with tears - he could hear it in the shake of her voice. ‘I love you,’ she whispered quietly after a moment of silence.

‘I love you too, Hailey,’ Jay said, giving her hand another squeeze and turning his full focus back to the road. ‘You can rest your eyes if you want, I’ll wake you up when we get there.’

——————————————————————————

It felt weird being back at the cabin with Hailey again, but the good kind of weird, the kind where you feel it in the depths of your stomach and it makes you want to grin at everything. She was still dozing in the passenger seat, the grip on his hand loose but their fingers still linked together. Since they had finally come to their senses and admitted how they felt about each other, the need to be touching each other, even just the smallest of touches, had increased exponentially. If Jay could spend every hour of every day just holding his wife in some shape or form, he’d be a happy man.

Still, the last time they had been here it had all been an act. At least on the outside. He had known even then, that his feelings for her were not just platonic - hell he’d never brought a girl to the cabin, friend or relationship. But he wanted to share it with her. Wanted her to know a bit more about him, where he came from and wanted her to experience a place that meant so much to him. Because she meant so much to him. Even if she didn’t know it yet.

But now, being back here and getting to kiss her on the dock, wrap his arms around her as they snuggled in front of the fire and tell her he loved her as often as he felt it. It was going to be perfect.

Glancing back over at the peaceful form of the blonde haired love of his life, he debated waking her up or pulling the cheesy move of carrying her into the cabin. He decided to unload the trunk first and if she was still asleep then he would make the call.

He hadn’t packed them too much. Unfortunately their time at the cabin was limited to two days as that was all the time off he could get approved and as happy as he was to spend the entire time naked, he wanted to show Hailey all the wonders the lake fronted cabin had to offer, and that would involve them being dressed for at least a portion of the time.

He’d also packed a limited supply of groceries - the nearest restaurant didn’t deliver and some of his mothers recipe books were still tucked in one of the kitchen cabinets and he intended to wow Hailey with a couple of them. He knew he didn’t need to impress her anymore but he also wanted to spoil her, treat her like she deserved to be treated and they always say a way to a girl's heart is through her stomach. He wasn’t sure that was anatomically correct but still, his mothers chicken pot pie recipe was calling his name.

With everything unloaded and put away, he was back with his original dilemma. To carry his sleeping wife into the house and risk her potential wrath for him being too old fashioned or wake her up and risk her grumpiness at being pulled from her slumber too soon. They hadn’t slept much the past couple of days, had been far too occupied getting to know each other on a different level so her needing to recoup some energy wasn’t too unusual. And she looked so peaceful asleep, like whatever weight she had been carrying that day had completely evaporated.

His mind was made up. He softly opened the passenger door, unclipping the seatbelt and sliding his arms underneath her, pulling her against his chest and kicking the door closed. She shifted a little in his arms but Jay just smiled as she buried her face into his neck. It seemed to be one of her favourite positions, her face tucked tightly into the space between his head and his shoulder, her breath tickling his neck. It was adorable the way she buried in deeply, like she didn’t want to be apart from him. Jay’s only complaint - when her face was tucked in like so, he couldn’t reach it to kiss it. And kissing her had become his new favourite hobby - something he was sure he would never get sick of.

Walking slowly toward the cabin, trying not to jostle her too much he let his mind wander. If you’d have asked him just a couple of months ago if he thought they would ever have ended up here, as much as it would have pained him, he would have said no. No matter how much he loved her and had hoped with every single fibre of his being that she could possibly feel the same way, he had never let himself really believe that. It felt like too much of a happy ending, and it was just out of reach.

‘Are you carrying me over the threshold?’ A soft voice broke through his thoughts and he let out a little chuckle. He hadn’t even thought about it like that, had just wanted her to get a little more sleep if she needed it.

‘Go back to sleep,’ he chuckled, continuing up the steps into the cabin.

‘You’re such a fool,’ she sighed but he felt her snuggle just a fraction closer to his chest.

‘And you love me despite my flaws,’ he smirked, making his way over to the couch. But when he tried to set Hailey down and pull his arms out from under her, her fingers gripped tightly to his shirt and wouldn’t let him go.

‘Stay with me,’ she murmured. He couldn’t say no to her. So the next couple of hours were spent napping on the couch, Hailey using his chest as a pillow, his arms tight around her and their legs tangled together. It was what he had never daren’t to let himself imagine - it was perfect.

——————————————————————————

‘I promise I won’t let you fall in,’ Jay said, offering Hailey his hand as he stood in the wooden row boat. The boat was already moving a little too much for Hailey’s liking so her feet were glued to the dock as she shook her head ferociously.

‘You can’t promise that,’ she said, crossing her arms over the unattractive buoyancy aid that she had rescued from the outside storage unit next to the dock. She wasn’t sure it had been worn in the last 10 years but she wasn’t going to risk getting into the boat without it. She knew how to swim but getting caught in the middle of the lake which looked freezing for want of a better word, did not sound like a fun way to spend their honeymoon.

‘I promise if you fall in, I’ll rescue you,’ Jay offered, wiggling his fingers at her with a smile. ‘Pretty sure if I let my wife die on our honeymoon, people might ask questions.’ He chuckled and Hailey couldn’t help but giggle.

She knew she was being stupid, she could swim, it was only a small lake and she had Jay. She trusted him with her life at work day after day, she could do this right?

‘Okay,’ she said tentatively, taking a small step towards the edge of the dock. ‘But if we end up in the water, you’re going to have to warm me up later!’

‘That was already on my list Hails,’ he said, his boyish grin firmly on his cheeks. ‘Come on, I’ve got you.’

‘Okay,’ she repeated, another small step brought her right to the edge, her toes hanging off the dock. One small step would put her in the boat next to Jay. On the water. In a boat.

‘Hailey,’ Jay said, raising an eyebrow. ‘Have you always had a fear of boats?’

‘It’s not the boat that’s the problem,’ she said frowning, trying to get her feet to move just a fraction more but it was like they were made of granite, heavy and unmoveable. ‘It’s the potential of drowning.’ She heard Jay laugh and turned her frown on him. ‘Do not laugh at me Jay Halstead!’

He raised both his hands apologetically. ‘I’m not laughing at you Hails, just shocked that I didn’t know.’

‘Well, I joined the police academy not the boat academy,’ she said through gritted teeth. Why wouldn’t her feet just move damn it!

‘The boat academy?’ Jay scoffed.

‘Jay will you just pick me up and put me in the damn boat,’ she groaned.

‘Are you sure?’ He asked, his jovial tone vanishing from his voice and Hailey knew why. He would never force her to do anything she didn’t want to do, and she loved him for it. But this was just in her head. She wanted to row out into the middle of the lake with Jay.

She’d never admit it to anyone unless under the influence of a good number of whiskeys but she loved the Notebook and the scene with the rowboat had always been one of her favourites. And call her a hopeless romantic but a boat ride with her husband on an empty lake - well it was more romance than she thought she’d ever experience.

‘Positive,’ Hailey said, nodding her head. ‘Once I’m in I’ll be fine,’ she said, trying to assure both him and herself.

‘Okay,’ he said, climbing back onto the dock. He dropped a kiss to her lips which she let herself get lost in for just a moment before his hands came up underneath her armpits and lifted her up as if she weighed little more than a bag of flour and dropped her gently into the waiting boat.

Hailey froze, the boat rocked with her movements so her logical brain told her if she remained totally still, so would the boat.

‘Hails, sit down,’ Jay said gently, pointing at the empty bench. ‘It’ll rock less if you’re sat, I promise.’

She breathed out and slowly bent her knees until her butt met the wooden bench beneath her. Jay had been right, seated the boat felt like it was a lot more stable.

‘I’m coming in now too,’ Jay said, climbing back into the boat and unlooping the rope from the cleat, pushing off against the dock and letting them drift towards the middle of the lake.

As much as she had been apprehensive about the boat initially, sitting there with Jay gently rowing, the only sound was the water against the oars and the birds from the tree line, it was so peaceful. The view she had of Jay’s toned arms as he dragged the oars through the water was also not one to scoff at. She had initially scolded herself for ogling him until she remembered that he was her husband and if that didn’t grant her permission to appreciate the body that he worked so hard to maintain - what did?

She let herself relax more as they continued their journey with no destination, the enjoyment of each other’s company and the fresh Wisconsin air their only companion. She loved Chicago, the bustle of the city was programmed into her bones, but getting to take a step back, step away from the noises and the continued busyness, well it was like a reset button for her soul.

Hailey didn’t know how many favours Jay had to call in to get them both assigned to two days off consecutively and together, and if he had told her what he was planning she probably would have said it wasn’t worth it, that they had already been married for months and a honeymoon seemed like a foolish idea. But she was so glad he hadn’t. After the chaos of the last few months, this was exactly what they needed. Peace and Quiet. Together.

——————————————————————————

‘This is perfect,’ Hailey said as she sipped on her mug of hot chocolate, the marshmallows bobbing around in the steaming liquid. Her legs were thrown over Jay’s and the blanket tucked around them both as they shared a single Adirondack chair that Jay had dragged down to the water's edge. ‘The stars are so bright out here,’ she said as she let her head fall back to take in the view of the night sky.

‘It’s the one thing I miss when I’m in the city,’ Jay said honestly, his fingers were drawing patterns on Hailey’s thigh, she could feel the warmth even through her leggings.

‘I can see why you like it up here,’ Hailey admitted.

‘I like it better with you,’ he said and Hailey could hear the smile in his voice.

‘Thank you for sharing it with me,’ she said, taking another sip of her drink, letting the warmth of the liquid heat her from the inside out. She thought back to the day they had had and couldn’t remember a time she had felt quite so happy and so free.

After Jay had successfully navigated the lake and brought her safely back to shore, he offered to take her on a walk to show her the rest of the lake but Hailey had had other ideas and had tugged him into the house by the collar of his shirt. It wasn’t the sex by the fireplace that Hailey had planned for later, she hadn’t had the time or the forethought to build a fire before disrobing Jay of his clothes, her own had been divested before they had even made it halfway up the stairs.

Once her legs had stopped their shaking thanks to the skills that she had been unaware that her husband had possessed until very recently, more fool her, they made their way downstairs and had pottered around the kitchen making dinner together. Jay had wanted to make her dinner but she had insisted on helping, which really meant sitting on the counter and reading out the instructions from his mothers handwritten recipe book. It also gave her the perfect position to be able to capture Jay with her legs every time he tried to reach into the cabinets behind her.

‘Why didn’t you bring this back to the city?’ Hailey asked after one such capture, gesturing to the book open next to her.

‘Mom always loved it up here,’ Jay said with a little shrug, tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear, ‘seemed right to leave a piece of her up here.’

Hailey smiled softly, pecking him on the lips before letting her legs fall back down again letting him continue with his cooking.

They had eaten the perfectly prepared pot pie before Jay offered a hot chocolate for dessert and suggested they drink it by the water. It had been the most perfect day.

‘Thank you,’ Hailey whispered quietly. The night was silent apart from the sounds of the water meeting the shore and their own breathing so there was no doubt Jay had heard her words, but he stayed quiet.

Hailey knew he knew what she was thanking him for, it was the same thing he had told her all those months ago not to. But she meant it as something more this time, thank you for marrying me but thank you for trusting me enough with your heart as well. They were both guarded people, people who somewhere deep inside themselves weren’t completely believing of the fact they were deserving of love. But they were. And Hailey knew they both realised it now. They had just needed a little pushing.

She made a mental note to send Will a big thank you card when they got back to the city.

——————————————————————————

‘Come on Hails,’ Jay said loudly as he ran ahead of her, his laughter echoing back through the trees.

‘I’ve only got little legs!’ She yelled back. It was only partly true, she was shorter than him by at least a foot but in a flat out running race on regular terrain she would smoke him. However this was anything but.

They had been halfway round the lake, about a mile and a half from the cabin when the heavens had opened. It hadn’t been on the forecast so they were not prepared and were currently legging it back to get out of the rain. They were already soaked to the bone and Hailey was certain at this point there wasn’t a single part of her that was dry. She was also at a significant disadvantage - Jay knew this trail like the back of his hand whereas she was having to watch her feet to avoid every root and stray log that crossed the path.

But still she was laughing. Normally she would hate to have been caught out in a situation like this, highly unprepared splashing through puddles and mud in nothing more than her running sneakers, her hair plastered to her head and the rain soaking her socks. But Jay was hooting and hollering in front of her, betting that whoever got into the house first got the prime spot in front of the fire and first dibs on the shower.

She knew her husband well though and knew that there would only be one shower happening and they would find a perfectly good way to warm each other up.

‘I’ll make you a hot chocolate if you beat me,’ he yelled from his position a couple of paces in front of her.

‘You’ll make me one anyway,’ she yelled back, but as she jumped over a broken tree trunk, her feet slipped on the wet mud and she came crashing down to the ground with a loud thud.

‘Hailey!’ Jay yelled, spinning around and racing to her side. He pushed her hair out of her face, the worry etched across his cheeks but was met with Hailey laughing.

‘I’m fine,’ she chuckled. ‘Just a little bit muddy,’ she shrugged before reaching up with one muddy hand and cradling Jay’s cheek. ‘Anyone ever tell you Halstead, you’ve got such pretty eyes.’

Jay’s eyes widened in sudden realisation as Hailey proceeded to smear the mud across his cheek, laughing as she did so. ‘Upton, you’re going to get it now,’ he said, his brows furrowing in mock anger.

‘Well I hope so,’ Hailey winked before dramatically holding out her hand, ‘you going to help your wife up Halstead, or just leave me in this puddle.’

‘I’m debating leaving you,’ Jay growled before taking her hand and pulling her to her feet.

If she hadn’t been muddy before, she was covered now, head to toe.

‘You’d never leave me,’ Hailey said, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him close, not caring that she was rubbing the mud all over him as well.

‘Never,’ he said, clearly not minding either as he leant down and kissed her softly. ‘But I’ll still beat you back,’ he said, grinning and turning round to continue his way back down the path, only to be tripped by a wayward root and land in his own muddy puddle.

Hailey bent double with laughter, the real deep kind of laughter that bubbles up from your stomach and your whole body shakes.

‘That’s it,’ Jay said, reaching up to grab her hand and tug her down into the mud beside him, which she landed in with a wet thump.

‘Well you always said where I go you go,’ Hailey smirked and sealed her lips to his, the rain and mud long forgotten, her husband’s lips her only thought.

——————————————————————————

A few hours later, they are wrapped around each other in front of the roaring fire, the blankets from the coach acting as both cushion and cover, but neither Hailey or Jay were paying much attention to the hardwood floor underneath them. Their focus was on each other and nothing else.

Hailey folded an arm over Jay’s shoulder and used it to prop herself up so she could look at him, her other hand trailing across his bare chest, absentmindedly connecting the freckles she had already memorised.

‘What time do we have to leave?’ She asked softly, her voice the only noise apart from the crackling in the fireplace.

‘In an hour,’ Jay said reluctantly. They had both avoided talking about leaving from the second they had arrived, but they knew it was coming. They had to be back in the bullpen at 8am tomorrow so needed to drive back tonight to get some sleep, theirs was not a job one should do without at least a few hours of rest.

Hailey hummed in response, she didn’t want to leave. She had never felt as carefree and content as she did at the cabin, with Jay.

‘But we can stay right here until we need to leave,’ Jay said, clearly sensing her apprehension. ‘I’ve already packed the truck.’

‘I knew there was a reason I married you,’ Hailey muttered, dropping a gentle kiss to his lips.

‘There was,’ Jay said when she pulled back, ‘a visa.’ He smirked and Hailey grinned.

‘That’s true,’ she chuckled. She was glad they could laugh about it, she had been worried initially that it might have been awkward, but it hadn’t been. It was their story.

Sure it wasn’t the most normal of roads that relationships took, but it was theirs and Hailey didn’t think she’d change a single moment of it. Because that crazy road, with all its twists and turns, had led her right here. To this moment in time.

To Jay.

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