#shimmers-among-silk

[tacticiankate]

beginning the process of updating my art stuff here in the event that twitter eats itself and we all lose access to it lol

featured here is shimmers-among-silk, my changing moon lunar exalt for an exalted game i’m playing in

[unboundprompts]

hi!! i was wondering if you could do something that was similar to ‘how to describe hair colors’? kinda like how you did the eye color one? it’s alright if you can’t but thank you in advance either way :)) 💕

Different Ways to Describe Hair Colors

-> feel free to edit and adjust pronouns as you see fit.

Blonde Hair Descriptions:

She had hair like the sand on the beach, and it reminded him of home. Of long summer days and the music his dad used to play for him.

His hair was like sunlight spun into silk.

Their hair reminded her of fields kissed by morning sun, or the gentle glow of a candle's flame in the evening.

Brown Hair Descriptions:

Her hair was a tapestry woven with earth's hues.

His brown hair resembled the deep, mysterious tones of a forest at twilight, where shadows play among the trees.

As the light touches it, their brown hair shimmers with hints of copper or amber, reminiscent of autumn leaves ablaze in the sun's last rays.

Black Hair Descriptions:

Her black hair was like a midnight veil, absorbing light and drawing you into its depths.

His hair was like a night sky adorned with stars.

Their hair shimmers like a raven's wing, catching glints of iridescence.

Red Hair Descriptions:

Each strand of her hair is a brushstroke of copper, auburn, and gold, intertwining to create a vibrant mosaic that captures the essence of a sunlit forest in fall.

His red hair evoked the warmth of a crackling hearth on a winter's eve.

Their hair flows like molten copper, radiant and alive with energy.

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[vampirestookmydoubts]

Hi, I loved loved loved your Bridgerton sis imagine, I love the bond she has with Benedict!! Could you write something about her falling in love with Prince Friedrich and some sisterly rivalry because Daphne is trying to make Simon jealous with him? Thank you!!

A Prince's Heart

A/N: thank you for the request, absolutely loved it! Hoping to write more like this in the future. Hope you enjoy! <3

Characters: bridgerton!sister x Prince Friedrich, Benedict Bridgerton, Daphne Bridgerton

Word count: 2184

Warnings: non

The ballroom in front of you was a shimmering sea of silks and satins, the opulence of the evening mirrored in every glittering crystal chandelier. The scent of roses and delicate perfumes filled the air, merged with the sound of laughter and the orchestra playing an upbeat song. Your heart fluttered as you stood near the entrance, trying to steady your nervous breath. This was a grand occasion for many, one that could change the course of many young women’s lives, including your own.

Your eyes scanned the room, catching sight of your siblings scattered about. Anthony was deep in conversation with Lady Danbury, while Colin and Eloise appeared to be in the midst of a lively debate. But it was Benedict who caught your eye, his warm smile offering a sense of calm in the bustling room. Your elder brother had always been your confidant, your anchor in the unpredictable sea of social expectations thrown at the both of you.

"Y/N," Benedict called, making his way toward you, linking your arm with his and starting to parade you around the room. "Are you enjoying the evening, dear sister?"

"As much as one can in these circumstances," you replied, a hint of mischief in your tone. He chuckled, his eyes twinkling. "Well, if anyone can find joy in such an event, it would be you."

Before you could respond, the room suddenly fell silent except for a few whispers and murmurs, and your attention was drawn to the grand staircase. There he was, the grand guest of the evening, Prince Friedrich, descending the stairs with an air of regal grace. Your breath caught in your throat.

The prince was a vision to see, his presence inevitably commanding the attention of everyone in the room. Your eyes met as he gazed upon the ton, and for a moment, it felt as though the world around you had disappeared.

The first time you had met the prince he was introduced to your sister Daphne, as she was the diamond of the season and you just happened to be with her and your mother, so you were greeted, too.

Despite what a lot of the Mama’s and their daughters thought, the prince wasn’t just all looks and riches. He was witty and intelligent and had the ability to make the people around him laugh sincerely and with ease. The way he included you into the conversation and not only asked about Daphne’s interests, but also about yours, never felt forced or just him being polite.

It felt like he had a sincere interest in getting to know you.

"Y/N, isn't he magnificent?” You were violently jolted back to reality by the excited voice of Daphne.

"Indeed," you replied cautiously, fixing your posture. "He is quite remarkable."

Daphne’s eyes sparkled with a hint of something more—determination, perhaps. “He certainly is. It’s no wonder the Queen is so fond of him. He would make a wonderful match for any young lady this season.”

You nodded, sensing the underlying tension in her words. “Indeed. He is quite the catch.”

Daphne’s smile widened, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You know, he is interested in finding a suitable match, and as we were just presented this season and introduced to him, it is only natural for us to be among his considerations.”

You met her gaze, recognizing the competitive edge in her tone. “Of course, Daphne. But I think he is looking for more than just suitability. He seeks a genuine connection.”

“Which is why it is important to make a strong impression,” Daphne replied, her tone sharpening slightly at your underlying accusation. “He must see who is the best match for him.”

You felt a pang of frustration, not just at her words, but at the realization that she would use the prince to make Simon jealous. “Daphne, I understand your desire to capture his attention, but is it truly fair towards him… and Simon?”

She raised an eyebrow, her expression cool and composed. “Maybe I do care for the prince sincerely. I intend to make him mine, you know.” She straightened her posture. “Also, Simon has been most infuriating lately, and I believe a bit of jealousy might do him some good." Your heart sank. Of course, Daphne would use the prince to make the Duke of Hastings jealous. It was a clever plan, one that would undoubtedly succeed.

You sighed, trying to keep your voice steady. “I know you, Daphne. I know how much you care for Simon. But Friedrich deserves honesty, not to be a pawn in your game.”

Daphne’s eyes softened, but her resolve remained. “So what about you, Y/N? What are your intentions with the prince?”

You took a deep breath, meeting her gaze with determination. “I think I feel a connection with him that I cannot ignore, Daphne.”

For a moment, silence hung between you, the weight of unspoken words and sisterly rivalry heavy in the air. Then, Daphne’s expression softened slightly, a hint of understanding in her eyes. “I see. Perhaps we both have more at stake than we realize.”

As you watched your sister move toward the prince, clasping her giant feathery fan, a pang of something you couldn't quite identify surged within you. Was it envy? Regret? Or something deeper?

"Are you all right?" Benedict's concerned voice broke through your thoughts. You nodded, though your heart felt heavy. "Just thinking."

"About Prince Friedrich, perhaps?" he teased gently, nudging you softly. You met his gaze, your eyes betraying the turmoil within. "Perhaps."

Benedict's expression softened. "You have always been honest with yourself, Y/N. If you think you like him, you must not let Daphne's games deter you."

You sighed slightly, your eyes following Daphne as she easily engaged the prince in conversation, fanning her feather fan lowly to draw his attention to her cleavage.

"It's not that simple, Ben. Daphne has always been the one to capture attention. And now, with her being the diamond of the season and her mind set on Prince Friedrich..."

"I don’t know about Daphne’s motives, but I can sense you have genuine feelings for the prince. You should listen to your heart and not be content with living in your sisters shadow." Benedict interrupted your self-pity. “You deserve happiness, too.”

His words resonated with you, filling you with a resolve you hadn't realized you possessed. Perhaps Benedict was right. Perhaps you owed it to yourself to not let Daphne use him for her scheme and to see if this connection with Prince Friedrich was more than just your imagination and if there was something, where it might lead.

As the evening wore on, you found yourself following the prince with your eyes, waiting for a moment where he wasn’t engaged in some conversation. Just as you were about to give up your mission, Fortuna settled the matter and your paths crossed near the refreshment table.

"Miss Bridgerton," he greeted, his soft voice sending shivers down your spine, making you spin around.

"Your Highness," you replied quickly, offering a curtsy. "I trust you are enjoying the evening?"

"I am now," he said, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your heart race. "Might I have the pleasure of engaging you in a dance?"

You hesitated suddenly, glancing over to see Daphne watching you both with a keen interest. But then your gaze shifted to Benedict, silently rooting for you, and you knew what you had to do, despite your anxiety and racing thoughts.

"It would be my honor, Your Highness," you said, placing your hand in the one he held out for you.

The ballroom's splendid grandeur faded as Prince Friedrich escorted you to the dance floor. His hold on your hand and waist was warm and steady, his presence both calming and exhilarating at the same time. The small orchestra began a waltz, and you started to move in unison, the world around you narrowing to just the two of you.

"Miss Bridgerton," he began, his voice soft yet clear over the music, "I must confess, I have been eager to speak with you all evening."

You looked up into his eyes, surprised by the sincerity in his gaze. "And I, Your Highness, have been equally curious about you."

"Please," he said with a charming smile, "call me Friedrich."

"Friedrich," you repeated in a whisper, the name feeling both foreign and wonderfully familiar on your lips. "It's a beautiful name."

"Thank you, Y/N," he replied, his eyes never leaving yours. "Tell me, do you enjoy these grand events?" You hesitated, considering your answer. "I do, to an extent. They are lovely, but I sometimes feel lost among the crowds and the expectations the ton has."

He nodded, understanding evident in his expression. "I understand. These gatherings can be quite overwhelming. It is rare to find genuine connection amidst all the pomp and circumstance."

"Indeed," you agreed, feeling a growing ease in his company. "But I find solace in the familiar faces of my family. My brother Benedict, in particular, always knows how to bring a smile to my face."

"Family is a great comfort," Friedrich said thoughtfully. "I admire the close bond your family shares. It is something I have longed for."

Your heart softened at his words, seeing a vulnerability in him that was surely hidden behind his princely façade most of the time. "You are always welcome among us, Friedrich. We Bridgertons have a habit of adopting those we care about."

He chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. "That is a generous offer, Y/N. I may take you up on that."

As the music swirled around you, the conversation grew more personal, the connection between you deepening with each passing moment. But you also became acutely aware of Daphne watching from the sidelines, her expression unreadable. You knew she had her own motives, her own desires, but in this moment, they seemed distant, overshadowed by the prince's presence.

"May I ask, Friedrich, how do you like London?" you inquired.

"It feels like a mix of duty and desire," he admitted. "I didn’t time to see much of London, to be honest. As you know, my aunt, the Queen, believes it is time I find a suitable match. But I was hoping to find someone with whom I can share more than just royal obligations."

You felt a flutter in your chest at his words and mustered up your strength to ask further. "And have you had any luck in the search so far?"

His eyes bore into yours, filled with an intensity that made you catch your breath. "Perhaps," he said softly. "There is indeed someone who has captured my attention."

Your cheeks flushed under his gaze, hope blossoming in your heart. "And, if I may ask, what is it that you seek in a potential partner, Friedrich?"

"Someone genuine, kind, and unafraid to be themselves," he said, his voice earnest. "Someone like you, Y/N." The admission left you momentarily speechless, your heart racing and head spinning.

"I have to admit you seem different from the others," Friedrich said, his tone contemplative. "There is a sincerity about you that is rare to find these days."

You smiled, feeling a warmth spread through you. "I could say the same about you, Friedrich. You are not what I expected."

He cocked his head in confusion. "And what did you expect?"

You paused, searching for the right words. "Someone distant, untouchable. But you... you are kind, genuine."

Friedrich's gaze softened, and he took a step closer. "It takes courage to be yourself in a world that often demands otherwise."

Your breath hitched as he reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair from your face. "To be honest I find myself drawn to you in ways I cannot explain," he confessed.

Your heart soared at his words, the honesty in his eyes mirroring your own feelings. "I… feel the same, Friedrich."

The moment was charged with unspoken emotion, a promise of something deeper, something real. The music swelled, and as the final notes played, Friedrich led you to the edge of the dance floor. He didn't release your hand immediately, his thumb brushing lightly against your knuckles.

"I would very much like to see you again, Y/N," he said, his eyes searching yours.

You smiled, feeling a sense of hope and excitement you hadn't felt in a long time. "I would like that too, Friedrich." The prince smiled contently, offering you a polite bow as he handed you over to Benedict, who nodded at Friedrich in response.

You curtsied as a goodbye and when you came up again, you were greeted by Benedict’s raised eyebrow and a knowing smile playing on his lips. “Friedrich, hm.”, Benedict mocked you in a loving way. You felt your cheeks flush, but returned his smile, feeling a newfound sense of confidence and purpose.

The night had brought unexpected revelations and the promise of new beginnings. As you watched Prince Friedrich mingle with the guests, you knew that whatever challenges lay ahead, you were ready to face them. For now, you had hope, and perhaps something more—a chance at love.

[herlondonboy]

pretty when you cry, clarisse la rue

summary: based on this post by @kitten-reader

warnings: aphrodite’s kids are pricks lol, erm it’s really bad…

wc: 2.8k

your hair was something that you prided yourself on.

it was no doubt that you were beautiful beyond comparison to your fellow demigods, what with being the daughter of aphrodite. people couldn’t even compare you to your godly siblings.

you believed that your hair was the reason that your beauty was so great, so you natural worked hard on it.

in the world of olympians, you found solace and pride in the strands of hair that cascaded down your shoulders like a cascade of silk. your hair, a manifestation of your divine heritage, was more than just a physical attribute— it was a symbol of your identity and a testament to the grace and allure that came with being the offspring of the goddess of love.

from the moment you discovered your parentage, you embraced the inherent charm that ran through your veins, and it manifested prominently in your hair. unlike the messy, unpredictable tresses of some demigods, yours seemed to have a life of its own, obeying your whims and desires with a luxurious sheen that captivated those around you.

the secret, as you often shared with your fellow campers at camp half-blood, lay in the meticulous care you bestowed upon your locks. your morning routine became a sacred ritual— a blend of enchanted hair care products and divine techniques passed down through generations of aphrodite's children. a symphony of sweet-scented potions and ethereal brushes transformed the routine into a dance of beauty, each stroke accentuating the natural glamour that radiated from your hair.

you revelled in the attention your hair garnered, the way it shimmered under the sunlight as if kissed by the gods themselves. it became a beacon of confidence, a tangible manifestation of your divine heritage that set you apart from the sea of demigods at the camp. the other campers often marvelled at your ability to maintain such perfection, unaware of the divine secrets woven into every strand.

however, your relationship with your hair wasn't purely superficial. it served as a connection to your mother, a link to the goddess whose legacy you carried. the act of caring for it became a ritual that grounded you, a reminder of the divine blood that coursed through your veins and the responsibilities that came with it.

not unbeknownst to you, the envy and resentment simmered beneath the surface of the camp. the adoration and attention that accompanied your divine beauty fuelled the flames of jealousy among your fellow aphrodite siblings. little did you realise, being the favourite child of the goddess of love came at a cost, and that cost was the disdain of your own kin.

as you moved through the camp with the grace of a deity, your radiant hair attracting attention like a beacon, you, though aware of the hostile whispers that followed in your wake, chose to ignore. the other children of aphrodite, who were accustomed to being the centre of attention, couldn't fathom the idea of sharing the spotlight with someone they perceived as the golden child.

the jealousy manifested in subtle acts of exclusion and passive-aggressive remarks. your attempts to connect with your half-siblings often met with cold shoulders and thinly veiled animosity. the communal vanity table, where aphrodite's children traditionally gathered, became a battlefield of unspoken rivalry as they vied for the elusive title of the most captivating demigod.

yet, you, in your innocence, continued to extend kindness and friendship to those around you, oblivious to the resentment building in the hearts of your fellow campers. the intricate braids and enchanting hairstyles you generously offered to create for others only fuelled their frustration, as they struggled to reconcile the warmth of your gestures with the envy burning within them.

within the intricate dynamics of camp half-blood, one particular relationship defied expectations and unfolded with a complexity that left others bewildered. clarisse la rue, known for her brusque demeanour and a reputation that preceded her, stood as an unexpected confidante in your life. despite her gruff exterior and the scathing remarks she directed towards most campers, clarisse treated you with an unusual gentleness, and a unique bond formed between you two.

it all began during a chance encounter near the armoury, where clarisse, with her characteristic scowl, found herself inexplicably drawn to you. to the surprise of everyone witnessing the scene, her rough hands delicately traced the contours of your locks, as if handling a precious artefact. the camp's collective gasp echoed through the air, and it was then that an unspoken connection began to weave itself between you and the formidable daughter of ares.

clarisse, who seldom allowed others into her personal space, not only tolerated but seemed to relish the moments spent running her fingers through your hair. your shared interactions defied the logic of the camp's social hierarchy, leaving fellow demigods perplexed and intrigued by the peculiar alliance that had blossomed between you two.

as your friendship with clarisse deepened, it became apparent that her seemingly abrasive exterior masked a vulnerability that few had the privilege to witness. she confided in you about the weight of expectations placed upon her shoulders as the daughter of ares, the god of war. your hair, with its calming allure, became an unexpected refuge for her, a sanctuary where she could momentarily escape the demands of her tumultuous life.

in the quiet moments shared between you and clarisse, amidst the backdrop of a camp constantly on guard against mythical threats, an unexpected emotion began to stir— love. the kind of love that transcended the lines drawn by parentage and reputations. it was a love born out of understanding, acceptance, and the shared vulnerability that only the tumultuous world of demigods could evoke.

the camp, initially taken aback by the unlikely friendship, eventually came to accept the profound connection that had blossomed between you and clarisse. the daughter of ares, who once stood as an enigma wrapped in hostility, softened in the presence of your divine beauty and the solace found within the cascade of your hair.

as your feelings for each other deepened, the two of you navigated the complexities of love in a world fraught with danger. clarisse's protective instincts, honed on the battlefield, as well as in camp. together, you became an unlikely force, a symbol of love's ability to bridge even the most unexpected divides.

there was a time when a group of your own siblings, fuelled by jealousy and resentment, conspired to disrupt the tranquil rhythm of your bonds with your mother and girlfriend. one day, your prized possession, a hairbrush gifted by your mother, disappeared from its usual place. panic set in as you scoured the cabin, realising that this wasn't just a casual prank— someone had deliberately taken something sacred to you.

as whispers of the stolen hairbrush circulated through the cabin, the undercurrents of jealousy among your siblings bubbled to the surface. the mischievous culprits revelled in their act of sabotage, convinced that stripping you of this cherished item would somehow diminish the radiance that surrounded you.

it didn't take long for clarisse to sense your distress. the unspoken bond between you two had woven itself into a tapestry of mutual understanding, and she recognised the significance of the pilfered hairbrush. determined to right the wrong, clarisse took it upon herself to investigate the matter.

she confronted your siblings with an intensity that left them quaking in their sandals. her stern gaze bore into their guilt-ridden souls, extracting the truth like a seasoned interrogator. clarisse's usually thunderous voice carried a solemn edge as she demanded the return of the stolen hairbrush and an apology befitting the gravity of their actions.

unbeknownst to the misguided thieves, clarisse's reputation for ferocity on the battlefield extended to her protective instincts off it. the very fear she instilled in her enemies on the front lines was now directed at those who dared to threaten the tranquility of your connection.

under the weight of clarisse's unwavering determination, the guilty siblings caved. they returned the stolen hairbrush with bowed heads, offering apologies that bordered on genuine remorse. clarisse, satisfied with the swift resolution, ensured that justice prevailed, safeguarding the sanctity of the connection between you and the divine gift bestowed upon you by aphrodite.

as the stolen hairbrush was returned to its rightful place, the bond between you and clarisse strengthened. the trials you faced together only deepened the roots of your connection, intertwining your destinies in a tale of love, loyalty, and the unyielding power of shared vulnerability. in the heart of camp half-blood, where demigods navigated the tumultuous waters of existence, your story became a testament to the resilience of love against the currents of jealousy and deceit.

-

the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a fiery glow over camp half-blood, as clarisse la rue realised she hadn't seen you all day. a sense of unease settled in her chest, an unfamiliar concern that compelled her to seek you out. with each passing moment, her worry deepened, driven by a gut feeling that something was amiss.

clarisse traversed the familiar paths of the camp, her eyes scanning the bustling activity for a glimpse of your familiar figure. the ares cabin loomed in the distance, and a knot tightened in her stomach as she approached, not spotting you among the demigods sparring and training.

finally reaching the ares cabin, clarisse's unease morphed into genuine concern. where were you? why hadn't she seen you all day? the questions echoed in her mind, and she briskly entered the cabin, determined to uncover the mystery behind your absence.

there, in the dimly lit interior, she found you sitting on the edge of her bunk, your figure shrouded by a hood and a hat pulled low over your tearful eyes. the sight sent a ripple of worry through clarisse, and she rushed to your side, her gruff demeanour momentarily replaced by a genuine sense of care.

"hey, what happened?" clarisse asked, her voice softer than usual as she placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder. your tear-streaked face turned towards her, and the anguish in your eyes tugged at her heart.

"they took it away," you whispered, your voice choked with emotion. you repeated the words, a mantra of despair, and clarisse struggled to comprehend the source of your pain. "they took it away."

clarisse's brow furrowed, her eyes searching yours for an explanation. "took what away? what happened?"

with trembling hands, you reached up and pulled off the hood, revealing a mess of uneven strands that once cascaded in silky splendour. clarisse's eyes widened in realisation, her hand instinctively reaching to touch the shortened locks. the betrayal etched on your face told the story before you uttered a single word.

"they cut it," you sobbed, burying your face in clarisse's shoulder. "they cut it, clarisse. look at it, it's gone. all gone."

comprehension dawned on clarisse as she gently ran her fingers through the uneven strands. anger surged within her, a protective instinct for the one she cared about more than she ever thought possible. "who did this?" she growled, her gaze ablaze with fury.

you shook your head, unable to articulate the betrayal and cruelty that led to this moment. clarisse, however, needed no words. she wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into a comforting embrace as she vowed to make those responsible pay for the pain they inflicted.

in the sanctuary of the ares cabin, amid the echoes of your tearful revelation, clarisse became a pillar of strength, ready to stand by your side and face whatever challenges lay ahead. love, in its purest and most protective form, ignited within her, as the daughter of ares transformed into a fierce guardian of the broken and betrayed.

the night hung heavy with an air of tension as you cried yourself to sleep in clarisse's bed, the echoes of betrayal haunting your dreams. clarisse, ever the guardian, sat silently beside you, watching over your restless slumber. the flickering candlelight cast shadows on the determination etched into her face, fuelled by a fierce protectiveness that refused to be extinguished.

as your sobs eventually subsided into the quiet rhythm of sleep, clarisse rose from the bedside with a silent determination. in the dim light of the cabin, she retrieved her spear, its blade glinting with a subtle menace. the daughter of ares, had one mission— avenge you.

the night enveloped camp half-blood in a cloak of darkness as clarisse stealthily made her way towards the aphrodite cabin. the aura of the daughter of ares carried an intensity that reverberated through the quiet paths, heralding a confrontation fuelled by the depth of her feelings for you.

standing outside the cabin, clarisse's eyes narrowed with determination as she observed the shadows within. the miscreants who had dared to harm you needed to be taught a lesson—one they would not soon forget. gripping her spear tightly, clarisse pushed open the door, her gaze unwavering as she confronted your godly siblings.

the scene within was one of startled surprise as clarisse stormed into the cabin. her voice, usually thunderous on the battlefield, now carried a chilling calmness. "you touch her again, and i promise you, the consequences will be far worse than you can imagine."

the air in the cabin grew heavy with tension as the children of aphrodite, once filled with false bravado, now faced the unyielding force of clarisse's wrath. she recounted the pain you had endured, the tears that stained your face, and the betrayal that cut deeper than any blade.

in her hand, the spear gleamed ominously, a silent warning that spoke volumes. the children of aphrodite, their faces pale with fear, found themselves cornered by the very embodiment of wrath standing before them. clarisse's words echoed in the cavernous space, leaving an indelible mark on their consciousness.

with a final warning that carried the weight of a promise, clarisse turned on her heel, leaving the aphrodite cabin in her wake. the night embraced her as she returned to the ares cabin, a sense of satisfaction lingering in the air. the protective fire that burned within her had been unleashed, a fierce determination to shield you from further harm.

the following day, the morning light filtered through the windows of the ares cabin, casting a gentle glow over the space. you awoke with a heaviness in your heart, the memory of the previous day's betrayal lingering like a shadow. as you sat up in bed, clarisse entered the cabin, her eyes immediately locking onto yours. the weight of the night's events still etched on her features, but a newfound determination shone in her gaze.

"hey," clarisse greeted you, her voice softer than usual. she took a seat beside you, her hand gently resting on your shoulder. "we need to talk."

the air felt charged with a mix of vulnerability and strength as clarisse began to speak. "i know yesterday was rough, and i can't change what happened, but i need you to understand something." she took a deep breath, her eyes searching yours. "your beauty isn't defined by your hair. it's not just one thing that makes you pretty. it's everything."

clarisse began listing every part of you, her voice deliberate and unwavering. "your eyes– they hold a strength and depth that's beyond compare. your lips– they carry a warmth that can brighten the darkest days. your ears– they've heard laughter, pain, and everything in between. every part of you contributes to the unique beauty that is you."

you listened, the weight of her words sinking in, but doubt still lingered in your eyes. clarisse, undeterred, continued, "and, above all, it's your personality. your kindness, your strength, your resilience – that's what makes you truly beautiful."

a flicker of disbelief danced across your face, and clarisse recognised the challenge ahead. she persisted, her gaze unwavering. "say it. say you're beautiful because of your eyes, lips, ears, and every part of you."

you hesitated, the echoes of the previous day's betrayal still reverberating in your mind. "i can't- i can’t say that. not after what they did to me."

clarisse tightened her grip on your shoulder, her voice taking on a gentle insistence. "you need to believe it. it's not about them; it's about you. say it with me. you're beautiful because of your eyes, lips, ears, and every part of you."

it felt like a mantra, a repetition that tested the resilience of self-perception. clarisse didn't back down, patiently guiding you through each affirmation until the words became a declaration echoing within the walls of the ares cabin. "i'm beautiful because of my eyes, lips, ears, and every part of me."

as you repeated the words, something shifted within you. the doubt began to yield to the truth that clarisse so fervently believed. her unwavering support became a lifeline, anchoring you to a newfound understanding of your own beauty.

in that shared moment, surrounded by the strength of ares' cabin, you started to embrace the truth that beauty wasn't confined to a single aspect. it was a mosaic, a tapestry woven from the threads of every part that made you uniquely, undeniably yourself. clarisse, with her fierce love and unyielding determination, had become the mirror reflecting the truth you needed to see.

[tbaluver]

bridgerton au! sanemi shinazugawa x reader

warnings: none just cursing

wc: 2k

author's note: i was intending to make this with all the hashira's in one post but tumblr said something about 4096 word block???? tumblr pls im so confused I'm still new at this but please let me know if you want me to write the other hashira's and if there truly is a word count ;-; also sorry if he sounds ooc! this story came in mind because i just have a hyperfixation on demon slayer and bridgerton. anyways enjoy!

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

The great hall of Ubuyashiki Palace shimmered with a soft glow of crystal chandeliers, casting intricate patterns of light upon the polished marble floors. It was a significant evening, as the elites gathered for the anual presentation to Her Majesty, Queen Amane. Among the debutantes awaiting their turn, you stood as your heart aflutter with a mixture of excitement and trepidation.

You wore a gown with your favorite color in silk, with delicate laces and pearls. Your mother stands beside you with a mix of nervousness as this was your debut into society.

As the strains of the orchestra fills the air with a gentle melody, a hush fell over the assembled guest as the doors at the far end of the hall swung open. Each debutant was announced by name as she stepped forwards to curtsy before Queen Amane, each to all pounding with the weight of expectation and nervousness. Queen Amane, seated upon her throne watched as the debutantes approached. Her expression was composed but those who knew her well can detect a hint of uninterested as each debutant entered.

At last, it was your turn. With a graceful sweep of your skirt, you approached where Queen Amane sat. Your breath caught in your throat as you curtsied deeply, fixed upon the monarch, "Your Majesty," Your mother spoke, "may I present my daughter, (Y/N)"

Queen Amane regards you with a keen gaze, her expression unreadable. "Rise, Miss (Y/L/N)," the Queen's voice was soft yet carried such authority that echoed through the room.

You obey, lifting your eyes to meet the Queen. "And how do you find the season, Miss (Y/L/N)?"

As you gathered your composure, your voice steady despite the butterflies that fluttered in your stomach. "Your Majesty, I am humbled by the warmth and kindness I have encountered. The country has welcomed me with open arms and I eager to contribute to its traditions."

Queen Amane studies you for a moment longer, her expression softening. "You carry yourself with grace, Miss (Y/L/N). May your journey through society be as rewarding as it is enlightening."

With that, Queen Amane signals the end of their audience. You curtesy once more before going back to join your parents, your heart jumped with joy by Queen Amane acknowledgment and the promise of what lies ahead.

-

In society, as invitations poured in and gossiped swirled around, you find yourself at the center of attention.

From the moment you descended on the grand staircase of the Duke's ball, you became the focus of every eligible bachelor's gaze. However you remain blissfully unaware of your effect on the ton. With each delicate step, you sought not to conquer society but rather to savor the fleeting moments of freedom and excitement that this season has promised. You were groomed and taught for this moment ever since you learned how to walk. Your mother's careful guidance has shaped you into elegance and grace.

As you mingled with the crowd, your eyes danced with curiosity, eager to explore the world beyond the pages of your beloved novels. You've held a couple conversations with lords and ladies as if you captivated them. There was just authenticity in your words and how you spoke and how your laughter tinkled like crystal, possibly drawing a bright star in the evening sky that made you feel rare apart from the other debutantes.

Sure, there were a couple gentlemen that caught your eye but your heart remains untouched until you met him.

Sanemi Shinazugawa:

He did not want to be in the halls of the Ubuyashiki Palace to watch the debutantes grace their Queen. He thought the time there was rather a waste of time as he had duties to attend too. With his father passing away at such a young age, he had to be the one to take over the family title and perform his fathers duties. But he had too for his mother and for his siblings. ( He's a mamas boy okay ) His mother insisted that maybe with this season, he will find a wife. He immediately dismissed that idea as he was too busy to find a wife. Instead, his mother insisted that he should go for his siblings so they had an idea for when they make a debut into society.

As each young lady approach the queen, his scowling expression remained the same. possibly scarring the debutants as they pass by

His expression remained the same and uninterested as you passed by. It was until the Queen acknowledges you and a murmur ripples through the assembly. His mother nudges him giving him an idea that you might be the one.

Sanemi and his mother have entered the Duke's ball before dropping off his siblings at their estate taken care of by their maids. His mother mingles with her friends as he goes off to grab a drink.

You were by the drinking station as a young gentleman approaches you. "Why hello there madam." He grins, reaching out his hand, "I'm Maeda, Masao Maeda" He introduces himself as you reach out your hand to shake his. As you shake hands with him, he pulls you a little close to your liking, "You know I own a botique that you can beautifully wear or maybe even model for me" His demeanor and tone changing making you uncomfortable.

Suddenly a rough calloused hand grips Maeda's shoulder as he widens his eyes in fear. "Fuck off." Says this man who has silver uneven hair with a scarred face. Maeda whimpers as a response, letting you go and running away knowing who that voice belongs too.

You look at the man who made Maeda piss his pants. His presence was commanding attention before he speaks. He stands tall and broad shouldered and his physique almost peeking out as his suit was unbuttoned a little bit to reveal his chest. His hair looked tousled almost as if wind-swept. His eyes were piercing and sharp as his irises were a vivid shade of lavender. His skin seemed to have many scars as you can see a couple on his face and on his arms.

"You alright?" He asks as he crosses his arms, his gaze not leaving you. You widened your eyes and a small tint of pink dust appear on your cheeks. Were you checking him out?

You nod, "Thank you. He seems rather...." You trail off looking off to the direction Maeda went off too. "An idiot." He scoffs, "Men like him are fucking disgusting. You have to be careful. You shouldn't go around without your maid."

"And how would I know you're not a man like him?" You now cross your arms. "I can handle things myself, sir." Sanemi's lips curled into a sneer, the scowl on his face deepening.

"Shinazugawa" You quirk a brow as you've heard that title before. The Shinazugawa family is now known for their considerable wealth and prestige due to the direct result of their remarkable career as Hashira's and their strategic endeavors. You've heard victories in battles have not only gained him respect but also considerable financial rewards. "Sanemi Shinazugawa."

"Pleasure to meet you then Mr. Shinazugawa." You say as you curtsey and as he grabs your hand and kisses the back palm of it.

That's how you met the aggressive white haired man.

The grand drawing room of your family's estate was alive with a gentle hum of anticipation. The room was adorned with plush furnishing and elegant decor. You waited for the announcement of your family's butler to announce the caller arriving today only to find out it wasn't one caller. There was a whole line of them outside of your estate.

The door to the drawing room opens with a soft creak as the butler announces the first arrivals with a formal tone. You rise gracefully from your seat greeting your bachelor who came in bearing gifts in his hand. At the far end of the room, nestled a cozy corner by the grand window, sat your mother. While she was deeply absorbed in her knitting, she maintained a vigilant watch over the room. Her eyes occasionally lifting to scan the interactions and ensuring that everyone was being attended to with the utmost courtesy. Conversation flowed easily with each bachelor but as more and more go on you realized how none of them seem to capture your heart so you began to grow uninterested. None of them truly got to understand you deep down or truly got to know your likings. It was rather them talking about the properties or land that they own or what they like to do or the titles they hold.

Sanemi rushed to your estate. He ignored the line of potential bachelors cursing him for cutting in line. He internally cursed himself as well, wondering why he even decided to go here in the first place.

During your first meeting, it was quite awkward. However you didn't realize that you dropped one of your jewels as you walked away. He wished your first meeting could've happened in a better situation. No. Why did he even think of wishing that? He has no time for that. He could've just sent one of his butlers or his maid to send this to your estate so why did he think it was a good idea to barge into your estate to give you back your jewel?

Ignoring your butler's warning that you were busy talking to a caller right now, Sanemi barges right in. You and your caller widened their eyes at the intrusion. "Excuse me I was here first!" The bachelor stands up and huffs in annoyance. Sanemi ignores him and approaches you. "You dropped this yesterday." He says gruffly. You look down to the palm of his hand. "Thank you." You say as your fingers brush against his hand. "I think you had too much time here and let another caller have their turn." Your mother butts in the conversation, kindly kicking out the current bachelor. "Thank you ma'am but I'm not here-" Your mother cuts Sanemi off, "Please I insist. You made a trip here so why not stay a little while Mr. Shinazugawa?"

He shouldn't stay. Yet he decided to sit down and have a conversation with you. At first the conversation was rough but eventually the conversation flowed quite easily later. You learned many things about Sanemi that seemed to interest you than the rest of your bachelors you talked too before him. You learned that he had good swordsmanship and that many of his scars were from the battlefield. You also learned that he has 6 siblings, he likes matcha and ohagi, and that he owns several dogs. He seems to love his family a lot from how much he mentions them which warms your heart.

Although he won't mention it or show it he did seem to take an interest in you as well. He didn't even realize that he accepted your invitation to come back and meet again for tomorrow. He figured he might just send a letter writing that he should've declined and he wishes you well. However he found himself coming back to your estate.

The next time you meet, you made him ohagi with the help of your maids and showed him your favorite books or even played instruments that you knew how to play. You offered to meet another time and he knew he shouldn't accept it. He had family duties to attend too.

Yet he found himself always coming back. The more you both spent time together was like weaving a tapestry of love and understanding that would only deepen with time. You slowly got to uncover different emotions and sides of him, very different from your first meeting.

Eventually he introduces you to his family and his mother. He left to go take care of some paperwork that he thought would be quick but took hours. He comes back to you playing along with his siblings and his dogs and the sight of that completely melted his heart.

I have to marry her.

a/n: hi again if enjoyed this please like or reblog tysm! <3

[madamabelladonna]

𝐁𝐚𝐧𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐖𝐡𝐬𝐢𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Young Lady Dayne captivated the feast held by King Viserys in honor of his grandson, her presence and dance stirring much interest among the court. The murmurs of a possible union between the Seven Kingdoms and The Principality of Dorne swirled in the air, though beneath the revelry, rumors threatened to unravel such hopes. 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: Jealousy, Criston 'Rice Krispy' Cole, Rumors, Blood, Fighting, Doubt 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The sun beat down mercilessly on the field, the clang of metal ringing out as one knight after another thundered across the jousting lane, their lances held firm. The air buzzed with the tension of each collision, the cheers of the crowd swelling like a wave each time two mounted warriors clashed.

Dust flew up from the hooves of their horses, and the ground shook with the force of the charges. Splinters of wood burst from the shattered lances, and the crowd roared. Knights that missed their marks wheeled around for another attempt, fresh lances thrust into their hands by eager squires, eyes wide with anticipation.

Most contests were settled swiftly. A single blow often sent one knight tumbling from his steed, his armor clattering loudly as he fell to the earth. The victor paraded triumphantly while the vanquished was left sprawling, sometimes unconscious, sometimes worse—lifeless.

The ground had already claimed several today. Their bodies were dragged away, while the winner would bask in the moment, trotting proudly toward the stands where a lady’s favor awaited.

It was brutal, yet the crowd relished it. Blood, broken shields, and the scent of sweat mingled with the afternoon air, intoxicating the onlookers who howled for more. It was hardly what you imagined as a fitting celebration for a name day. But then, war was never far from sport.

Another knight crumpled to the ground, and his opponent—the victor—didn’t hesitate to prance his horse over the fallen man, barely missing trampling him underfoot. The crowd roared its approval, unconcerned with the fate of the fallen.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat. If a knight survived the fall, the contest turned into a duel on foot, steel against steel until one yielded—or bled out. The tournament showed no mercy.

Ser Criston Cole, in all his egotistical glory, was next. His white armor gleamed beneath the sun, a stark contrast to the blood-soaked dirt beneath him. He faced a knight of House Darklyn, their sigil clear on his tattered shield.

Cole lowered his lance, charging with such ferocity that the impact shattered the Darklyn knight’s shield to splinters, the wood and metal flying into the crowd as gasps erupted from the onlookers.

Without hesitation, Cole turned his horse, readying himself for another pass. This time, there was no contest—the Darklyn knight was dispatched with brutal efficiency, crumpling to the ground as Cole reined in his steed.

He removed his helmet, revealing a self-satisfied smirk as he sauntered toward the Royal Box. “I ask for the favor of the Queen Consort, Alicent Hightower,” he declared, his voice ringing out across the arena. The smirk on his lips was unmistakable, a show of arrogance that made the moment all the more uncomfortable.

Queen Alicent stood gracefully, her cold gaze sweeping over you, Jacaerys, and Lucerys before landing on Criston. The air between her and the Royal Box was frosty, her movements measured as she descended the steps to meet him. Her gown, rich green silk, shimmered as she approached. She slid her favor—a delicate ribbon—down the length of Criston’s lance, her eyes dark and unreadable.

“I wish you luck, Ser Criston,” she said coolly, her voice sharp enough to cut. The look she gave him was clear: win, or else.

She returned to her seat beside King Viserys, leaving an uneasy tension in her wake. You exchanged a glance with Jacaerys, who sat beside you, his brow furrowed. “Did you make a favor?” he asked quietly, his gaze flicking to the small bundle beside you.

You had. A small token woven from purple larkspurs with Isla’s help. Yet, you doubted any knight would ask for it. You were only seven years old, far too young for the attention of knights seeking favor. Courtship, after all, was a part of this tradition, and no knight in his right mind would seek a favor from a child.

“I did,” you admitted, nodding toward the carefully crafted ribbon beside you. “But I doubt anyone would ask for it.” If Merek had participated in the tourney, the favor would have undoubtedly been his. He was your older brother, after all, and there was no knight you trusted or admired more.

You could already picture him astride his white steed, his silver armor gleaming in the sunlight as he charged with the grace and strength that came so naturally to him. Merek was the Sword of the Morning, and though he bore the weight of his title with quiet dignity, his presence commanded respect on the field.

Jacaerys shifted in his seat, glancing at the purple favor. “I’ll take it,” he said, his words abrupt, but his tone sincere. The suddenness of the offer made you blink in surprise.

A laugh escaped you. “You’re not even in the tourney.” But there was warmth in your voice. The idea of Jacaerys taking your favor, even if it served no purpose, made the rejection of it by others sting less.

Jacaerys smiled, his hand brushing yours. “If no one else asks for it, I will,” he promised. You smiled softly, nodding as the next match was announced. Ser Harwin Strong, the Breakbones, was up, facing a third son of House Footly. As the knights prepared, you glanced once more at Jacaerys, feeling a small swell of warmth.

Even if the world overlooked your favor, he wouldn’t.

The roar of the crowd surged as Ser Harwin Strong, known as Breakbones for his unmatched strength, readied himself for the next tilt. His massive frame loomed over his horse, the dark steel of his armor gleaming ominously under the midday sun. His opponent, the Footly Knight, looked small in comparison, the colors of his house pale and fragile against Harwin’s imposing presence.

You leaned forward slightly, your heart quickening as the two knights prepared to charge. The banners of both houses fluttered in the breeze, but the crowd's excitement was palpable—they knew who the favorite was. The Footly knight lowered his lance, the wood trembling in his hands. Across the field, Harwin’s lance was steady, aimed directly at the center of his opponent's chest.

A horn blared, and the knights surged forward. The ground shook beneath the horses’ hooves, a rumbling that vibrated through your feet and up into your chest. The Footly knight made the first move, but his aim faltered.

His lance grazed Harwin’s shield, but before he could recover, Harwin’s strike hit true. The impact was thunderous. Wood splintered as Harwin’s lance shattered against the Footly knight’s armor, sending him sprawling to the ground in a tangled heap of metal and dust.

The crowd erupted into wild cheers, the noise almost deafening as Ser Harwin rode victoriously to the center of the field. His helmet gleamed in the sunlight as he dismounted with ease, casting a glance toward the royal box. There was no hesitation in his step as he walked toward Rhaenyra, his broad shoulders cutting through the sea of spectators.

Your breath caught as the crowd fell silent, watching with bated breath. Harwin removed his helmet, his dark curls tumbling free, a confident grin on his face. His gaze was fixed solely on Rhaenyra as he knelt before her, offering his lance in a gesture that made the meaning of his request clear.

"I ask for the favor of the Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen," Harwin said, his voice booming enough to carry over the arena. Rhaenyra, seated regally beside Laenor, allowed a small smile to play across her lips.

The wind tugged gently at her silvery blonde hair, but her eyes never left Harwin. Slowly, with the grace befitting a princess, she stood, her gown of black and red shifting like molten fire as she descended the steps to meet him. The crowd watched in silence, hanging on her every move.

When she reached him, Rhaenyra carefully tied her favor—a ribbon of deep crimson—around the shaft of Harwin’s lance. The moment felt intimate, even among the throngs of onlookers. Her fingers lingered briefly on the silk, and there was an unmistakable spark in her eyes as she looked down at him.

“I grant you my favor, Ser Harwin,” she said, her voice soft but filled with unmistakable warmth.

The crowd roared again, but this time, there was something different about their cheers. The favor of a princess was not something to be given lightly. You could feel Jacaerys tense beside you, his gaze flickering to Rhaenyra and then back to the field.

He seemed to understand the significance, as did everyone watching. Ser Harwin rose to his feet, a glint of triumph in his eyes as he accepted Rhaenyra’s favor, his lips curling into a knowing smile.

If it were not for King Viserys’s unwavering protection, the whispers would have turned to open accusations. The legitimacy of Jacaerys and his younger brother, Lucerys, was questioned by many. Though Laenor Velaryon claimed them as his sons, they bore none of the striking Targaryen features—the platinum blonde with a metallic sheen hair, the violet eyes.

Instead, they seemed to favor the strong, dark looks of House Strong. The resemblance was too glaring for some, yet no one dared to utter such suspicions aloud. To question their parentage in the presence of the king was to court death. King Viserys made sure of that, and the court had learned to bite their tongues, lest they lose them.

Beside you, Jacaerys turned toward Lucerys, who was blissfully unaware of the tension that hung in the air. His younger brother, still innocent in the ways of court politics, grinned widely, his eyes shining with admiration for the man who had just bested his opponent in the lists.

"Ser Harwin is really the strongest man in the world!" Lucerys sounded, his voice filled with boyish enthusiasm. His words rang out, innocent and pure, as if the truth of Harwin’s strength was all that mattered to him.

Jacaerys, however, remained silent. He had grown up with those whispers—whispers that gnawed at him like a festering wound. Though he never spoke of it, you could see the weight of those rumors in his eyes. He had heard them all his life, questioning who his true father was. 

You caught his faint smile, a weak attempt to mask the uncertainty that lingered beneath the surface. When his gaze met yours, you could feel the silent plea for reassurance. Jacaerys had always sought comfort in you, a steady presence amidst the doubts that shadowed his existence.

You clutched Jacaerys’ hand with both of yours, squeezing it gently but firmly. “My prince,” you said softly, your voice steady and sure. Despite being of the Principality of Dorne, your House Dayne sworn to Martell, it made no difference. Jacaerys—whether he looked Targaryen, Velaryon, or even Strong—would always be a prince in your eyes.

His eyes flickered toward yours, searching for reassurance in your face. You gave him a slight shake of his hand, grounding him in the moment, and in your loyalty. In a world where bloodlines and appearances could doom a man before he even spoke, your allegiance was clear. Jacaerys Velaryon was the prince you followed, and no amount of courtly whispers would change that.

A faint, grateful smile tugged at the corner of his lips, though the weight of his unspoken doubts lingered in the air. He nodded, just enough to let you know that your words had reached him. And though he had never voiced his fears aloud, the unspoken truth lay between you, heavier with each passing day.

But no one could question his blood. Not when he had a dragon. The birth of Vermax from his cradle had silenced many of the rumors, at least on the surface. Dragons only hatched for those with the blood of Old Valyria, and Vermax had bonded with Jacaerys from the moment the egg cracked open.

That, at least, was proof enough for many that he carried the blood of House Targaryen. And more than that, he was the heir, destined to follow in his mother’s footsteps, whether the realm accepted it or not.

He was a prince of the realm. And his dragon would be a reminder to those who doubted him that he was, indeed, of the blood of the dragon.

The tournament field as the final match loomed on the horizon. The air was thick with the mingling scents of earth and sweat, each breath heavy with anticipation. The crowd’s roars rumbled like distant thunder, an ominous reminder of the spectacle that was about to unfold. Today’s contest was no mere exhibition—it was a clash of titans, a contest between the sworn shields of the heir and the queen.

Ser Criston Cole, the Queen’s Sworn Shield, stood tall and unyielding in his polished ivory armor. His presence was a beacon of steely determination, his eyes like flint, scanning the field with a single-minded focus. His reputation as a fierce and relentless fighter had preceded him, and his confidence seemed almost to radiate from his very being, burning brightly in the fading light.

Opposite him, Ser Harwin Strong, the Heir’s Sworn Shield, waited with the raw, untamed intensity that had earned him the fearsome title of Breakbones. His armor, dark and imposing, contrasted starkly with Criston’s gleaming ensemble. Harwin’s eyes burned with a fierce resolve, the promise of brutal force evident in every line of his powerful frame.

As the horn blared, signaling the start of the final match, the knights charged with a thunderous roar that shook the very earth beneath them. The ground trembled beneath their steeds, their hooves pounding in a rhythmic fury. Lances were held high, their deadly points aimed with lethal precision.

The collision was monumental. Criston’s lance met Harwin’s with a splintering crash that reverberated through the arena. The impact was so intense it felt like a shockwave, rippling through the ground and the air. The crowd's cheers crescendoed into a fevered roar, a cacophony of excitement and tension that seemed to envelop the entire field. The clash of metal rang out like a grim symphony of war, echoing through the stands.

Criston’s shield shattered under the relentless force of Harwin’s assault, the fragments scattering like broken glass. With a roar of fury, Criston pressed forward, desperate to regain control, but Harwin was relentless. His lance, now bereft of its shield, struck with a decisive blow, unseating Criston from his horse with a resounding crash. The Queen’s Sworn Shield hit the ground hard, the clang of his armor echoing sharply as he struggled to rise, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

The crowd fell into a tense hush as Harwin dismounted with purposeful strides. “Bring me my sword!” he barked to the squire waiting at the side. The boy scrambled to obey, his face a mask of urgency. Criston, rising from the ground with visible effort, reached for his morningstar, which had been retrieved by another squire. The match had shifted, now turning into a fierce duel of skill and willpower.

You, Jacaerys, and Lucerys sat close together, your hands clasped tightly, the unity of your grip a small comfort amidst the escalating tension. You could feel the steady pulse of your heartbeat in your fingers as you held on to them, your gaze unwaveringly fixed on the arena.

Lucerys turned to you, his face a picture of anxious worry. “He’ll win…won’t he?” he asked, his voice barely more than a breath. His eyes were wide, reflecting the weight of the moment, the uncertainty that clung to him as the match transitioned into a grueling contest of arms.

You bit your lip, the anxiety evident in the gesture, as Criston Cole swung his morningstar with a vicious intent that spoke volumes about his desperation. Each swing was a brutal testament to his skill and aggression, the weapon cutting through the air with a deadly grace. The determination in Criston’s eyes was palpable, and each strike was a calculated effort to subdue Harwin.

“I…I don’t know,” you replied, your voice trembling slightly as you squeezed Jacaerys’ hand tighter. You found yourself praying to the Warrior, only hoping that Harwin’s formidable strength and unyielding spirit would see him through to victory.

Criston’s morningstar whirled through the air, its menacing arc aimed to deliver a crushing blow. The sight of the weapon, swinging with such force and precision, made your stomach churn with unease. 

With a determined roar, Harwin pushed through Criston's defense. He deflected the morningstar with a powerful swipe of his sword, then, with a forceful thrust, drove Criston back. The Queen’s Sworn Shield stumbled, his armor clanking loudly as he struggled to maintain his footing.

Harwin’s next strike was decisive. With a roar of triumph, he swung his sword in a sweeping arc that caught Criston off balance. The blow landed with a resounding crash, and Criston was sent sprawling to the ground, his morningstar flying from his grasp. The impact was so forceful it seemed to echo through the arena, the crowd erupting in a roar of astonishment and excitement.

Criston hit the ground hard, his armor ringing with a loud clang as he tried to rise. His breath came in ragged gasps, his once-proud figure now battered and humbled. Harwin stood over him, his chest heaving with exertion, the gleam of victory in his eyes.

The crowd watched in breathless silence as Harwin raised his sword high, a gesture of both triumph and challenge. “Yield, Ser Criston!” he bellowed, his voice carrying across the field with a commanding authority.

Criston, his pride bruised but his spirit unbroken, nodded in acknowledgment. “I yield,” he shouted back, his voice strained but clear.

A triumphant cheer erupted from the stands, the roar of the crowd a deafening wave that surged through the arena. Harwin’s supporters hailed him as the victor, their cheers mingling with the clatter of armor and the sound of clanging swords. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over the field as the final moments of the match played out.

You, Jacaerys, and Lucerys sat side by side, your hands still clasped tightly. Lucerys’s eyes were wide with a mixture of relief and awe, his earlier anxiety replaced by a smile of triumph. “He did it!” he exclaimed, his voice full of youthful excitement.

You and Jacaerys exchanged a lighthearted laugh as Lucerys's exuberant cheers filled the air. The excitement was palpable, his shouts blending into the collective roar of the crowd. You leaned closer to Jacaerys, the warmth of his presence a comforting anchor amid the sea of elation.

“He deserves to be called the Strongest in the Realm,” you whispered, your breath warm against his ear. Your words were meant to be reassuring, a quiet acknowledgment of Harwin’s remarkable victory. You glanced towards the victorious knight, who was now basking in the adulation of the crowd.

If any shadows of doubt about Jacaerys’ parentage lingered, if the whispers of Ser Harwin being his father held any truth, then today was a moment to be proud of. Harwin’s prowess was undeniable, a testament to strength and honor that transcended mere rumor.

Jacaerys’ eyes softened, and he leaned his head gently on your shoulder, a gesture of trust and comfort. The weight of the day’s tension seemed to lift as he allowed himself a rare moment of relaxation. “Yeah,” he murmured, his voice carrying a note of relief.

The tournament, with all its intensity and spectacle, was finally drawing to a close, and the satisfaction of Harwin’s triumph seemed to ease the burden of the day. You could feel the warmth of Jacaerys’ breath against your neck, the cheers of the crowd faded into a distant hum as you shared this quiet moment together, the world narrowing to just the two of you and the simple joy of the tournament’s end.

Harwin strode over to the Royal Box, where Rhaenyra sat with the regal poise that had become her signature. The queen’s eyes met his, a glimmer of pride and relief shining through her composure. With a deep bow, Harwin presented her with the lance, its shaft still adorned with the crimson ribbon she had bestowed upon him.

“Your Grace,” he said, his voice ringing clear in the twilight, “I crown you the Queen of Love and Beauty.”

The words hung in the air, a declaration of triumph and honor. Rhaenyra rose from her seat, her gown flowing like a river of flame as she stepped forward. The crowd’s cheers swelled, a roaring tide of approval and adoration.

As she accepted the crown of victory from Harwin, her smile was radiant, the culmination of her victory and the culmination of a day steeped in fierce competition and honor.

As noon arrived, the festivities continued in full swing. The field had quieted after the grand tournament, and now, amidst the lingering echoes of cheers and laughter, you, Jacaerys, and Lucerys found yourselves caught up in a playful game of tag. The warmth of the sun kissed your cheeks, and the gentle breeze rustled through the trees, adding a lively backdrop to your impromptu game.

Jacaerys and Lucerys darted around the garden with youthful exuberance, their laughter ringing out like a merry chime. You, equally spirited, chased after them with determined glee, your dress swirling with each quick step. The game was a joyful reprieve from the grandeur of the tournament, a chance for the young princes to unwind and revel in the simple pleasure of play.

The air was filled with the scent of blooming flowers and the faint aroma of feast preparations. In the distance, the sounds of nobles conversing and glasses clinking hinted at the festivities to come. Tonight’s grand banquet in the Throne Room was anticipated with great excitement—a celebration of Jacaerys’ eighth name day that promised opulence and splendor.

As you played, nobles from across the Realm mingled and drank merrily in anticipation of the evening’s festivities. The garden was abuzz with conversation, their voices a blend of animated chatter and laughter.

Many had brought their young daughters, hoping to catch the young prince’s eye. However, despite their efforts, their attempts seemed to fall flat. Prince Jacaerys, blissfully unaware of their designs, was absorbed in the joyful company of a certain Lady of House Dayne—namely, you.

The nobles’ eyes followed the game with a mixture of curiosity and amusement, but it was clear that the prince’s attention was fully engaged with you. Jacaerys’ infectious laughter and genuine delight were focused entirely on your shared game, his gaze rarely straying from your smiling face.

The nobles’ reactions ranged from curiosity to thinly veiled disapproval. They whispered amongst themselves, casting sidelong glances and speculating on the motives behind House Dayne's presence. Their murmurs hinted at a simmering bitterness, directed not only at you but at the perceived intrusion of a Dornish girl so close in age to the prince.

It seemed as though their animosity extended to their own daughters, who had envisioned themselves as potential princesses. Their aspirations were now thwarted by your presence—an outsider from a land they considered beneath them.

Your hand connected with the back of Lucerys, and he squealed in delight. “You’re it!” you called out, your voice full of playful mischief as you darted away. The younger prince’s face lit up with a competitive grin as he set off in pursuit of Jacaerys.

Lucerys, his small legs pumping with energy, chased after Jacaerys, who was laughing and shouting, “Don’t go after me, go after Wren!” The words came out in a burst of breathless laughter as Jacaerys veered off to the side, making a feint in your direction before doubling back to avoid the eager pursuit.

You ran across the garden, your heart racing with the thrill of the game. The lush greenery and the vibrant flowers blurred past you as you increased your speed, though you could feel the weight of your dress pulling against you.

The fabric, though beautiful and rich, was heavy and cumbersome compared to the lighter dresses you were used to in Dorne. The heat of the sun and the effort of running in such attire left you panting, your breaths coming in short, quick bursts.

Finally, you slowed to a halt near a cluster of blooming lilacs, their fragrance mingling with the earthy smell of freshly cut grass. You bent over, hands on your knees, and gasped for air. The warmth of the sun felt pleasant on your flushed face, but you couldn’t help but think how a lighter dress would have made this chase far easier.

The fabric of your gown clung slightly with sweat, and you could almost hear the distant laughter of Jacaerys and Lucerys, now engaged in their own game of tag. You took a moment to catch your breath, the gentle rustle of the breeze through the trees and the distant clinking of goblets at the banquet setting a serene backdrop to your respite.

"It was insult enough for her son to become heir, but for her to openly display such depravity amongst the public, shame upon her!" The voice was sharp, cutting through the afternoon air like the hiss of a drawn blade.

You froze, the playful smile that had lit your face moments before draining away. Heart pounding, you ducked instinctively into a dense cluster of bushes nearby, the prickly branches tugging at the fabric of your dress as you crouched low. The rich scent of damp earth filled your nose, mingling with the sweet fragrance of the lilacs that bloomed around you. Hidden among the foliage, you strained to listen, your breath shallow, afraid to even let the rustle of leaves give you away.

The voice had been unmistakable—Queen Alicent. Her words were laced with venom, the indignation clear in every syllable. You peeked through a gap in the branches, your heart sinking further when you spotted her in the distance. She stood tall, queenly in her emerald and gold, her face set in an expression of disapproval so stern it looked carved from stone. Walking beside her, his expression a mirror of her displeasure, was Ser Criston Cole.

His hand rested lightly on the pommel of his sword as they moved through the garden, their steps slow and deliberate, as though the weight of their conversation was not meant for anyone else’s ears.

Yet here you were, an unintended witness. "It is unseemly, Your Grace," Ser Criston said, his voice a low rumble of agreement. "To flaunt her... indiscretions so brazenly. The Princess has no shame. And neither do her children."

A chill slid down your spine at his words. You felt a surge of anger rise in your chest, but the fear of being caught held you fast. You bit your lip, blood pounding in your ears as their conversation continued. "Her children," Queen Alicent said bitterly, her voice almost trembling with anger.

"Bastards, every one of them. The realm knows it. I know it. She knows it. Yet, the King... he refuses to see what is right in front of him. Or worse, he sees it and does nothing."

Criston glanced around as if wary of unseen listeners, though neither he nor the queen had yet spotted you. "King Viserys would rather blind himself to the truth than admit it, Your Grace. But the people... they are not so easily deceived. They speak of it in the streets, in taverns. They whisper, louder with each passing day."

"Whispers," Alicent spat.

"What good are whispers when the crown ignores them? It emboldens her, you see? She flaunts her children as if they are the trueborn heirs of House Targaryen, as if Laenor ever fathered them. The insolence, the arrogance..."

Your hands curled into fists, nails digging into your palms as you listened. The tension coiled in your chest like a serpent ready to strike. The Queen's words were filled with poison, dripping with the bitterness she had long harbored. They were not just idle complaints; they were accusations, a deliberate attack on Princess Rhaenyra and her sons—your friends.

Your friends… you thought of Jacaerys and Lucerys, laughing so carelessly only moments before. How could they know the weight of the hatred that simmered so close to the surface, the contempt that their mere existence seemed to inspire in the queen and her sworn shield?

“Then there is that Dayne girl,” Queen Alicent said, her voice laced with an undertone of disdain as she picked at her fingers. Her gaze was distant, as though she were scrutinizing a troublesome stain on her own gown. “I would have taken her under my wing myself, considering how I sympathize with her plight—leaving her home in Dorne and all. Yet, of course, Rhaenyra has already done so.”

Her lips pursed in frustration, and she bit at them, a habit you had noticed in moments of deep irritation. “It’s quite the scandal,” she continued, a bitter edge sharpening her tone. “Talk about a union between her and Jacaerys—an idea I believe was suggested by the King himself, if memory serves.”

Ser Criston Cole, ever the silent sentinel by her side, shifted his weight slightly, his expression unreadable. “Yes, Your Grace,” he replied. “Such a union would indeed bring together significant houses, and the notion of cementing alliances through marriage is not lost on the court.”

Alicent’s fingers drummed lightly on the hilt of her sword, a sound that seemed to echo with her frustration. “It’s not merely a matter of alliances,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, almost as if she feared someone might overhear. “It’s the audacity of it. Here we have a Dornish girl, a mere child from the desert, paraded around as though she were of equal standing to the Targaryens themselves.”

She shook her head, her eyes narrowing with barely concealed animosity. “And to think that Viserys, in his infinite wisdom, would even entertain the notion of binding Jacaerys to her. It’s an insult to the very fabric of our house and the integrity of our bloodline.”

Criston’s eyes flickered with a hint of concern. “Your Grace, the King’s ideas often seem to defy conventional wisdom. Perhaps he sees something we do not.”

Alicent’s gaze turned sharp, her frustration boiling over. “Perhaps,” she conceded, though her tone was far from forgiving. “But let us not forget the power of perception. The court’s eyes are sharp, and the whispers grow louder by the day. If Rhaenyra were to secure such an alliance, it would not only bolster her position but undermine ours.”

You shifted slightly in the bushes, trying to get a better view, but the dry leaves underfoot betrayed you with a sharp crunch. Both Alicent and Criston turned sharply in your direction, their eyes narrowing as they scanned the garden.

Your heart nearly stopped. For a terrifying moment, the piercing gazes of Queen Alicent and Ser Criston Cole swept over the very spot where you crouched, hidden among the shadows of the lilacs. The branches and blossoms rustled faintly, as though whispering their own secrets, and you held your breath, praying to the Old Gods and the New that your concealment was sufficient.

Criston Cole, his armor glinting ominously in the dappled sunlight, stalked closer to the bush you were hiding behind. Panic surged through you as his shadow loomed near, and before you could make a move, a strong hand suddenly clamped down on your shoulder.

You flailed instinctively, a muffled gasp escaping your lips as you were dragged roughly to the side. “Shhh,” a voice whispered urgently, the sound barely more than a breath against your ear.

You looked up in bewilderment, the initial shock fading as you met the gaze of Prince Aemond. His distinctive head of frosty silver hair, streaked with soft blonde undertones, gleamed in the filtered sunlight. The scent of fresh parchment and cedar wood—a blend both subtle and distinctly regal—permeated the air around him.

Aemond’s eyes, sharp and assessing, locked onto yours with a mixture of concern and determination. His grip on your hand was firm but gentle, a contrast to the tension that rippled through the garden. “We need to move,” he said in a low, controlled voice, his gaze flickering back towards the path the Queen and Ser Criston had taken.

Before you could fully process what was happening, he guided you swiftly away from the bush, pulling you into the cover of a nearby alcove shrouded in shadow. The scent of the garden’s blooming flowers mingled with the cedarwood aroma of Aemond’s presence, creating a disorienting blend that heightened your senses.

In the relative safety of the alcove, Aemond’s expression softened slightly, though his eyes remained vigilant. “You should not be here,” he said quietly, his voice a hushed murmur as though speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile cloak of secrecy surrounding you. “It is dangerous, and you have overheard something that could stir trouble.”

Your mind raced as you tried to gather your thoughts, the gravity of the overheard conversation sinking in. “Prince Aemond,” you said, struggling to maintain a steady voice. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I was just—”

Aemond held up a hand, silencing you with a gesture. His eyes, cold and assessing, bore into you with an intensity that belied his calm demeanor. “Now that you know the truth,” he said, his voice a low, deliberate whisper, “are you going to continue befriending Rhaenyra’s sons?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and accusatory. You stared at him, confusion and hurt mixing in your gaze. Was he suggesting that your friendship with Jacaerys and Lucerys was not genuine? Was he implying that the only reason you spent time with them was to advance your position or gain favor?

The warmth of the garden seemed to drain away, leaving behind a stark, uncomfortable chill. The once vibrant colors of the blooming flowers now seemed muted and distant, as though the very essence of the garden had shifted with the weight of Aemond's question.

You hesitated, grappling with the weight of his words. The delicate balance of your position in the court, the playful game you had enjoyed moments ago, and the whispered secrets you had overheard all seemed to converge in this singular, daunting question.

“Of course I am,” placing a hand over your heart, your voice trembling slightly. “They’ve been nothing but kind to me. Jacaerys and Lucerys, they—” You faltered, searching for the right words, “—they see me as a friend.”

Aemond’s expression remained inscrutable, but a flicker of something—perhaps curiosity or concern—passed through his eyes. “And if it were to be known that you are associated with them, do you understand the potential repercussions?” he asked, his tone sharp but not unkind.

You nodded, feeling the weight of his words sink in. “Yes,” you replied, though the full scope of the danger still felt like a distant, abstract concept. “But friendships, especially with them, mean something to me. I’ve come to care for them.”

Aemond studied you for a moment longer, his gaze unwavering. “Be cautious,” he finally said, his voice softening slightly. “The court is a treacherous place, and allegiances are often tested. If you value your safety and your place here, you must tread carefully.”

With that, Aemond stepped back, his presence receding into the shadows once more. 

Isla and Sienna worked diligently as you stood before the grand mirror, their skilled hands adjusting your gown with practiced care. The dress, a mesmerizing shade of amethyst, seemed to shimmer with every movement. Layers of delicate tulle cascaded down to your ankles, creating an ethereal effect as if you were cloaked in a sky adorned with twinkling stars. Embedded within the fabric were tiny stones that caught the light, making the gown sparkle like a constellation.

“You’ll be the most beautiful lady at the ball, my lady!” Isla gushed, her eyes sparkling with admiration. Her excitement was contagious, filling the room with a noticeable sense of suspense. The gown, with its delicate shimmer and graceful flow, was indeed a sight to behold.

Sienna, whose gentle smile reflected in the mirror, stood beside Isla, her hands smoothing out the final creases. She was a recent addition to your service, brought to you by Rhaenyra, who had insisted that you should have more than one maid to attend to your needs.

Sienna’s experience was evident in her graceful movements and the ease with which she handled your gown. “However did you find a dress like this?” she asked softly. Her voice was tinged with awe, and it was clear from her tone that such opulence was a novelty to her, given her experience with the more austere fashions of the Red Keep.

Isla glanced over her shoulder at Sienna, her pride evident. “Lord Julius had it commissioned and shipped here just for her ladyship!” she announced, her words imbued with a touch of reverence. “He wanted her to have something truly special for the ball.”

Sienna’s smile widened, her appreciation clear. “It’s magnificent,” she said, her gaze lingering on the gown’s sparkling stones. “I’ve seen many exquisite gowns in my time, but this… this is something entirely different.”

You stood in front of the mirror, the gown’s elegant layers shifting with each breath you took. The combination of the shimmering fabric and the intricate design made you feel as if you were floating in a sea of stars. The light from the flickering candles danced across the gown, casting gentle shadows and highlighting its every delicate detail.

The two maids continued their adjustments with careful attention, ensuring every pleat and seam was perfectly in place. The soft rustle of the fabric and the occasional murmur of their voices filled the room, creating a sense of calm amidst the excitement.

A knock resonated through the room, and Sienna gracefully moved to answer it. She opened the door, revealing Ser Merek standing in the hallway. His attire was a striking reflection of Dornish elegance, though carefully tailored to avoid any undue attention from the more conservative lords and ladies. The deep, rich colors and intricate embroidery of his outfit paid homage to Dornish style while blending seamlessly with the more restrained fashions of the court.

“Ser Merek,” Sienna greeted with a respectful bow, her voice carrying a note of reverence. The soft rustle of her skirts and the faint scent of lavender lingered as she stepped aside to let him in.

Merek stepped into the room, his gaze immediately drawn to you. His eyes softened with a mixture of pride and admiration as he took in your appearance. He adjusted his cuffs with a practiced flick, then turned his full attention to you, a warm smile spreading across his face.

“Don’t you look lovely, sister,” he said, his voice rich and sincere. His compliment was accompanied by a look of genuine pleasure, reflecting his approval of the effort that had gone into your ensemble. The way he spoke conveyed more than mere words—it was a heartfelt acknowledgment of the transformation you had undergone, and a sign of his supportive presence.

You returned his smile, feeling a surge of affection and gratitude. The bond between siblings was evident in his gaze, and his words were a comforting reassurance as you prepared for the evening’s events. The room seemed to brighten with his arrival, and the warmth of his praise added a final, reassuring touch to the preparations.

“Thank you, Merek,” you replied, your voice steady but filled with warmth. “I’m glad you think so.” Merek’s eyes crinkled at the corners with a fond smile.

Sienna and Isla flitted around you, their fingers deftly working through your hair, which had been left loose and free as you had requested. They brushed and arranged it with practiced ease, their delicate touches a contrast to the more intense preparations you had undergone earlier. The final touches involved a collection of silver hairpins, each one set with small, glittering stones that caught the light and added a subtle shimmer to your appearance.

As the two maids carefully pinned your hair, your thoughts wandered back to the unsettling conversation you had overheard between Queen Alicent and Ser Criston Cole. The implications of their words hung heavy in your mind, the weight of their discussion about alliances and marriages casting a shadow over the otherwise festive mood.

You cleared your throat, the question slipping out before you could fully consider it. “Am I set to marry?”

The question hung in the air, and the room fell into a stunned silence. Sienna’s hands paused mid-air, the silver pins she held momentarily forgotten. Isla stopped her brushing, her eyes wide with surprise. Merek, who had been adjusting his own attire, looked as though he had been struck dumb, his mouth slightly open as if he had choked on his words.

Merek’s reaction was the most pronounced. His usually composed demeanor faltered as he struggled to regain his bearings. His eyes widened, and he cleared his throat with a conspicuous cough, his face flushing slightly. “What... what makes you ask that?” he finally managed, his voice tinged with a mixture of confusion and concern.

In the world of highborn families, where alliances were often forged through marriage, the idea of being betrothed wasn’t entirely unexpected. Children your age were frequently betrothed, their futures often decided long before they could voice their own desires.

It was a common practice among the highborn, designed to secure alliances and preserve bloodlines. You imagined that, in all likelihood, you would be wed to another house from Dorne—perhaps one of the Yronwoods or Allyrions. Your mother had been a Manwoody before marrying your father and adopting the Dayne name, so aligning with another prominent Dornish house seemed plausible.

Sienna and Isla exchanged uneasy glances. Their hands had paused mid-motion, the delicate hairpins momentarily forgotten as they awaited your explanation. The festive atmosphere that had once filled the space now felt distant, replaced by the knot of uncertainty that your question had stirred.

You shrugged your shoulders nonchalantly, attempting to downplay the gravity of the situation. “Just curious is all,” you said with a casual air, carefully omitting the specific details of the conversation you’d overheard about the potential marriage between yourself and Jacaerys.

Your gaze met Merek’s in the mirror, and you offered a reassuring smile, though the lingering worry in your eyes belied your outward calm. Merek, his expression softening, nodded with understanding. “Curiosity is natural,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of sympathy. “But any decision regarding marriage would involve you, and your wishes would be taken into account.”

Merek’s eyes locked with yours through the mirror, his gaze a steady anchor amidst the whirlpool of your thoughts. The warmth in his eyes was a comfort, though it was clear he was not entirely at ease with the notion of you contemplating marriage at such a tender age.

“You still have a long ways to go before worrying about such things,” he said, his voice carrying a mix of reassurance and playful exasperation. As he spoke, he reached over and gently pinched your cheek, his touch light but affectionate. “You’ll have to cease eating cakes if you wish for your betroth not to run away,” he teased with a grin that softened the serious edge of his words.

The hint of a smile tugged at the corners of your lips, even as you felt the familiar warmth of a flush creeping up your cheeks. With a playful huff, you slapped his hand away. “Hmph! Says the one who’d try to use me to garner attention from the ladies back home,” you said, rolling your eyes at the memory of his mischievous schemes.

Merek’s laughter, rich and warm, filled the room as he gave a slight bow, his expression a mix of amusement and affection. “Guilty as charged,” he admitted with a grin that spoke of shared secrets and familial bonds. His eyes sparkled with a touch of mischief, reflecting the light of the candles that flickered softly around you.

He extended his hand toward you, the gesture both elegant and inviting. “Shall we go?” he asked, his tone light but filled with genuine warmth. You took his hand, feeling the reassuring firmness of his grip. The touch was steady and grounding, and you walked with Merek toward the ballroom.

“House Dayne of Starfall!” The herald's voice rang out through the great hall, carrying the announcement with a resounding clarity that cut through the low hum of conversation.

You and Merek descended the sweeping marble steps, each step echoing softly on the polished stone. The grandeur of the hall was a feast for the senses: the air was rich with the aroma of roasted meats and spiced wines, and the flicker of countless candles cast dancing shadows upon the walls.

As you approached the King and his family. King Viserys sat at the head of the long, ornately decorated table, his presence commanding and regal. Princess Rhaenyra, elegant in her black and red dress which was adorned with golden embroidery, flanked him with a poised grace. They were the focal point of the room, and the murmurs of the assembled guests fell into an expectant hush as you and Merek presented yourselves.

You executed a deep curtsy, the layers of your amethyst gown swirling around you like a cascade of twilight stars. Merek followed with a respectful bow, his demeanor both polished and genuine. “Thank you for inviting us to such a grand event, Your Grace,” Merek said, his voice carrying the appropriate blend of formality and warmth. “House Dayne wishes good fortune upon Prince Jacaerys.”

King Viserys acknowledged the greeting with a nod, his expression a blend of courtesy and benevolence. Princess Rhaenyra offered a smile, her eyes reflecting a hint of the pride she must have felt for her son. The air around the high table was thick with the scent of rich wines and the subtle perfume of royal guests.

You scanned the hall, noting with a slight frown that Jacaerys was not yet present. The feast, being held in his honor, seemed incomplete without him. Perhaps he would make his appearance once all the guests had arrived and settled.

As your gaze swept across the high table, you caught sight of a familiar figure. Lucerys, sitting at one end of the table, waved enthusiastically in your direction. His smile was bright and genuine, and he mouthed something you could just make out through the distance and the murmurs of the crowd:

“You look very pretty.”

King Viserys's voice carried through the vast, candle-lit hall, his words imbued with the gravitas of his position and the warmth of his intentions. “We are most honored to have House Dayne present on my grandson’s eighth name day,” he declared, his gaze sweeping over the room with a paternal pride.

“It fills me with joy to witness that the relations of the Seven Kingdoms and Dorne are healing after many years of conflict. This bodes well for a new era of peace and unity.” His statement was met with nods of approval from many, the atmosphere charged with a sense of hope and renewal.

The King’s eyes then settled on you with a glimmer of mischief and expectation, as if he were a stage player delivering his lines with deliberate effect. “And perhaps in the future, House Targaryen and House Dayne will develop a closer relation as well.”

The air in the Throne Room grew thick with tension as his words hung in the air. The room fell into a hushed silence, broken only by the faint rustle of fabric and the clinking of glasses. Queen Alicent's posture stiffened noticeably, her face a mask of barely concealed displeasure. Her fingers, clasped around her wine goblet, tightened until her knuckles were white.

You and Merek stood at the center of this charged moment, caught in the spotlight of royal intentions. The weight of the King’s words pressed down upon you, making the room feel both grand and claustrophobic. Merek’s face was a study in surprise and discomfort, his usually composed demeanor momentarily faltering. He glanced at you, a mix of concern and confusion in his eyes, recognizing the gravity of what the King had implied.

Merek had always been aware of your growing friendship with Jacaerys, but he had dismissed any notion of significance, considering it a mere product of youthful camaraderie. The sudden shift in royal discourse, however, made the possibility of a betrothal not just plausible but imminent.

You shifted slightly, trying to process the implications of the King's words amidst the stifling atmosphere. The murmur of the nobles, who had resumed their conversations with a blend of curiosity and speculation, served as a backdrop to your introspection.

To spare you from the growing discomfort, Princess Rhaenyra's voice cut through the silence with the practiced ease of someone well-versed in courtly charm. “What a beautiful dress you’re wearing, Lady Dayne,” she remarked, her words laced with genuine warmth. Her gaze swept over your gown, the amethyst fabric shimmering in the flickering candlelight.

Her smile was gracious, her tone kind, but as her eyes met yours, you detected something just beneath the surface—something that made your heart quicken in unease. It was subtle, the way her lips curved ever so slightly, a hint of amusement or perhaps knowing.

You couldn't quite place it, but an inkling tugged at your thoughts, as if she were privy to something you were not. The murmur of the court continued around you, but in that moment, it felt as though the world had narrowed to just you and Rhaenyra. Her eyes, sharp and watchful, lingered for a heartbeat too long.

Swallowing your sudden apprehension, you placed a hand over your heart, the weight of the dress grounding you in its luxurious folds. “You are far too kind, Princess,” you replied with a humble nod, your voice steady though your mind raced.

For a fleeting moment, you wondered if Rhaenyra knew more than she let on—about the King's earlier words, about your growing friendship with Jacaerys, about... something. But just as quickly as the thought appeared, you brushed it aside. You were overthinking, surely. This was a feast, a celebration, and Rhaenyra’s compliment was nothing more than that—a simple, well-meaning gesture.

You straightened your spine, forcing a smile to your lips, but the air felt heavier now, every glance and word weighed with unspoken meaning. Merek gave a slight nod, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, and guided you toward your seats. You moved gracefully, though the subtle tension in your limbs betrayed your inner unease.

As you settled into your place, the herald continued announcing house after house. The lords and ladies of the Crownlands came first, draped in rich velvets and brocades, their sigils gleaming in the firelight. They made their bows and curtsies to the King, offering blessings to Prince Jacaerys. The Stormlanders followed, their appearance more rugged, though no less proud, each house carrying the weight of their legacy with them.

You watched it all with a detached fascination, though your mind drifted in and out of the ceremony. The colors and crests blurred together—the bold gold of the Westerlands, the deep reds of the Riverlands, the cool grays and blues of the Vale. Their words all echoed the same formality, their faces wearing masks of courtesy and ambition.

Merek leaned toward you slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Sister, feign indifference." His gaze met yours, cautious yet reassuring, a silent warning beneath his words. The ripple caused by King Viserys' statement had drawn too many curious eyes in your direction, some filled with intrigue, others with calculation.

You inhaled deeply, steadying yourself. Merek’s advice was not just a brother's concern; it was a shield, a reminder that in a room full of powerful families, every glance could hold hidden intent. You kept your posture relaxed, offering only polite smiles and nods, though you could feel the weight of those watching, assessing.

The laughter and chatter of the hall seemed distant now, muffled under the heavy awareness that hung in the air. You could sense Queen Alicent's gaze linger longer than most, the sharpness in her eyes unmistakable even across the room. Rhaenyra, too, was watching, though her expression was softer, unreadable.

You turned your head slightly, pretending to admire the tapestries along the walls, letting your indifference show. “I suppose I’ll have to get used to that,” you muttered under your breath, just loud enough for Merek to hear. His hand briefly touched your arm, a silent gesture of support.

“You will,” he said quietly, his tone steady. “But not alone.” The clink of goblets, the murmur of voices, and the soft shuffle of gowns and cloaks filled the silence between you.

The trumpets blared, their sharp notes cutting through the murmur of the hall, and in an instant, every noble rose from their seats, the rustle of silks and velvets filling the space. The drums followed a deep, rhythmic pulse that echoed through the corridors of the Red Keep, reverberating in your chest.

You stood with Merek, your gaze drawn toward the grand entrance where the music seemed to crescendo. Every eye was fixed on the doorway, the anticipation in the room palpable. The air felt charged, thick with expectation. The banners of House Targaryen, crimson and black, fluttered above, their three-headed dragon catching the candlelight.

Whispers surged through the crowd like the distant rumble of a coming storm as the heavy wooden doors groaned open. All eyes turned, the once-muted conversations now reduced to anxious breaths and darting glances. You couldn’t help but fiddle with the hem of your dress, the amethyst fabric slipping between your fingers as the herald stepped forward, clearing his throat with a cough that echoed in the vast hall.

“Announcing!” The herald’s voice rang out, cutting through the tension like a blade through silk. His chest swelled as he prepared to speak, and you could feel the weight of the moment pressing down upon you. The gathering stilled, every noble straining to hear.

“Prince Jacaerys Velaryon of House Targaryen!”

The announcement reverberated across the Throne Room, and for a heartbeat, time seemed to hang suspended. Your gaze, like everyone else’s, was fixed on the grand doorway. The flickering torchlight illuminated the dark hall beyond, casting long shadows as Prince Jacaerys stepped into view.

Jacaerys moved with a grace beyond his years, the poised elegance of a prince who bore the weight of legacy with every step. His cloak billowed behind him, the silver dragon of House Targaryen intertwined with the seahorse of House Velaryon, the sigils catching the light and drawing the eye.

But it wasn’t the familiar black and red of his Targaryen blood, nor the silver and sea green of Velaryon that stirred the crowd.

There were whispers, soft at first, then rising like the hum of bees in the summer air. A few gasps punctuated the silence that followed. Your breath caught in your throat as you noticed it too. His doublet wasn’t the colors of his houses.

It wasn’t black.

It wasn’t red

It wasn’t silver or sea green.

It was…

“Amethyst.”

The same shade as the gown you were wearing.

Your heart skipped a beat as realization struck. This was no coincidence. The entire room seemed to hold its breath, watching you, then him, then back to you. Eyes darted from noble to noble, trying to read into the meaning of it all. Even Merek, standing rigid beside you, couldn’t conceal his confusion. You could feel the weight of a hundred questions without a single word being spoken.

If you and Merek had seemed a coordinated pair, then you and Jacaerys were two gloves of the same hand. The deep amethyst of his doublet mirrored your gown so precisely that it felt intentional—no, it was intentional. The shimmering stones in your skirt caught the light just as the embroidery on his chest did, as if you were meant to stand beside him, not apart.

The whispers grew louder now, like ripples spreading across a still pond, each one carrying more weight than the last. You could feel the eyes of the room shifting between you and Jacaerys, reading into every stitch, every thread of your matching attire. Even the King’s earlier remark about future ties between House Targaryen and House Dayne suddenly felt less like idle conversation and more like an unspoken declaration.

Merek stiffened beside you, his fingers tightening into a fist. He leaned closer, his voice a low murmur. “What game is this, sister?” But you had no answer, only a growing sense that the night had been carefully orchestrated, and you were unwittingly part of its grand design.

King Viserys stood, his commanding presence drawing all eyes to him. The room fell into a heavy silence as he raised a goblet, its ornate surface catching the flickering light of the chandeliers. His voice, though softened by age, carried the weight of authority and warmth.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the court, esteemed guests from every corner of the realm,” Viserys began, his gaze sweeping across the gathered nobility.

Viserys raised his goblet higher, his expression one of pride and hope. “Let us toast to Prince Jacaerys. May he grow in wisdom and strength, and may his future be as bright and illustrious as the stars that grace the night sky.”

At his signal, the herald called out, “To Prince Jacaerys Velaryon!” The guests rose, their voices joining in a chorus of toasts and cheers. The clamor of glasses clinking together rang out like a joyful symphony, mingling with the soft rustling of fabric and the low hum of conversation.

The room’s applause swelled and reverberated like the roar of a distant sea, its waves crashing against the walls and echoing through the hall. You took a delicate sip of your apple cider, its cool sweetness offering a brief respite from the charged atmosphere. The music began, a stately melody drifting through the air like a gentle breeze.

From across the room, you caught Jacaerys’ gaze. Rising gracefully from his seat, he made his way towards you, each step deliberate and assured. His cloak, adorned with the intricate sigils of Targaryen and Velaryon, seemed to flow behind him like a river of dark velvet.

You could feel the weight of the room’s collective gaze upon you, the air thick with expectation. Jacaerys’ approach was like a beacon cutting through the murky sea of guests, drawing all eyes toward the center of the hall where the dance floor awaited.

As he reached you, Jacaerys offered a courteous bow, his hand extended in a gesture both refined and familiar. His smile was warm, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of the tension he carried from the evening’s earlier events. “My Lady,” he said, his voice carrying a note of earnest charm,

“May I have the honor of this dance?”

You placed your hand in his with a nod, feeling the firm yet gentle grasp of his fingers. The touch sent a pleasant shiver through you, a stark contrast to the chill of the cider still lingering on your lips. The music swelled, and Jacaerys guided you onto the dance floor.

As you moved in time with the rhythm, the world around you seemed to blur, leaving just the two of you amidst the swirl of melodies and the gentle rustle of your gowns. The tension of the evening gave way to a moment of shared grace. Jacaerys’s movements were fluid, his steps precise and confident as he led you through the dance.

Every glance and touch felt magnified, the connection between you both seeming to bridge the space between the grandiosity of the feast and the personal intimacy of the dance. The dance floor was bathed in the soft glow of chandeliers, casting a golden hue over the scene. The scent of roses and polished wood mingled in the air, heightening the sensory experience.

As you twirled and swayed, the music swelled to its crescendo, the notes wrapping around you like a cocoon. For a brief, timeless moment, you were no longer a guest at a grand feast, but simply two young souls enjoying the delicate art of the dance.

Jacaerys led you into a graceful turn, his hand steady on your waist as the music lifted and carried you both across the polished floor. The swirl of your gown, with its amethyst hues catching the light, mirrored the soft shimmer of his doublet. It felt as though you were two stars orbiting within the same celestial dance, perfectly in sync.

Around you, the room blurred into a haze of vibrant silks and whispering nobles, but all you could focus on was the rhythm beneath your feet and the steady beat of Jacaerys’s presence. His feet were careful but uncertain, his gaze focused on the floor more than on you, as if he feared stepping on your toes.

You tried to ease the tension by smiling at him, your own movements light and practiced. “You’re doing fine,” you whispered, your voice soft with reassurance.

Jacaerys glanced up at you briefly, a flicker of a smile crossing his face before he looked down again. “I’m trying not to trip,” he admitted, the slightest hint of embarrassment in his tone.

You stifled a small laugh, squeezing his hand gently. “You’re doing much better than the last time we danced. Remember? You stepped on my foot, and we both fell into the fountain.”

A grin tugged at Jacaerys’s lips, his confidence boosted by the memory. “I’m trying to forget that part.”

The music swelled, and you guided him into a simple turn, your movements practiced and sure. Around you, the hall seemed to melt away—draped banners of black, red, and green blurring into the background. The curious eyes of the nobles seated at the tables were far less intimidating when you focused only on the dance.

For a moment, Jacaerys looked up, meeting your gaze properly. His smile was softer now, more genuine, as if he felt a little less burdened by the expectations of the night. “You look really nice,” he blurted out, his face turning a little red as soon as the words left his mouth. “I mean—your dress.”

“Was it your idea to match?” you asked, still perplexed as to why Jacaerys had chosen to wear colors so starkly different from the usual Targaryen black and red or Velaryon silver and sea green. The deep amethyst of his doublet mirrored your gown in an almost uncanny way, as though the two of you had been planned as a pair for the evening.

Jacaerys, cheeks flushed from the dance and the weight of so many eyes on him, shook his head. He glanced subtly toward the high table where his mother sat, watching you both with an approving smile. “It was Mother’s idea,” he admitted quietly, as if sharing a secret.

His hands found yours again, guiding you through another slow turn. “She said it would... 'symbolize unity,'” he added, though his tone suggested he wasn’t fully sure what that meant. “Besides, why do you think Sienna was brought into your service?”

The name caught you off guard, but the memory clicked into place—the handmaid who had been brought to your side by none other than Princess Rhaenyra herself. You hadn’t questioned it at the time, thinking it a gesture of kindness, but now you felt a different kind of unease creeping into your mind.

Your brows furrowed, and you nearly missed a step in the dance. “Her Highness arranged for Sienna?” The realization was unsettling. The Princess had always been kind, treating you with warmth whenever you came to the Red Keep, but there was something unnerving in the way Jacaerys said it now—something that suggested this was more than a mere gesture of friendship.

Jacaerys, noticing your brief stumble, steadied you with a firm hand on your waist. His expression was a mixture of concern and a boyish pride that he could guide you, even in this moment of awkward revelation. “To aid you, of course,” he said. “Mother thinks of you often... more than you might realize.”

You blinked, your mind racing. Was this part of a larger plan? Rhaenyra had always been politically astute, and House Dayne’s ties to Dorne made you valuable. Where you really being played with?

The final notes of the song echoed through the hall as Jacaerys gently led you through the last steps of the dance. His hand, warm against your waist, guided you effortlessly, though both of you were still weighed down by the silent undercurrents of your conversation. You curtsied as the music drew to a close, your heart pounding not from exertion, but from the implications of everything you had just heard.

Jacaerys released your hand with a graceful bow, a fleeting smile playing on his lips, though his eyes still carried that guarded, knowing look. “You danced beautifully,” he said, his voice soft, though his words felt like they were trying to patch over something much larger.

You nodded in return, trying to ignore the way your mind kept circling back to his earlier comment. "As did you, my Prince," you replied, falling into formality as you curtsied again, your gown swaying gently around your legs.

Before you could exchange another word, more children began to gather on the dance floor, their laughter breaking the tension. Lucerys, grinning widely, bounded forward, pulling a reluctant Baela along with him. "Come on!" he called to Jacaerys, eyes sparkling with excitement. “Don’t leave me out here alone!”

The sight of Lucerys, eager and carefree, brought some levity to the moment. Jacaerys chuckled, glancing at you as if to say duty calls, before stepping toward his brother. You followed suit, grateful for the distraction. The herald announced the next song, and soon the hall filled with the sound of flutes and harps, their light, playful melody coaxing more of the noble children from their seats.

Children from the noble houses of Westeros—Baratheons, Lannisters, Masseys, and even a few other minor houses—joined in, their laughter a strong disparity to the silent, watchful eyes of their parents at the tables. You soon found yourself spinning and twirling with other children as the music picked up pace.

The significance of the earlier conversation, the tension at the high table, even the calculating stares from the adults, faded away, replaced by the giddy rush of movement. Your feet slid effortlessly across the smooth stone floor, your gown billowing around you as you spun with one child and then another.

You twirled once more, the world around you spun in a blur of colors—golden candlelight, shimmering silks, and the vibrant tapestries that adorned the walls. Yet, even in the midst of this joyful dance, you couldn’t shake the lingering feeling that something larger was at play. It clung to the edges of the evening like a shadow, always there, just out of sight.

You cast a glance toward the high table where Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra sat, their eyes following the movements of their children—of you.

The music continued, the rhythm shifting to a slower, more deliberate pace, the laughter and chatter of the children softened, replaced by quieter movements and more formal steps. You had just caught your breath when a figure approached from the side, moving with a grace and purpose that immediately drew the attention of everyone around.

Aemond, his champagne blonde with silver frost hair catching the candlelight, stepped forward. His presence commanded silence, the playful energy in the room instantly shifting to something more subdued. He was taller than most boys his age, with an intense gaze that made him seem older than his years. 

He stopped in front of you, bowing with an elegance that felt rehearsed, but there was something genuine in the way he extended his hand. “May I have this dance, Lady Dayne?” His voice was soft, smooth, his eyes narrowing at a certain direction behind you.

You hesitated for only a moment, your eyes flicking to where he was looking only to find Jacaerys standing there, his face unreadable, though his jaw clenched slightly as he watched. But there was no reason to refuse—Aemond was a prince after all, and you knew it would be improper to deny his request.

You nodded, placing your hand in his. “Of course, Prince Aemond.”

The music swelled around you, soft and flowing, as Aemond expertly guided you into the steps of the dance. His gaze never wavered, watching you closely as if weighing his next words carefully. “You’ve become quite the centerpiece of tonight’s festivities,” he remarked quietly, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

“The colors you and Jacaerys wore have not gone unnoticed.” His hand rested lightly at your waist as he guided you through the steps, his touch careful, though his posture was rigid, controlled.

You glanced at him, unsure of his intentions. There was a weight to his words, a subtle hint of something more beneath the surface. “It was a surprise to me as well,” you replied cautiously, keeping your tone neutral. “His mother arranged it.”

Aemond nodded, his expression unreadable as he spun you in a graceful turn. “It seems there are many surprises in store tonight. I wonder how many of them were planned without your knowledge.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, sensing that his comment held more meaning than simple small talk. He had always been an observant boy, more reserved than the others, and his words often carried an edge of insight beyond his years.

The two of you danced in silence for a moment, the music filling the space between you, before Aemond spoke again. “It is rare for someone from Dorne to be invited to such a grand feast. I imagine your presence here is... significant.”

You felt a shiver run down your spine, though you weren’t sure why. The Targaryens were a powerful family, but Aemond’s words carried a weight that suggested he was offering more than mere conversation. “I suppose that’s for my older brother to know,” you said carefully, trying to deflect his probing. “I am here only to enjoy the festivities.”

Aemond’s smile tightened slightly, though his eyes never left yours. “And yet, I find myself curious. House Dayne holds great influence in Dorne. Perhaps, in time, your presence could sway more than just the opinions of the court here.”

You blinked, surprised by his candor. Was he truly suggesting what you thought? Aemond’s hand on your waist tightened ever so slightly as he led you into another turn, his voice dropping to a whisper. “There is strength in aligning oneself with the right people, Lady Dayne. The Greens have long valued loyalty, and we reward those who stand with us.”

The implication hung heavy in the air, and you struggled to keep your expression neutral. Aemond was not just offering friendship—he was subtly suggesting something far deeper. The Greens, led by Queen Alicent, were vying for influence against Princess Rhaenyra and her supporters, the Blacks. His offer, veiled as it was, spoke volumes.

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his words settle over you like a cloak. “You speak of alliances,” you said quietly, meeting his gaze. “And yet, I am but a girl from Dorne.”

Aemond tilted his head, a small smirk playing on his lips. “A girl from Dorne, yes. But a girl who is clever, who understands more than she lets on.” His tone softened slightly, almost... earnest. “Perhaps we could be friends, Lady Dayne. I would value that greatly.”

Before you could respond, the dance came to an end, the music fading as the other children returned to the floor. Aemond released your hand with a formal bow, but his eyes lingered on yours for a moment longer, his meaning clear even if unspoken.

You opened your mouth to reply, but before you could say anything, Jacaerys was at your side, his expression darkening as he stepped between you and Aemond. “I believe this is where we part ways, Uncle,” Jacaerys said, his voice cool, though there was an undercurrent of tension that was hard to miss.

Aemond regarded his nephew with a quiet smirk, unruffled by the interruption. “Of course, my Prince,” he said smoothly, inclining his head. “I wouldn’t dream of keeping Lady Dayne all to myself.”

Without another word, Aemond turned and walked away, his figure disappearing into the crowd of dancers. You could still feel the lingering weight of his words, and Jacaerys’ sudden presence beside you only heightened the tension.

“Are you alright?” Jacaerys asked, his voice softer now, though there was a flicker of jealousy in his eyes. His hands, still warm from the previous dance, hovered protectively near your own, as if to remind you of where your loyalties should lie.

You nodded, though your thoughts were far from settled. “Yes,” you replied, offering a smile to reassure him. “Just a dance.” But even as you said it, you knew that Aemond’s words would stay with you long after the music ended.

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[novaursa]

Hi Novaursa! I just saw that you're taking request. Your writing is beyond awesome and I'm wondering if I can make a request with Gwayne Hightower and Female Reader? The two decided to marry in secret when the reader's parents arrange her for another man? Bonus point if they get to have a short happy marriage before Gwayne leaves for King's Landing (and we know what awaits him there T-T)?

I might have mentioned it before but I love your writing! ^^

A Rose in Oldtown

- Summary: Gwayne steals a rose and allows it to grow strong in Oldtown.

- Paring: tyrell!reader/Gwayne Hightower

- A/N: I had something similar laying around on my hard drive. It was not for tyrell!reader, but I've used its bones for structure and it needed pretty little rewriting. This is why this is posted so soon. And yeah, I'm manic sometimes when it comes to writing. When I have an idea I can't sleep until it's done. Or do anything else basically. If I don't respond to your ask after a few days, then I'm probably starting from scratch. @justdillydally I hope you enjoy this as you did my other works. ❤️

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 3 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @holdingforgeneralhugs

You stand at the front of the Sept, dressed in the finest gown Highgarden could offer—an emerald green masterpiece embroidered with golden roses, the petals dusted with delicate pearls that shimmer in the dim candlelight. The sleeves are long and sheer, allowing glimpses of your skin beneath, while the bodice is cinched tightly, enhancing every curve. The skirt flows like a river of green silk, the fabric whispering with every breath you take. A golden rose sits in your hair, nestled among the intricate braids that frame your face. It’s a gown fit for a queen, but today it feels more like a cage.

The air is thick with anticipation, the weight of tradition pressing down on your chest. House Lannister’s colors dominate the sept, crimson banners emblazoned with golden lions hanging from every pillar. They seem to mock you, roaring silently, a reminder of the fate being forced upon you. Your father stands beside you, his expression unreadable, yet you can feel the iron grip of his expectations.

“Remember your duty,” he murmurs, his voice low and commanding.

But duty is the last thing on your mind. Your heart is hammering, but not for the man who waits for you at the altar. Jason Lannister stands there with a smug smile, eyes gleaming like a cat eyeing prey. You should feel fear—discomfort, even—but all you feel is anger and longing. 

Your gaze drifts past him, searching the shadows of the crowded sept for a pair of familiar gray eyes. You know Gwayne is near, can sense him even if you can’t yet see him. He promised you. He promised he’d come.

The sept doors creak open, and a gust of wind rushes in, carrying the salty tang of the nearby sea. For a heartbeat, the ceremony halts, heads turning toward the disturbance. There, at the threshold, stands Gwayne Hightower, clad in green leather riding armor, a stark contrast to the opulence around him. His hair is tousled from the wind, a few unruly strands falling into those piercing eyes that hold yours with an intensity that steals your breath.

“Are you truly going to allow this travesty to unfold?” His voice echoes through the sept, defiant and laced with a challenge. The guests murmur in shock, eyes wide as they shift between the Lannisters and Hightower.

“Gwayne,” you breathe, relief and something wilder, more reckless, surging in your chest.

Your father bristles, stepping forward as if to block the path between you and Gwayne. “You have no place here, Hightower! You disgrace your house with this insolence!”

But Gwayne’s gaze never wavers from you. There’s a promise in his eyes, a question. And deep down, you already know your answer.

“Disgrace?” Gwayne laughs, sharp and mocking. “The only disgrace is forcing a woman to marry a man she doesn’t love. Let her choose.” He extends a hand toward you, daring you to defy every expectation, every command that’s been drilled into you since birth.

Your breath catches in your throat. The world seems to narrow to this single moment—the choice between duty and desire, between a life of cold gold and a life of burning passion. The rose on your head suddenly feels heavy, a symbol of everything you stand to lose if you step toward him. But the thought of losing Gwayne is a pain sharper than any blade.

“Your duty is to your house,” your father snaps, gripping your arm. His fingers dig into your flesh, as if he can keep you there by force.

“Is it?” you whisper, meeting his gaze. “Or is my duty to myself?” With a sudden, fierce resolve, you tear your arm free, the embroidered fabric of your sleeve ripping in the process. The soft sound is like the tearing of bonds that have held you for too long.

The tension breaks like a thunderclap. You lift your skirts and run, the long train of your gown dragging behind you like the last vestiges of your old life. Gwayne doesn’t hesitate. He rushes forward, grabbing your hand and pulling you into a tight embrace as you reach him. You can feel the rapid beat of his heart beneath the leather armor, matching the frantic rhythm of your own.

“Are you ready?” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

You nod, breathless. “I was ready the moment I saw you.”

With that, he pulls you toward the doors, toward freedom. The guests shout in outrage, your father’s curses mixing with the indignant roars of the Lannisters. But you don’t care. All you can think about is the wind in your hair and the warmth of Gwayne’s hand in yours as you both burst out into the sunlight.

Two horses stand waiting, saddled and ready. Without another word, Gwayne lifts you onto one, his touch gentle but urgent. He mounts his own horse in a single fluid motion and turns to you, his eyes blazing with determination. “We ride to Oldtown. There, we’ll be married by nightfall.”

Your heart swells at his words. There is no more doubt, no more hesitation. Only the thrill of running toward a future you chose for yourself. You share one last glance, and then together, you kick your horses into a gallop, racing away from the sept, from duty, from everything that sought to bind you.

The road ahead is rough, the path winding and treacherous, but with Gwayne at your side, it feels like the smoothest ride of your life. The wind whips your hair, tangling it with the remnants of your torn veil, but you laugh—a wild, unrestrained sound that echoes over the hills.

“This is madness,” you shout to him over the pounding hooves, but there’s pure joy in your voice.

“Madness is letting you go,” he replies, a grin splitting his face. He reaches over, his fingers brushing yours as you ride side by side. It’s a touch full of unspoken promises and a future yet to be written.

By the time you reach Oldtown, the sky is painted in hues of dusk, the Hightower looming over the horizon like a beacon guiding you both home. Gwayne helps you down from your horse, and you’re both breathless, flushed from the ride. He pauses, holding you close for a moment longer than necessary, his forehead resting against yours.

“I’ll never let anyone take you from me,” he whispers, fierce and possessive, but laced with a tenderness that makes your heart ache.

“Good,” you reply, your voice steady and sure. “Because I won’t let you go either.”

Hand in hand, you enter the modest sept in the shadow of the Hightower. The ceremony is simple, witnessed only by a few loyal friends, but it is perfect. When Gwayne says his vows, his voice is low and rough, thick with emotion. And when you pledge yourself to him, it’s with a heart so full it feels like it might burst.

As the septon pronounces you husband and wife, Gwayne leans in to kiss you, a fierce, claiming kiss that seals your fates together. In that moment, you know that no matter what battles lie ahead, no matter who might seek to tear you apart, you have already won the greatest victory: a life lived on your own terms, with the man you chose.

Life in Oldtown is a far cry from the rigid splendor of Highgarden or the bustling grandeur of King’s Landing. The Hightower looms majestically above the city, its walls steeped in history and tradition. You’ve come to love its winding corridors, the serene gardens tucked away behind ancient stone walls, and the way the sea breeze carries the scent of salt and lavender through the open windows. It’s become your home—a place where you and Gwayne have carved out a life filled with laughter, warmth, and stolen moments of happiness.

This morning is bright and pleasant, the sun spilling golden light across the gardens where you sit with Prince Daeron. The young Targaryen, with his silver-gold hair and lilac eyes, is a delight—sharp-witted and full of curiosity, yet with the unmistakable earnestness of youth. He often seeks your company, and you’ve grown fond of the boy, finding comfort in his easy laughter and unguarded conversations. Today, the two of you are seated beneath a blossoming magnolia tree, playing a game of cyvasse, though it’s clear Daeron is far more interested in the tales you’ve been telling him about the Reach.

“And is it true,” Daeron asks, eyes alight with fascination, “that the fields near Highgarden stretch as far as the eye can see? Nothing but green and gold?”

You smile at the eagerness in his voice. “Aye, and in summer, the air is thick with the scent of roses. The orchards are heavy with fruit, and the rivers run clear and cool. It’s as close to paradise as one might find in Westeros.”

Daeron leans closer, resting his chin on his hand. “You make it sound like a dream. Perhaps one day, I’ll see it with my own eyes.”

“Perhaps,” you say, though there’s a touch of melancholy in your tone. “But Oldtown has its own beauty, Daeron. Have you grown fond of it?”

He nods, a thoughtful expression passing over his young face. “I have. But it’s different—quieter, more… ancient. The Hightower has secrets, I think, buried deep beneath its stones.”

Before you can reply, you notice Gwayne approaching from across the garden. He’s dressed in simple but well-made clothing, his sword strapped to his side as always. When he sees you with Daeron, a warm smile lights up his face, and your heart skips a beat as it always does when you see him. Even after all this time, the love between you remains as fierce and tender as it was the day he stole you away.

“Prince Daeron,” Gwayne greets the boy with a respectful nod, though his gaze lingers on you, a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes. “I hope you’ve been kind to my wife and haven’t defeated her too soundly at cyvasse.”

Daeron grins, shaking his head. “She’s a worthy opponent, Ser Gwayne. I’ve yet to best her.”

Gwayne chuckles, but then his tone softens as he turns to you. “My love, would you join me for a walk? There’s something I wish to show you.”

Your curiosity piqued, you glance at Daeron, who waves you away with a knowing smile. “Go on, my lady. I’ll study my strategy for our next match.”

You rise, smoothing the folds of your gown as Gwayne offers you his arm. As the two of you walk through the garden, you feel the familiar comfort of his presence, the way his strength grounds you, even in the quietest of moments. You follow him deeper into the garden, past the flowering hedges and beneath the shadow of the towering walls, until you reach a secluded corner where a stone bench sits nestled between climbing roses.

“Here,” Gwayne says softly, guiding you to sit. The sun filters through the leaves, casting dappled patterns on the ground, and the air hums with the song of distant birds.

“What is it you wished to show me?” you ask, though your voice is gentle, already sensing that this moment is less about revealing something new and more about being together, away from the prying eyes of court and the endless duties that come with your position.

Gwayne’s smile is tender as he sits beside you, taking your hand in his. “Nothing but this—just us, here, away from everything. I’ve been wanting a moment alone with you all day.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, a familiar and intimate gesture that never fails to send warmth curling through your chest. The world falls away, leaving only the two of you, the quiet rustle of leaves, and the scent of roses hanging in the air.

“You spend so much time caring for others—Daeron, the household, the people who come to us with their troubles. I sometimes wonder if you’ve time left for yourself,” he murmurs, his gaze searching yours.

You shake your head, a soft laugh escaping your lips. “How could I want for anything when I have you? You’re all I need, Gwayne. You always have been.”

His eyes darken with affection, and he lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to your fingers. “And you, my sweet rose, are more than I ever dreamed of. I often think of the day we ran away together—how reckless it was, how mad we must’ve seemed. And yet, here we are. You, the light in my life, and me, foolishly in love with you every day more than the last.”

There’s a sincerity in his words that makes your heart swell. You lean into him, resting your head against his shoulder, and he wraps an arm around you, holding you close. For a long while, neither of you speaks, content simply to be in each other’s presence, surrounded by the peaceful solitude of the garden.

Eventually, Gwayne shifts, turning so he can cradle your face in his hands. His touch is gentle, reverent, as if he’s memorizing every line, every freckle and feature. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, and there’s a rawness in his voice, a depth of feeling that makes your breath catch.

You smile, reaching up to cup his cheek. “And you are everything I never knew I needed.”

He leans in slowly, giving you time to close the distance, and when his lips finally meet yours, it’s soft, tender, and full of unspoken promises. The kiss deepens gradually, a slow, deliberate connection that speaks of love and trust and a desire that never quite fades. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and you can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, so close it matches your own.

“This,” he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion, “this is all I want. A life with you, here, in our little world, where no one can touch us.”

You smile, closing your eyes and savoring the closeness, the warmth of him against you. “And you have it, Gwayne.”

The room is bathed in the soft light of dawn, the golden hues filtering through the gauzy curtains and casting a warm glow across the bed. The linens are tangled beneath you, a reminder of the night spent wrapped in each other’s embrace. Gwayne lies beside you, propped up on one elbow, his gaze fixed on you as if he’s trying to memorize every detail, every curve and feature. The air is thick with the scent of roses, mingled with the salt from the sea breeze wafting through the open window. 

His fingers trace idle patterns along your bare shoulder, lingering on the curve of your neck, then down to your chest before they rest on the gentle swell of your abdomen. You place your hand over his, and he looks at you with a mixture of longing and regret. It’s in his eyes, in the way his thumb absently strokes your skin as if he can’t bear the thought of leaving you.

“I wish I could stay,” he whispers, his voice rough from sleep and emotion. “It kills me to think I won’t be here when our child is born.”

You close your eyes against the sting of tears, fighting the lump in your throat. “I wish you could stay too,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I know you must go. Aegon’s summons cannot be ignored, and you have always been loyal to your family. I understand that.”

Gwayne leans down, brushing his lips softly against your temple before moving lower, trailing kisses down your cheek and jaw. His lips linger at the curve of your belly, reverently pressing a kiss to the slight bump that holds your child—the child he might not meet for months, perhaps longer. The touch is tender, filled with all the love and unspoken vows he cannot put into words. You feel the warmth of his breath against your skin as he murmurs, “I’ll be back before you know it, my love. I swear it.”

You reach down, threading your fingers through his hair, holding him close. “You can’t promise that,” you say, your voice trembling despite your attempt to stay strong. “King’s Landing is dangerous, especially now, with the realm so divided. What if—”

Gwayne lifts his head, cutting you off with a kiss—deep, slow, filled with a desperation that echoes the ache in your chest. When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, and you can feel the tension in his body, the way he holds back the fear he won’t speak aloud.

“No ‘what ifs,’” he says firmly, though there’s a faint tremor in his voice. “I’ll do everything in my power to return to you and our child. This is my life—you are my life. Nothing will keep me from you.”

You nod, blinking away tears that threaten to spill. “I want to believe that.”

“Then believe it,” he whispers, cupping your face and wiping a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb. “Hold onto that hope. I’ll need it as much as you do while I’m away.”

For a long moment, the two of you simply hold each other, the silence heavy with the weight of unspoken fears and the bittersweet reality of this impending separation. You can feel the rapid thrum of his heartbeat against your palm, and it takes everything in you not to beg him to stay, to forsake the king’s orders and remain here, safe, with you.

But you know Gwayne, and you know his sense of duty runs as deep as his love. He would never forgive himself if he abandoned his responsibilities, even for the sake of his own happiness. And so, you do not say the words that claw at the back of your throat. Instead, you bury your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent—earthy and familiar, a comfort you’ll cling to in the lonely nights ahead.

After what feels like an eternity, Gwayne gently disentangles himself from your embrace, rising from the bed and beginning to dress in silence. The rustle of fabric and the soft clink of his belt buckle are the only sounds in the room. You watch him as he fastens his sword to his side, his expression distant, already steeling himself for the journey ahead.

When he’s fully dressed, he turns back to you, his eyes softening as they meet yours. He crosses the room in a few strides and kneels beside the bed, taking your hand in his. “I’ll write as soon as I reach King’s Landing. And every chance I get, I’ll send word to you. I want to know everything—how you’re feeling, how the babe is growing… Everything.”

You nod, squeezing his hand tightly. “I’ll write too. I’ll tell you of every little thing, so you don’t feel too far away from us.”

He leans in, capturing your lips in one last kiss—sweet and tender, a promise sealed between you. When he finally pulls away, it’s with a sigh that speaks of reluctance, of the struggle to let go.

“Take care of yourself and our little one,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll be counting the days until I’m back in your arms.”

You manage a small smile, though your heart is breaking at the thought of watching him walk out that door. “And we’ll be counting the days until we see you again. Ride swiftly, and come back to us.”

With one last lingering touch, he rises, and then he’s gone, the door closing softly behind him. The silence that follows is deafening, an emptiness settling over you like a heavy cloak. You press a hand to your belly, imagining the life growing within, and whisper softly, “Your father will come back to us. He must.”

But even as you say the words, a chill runs down your spine. All you can do now is wait, and hope that the gods are merciful enough to bring him back home—where he belongs, where all of your love and dreams are waiting for him.

The morning light spills across the bed, but it feels colder now, as if the warmth of his presence has been stripped away. You lie back against the pillows, closing your eyes and letting the memories of his touch, his voice, his promises fill the emptiness, holding onto them with every fiber of your being.

You whisper a silent prayer to the gods, hoping they listen, hoping they understand that your love is worth returning.

[malleleothreesome]

Dancing with Malleus

✨ summary: Malleus invites you to the Briar Valley ball ༶༶༶ ✨ warnings: gender neutral reader, immortal Malleus, romance, SFW, I ain't gonna spoil this one for ya ༶༶༶ ✨ word count: 2.9k words ༶༶༶ ✨ song: Once Upon A Dream - Lana Del Rey "You'll love me at once... the way you did once upon a dream"

The castle's ballroom is exquisite and grand, with high arched windows that open out into a massive and impressive courtyard. Inundated with golden light, the whole room is sparking in ethereal shimmer and the aroma of crisp floral accents fill the room. From the high vaulted ceilings, chandeliers the size of trees glitter with a plethora of colorful gems, catching the light of magical, flickering flames like stardust. Couples twirl and weave around each other in fluid steps, like a choreographed waltz of swaying and swirling movements. An orchestra of beautiful instruments blend together in a soaring melody as the dancing continues in harmonious orchestration. A faint mist seems to cover the floor, glittering opalescent in the fading daylight, which gives the scene the surreal quality of a dream or fairytale. The ball is attended only by the most exotic mystical creatures and beings of magic, clad in jewels and other luxury wares. Fae of varying shapes, colors, and sizes, waltz together and converse in tight circles, but you couldn't possibly hope to learn their language or names, nor are you important enough to be greeted. You don't belong here amongst the unparalleled beauty of the resplendent folk who grace these halls—celestially carved beings whose mere existence was meant to mesmerize you and your fellow humans, yet Malleus had insisted that you become his plus-one. Despite your fears that you might embarrass yourself due to your utter inexperience at anything remotely resembling courtly dancing, you're inexplicably enamored by his stubborn determination to allow no argument or negotiation on the matter. So now, you find yourself clad in flowing silk that glows like it was created by stars themselves and bejeweled with all manners of beautiful and precious accouterments. With such extravagant adornments and attire, no one would be able to tell you are not of royal blood. Before you become completely subsumed in the buzzing magnificence of the ball, the finest details of your elegant surroundings become blurry.

Suddenly, there is only him.

Your eyes cannot help but alight upon his noble beauty, and for a moment, the entire crowd parts. The Prince of the Valley of Thorns floats through the room, the air around him parting. As his silky hair streams behind him like water, his beauty causes the room to gasp audibly, yet he hardly notices. Only focused on his true intentions, Malleus seems to drift effortlessly through his own subjects, his sharp features devoid of their normal grim severity, eyes sparkling with tender warmth as he fixates solely on you. Every step he takes exudes power and confidence, yet remains graceful and smooth, as he saunters his way to where you stand and outstretches his gloved hand. In an instant, a murmur arises among the guests—every single one of them captivated by the effortless charm and debonair allure the future King possesses. Seeing your bashfulness, he delicately pulls your smaller hand into his before brushing your knuckles with a sweet kiss, a broad, fangy smile illuminating his entire visage.

"Do not be nervous," he soothes you. His slender fingertips gingerly grip yours, raising your entangled palms to rest shoulder-height, and placing his other hand on your lower back, right at the junction of your waist—so carefully, it makes your heart beat a little faster. Despite his inhuman strength, Malleus holds onto you gently, not wanting to bruise you from his crushing grasp. And then, the room around you suddenly fades away—the hundreds of pairs of eyes on you fade to black, the delicate melodies fade to white, the sheer magnitude of magic and splendor falls away and you see only the verdant of his irises, glittering emeralds as bright and eternal as the crystals sparkling around you. The corners of his eyes crinkle just a bit, betraying an emotion he's rarely so candid with outside the sanctum of your relationship. His next words, a dreamy whisper of reassurance, cause butterflies to flutter through your stomach and the hot flush of your cheeks to flood over you.

"Just let me lead and I will bring you to paradise."

Those are his only words as the slow waltz of the orchestra starts, beginning the dance that will set you two into a careful and synchronous flow with each other. Your feet move effortlessly with him, never straying even as he picks up the pace, the momentum between the two of you increasing. You feel him cradle the curve of your body close to him, holding you in the nook of his arm as he deftly twirls you through the night's revels. Malleus expertly keeps pace with the orchestra, all while also maintaining the beat of his heart, which matches the rhythm of his footsteps. As he glides with a masterful ease around the room, every movement controlled and precise, the image you two paint in motion together is nothing short of flawless. There isn't a hitch or misstep in your movement, the two of you completely in sync with the beat, every turn and twist of the music matching each step of your waltz, as he leads you in complete command. His eyes never leave yours, only looking away to catch the flash of one of his deft maneuvers of your body. Time slows and you find yourself completely lost in the wonder as you gaze lovingly into the brilliant, viridescent pools of his irises—his gaze penetrates and drowns you in a wash of endearment, drinking in your visage with unrestrained emotion. It's intoxicating and dizzying, yet you're powerless to break away. As far as you're concerned, the other couples have completely disappeared, lost to the blur of the distance, and it is as though you're dancing to music that exists in a realm outside of the material world. Everything else pales in comparison to this ethereal fairytale—Malleus looks handsome beyond reason in his opulent uniform. The cut of the dark fabric seems to enhance the elegant definition of his strong shoulders and the perfect symmetry of his regal face, yet the lush tailoring highlights his muscular physique and the toned strength that hides under the gorgeous facade. His very essence, the ambiance he exudes, the captivating aura—it all acts as an enchantment of pure spellbound desire, beckoning for you to cast yourself into its endless depth, surrendering yourself entirely to him.

Every step, every sway, every twirl of your dance together is more surreal than the last. This fairy tale is unfolding right before your eyes and all you can do is feel your soul resonate with him. It's in the way your arms circle his body; it's in the way your breathing begins to match pace with his; it's in the way he sets your head spinning and fills your heart with an aching need to be closer. In a secluded corner of the dance floor, away from all the curious eyes, the waltz continues—a beautiful duet of your hearts connecting deeper with every step and spin, as if the magic is attempting to wrench your souls together, desperate to mingle them until they're indistinguishable. He cradles you in his embrace, holding your body against his. From the elegant swoop of his scale-covered forehead, to the sharp, sexy slope of his jawline, his handsome profile is aglow with radiant adoration as he stares down at you with half-lidded, smitten eyes, his cheekbones shadowed perfectly under the romantic light of the ballroom, giving him an ineffable mystique. You stare back at him, searching deep into the blackness of his slitted pupils until your heart aches as your mind rushes with so many unspeakable emotions that threaten to make tears well in the corner of your eyes. In that moment, your love for him burns brighter than the sun and is more potent than anything you have ever known. At last, he closes his eyes in contentment and sweeps you away, a dreamlike smile upon his lips as he spins you across the smooth ballroom floors, grasping onto you as though you are his only lifeline in the universe. Malleus moves as though in a dream, never faltering as he leads your soul into a euphoria you never thought possible, a state where words hold little meaning but the act of dancing could express everything. As he moves the two of you elegantly across the expansive floor, the ephemerality of your mortal existence burns starkly clear in your mind, while his ancient heart thrums within his chest—countless years of melancholy and loneliness he endured seem to give weight to every ponderous beat of his heart, resonating through his chest, enveloping you and shrouding you in the desperate urgency of his adoration for you. Even without uttering any confessions, his heart speaks them to you fluently—you and him are tied so intimately together, an unbreakable knot that holds the threads of your destinies and fate together in a weave too precious and fine to be cut or broken. His fingertips ghost along your neck, the gentle sensation setting your soul on fire, sending electric currents down to the very tips of your fingers and toes, as a powerful shudder rips through your body.

"Wherever I am, you belong by my side," Malleus tells you. His tone is soft, but filled with enough reverence to make your breath catch. He peers at you with uncharacteristic vulnerability, the mere existence of it is practically intoxicating, and he watches your reactions to him with wide and captivating eyes that give off the intensity of a solar eclipse.

"It was fated by the heavens. Our paths were always intertwined," his voice is just a tad unsteady, yet it resonates with his entire being.

For a moment, all the whispers that echo from the watching crowd silence—the buzz, the snippets of gossip about your relationship with the notorious prince—is as quiet and as inconsequential as a background tune to your dance. All those things were meaningless—their cruel whispers and jealous words, their apprehension and disapproval meant absolutely nothing. That momentary stillness grants you both a moment of solace; the very few seconds your lives needed for him to offer himself to you. A confession so pure it lifts the hair on the back of your neck: "I fell in love the moment I laid eyes on you. No one could possibly make my heart beat so wildly or ignite such fierce emotions as you do."

His words are just like the tempo of the violins that fill the chamber. Infinite. Mesmerizing. Their echoing sound lengthens into infinity, in their beautiful patterns, the bow caresses the strings and produces such an achingly sublime melody. They pierce through all the tension in the air and carry a stirring urgency along with them as they flow seamlessly with your bodies in sync. Every note perfectly transitions into the next, and the song swells to a climatic, fervid harmony that cannot be resisted. You want him with all the burning hunger and depth of a cosmic soul—for every molecule that composes you calls out to him and wants to interweave his being with your own, so that neither one can ever exist without the other. His form is graceful as you two blend into each other and the song in a divine synergy. Time stretches as the rapturous intensity of his longing is displayed on his face. As you look into his eyes, the entire expanse of his vast, magnificent soul is bared to you. No mortal has ever had the privilege to see him so honestly and fully exposed, yet Malleus gives you his everything—he's always been his whole self in your embrace. He holds you close, cradling your frame to him protectively, and the faint tremble of his grip reveals the depths of his emotional fragility as the passion of his love overwhelms him and renders him helplessly bare before you, like a servant devoted to the altar of an awe-inspiring, glorious God.

Suddenly, all those intense sensations coalesce into the single most beautiful sentiment of all, as the sum of these wonderful emotions create a glorious aria that rouses all the seraphic adoration and longing, and an emotional overdrive within him. With the sum of his desires and emotions pouring out of him in waves, Malleus opens his lips to pour forth his most secret and profound wish and what comes out next, the words barely a hushed murmur above the swelling musical climax, is an admission of raw love. "I wish to spend my eternal lifetime with you by my side. I long to spend it loving only you and I want us to grow together through the centuries as partners." His words, sincere, sentimental, and laced with the faintest traces of tears, are raw in their unapologetic declaration, and they contain within them a depth of devotion you didn't think possible for a soul to ever harbor.

His lip quivers, his eyes begin to shine, and he squeezes them shut just as the first tears begin to flow, spilling over the waterline of his closed eyelids and dripping down his high cheekbones. Tapered fingers firmly intertwine yours and he desperately gazes at Lilia, whose red eyes sparkle in a proud mist as he looks on, giving Malleus an encouraging nod. Finally, the dam is broken—the smile that cracks at the corners of Malleus' mouth blooms, causing his already dazzling complexion to gleam and become impossibly more breathtaking as a sweet, ecstatic sob bubbles out of his lungs. Tears of joy roll down his cheeks as a wide grin takes up half his face, the verdant color of his irises shimmering brilliantly through a crystalline veil of sparkling tears. Thanks to the confidence and encouragement Lilia—his Father—has instilled in him, he finally feels ready to face his destiny, and take you alongside him as an equal. He clears his throat.

"I understand you are a human of little power, a short-lived creature whose days will fleet and wane like that of a candle before a blizzard," his voice is somewhat hesitant, faltering a tad as his anxieties manifest, his vocal chords shivering as he stumbles over his own emotion. His free hand finds its way to clutch the front of his attire, as though the mere mention of you near death makes his heart seize in his chest. His lips form a pout, brow creasing deeply as his breath shakes while you clutch his cheek, a thumb smoothing over his cheekbone, collecting his tears. Then, Malleus steels his features as he delivers his ultimatum. When his beautiful, soulful gaze finds you, there's an immovable determination and steadfastness that betray the fact that he's already made the choice, and your presence at his side is inevitable. "Therefore, in order to make our union possible and feasible, I spent countless hours researching every ancient text and scroll to seek a loophole, to bend the fates and twist their strings around my fingers." His lips curl to the side and his eyebrows raise ever so subtly, an adorable hint of pride shining in the smile he wears. "At last, my labor produced a solution. It is possible through an ancient rite to bind my soul to a chosen mortal partner."

Your heart speeds as a burst of joy courses through your veins like fire. The crescendo of the orchestra and his musical words are building to a harmonious convergence, a swelling refrain of the melodies both your lives have played, culminating in a resplendent final verse, a foreordained tune of two halves at last being joined. It's almost too much for you to take; the very walls of this beautiful, mystical room threaten to melt away and fade from your awareness, and all you can comprehend is his stunning, baritone voice. "If you accept my blessing, your lifespan will be linked to mine for as long as I walk the realm of the living.” Malleus tells you, a tad smug at the work he has done on your behalf. “All I ask in return for giving you eternal beauty, granting you my protection, and offering you my whole life is that we come to be as one. Two souls permanently linked and intertwined for the eternity of our existence together. You will forever share my immortality and accompany me as we walk among the stars until they eventually go out. And even in the wake of that devastating eventuality, I promise to care for you, tend to you, and love you for however many eras remain. Please be my betrothed, my beloved child of man, for I cannot bear to let you go and there is no force that can tear me away from you."

He squeezes your hand before dropping to one knee. In the center of the expansive room, surrounded by hundreds of guests, his emerald orbs peer up at you through heavy lashes as his lips begin to part, finally ready to ask the one question that may finally put an end to the solitude he has endured since he first came into existence. He pulls a ring box from the interior of his tailcoat, his shaky hands slowly flipping open the box to reveal a platinum band in the shape of a dragon encasing a deep viridian gem, forged from the magical energies of his Draconia ancestors. The ring was last worn by his Mother before her untimely demise, and his Grandmother was insistent that Malleus should one day gift his betrothed this one piece of family history. As the ballroom goes completely silent and the eyes of his subjects rest on the two of you with rapt, nervous attention, Malleus draws in a wavering inhale to steady his quivering voice as he fights the fear of rejection, before allowing the soft and tender question to slip past the careful line of his lips, "Will you marry me?"

Do y'all want part 2? Am I cruel for leaving it off there? In "x Reader" fics, I like to limit putting words in the reader's mouth or feelings in reader's head so that I can let you decide for yourselves how you wish to experience my stories. I am happy to pick back up where I left off if there is demand for it. Otherwise, I hope you continue weaving this tale in your own daydreams and fantasies. Thank you for reading and for your support of my writing! 💚 Erica Malleleothreesome P.S. I'm SORRY my paragraphs are so long I truly DO NOT UNDERSTAND when to break paragraphs, I hope it doesn't ruin your experience!

[fafnir19]

The lingerie boutique

Leif stood at the threshold of the lingerie boutique, an unfamiliar nervousness pricking at him. His girlfriend's incessant chatter about her friends' partners embarking on risqué escapades for special occasions echoed in his mind. "Sexy photos, Leif. Sexy surprises! That's what other guys do," she had pouted, twirling a lock of her hair in that alluring way that always made his heart race.

Leif, a man in his early thirties with a burgeoning beer belly that spoke of late-night pizza indulgences, found it absurd. Despite his skepticism about the "sexy" trends of middle-aged men in lace and leather, Leif decided to take the plunge. His mind echoed with her words, urging him to step out of his comfort zone. So here he was, on a mission to find something "sexy" for her birthday.

Pushing his doubts aside, Leif entered the shop, greeted by a universe of lace and silk. He couldn't help but feel out of place amidst the sea of women browsing the intimate garments. His eyes darted around the shop, trying to avoid the judging gazes of the ladies as he tentatively made his way towards the men's section tucked discreetly in the corner. Among the crowd of women, he noticed only one other male in the shop, who exuded a confidence Leif could only dream of.

"Maybe he's buying something for his girlfriend," Leif thought, feeling a pang of insecurity as he fingered a delicate lace brief. This man was a stark contrast to Leif's own self-image, muscular and undeniably handsome. This type of guy seemed to belong in the sensuous garments adorning the displays - not Leif.

Gathering his resolve, Leif made his way to the changing rooms, his mind swirling with thoughts of how ridiculous he must look with his chubby frame and hairy chest. Once inside the changing room, Leif stripped down and reluctantly put on the lace briefs. Looking at himself in the mirror, he couldn't help but cringe at the sight. "I look ridiculous," he muttered to himself.

Tugging at the fabric, he realized it clung to him stubbornly, refusing to budge. Panic welled up inside him, and he made desperate attempts to free himself from the unforgiving lace. Frantic now, Leif made a decision born out of frustration. With a sudden burst of strength, he tried to tear the briefs off, only to be met with excruciating pain that shot through his body like a lightning bolt. The room seemed to spin as agony consumed him, and he closed his eyes against the relentless torment. It was as if tendrils of magic seeped into his being, reshaping him from the inside out.

Moments later, as the pain ebbed away, Leif cautiously opened his eyes and glanced at his reflection once more. What he saw left him speechless. Staring back at him was a young man in his twenties, chiseled features and a physique that seemed sculpted by a divine hand.

A mixture of shock and disbelief coursed through him as he whispered, "What happened to me?" In a daze, Leif hastily donning his old, oversized clothing over the lace briefs. However, to his horror, his t-shirt began to tighten around him and the fabric of his t-shirt transformed before his eyes, changing from drab cotton to elegant white lace. The cut of the shirt reshaped itself into a stylish button-down shirt, and as if by magic, the sleeves rolled up on its own. Buttons of his button-down shirt slowly unfurled, unveiling a smooth, hairless chest that bore no resemblance to the man he once was. The transformation didn't stop there. His jeans shimmered and turned into tight luxurious silk pants. The silky texture against his now slender thighs and sculpted buttocks elicited an unexpected sensation of arousal, causing a soft moan to escape his lips involuntarily and shocking Leif to his core. "That's not me. I need to get out of here," he whispered to himself, a sense of urgency driving him to leave the changing room. Finally his worn-out trainers transformed into stylish loafers, completing his new look, showcasing his now naked ankles and leaving him feeling exposed and vulnerable.

Overwhelmed and confused, Leif stormed out of the changing room, intent on escaping the eerie enchantment of the shop.

In a twist of serendipity—or perhaps cruel irony—Leif collided with the other male customer in the shop, a man named Brandon. Brandon smirked at Leif, his green eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Leaving so soon, my handsome boy?" his smooth voice resonated in the small space, sending shivers down Leif's spine. Startled and unsure how to react, Leif stammered, "I-I... I need to go." But Brandon's hand reached out, gently touching Leif's arm. "How about we grab a coffee? It's the least I can do after causing such a commotion." His grin was playful, enticing.

Leif was taken aback, unsure of how to respond to such an unexpected proposition. His initial reaction was a mix of alarm, disgust and discomfort at the suggestive undertones in Brandon's words. “This imposing man sees my young and delicate silk- and lace-clad form only as an invitation to bring me to suck his cock," Leif mentally recoiled, trying to find a way out of the situation.

As Leif crushed his mind about an non-offensive response and gazed incidentally at Brandon's muscular frame, a wave of envy washed over him. Brandon exuded confidence and power, a stark contrast to Leif's own insecurities. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy at Brandon's commanding presence, his own sense of self-doubt magnified in comparison.

Leif felt a rush of conflicting emotions flood his mind – despite a tinge of jealousy at Brandon's apparent confidence he also felt admiration for the man's muscular physique and his intense green eyes.

Thoughts raced through Leif's mind like a wild stallion, each one more scandalous than the last. He couldn't help but notice how impeccably dressed Brandon was and how good he was looking. His tailored suit hugging his muscular frame in all the right places. The younger version of Leif felt a tingle of attraction towards this dominant man standing before him. But then, a scent caught Leif's attention - the pleasant, manly smell of Brandon's cologne. It enveloped him like a warm embrace, stirring up desires he never knew he had. Images flashed through his mind like lightning, each one more erotic than the last. He imagined what it would be like to kiss Brandon, to feel the roughness of his stubble against his skin.

And then, like a bolt from the blue, a shocking confession slipped past Leif's lips before he could even process it. "Yes, I want to suck your cock, Brandon!" he blurted out, his cheeks flaming with embarrassment as soon as the words left his mouth.

Brandon's lips curled into a sly smile, a predatory glint shining in his eyes as he seized the opportunity presented to him. Without a word, he guided Leif into a secluded changing room, the air thick with anticipation.

The small confines of the room felt suffocating yet thrilling, the quiet rustle of fabric the only sound between them. Leif's heart pounded in his chest, his body responding to the primal call of desire. Kneeling before the man whose dominance seemed to awaken a submissive side within him, Leif delved into uncharted waters, his actions guided by a primal urge he had never acknowledged before.

The taste of danger lingered on his lips as he took Brandon in, exploring a side of himself he never dared to acknowledge. Brandon's fingers tangled in Leif's hair, guiding him with a firm yet gentle touch. Leif's breath ghosted over Brandon's skin, each whispered touch sending shivers down his spine. Pleasure mingled with trepidation as Leif traced his tongue along the length of Brandon's cock, savoring the salty sweetness that teased his senses. With each passing moment, Leif found himself consumed by a heady mix of apprehension and exhilaration as he pleasured Brandon.

After the storm of passion subsided, Brandon's fingers threaded through Leif's hair, a silent gesture of approval and satisfaction. With a whispered "Thanks, boy," Brandon left the changing room without a backward glance.

Leif was confused and still kneeling there, as a sense of unease settled in the pit of his stomach. Despite the raw intensity of the moment, he couldn't shake the feeling of being used, of being reduced to a mere object of desire. Nevertheless, his relationship with his girlfriend, once a cornerstone of his existence, now seemed like a distant memory.

[ladywhistlewrites]

Chapter 2 : face to face

The grand hall of Buckingham House was a symphony of opulence. Crystal chandeliers hung like constellations from the high ceilings, casting a warm, golden light that bathed the room in an ethereal glow. The walls were adorned with rich tapestries and gilded mirrors, reflecting the splendor of the assembled guests. The air was filled with the harmonious strains of a string quartet, their music weaving an intricate tapestry of sound that added to the evening’s elegance.

Y/N stood with her parents at the entrance of the hall, her heart a delicate flutter in her chest. Her father, Baron Y/L/N, stood tall and proud, his stern demeanor softened only slightly by the occasion. Her mother, the baroness, was a vision of grace, her gown a masterpiece of deep emerald silk that shimmered with every movement. Y/N herself wore a dress of lavender silk, the delicate lace trim and tiny pearl adornments catching the light in a way that made her appear almost otherworldly. Her hair was styled in an intricate updo, tiny curls framing her face and pearls woven into the dark strands.

“Remember to smile, dear. Confidence is your greatest asset,” her mother whispered, squeezing Y/N’s hand gently.

Y/N nodded, her heart pounding in her chest. She scanned the room, noting familiar faces among the sea of nobility—friends and acquaintances, all adorned in their finest attire, each one a picture of elegance and poise.

The line of young ladies waiting to be presented to the Queen moved slowly forward, and soon it was Y/N’s turn. The grand doors to the throne room were opened by liveried footmen, and Y/N felt a surge of apprehension. Her mother gave her hand a final reassuring squeeze before stepping back, allowing Y/N to proceed alone.

With measured steps, Y/N advanced toward the Queen, who sat regally upon her throne, her discerning eyes fixed upon each debutante with an appraising gaze. The room seemed to hold its breath as Y/N approached, the weight of expectation heavy upon her shoulders.

She executed a flawless curtsy, lowering her gaze respectfully. “Your Majesty,” she intoned, her voice steady despite the butterflies in her stomach.

Queen Charlotte regarded her for a long moment, her expression inscrutable. The silence stretched on, and Y/N could feel the eyes of the court upon her, every heartbeat echoing in her ears. Then, to Y/N’s immense relief, a faint smile graced the monarch’s lips. “Rise, Lady Y/N. It is a pleasure to welcome you to court.”

Y/N straightened, meeting the Queen’s gaze with a mixture of humility and determination. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

With a nod from the Queen, Y/N was dismissed, and she made her way back to her parents, her heart racing with a mix of relief and exhilaration. She had passed the first test, but she knew this was only the beginning.

As the evening progressed, Y/N mingled with the other guests, her parents proudly introducing her to various eligible bachelors and influential figures. The atmosphere was a heady mix of anticipation and excitement, the buzz of conversation punctuated by the clink of crystal glasses and the laughter of the elite.

Y/N exchanged polite pleasantries, her mind partially preoccupied with thoughts of the future. She wondered about the paths that lay before her, the choices she would have to make, and the people she would meet. Her thoughts were interrupted when she was approached by a tall, handsome gentleman with striking dark eyes and an easy smile.

“Lady Y/N,” he greeted, bowing with practiced elegance. “Might I have the pleasure of a dance?”

Y/N curtsied, offering a gracious smile. “Of course, Lord Bridgerton.”

As they moved to the dance floor, the music swelled around them. Y/N found herself twirling gracefully in the arms of her partner, who she knew well as Anthony Bridgerton, the eldest of the Bridgerton siblings. His charm was undeniable, and their conversation flowed effortlessly.

“You handled your presentation with remarkable poise,” Lord Bridgerton remarked as they danced. “The Queen seemed quite taken with you.”

“Thank you, Lord Bridgerton,” Y/N replied. “I must admit, it was a rather daunting experience.”

He smiled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “You certainly did not show it. Tell me, Lady Y/N, what do you look forward to most this season?”

Y/N hesitated, contemplating her answer. “I suppose I look forward to the possibilities,” she said finally. “To discovering what life has in store for me.”

“A wise approach,” he said approvingly. “Too often, we become entangled in the expectations of others and forget to seek our own path.”

His words resonated deeply with Y/N, and she found herself relaxing in his company. As the dance came to an end, Lord Bridgerton escorted her back to her parents, who were engaged in conversation with another couple.

“Thank you for the dance, Lord Bridgerton,” Y/N said with genuine gratitude.

“The pleasure was mine, Lady Y/N. I hope we might have another opportunity to converse during the season.”

She smiled, feeling a flicker of excitement. “I would like that very much.”

As the evening drew to a close, Y/N reflected on the day’s events. She had been introduced to society, had danced with a charming gentleman, and had managed to capture the attention of the Queen. Yet, she knew that this was merely the beginning of her journey.

Returning home, she felt a renewed sense of purpose. This season would be hers to navigate, and she was determined to do so on her own terms. She would not simply be a pawn in the matchmaking game; she would be the author of her own story, forging a path that aligned with her desires and ambitions.

With each step she took, Y/N felt more certain of her resolve. The season stretched out before her like an uncharted map, full of opportunities and challenges. And she was ready to embrace them all, with unwavering determination.

The next morning, as she sat in the garden with her dearest friend, Eloise Bridgerton, Y/N recounted the events of her presentation.

“You were the picture of elegance, I’m sure,” Eloise said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “And what of my brother? Did he behave himself?”

Y/N laughed. “He was the perfect gentleman, Eloise. We had a lovely dance.”

Eloise rolled her eyes playfully. “Well, that’s a relief. But enough about him. Tell me, Y/N, what do you truly want from this season?”

Y/N looked at her friend, feeling a swell of affection. “I want to find my own path, Eloise. To be more than just a debutante seeking a husband. I want to discover who I am and what I can become.”

Eloise nodded, her expression thoughtful. “Then let’s make a pact, shall we? To support each other in finding our own destinies, whatever they may be.”

Y/N smiled, reaching out to take Eloise’s hand. “Agreed.”

As the two friends sat together, surrounded by the blooming flowers and the promise of a new day, Y/N felt a renewed sense of hope. She would face the challenges of the season with courage and determination, and with Eloise by her side, she knew she could achieve anything.

This was her time, her story, and she was ready to make it unforgettable.

Just as she was about to resume her conversation with Eloise, a maid came to them with a tray in hand.

“Lady Y/L/N, Lady Bridgerton…” she whispered quickly.

“I believe you should read the latest Whistledown pamphlet” she stated.

****

author’s note:

sorry for late posting!!!! It’s still Friday tho so… no alright I’m sorry I should’ve posted this afternoon :(( promise I’ll do better next week!! see ya next Friday lovelies 🩷🩷

[kathiraven]

Once upon a time, there was a powerful magician named Magnus. He lived alone in a grand castle atop a towering mountain, far away from prying eyes. One day, he decided to celebrate his birthday...

with a special spell. He conjured up a cake, candles flickering merrily, and a bottle of finest wine. The aroma filled the air, intoxicating and sweet. But then, something unexpected happened

As Magnus blew out the candles, wishing for a devoted servant, a blinding flash of light illuminated the room. When the glare subsided, standing before him was none other than the birthday man himself - transformed into Magnus' personal servant!

The man, now clad in simple robes, gazed around in confusion, trying to comprehend what had transpired. Magnus, amused by this twist of fate, welcomed his new servant with a mischievous chuckle. The former birthday man, now known as Servimus, quickly learned to navigate this strange new world, discovering hidden talents and strengths along the way.

The former birthday man, now known as Servimus, quickly learned to navigate this strange new world, discovering hidden talents and strengths along the way.

Intrigued by the possibilities, Magnus focused his attention on Servimus' attire. With a snap of his fingers, the servant's plain robes vanished, replaced by a stunning ensemble that accentuated his newly enhanced physique.A sleek, form-fitting suit of shimmering silk hugged Servimus' frame, emphasizing his broad shoulders and lean waist. The deep V-neckline revealed a tantalizing glimpse of smooth, tanned skin. The trousers clung to his muscular legs, tapering down to stylish boots adorned with gleaming buckles.The outfit was completed by a flowing cape, its edges trimmed with intricate embroidery that seemed to dance and shift in the light. Magnus admired his handiwork, pleased with how the garments highlighted Servimus' masculine beauty.Servimus, still adjusting to his new appearance, looked down at himself in wonder.

Magnus, seeing Servimus' discomfort, felt a pang of guilt. He did not want to force his new servant to live in a body that made him uncomfortable. So, with a gentle touch and a whisper of magic, he transformed Servimus back to his original self.But then, something wonderful happened. Servimus, now fully aware of his true feelings, embraced his newfound identity. He accepted his desires and the changes that came with them. And with Magnus' continued support and understanding, they forged a bond unlike any other – one based on mutual respect, trust, and love.

Yes, as Servimus grew more comfortable in his own skin, he began experimenting with different styles of clothing. He adopted the latest trends popular among the gay community, embracing the freedom and expression that fashion allowed.His wardrobe expanded to include tight jeans that showcased his well-toned legs, paired with snug tank tops that displayed his muscular arms. He also favored leather jackets, their supple texture contrasting against his smooth skin.And just like that, Servimus transformed not just physically but also sartorially, embodying the essence of modern gay fashion.

Magnus couldn't help but admire Servimus' bold new look. The way the tight clothes hugged every curve and contour of his servant's body sent shivers down the wizard's spine.Their interactions became charged with a newfound intimacy, their gazes lingering a moment too long, their touches tinged with a hint of longing. It was as if the very fabric of their relationship had been rewoven, the threads of affection and lust intertwined in a complex tapestry of emotions.One evening, as they sat together in the dimly lit library, Magnus found himself drawn to Servimus in a way he never had before. The fire crackling in the hearth cast flickering shadows across their faces, heightening the sense of forbidden allure.

 In the silence broken only by the soft rustle of pages turning and the crackling of the fire, Magnus leaned closer to Servimus, his breath warm against the servant's ear. Would you like me to show you another trick? he whispered, his voice low and husky.

[tacticiankate]

chibis of my exalted party (minus one, cause they kept changing their character lol)

in order: shimmers-among-silk (full moon lunar), hides-behind-teeth (changing moon lunar), drifting ash veil (night caste fireball sorcerer solar), hope-tearing tyrant (fire aspect dragonblooded)

[the-fiction-witch]

Princess Of Darkness

Chapter One Sit The Throne

The family had gathered, in the throne room. With Lords and Ladies to bear witness to the proceedings ahead. The tall hall echoed with shuffling feet and shifting silk, the muttering of theories and speculation. Rumour had also begun to shift among those whom knew its meaning, they said a spark of fire was seen across the night sky the evening prior whispers of Rhaperzys in the halls. But far more important matters took president today. 

The throne sat empty with the hand of the King, Otto Hightower standing beside it. 

On one side stood the Greens, Alicent at its head holding the hands of her children Aegon and Aemond, in a gown of deep regal green a star of the seven around her neck. Her children loomed around her Heleana the most distance from her mother. 

On the other far across the hall stood the blacks, Rhaenyra and her husband Daemon both dressed in black and red Targaryen colours with dragon embroidery and armoured scales, a valriyan steel necklace around the princess' neck. Their children were around them Lucerys clutching his mother's hand. 

In the centre stands Vaemond Velayron, Rhaenys and Baela in deep blues but still black within their clothes. 

Three rules of three lands, Of Kings Landing, Of Dragonstone, Of Driftmark. All here for a single purpose, to make it known before lords and all ears who can hear it. Who is heir to what titles and where. 

"Let us begin this, then," Otto demanded, 

Rhaenyra was first to step forward, leaving Lucerys hand to walk to the centre staring down at the throne she was promised so long ago, "Need I remind the court, that less than twenty years ago in this very-"

But before the meeting can even really begin the doors open wide and the sunken withered figure of the king is seen. 

"King Viserys of House Targaryen!" The king's guard announced, "The first of his name, king of the andals, and the roynar, and the first men. Lord of the seven kingdoms and protector of the realm." 

The clacking sound of viserys cane echos through the hall louder than any dragon cry, the sound seems to grow only louder as he walks and the room around him silences, like bells on a clocktower ringing out to all in attendance, ringing out the time that soon was looming. 

Colour drained from all those in attendance, expressions of shock, surprise and fear.

His mask hides his face but shimmers with his crown in the candlelight, his breaths heard even over his cane. 

When he walks he doesn't glance at his wife queen Alicent even if she looks at him with desperation, he does look at his daughter the princess Rhaenyra their eyes meeting for the first real time in what had felt like years, yet his brother Daemon couldn't bare to meet the eyes of his brother and his king. 

"I... I will sit the throne today." King Viserys decreed giving Otto the demand without a shred of doubt to his tone, 

"You're grace," Otto nodded taking his leave to stand with his daughter, 

King Viserys continues but the steps of the throne begin to weaken him, his king's guard attempts to assist but he forces the man away brushing him off with a simple "I'm fine." But only two more steps and his breath fails him, his body clutching to the cane in hand to keep him from falling,

The crown slips from his head, and the sound of the metal hitting stone echoes out silencing every breath in the room, the time between felt like hours to all in attendance. 

But, in a mercy for his brother Prince Daemon moves swiftly from his wife and children, and picks up the crown in hand,

"I said I'm fine," Viserys demands until his eyes meet his brother, 

A thousand words are shared between their eyes in the second that they meet, a lifetime of unspoken things pours out like a broken damn, but all that leaves the princes' lips is, "Come on." In a hushed whisper so low not even the king's guard would hear him.

Viserys agrees and slowly takes each step with Daemon's support, before finally he sits on the Iron throne. 

Daemon doesn't even hesitate to straighten the crown and place it upon his brother's frail head,

Only then does Viserys let out a clear breath, 

Daemon doesn't speak another word simply making his way back down the steps and beside his wife. 

"I... must admit... my confusion... I do not understand... why potions are to be heard... about a settled succession.." King Viserys asks in the best voice he can muster,

Alicent picks at her nails secretly, as she tries to bite back her words.

"The only one present, who might offer keener insight, into lord Corlys wishes is the Princess Rhaenys." 

"Indeed your grace," Rhaenys spoke briefly her eyes met Veamond before she walked forward with slow and tender steps,

Rhaenyra, grimaced trying to hide her concern for the words to come from Rhaenys, 

"it was ever my husband's will that Driftmark would pass through Ser Leanor, to his true born son Lucerys Velaryon. His mind never changed... nor did my support of him." she said, "As a matter of fact the princess Rhaenyra has just informed me of her desire to marry her sons Jace and Luke to Corlys granddaughters Beala and Rhaena. A proposal to which I heartily agree." 

"Well... the matter is settled again. I hereby reaffirm, My heir As Princess Rhaenyra of house Targaryen, her heir in turn Jacaerys Velayon. And Lucerys of house Velayon heir to Driftmark, the driftwood throne and the next lord of the tides." 

Rhaenyra takes the hand of her son Luke once more with a smile across her lips, 

Rhaenys returns to her place beside her granddaughter Beala, 

Alicent finds her words choked in her throat, begging for a moment to speak but the words never come. 

But this moment is broken. 

When the doors of the throne room are opened once more with a heavy thud, to reveal a figure long since forgotten. 

Mutterings and whispers begin among the lords and ladies, Jaws drop, and eyes widen by all in attendance. 

Disbelief washes over the faces of Otto, Alicent, Rhaenyra and Rhaenys. 

Confusuion over Jacacerys, Lucerys, Baela, Rhaena, Aegon, Helaena and Aemond. 

But she makes no time for gawking, 

She walks, her steps are purposeful and firm but without a single sound, so as she steps you barely see change in the fabric or her body as if she doesn't walk but hovers over the stone. 

Her gown is a long trumpet skirt of black silks and organza that trails a good few inches behind her, a boned bodice of deep purple almost black textured fabric, with a V neckline that reaches her stomach laced with black ribbon, black cold shoulder inner sleeves reach down to her hands gracefully pinned around her thumbs with sheer purple outer sleeves that drapes down to the floor, she wore a long silver necklace with a single start pendant, as well as a gauntlet on each wrist.

 On her back a sheathed greatsword with a silver star pommel, a purple grip with silver spiral beaded into the handle. 

Long elegant dark hair littered with silver star pins, with two streaks of Valyrian pale blonde that framed her face.

And the deepest purple eyes seen in ten generations. 

"Who is that?" Lucerys whispers to his mother, 

"...That..." Rhaenyra struggles to answer,

"That is Lady Astra of house Dayne," Daemon answers for her, 

"We need to leave." Rhaenyra forced out the words quietly, 

Astra walked eyes firmly on the throne, without giving a glance to all those who loomed before her. 

When she finally reached the steps of the Iron throne she curtsied slow and low almost to her knees, her eyes never once leaving the crown and throne. 

"Your Grace," She said, "Hello Uncle." 

Commissions here

[fishnets-fingers]

Forbidden Hours

“Sounds like someone’s projecting,” he says, voice laced with honey.

“I’m not projecting anything.”

“Sounds like what you’re saying is that you’re jealous that I have the confidence to partake in intercourse and you’re a bumbling virgin-“

“I’ve read all of the volumes of the Kamasutra. I know my way around when I need to engage in coitus for reproduction,” she cuts him off.

“Oh, sweet sweet Princess,” he whispers, using her title condescendingly. “Sex is more than just reproduction.” He strides towards her.

PAIRING - spy!harry x princess!y/n

a/n - happy first day of 2023! this is my first time writing historical fiction. it’s loosely inspired by a movie, particularly this scene. it’s not historically accurate in the slightest. you can read more about the chola dynasty here. don’t know how many parts this would have but i’m hoping to write more of these two’s dynamic. if you have any ideas, let me know. as always, like and reblog. feed back is not only appreciated but much welcome. happy reading!

Word Count - 4.2k (not proofread)

MASTERPOST | PART TWO

….

நிழல். Shadow. That was his nickname among the royal heirs. He was quiet, swift, inconspicuous, and nimble - camouflaging himself in vast rooms and gathering intel. There wasn’t a room in the kingdom he couldn’t weasel himself in; whether that be up on the roof, scaling walls, or hidden in the dark - where candle lights don’t flicker.

Growing up as the son of a British sea merchant, Harry learned that there wasn’t much for a young boy to do in the cramped quarters of the ship. He’d lost his mother the moment he took his first breath. There wasn’t a lot of maternal warmth in his life but that wasn’t to say that he wasn’t loved. He was loved in a different way, his father kept him close during the wuthering nights at sea often pointing out constellations in the night sky to remind him that life had far more in store for him than the fervent passing waves of the sea. But he was also a man that did not believe in making mistakes, so whenever Harry got in trouble, he was asked to scrub the deck floor clean until his hands bled. He learnt his way around a sword from the crewmen. Travelling to different ports of the world also meant learning different forms of combat and gathering information from people of different cultures. Stewing in a ship with ten men for months meant no entertainment, so he began sifting for stories and used their weakness and strengths against them to gain favours.

He docked on Chozhamandalam when he was twenty and was greeted with a red swallowtail flag with a pouncing tiger on it. He grew to love the people of Kaveripattinam - the bustle of the markets, the chortle of the children running about, the welcoming people, and the way art was particularly celebrated in this small port town, and the princess he set his sights on his third day of being docked there. He’s heard of royalty. Lots of royalty. Cruel rulers. Compassionate rulers. Ostentatious rulers. Modest rulers. Heard. But he’s never seen one in the flesh. Until that day.

A crowd gathered near the temple, murmurs of visiting royals spread like wildfire, and when he’d caught wind of it, he couldn’t resist. Ten soldiers walked first clearing the path, two on horses and sheathed swords followed, then came ten men bearing the weight of a palanquin. It wasn’t an ordinary palanquin, this particular one was grandiose, shimmering in gold and stained glass but the insides were draped in silk to obstruct the view of the onlookers. The Queen Mother exited first, greeting the townspeople and that’s when Harry saw her - the Princess Regnant, the one third in line to the throne. He found himself unable to tear his eyes away from the way her lips curled up in an inviting smile. Harry has seen many a sight in his life but none would compare to the way the royal blue silk saree draped around her body made her skin shimmer; it reminded him of how the first light of the sun would glint and glimmer on the steady ocean water. Her eyes were dark, like the deepest part of the sea where light does not enter. She was adorned in gold, hair piled up into a tall bun that was decorated with jasmine flowers. Their temple visit was brief, the Princess joined her grandmother thanking people for their well wishes before being escorted into the temple premises. It was her eighteenth birthday, so a feast was prepared for everyone in town. As the crowd dissipated to head to the town hall for the royal lunch, Harry lingered wanting to catch sight of the Princess again. He managed to climb a peepal tree that towered over the south entrance of the temple. He saw her again, only this time being told off by the guard as she tried to reach over to pluck a blooming lotus from the temple pond. She huffed in response settling down on the step, so the water lapped at her feet, guiding a tadpole trapped in a water bubble on the lotus pad back into the water.

Three years later, he’d made himself a name in the kingdom. His path stumbled with the Crown Prince a month after arriving. He soon became his confidant, even earning a spot in his army. The Crown Prince, Vikram, was a skilled warrior often going off on conquests under the King’s orders to further expand the country. The youngest Prince, Karthi, was sent to the island of Lanka to study apothecary and healing. And the middle heir, Princess Y/N, was known for her wisdom and strategic wit. She often presided in important meetings with the King and his counsel and implemented many strategies that helped triple the wealth of the dynasty and the well-being of the people. The first battle Harry rode alongside the Crown Prince, he was tasked with bringing home a note sent by the prince to his father detailing his plans on the war spoils to the King. Harry was entrusted with carrying secrets and messages to royalty and trusted members of the Crown. His knack of gathering information also came in handy and now was a spy for the royal heirs three years later.

Soon enough the nickname Shadow was bestowed upon him by Prince Karthi. There wasn’t a single room he couldn’t get into - even the castle. But the tower he was currently scaling was one he never had before - Princess Y/N’s chamber. It was forbidden to talk to her without supervision but in the dark of the night, he supposed it did not matter. His job description came with breaking rules and this particular information needed for her to be in the know sans protocols.

He hitched his leg up over the stone bannister and lurched his torso up to the terrace. Princess Y/N’s tower was away from the main dome of the royal vacation castle and he chalked it up for safety but now standing at her balcony, he understands why. The view was unbelievable - the vast expanse of the ocean was at his feet, calm waters painted silver with the full moon; it also overlooked her personal garden filled with coral jasmine, hibiscus, marigolds, and wildflowers. The ocean breeze carried over the fragrance of the flora straight to her room. It was well known that the princess was an avid gardener; he heard through the grapevine that oftentimes she’d sketch out the garden’s landscape plans and sometimes even join the workers to tend to the flower beds. Princes who came to court her from neighbouring territories would almost always bring a sapling of a flowering plant to gain affection.

One could get used to the view, he thinks, as he leans against the bannister one more time - the sounds of tides crashing over the shore soothe his nerves from his climb up. Being born with the golden spoon ain’t that bad. If the burden of duty came with such lavish living quarters, someone sign me the fuck up, Harry takes in the scenery before him before pushing off from it. His body instinctively makes his way to her, like a moth being drawn to a frame, or in this case a spy being drawn to the lavish canopy bed bathed in the buttery glow of candlelight. He stops in his tracks for the second time by the sight of her, not by the opulent beauty that she radiated when he first laid eyes on her but with fondness.

It’s not the Princess Regnant who’s fast asleep on her bed but Y/N. The same Y/N who bristles every time he’s in the room with her siblings. The same Y/N who straightens up her back and holds her chin up high when he cracks a joke to try and force a smile on her face.The same Y/N who looks away when he catches her eyeing him up as he hands over the sealed scroll sent by one of her brothers. It’s almost as if Harry is seeing her for the first time without any filters - except for the sheer white netted fabric that hangs around. She looks small without all the jewellery and silks. Hair raven and straight and long - longer than what he had anticipated - now that her hair has not been pinned up in a bun or bushed away from her face with intricate braids. She looks vulnerable - almost her age - a twenty one year old with a bare face that is not made up immaculately. She has dark circles under her eyes, and Harry deduces that it’s from reading all the books she has strewn over - opened - beside her on the satin sheets. Her lips are curled downwards; she frowns in her sleep and Harry has to try and fight the urge to reach over and smooth out the crinkle between her eyebrows.

He clears his throat, hoping she’ll wake up before he ends up touching her and landing himself in prison. She twitches in response, her steady deep breaths interrupted by a sharp inhale. He clears his throat again, louder this time, followed by, “Your royal highness.”

Y/N’s eyes flutter open, and she jolts up when she sees a tall figure standing beside her. “Who?” She asks, voice hoarse, eyes darting up over his broad chest.

“It’s me, Princess Y/N,” Harry answers.

“Mr. Styles.” Hand coming over to rub the sleep from her eye. “What are you doing here? In my chamber? You’re not allowed,” she states.

“I apologise, your majesty. I’ve been riding for five hours, ma’am. From the estate in the hills. Couldn’t risk having someone overhearing this for the sake of protocol,” he explains.

“So, was I right?” Y/N questions, shuffling out of her bed. Harry moves behind so she has the space to stand upright. “Are the governors convening?”

She gets no reply, making her flit her eyes up at his jade embers to find him staring at her body. Harry could make out the full curves of her breasts and hips with the flimsy white gown Y/N was wearing. Her nipples pebbled from the cold winds from the sea and peaks out the cotton fabric. She rolls her eyes, and snaps her fingers in front of his face to catch his attention. “I could have your eyes gouged out this instant, Harry Edward Styles! There are guards on the other side of this door.”

“Apologies, Princ-“

“You’re full of apologies tonight, aren’t you?” Y/N folds her arms, shielding her chest from his gaze.

“Sorry, Prin-“

Y/N laughs. “It’s far too late for formalities, Mr. Styles. Plus, they only apply to people who follow protocols and walk in through there,” she cocks her head to the carved wooden door. Considering you broke into my room by climbing my balcony, I reckon you can give it a rest. Call me Y/N.”

“Yes,” Harry nods. “Y/N,” he adds. Testing out the way her name rolls out of his mouth. He can’t help the way his dimples carve in his cheeks as the corner of his lips tug upward. I like it, he decides. He likes the way saying her name feels on his tongue, it’s rich and velvety and he wants to keep saying it again and again. “Please call me Harry.”

“Harry, tell me what you saw. Don’t leave out any details,” she orders, walking over to her desk.

Fucking shit, Harry shakes his head. How was he supposed to concentrate when the candles she was lighting only made the silhouette of her body more prominent. She could clearly see the swell of her bum and he’ll bet his entire fortune that she wasn’t wearing anything underneath other than that flimsy gown. He shamelessly lets his eyes rake up over her and his heart flutters when he meets her expenatant eyes, quill hovering over a parchment, urging him to vomit out what he knows.

“Yes. The Hill estate,” he clears his throat. “You’re right. Five governors held a secret meeting at midnight at the Bull temple. You know, the one that was destroyed last monsoon by a landslide.”

Y/N scoffs and lets out a chuckle of disbelief. “Of course, they pick the most obvious spot. Were you able to get a good look at who these governors are?”

“Yes. Do you want me to list them out?”

“Please,” she says, writing down each of the names that Harry listed. He walks closer to where she was hunched over, writing. Harry’s not surprised to see the elegance in her script.

“Impressive. Nice handwriting,” he comments.

“Hardly something to be impressed by, Harry.”

“Well, Y/N, it’s better than mine.”

“If you had tutors from all over the world, I’m sure your script will look just as impressive,” she adds.

“Of course.” He nods. “The meeting. The governors are unhappy with the decree to build schools using the tax money they’re collecting.”

“Of course they are,” she mumbles. “They’re all for taxes when they can use it to fatten themselves up but ask them to spend it on the children of their districts, they are suddenly unhappy with the new system implemented.”

“That’s not all.” Harry opens a silver box and pops a date into his mouth.

“Help yourself,” Y/N comments, shaking her head at his lack of etiquette. Harry’s face flushes with pink and he can feel the tips of his ears getting hot.

“It’s a long journey back here,” he tells her, avoiding her eyes in embarrassment and on cue his stomach rumbles.

Y/N eyes soften. “There are fruits in the basket. And here.” She walks over pulling out a glass jar filled with jujubes from the drawer by her bedside and brings it over to him.

“You have gummies in your drawer,” he notes, smirking at the half eaten jar of sugar coated coloured candy.

“I have a bit of a sweet tooth,” she tells him with a shy smile. He props himself on the table and she makes her way to her desk, watching him eat.

“Harry,” she calls out. “You said that’s not all,” she prompts.

“Your Uncle was there,” he tells her quietly, not wanting anyone to hear.

“My Uncle?” She asks, alarmed. “Can’t be.”

“I saw him, Y/N. He came in shrouded in a black cloak. He’s sired an offspring he said. Claimed that his son had a right to the throne. That’s as much as what was said before they dispersed.”

“You’re positive?”

“Are you implying that I’m being dishonest?”

“I’m not implying anything,” Y/N snaps. “I just want you to be sure.”

“I saw him with my own two eyes, Y/N. I was taken aback too. Both Princes speak of him fondly.”

“Seems like there’s a conspiracy afoot,” Y/N says, almost to herself.

“I’ll let Prince Vikaram know immediately,” he informs.

“Don’t. He’s hot headed. God knows he’ll come charging to the capital and stick a knife in my Uncle’s throat. I’ll take care of it myself.”

“What are you going to do?”

“That’s below your pay grade, spy. I’ll handle this myself. I’m heading to the capital tomorrow for a meeting with my father and the court. How long would it take for you to sail to Lanka alone?”

“Almost a week,” Harry answers.

“Okay. I want you to set sail to Lanka five days from now. I’ll have a scroll delivered to you at noon by the docks. Hand it over to Karthi. Father will want him back in the capital. Keep mum about this and you’ll be rewarded handsomely.”

Harry nods. “Don’t want gold coins this time. I want a house. Close to the sea. One with space for a yard.”

“I’ll see to it.”

“Thank you, Y/N. I’ll set sail five days from now to Lanka. It’ll also be nice to pay the old man a visit too.”

“Your father’s there?”

Harry nods.

“How is Merchant Styles? I heard he’s retired” Y/N asks.

“He took to Buddhist teachings. Become a proper monk now,” Harry chuckles.

Y/N laughs, one that’s laced with mockery.

“What’s so funny?” Harry asks, standing up abandoning the food.

“Nothing,” she gets out between peels of laughter, wiping her the tears that threaten to spill.

“With all due respect, Princess. Spit it the fuck out,” he huffs out in annoyance.

“It’s just funny. Your father practises a faith that preaches restraint of the senses as one of its precepts and then there’s you.” She bites down on her bottom lip to stop herself from breaking out into a fit of laughter.

“I don’t quite follow,” he crosses her arms.

“Of course you don’t,” she chuckles, straightening up and tilting her chin up.

“You always do that,” he points out. “Pretend you're better than me. It’s obvious you hate me when I’ve been nothing but friendly.”

“You’re not my friend. You’re Vikram’s friend. And Karthi’s. I don’t know you. And I know for a fact that I’m better than you,” YN's eyebrow raises in arrogance.

“What makes you so sure?” Harry takes a step towards her.

“Because, Harry Styles, you’re the proverbial whore of the town. I don’t go around screwing everything with a pulse,” she smiles arrogantly at him.

“How did you come upon this piece of information?” He asks her.

“News travels fast, especially with handmaidens. So, that’s why it’s funny. Your father practises self-restraint and you are on a mission to contract a venereal disease.”

“Sounds like someone’s projecting,” he says, voice laced with honey.

“I’m not projecting anything.”

“Sounds like what you’re saying is that you’re jealous that I have the confidence to partake in intercourse and you’re a bumbling virgin-“

“I’ve read all of the volumes of the Kamasutra. I know my way around when I need to engage in coitus for reproduction,” she cuts him off.

“Oh, sweet sweet Princess,” he whispers, using her title condescendingly. “Sex is more than just reproduction.” He strides towards her.

“It is. That’s what the textbook says: It's a womanly duty to service the man and bear his children. It’s sacred,” she insists, taking a step back.

“I’m surprised for someone with such progressive morals… Your view on pleasure seems archaic,” he takes a step toward her again.

“Books do not lie, spy. They have the whole truth.” She steps back again, bumping into the edge of her teakwood desk, trapping herself.

“What do your precious books say about the way your body sparkles when you reach a satisfying end?” He goads, taking a final step forward and invading her personal space.

“You are forbidden to come this close to me, Harry.” Y/N reminds him in futility. Feeling his hard chest against her, thighs rubbing up against him, she can feel his hard muscles straining against her and his warmth radiate, crawling its way into her skin.

“Call out to the guards then,” he reminds her, dropping his head down to nose at her temple.

“I will,” her voice is feeble. “You’ll be cut into pieces and thrown in the ocean.”

“I’ll take my chances,” he smirks, as his lips circuit down the shell of her ear. “I don’t see you telling me to stop.” His tongue laves at her lobe, teeth coming to clamp down gently and tug.

Y/N squeaks feeling his action go down straight to her core. “I know how to defend myself.”

“I don’t doubt it for a second.” He stops, pulling back to look at her. “You don’t need to fight me,” his voice rings with sincerity. “Just tell me to stop and I will, Y/N.” He looks at her, searching her face for an answer.

“What else?” She murmurs, after a few moments, looking up into his eyes.

“Hmm?”

“What else? Things that haven’t been mentioned in books,” she clarifies.

His eyes shine with mischief as he simpers, dimples dazzling. “Where do I start, Y/N…” he trails off, fully pressing himself against her chest. God, she’s so responsive, he marvels at the way her chest heaves against his, heart stammering a staccato against his own racing heart. She’s soft and warm and she smells heavenly. His lips find its way to the base of her jaw, dragging up and leaving open mouth kisses on her smooth skin. “When you find someone desirable, you feel the heat pool in your belly and spread like wildfire across every nerve ending of your body.” He kisses her cheek, a hand going to intertwine with hers.

“Have you felt that?” He asks, feeling hot puffs of her breath against his neck. Y/N shakes her head. “It’s not very noble to lie, Princess,” he whispers, lips moving against the column of her throat. “I see the way you fuck me with your eyes.”

“I do not-“ her voice cuts off as Harry suckles on her jugular, feeling her hammering pulse underneath his lips. She lets out a whimper that goes straight to his fattening cock. Y/N’s mouth falls open dragging in breaths of fresh air, her free hand bracing against the desk to hold herself upright. “I do not fuck you with my eyes.”

“Really?” He says popping off, his calloused fingers come to caress the agitated spot. He was careful not to leave a hickey but he loved the way her skin turned a baby pink in response to his ministrations. “I guess I must have imagined all those times you looked me up and down?”

“I guess you did, Harry,” her chest heaves as she tries to maintain composure. It wasn’t right to be doing this with Harry. It wasn’t right to be doing this with anyone outside the sanctity of a marital bed but it’s exhilarating, breaking rules. She’s not sure if it’s Harry or it’s just the thrill of doing something that might get her in trouble with her parents. They trust her. Trusted her enough to let her move out of the capital and to the port town with her grandmother because she wishes to live by the beach. And here she was enjoying herself with a plebian. A foreigner. A spy. She met him when she was eighteen as her brother’s friend and he was handsome. Chocolate brown curls, smatter of freckles on the bridge of his nose, a perfect smile, dimples, and an alluring set of mossy green irises. She’s heard stories and rumours of his sexual escapades and as much as she detested hearing those stories, she detested the fact that she’s been comparing the princes who had come to ask for her hand in marriage to him. But all she could think of was how strong his arm was wrapped around her waist, pulling her even closer to him.

“Stubborn,” he smirks up. “See what you do to me?” He presses his hard cock against her pelvic bone, watching the way her eyes darken as she realises, the sight smirk of hers doesn't go unnoticed by him. “You’ve been driving me insane since the day I saw you on your eighteenth birthday. Went back to my quarters and touched myself to the thought of you,” he confesses. “You’ve been in my dreams ever since.” He cups her cheek, thumb moving back and forth across her lips.

“Are you going to kiss me, Harry?” She asks, looking up at him.

“Have you kissed anyone before?” He questions.

She shakes her head. “My handmaidens have kissed the people who were courting them. They told me how to do it and helped me practise on fruit.”

“That so?” He smiles, lips ghosting her Cupid’s bow. “You know kissing is pretty easy, Y/N,” he declares. “But it’s also powerful” he tells her, lips moving against hers. “‘A kiss may ruin a human life.’”

“Oscar Wilde,” she says, recognising his quote, surprised by his knowledge of poetry. She gets on her toes, pulling her intertwined hand out of Harry’s, and running it down his chest, she can feel the way his muscles ripple underneath the fabric of his shirt. Her chest heaves, belly clenching in anticipation as he lowers tilts his head to the side, noses squished and her mouth opens in anticipation.

He presses his forehead against hers savouring the moment. “And I’m sure that if I start kissing you now, Princess… I might never be able to stop,” he tells her, breathing in her intoxicating sweet floral scent. He concedes by kissing her eyelids and he’s fighting the urge to not run his hands down her body and up her thighs to see if she’s wet for him, but he steps away wanting to be respectful.

Y/N can’t hide the disappointment in her face when backs away from her. His hands come to cup her cheeks, smearing a tender kiss on her forehead. “Never met anyone who has me on a chokehold, Y/N,” he confesses. “I shall bid my goodbye.” He brings her hand to his mouth and kisses her palm, pressing it to his cheek.

“See you Harry,” she smiles. “You’ll be given the scroll at the docks at noon five days from now,” she informs, standing upright; snapping back into the person she was before being pushed up against the desk by Harry.

“Princess Y/N,” he bows, popping a piece of jujube in his mouth before making his way to her balcony. He gives her a salute one last time before climbing down the tower during forbidden hours, like he always does. But this time, he’s rappelling down the side of the stone structure with butterflies in his tummy.

part two

LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK SO FAR!

[prythianpages]

ACOSM | The Night she made Azriel dance

azriel x rhysand's sister (oc)

warnings: angst/fluff? some suggestive content but nothing beyond a heated kiss

summary: The Court of Nightmares is celebrating Rhysand's accomplishment of enduring the blood rite. Valeria pulls Azriel for a dance and their unspoken feelings for each other begin to catch the attention of others.

A/N: this is an imagine among my collection of imagines that follow Rhysand's sister, Valeria. while I'm still working on them, you can find the masterlist for it here. You might be able to read it as a stand alone imagine.

**

Silver sconces flickered with ethereal flames, casting long shadows across the grand ballroom of the Court of Nightmares. At the heart of the grand chamber, a colossal crystal chandelier bathed the dance floor in a cascade of soft, enchanting light. The luminous crystals sparkled like stars, reflecting in the eyes of those gathered beneath. The tapestries, hung with pride and history, depicted battles, bloodshed, and triumphs of the fierce Illyrian warriors.

Tonight, the Court of Nightmares celebrated not only a warrior's coming of age, but the bonds forged through battles and hardships. The High Lord of the Night Court stood at the center of it all. Rhysand, his son and heir, stood to his right. He was dressed in obsidian finery lovingly crafted by his mother.

Valeria stood alongside her mother at the bottom of the stairs that led to their throne, her gaze avoiding her father at all costs…even as Rhysand kneeled before their father in acceptance of the new crown the High Lord held in his hands. She waited until the crowd that had gathered erupted into cheers, joining the High Lord in celebrating Rhysand, to leave her mother’s side.

She needed a drink.

As the musicians began to play a haunting melody, she made her way to the wine table. She wasn’t surprised to find Mor already there and under the influence. She wore an elegant black ball gown instead of her usual shades of red. Her brown eyes that were once full of life were dull and distant. She was still in mourning, joining Valeria in her lament for Mallory.

 Valeria had given her the jewelry box as soon as she had read Mallory’s letter. Upon her arrival to the Court of Nightmares, she had even stopped by Mor’s residence a couple of times to check up on her. She was turned down every time. She had even shut Rhysand completely out, not allowing either of the siblings in. She had chosen to mourn alone.

With a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, she poured a glass for Valeria.

**

Azriel and Cassian stepped into the grand ballroom, their large mesmerizing wings unfurled behind them. The two Illyrians, known for their rugged warrior appearance, had traded their customary leathers for a sleek ensemble befitting the grand occasion. They were both clad in tailored black suits that emphasized the lithe strength of their bodies.

Despite their fitting attire, they felt strangely out of place.

Azriel, partly concealed in his shadows, had an aura of quiet intensity. His eyes searched the room for a certain winged female. His shadows mirrored his request, sharing his determination. He was met with the same inexplicable magnetic pull that had seized him upon his return from the blood rite. 

Following that thread, his gaze swiftly alighted upon the raven-haired woman, who unknowingly, held the other end of the golden thread that beckoned Azriel closer. 

He gulped as his eyes raked over her frame, the first thing striking him of her appearance being the absence of her wings.

She was a vision of timeless beauty in a simple yet enchanting long ivory silk gown–a creation no doubt crafted by her mother’s loving and talented hands. Her long, raven hair tumbled down her back in loose curls that framed her face in a cascade of dark silk.

At her throat, she still wore the moonstone necklace gifted to her by Azriel, the delicate gemstone shimmering with an otherworldly glow.

Her violet eyes held a depth and intensity that continued to draw Azriel in as they met his hazel ones. Her brows rose slightly and he swore he saw the light return to her eyes.

In a blink of an eye, she was rushing toward him.

“Azriel,” she breathed, her voice laced with relief as she threw her arms around his taller, broader frame. She nestled her head against his chest as his shadows also joined him in in their embrace.

“Valeria.” He replied, matching her tone of relief as he held her tightly, the tension of their separation melting away in that single moment.

“Cassian!”

Valeria pulled away from Azriel sheepishly, still flushed with the emotions of their reunion. She turned to the Illyrian male beside him, who had called out his own name and waited for her with expectant open arms. She didn’t hesitate to move into Cassian’s brotherly embrace and he chuckled with delight.

"How have you been, my little warrior?"

She pulled away from Cassian. It was almost instinctive the way her steps drew her closer to Azriel, her body unconsciously seeking to be close to him. Azriel’s body did the same, their fingers brushing against each other lightly.

Cassian couldn’t help but notice the subtle, unspoken connection between them. He wondered if he should say something.

“Bored. No one to annoy, unfortunately.” Valeria finally answered his question, pulling Cassian from his thoughts. She then looked at Azriel, her eyes looking toward his shoulders.

“Where is–”

“Noctis is resting in your room.” Azriel answered before Valeria could finish. “We thought it would be too chaotic here for him.”--He saw the concern in her eyes at the thought of her bird being left alone.--”I left some of my shadows to keep him company.”

“Thank you.” Valeria breathed a sigh of relief. She made sure to look at both Azriel and Cassian, knowing that they along with her brother–who she already thanked earlier–carefully nursed her beloved bird back to health.

“The house is awfully quiet without you there.” Cassian commented with a small frown.

Rhysand’s voice suddenly emerged from behind. “I never thought I’d be the one to say this but I miss you and that damn bird keeping me up at night with your piano...and those awful chirps of his.” 

Valeria rolled her eyes, turning around to face her brother to make sure he caught the gesture. “His chirps aren’t awful. They’re lovely.”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever.” Rhysand chuckled, his eyes looking amongst their group. “Where’s Mor?”

Valeria’s eyes widened as she realized that her cousin had not followed her and chose to remain at the wine table instead. Her heart ached for her. 

Cassian sighed. “I’ll go get her.”

Azriel seated himself at the empty table nearby. Rhysand and Valeria followed after him with the latter taking the empty chair beside him. A wave of magic filled the air, and suddenly, a sumptuous array of food materialized at the center of the table. Empty plates appeared before them, ready to be filled. Azriel was the first to fill his plate with a tempting assortment of delicious food but instead of indulging in it himself, he extended the plate to Valeria. 

“Here,” He urged her, his voice gentle, as he offered her the plate. “You need to eat.”

“It’s been hard to find an appetite these days.” Valeria admitted quietly, accepting the plate from him with a small thanks.

She found an immense guilt to do anything as she mourned the loss of her friend. She didn’t think anyone had noticed but Azriel had. It was subtle but he noticed her thinner frame and the slightly sunken appearance of her cheeks.

Rhysand’s gaze remained fixed on the two, his violet eyes narrowing as he watched their interactions. Gratitude welled within him for Azriel’s vigilant care for his sister yet a flicker of suspicion ignited in his mind. He wondered if Azriel’s watchful care held a depth of meaning beyond mere brotherly intention…

Rhysand’s gaze abruptly tore from the two upon the arrival of Cassian and Mor at their table. Mor stumbled into her seat, across from him, with Cassian’s careful support. 

“Oh, this food looks ravishing,” she slurred as she stole a piece of bread from Azriel’s plate.

Azriel didn’t seem to mind. However, when Cassian reached over to steal the potatoes from his plate, Azriel promptly moved his plate out of Cassian’s reach, fixing him with a glare. There was humor dancing in his eyes. 

“Congrats, bat boys.” Mor grinned, referring to their accomplishment in the blood rite. She hadn’t seen them since Valeria’s birthday.  

“Bat boys?” Azriel questioned, his brows furrowing in slight confusion while Valeria’s amused reaction almost led her to choking on her food. Her laughter bubbled forth, finding their surprised and bewildered expressions highly entertaining.

Mor looked at Valeria and joined in.

“Bat boys,” Rhysand echoed, a smile playing on his lips as he swirled the wine in his glass. “I can’t say I hate it.”

The three men shared a knowing look, finding relief and joy in the sound of Valeria’s and Mor’s laughter. A sound they had feared they wouldn't hear again. The five of them continued to enjoy their dinner, engrossed in light conversation.

When the music began to pick up and people took to the dance floor of the grand ballroom, Rhysand noticed Valeria’s eyes light up. He knew how much she enjoyed dancing as he was often forced to be her dancing partner when they were children. Determined to keep the his sister in bright spirits, he extended his free hand to her.

Valeria hesitated for a moment and a frown fell over her face as a wave of guilt hit her then. Guilt for daring to feel joy when Mallory was robbed of any more experiences.

Warmth and reassurance suddenly filled her in that moment, the same strange way it did after her nightmares would wake her, washing away her guilt. It’s okay, it seemed to say.

She accepted her brother’s offer and with a smile from Rhysand, they made their way to the dance floor. The people dancing seemed to part for them, allowing them to reach the center. Their presence was compelling and piercing and a cool mask was on both of their faces. Some stopped and stared, admiring the beauty of the son and daughter of the Night Court. 

Rhysand and Valeria began to move together, their steps fluid and graceful. He led with care, guiding Valeria through the steps. His own violet eyes held a promise of better days to come, and in that moment, Valeria felt a sense of hope return to her heart.

The music swelled and Rhysand twirled Valeria with a flourish. She couldn’t help but smile again as the weight of her worries began to lift.

“There she is,” Rhysand smiled back at her.

As the song came to an end, she curtsied at her brother and when the orchestra began another song, her gaze landed on Azriel. He remained at the table, nursing a wine glass of his own. His shadows had been watching her every move with a curious intensity as he pretended to be engaged in whatever Cassian was saying as the latter animatedly waved his hands.

Rhysand followed her gaze with an amused smile and then chuckled. “Az doesn’t dance. You’d have better luck with Cassian. Although, he might step on your toes.”

A mischievous glint danced in Valeria’s eyes as Azriel’s gaze lifted to meet hers across the room. It was as if he heard his name being called.

“He will for me."

With a playful spin, Rhysand sent her Azriel's way, and she glided toward him. Azriel recognized the look in her eye immediately, already having an excuse ready for her. A lame one at that.

“I can’t dance.”

Valeria's eyes sparkled with an impish charm. "Your shadows tell me that's a lie."

"You can hear them?" Azriel raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised.

His shadows, usually silent and obedient, seemed to have a mind of their own tonight. They coiled back, looking almost sheepish. Only when we want her to, they responded with unexpected sass.

“Sometimes.” Valeria shrugged nonchalantly, as if hearing his shadows was entirely ordinary. "Doesn't everyone?"

Azriel shook his head slowly. "No, not everyone."

"Oh."

His shadows brushed through her hair, their cool tendrils ghosting past her ear. "Well, right now they're telling me your mother actually taught you how to dance."

"Traitors," Azriel muttered grumpily at his defiant shadows, who dared to laugh in his ears, swirling playfully between Valeria and him.

Valeria, however, wasn't about to take no for an answer. With a touch of determination and playfulness, she intertwined her fingers with Azriel's, catching him off guard. His heart quickened, and a soft smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he couldn't resist her any longer.

Complying with her invitation, Azriel rose from his seat, his eyes locked with Valeria's. Together, they stepped onto the dance floor, swaying to the gentle melody of the music.

In the midst of the crowd, they danced. It was a dance of shadows and moonlight, and in each other's arms, they found a rare and beautiful harmony.

Rhysand once again found his gaze fixed on the two as his sister and one of his closest friends--someone he considered his brother-- danced as if they were the only two in the room. Beside him, Cassian and Mor also watched the pair.

Cassian noticed the thoughtful furrow in Rhysand’s brow. “Something on your mind, Rhys?”

Rhysand hesitated before replying. “It’s Valeria. She and Azriel…”

“Oh, Rhys, you’re just being an overbearing and overprotective brother.” Mor couldn’t help but chuckle. She looked at Cassian, inclining her head at him to agree.

“Yeah,” Cassian said with a nod of his head. “We all care for Val deeply. She’s like a little sister to me and I’m sure Azriel feels the same.”

But even Cassian began to doubt his words as he remembered their earlier reunion and it did nothing to dwell the concern in Rhysand. He continued to watch his sister and Azriel before Mor pulled his attention away from the dance floor.

**

Valeria swayed gracefully on the dance floor, her white dress catching the light as Azriel spun her around. Her violet eyes sparkled with a mixture of joy and something deeper, something unspoken.

As the dance continued, Azriel couldn't help but glance down at Valeria's lips for a fleeting moment. The magnetic pull between them was undeniable, and the world around them seemed to blur as they swayed to the music. It was as if the air was charged with a palpable tension, their hearts beating in unison.

But just as the moment became achingly sweet and full of promise, a striking, dark-haired woman appeared before Azriel. "Would you do me the honor of the next dance, Shadowsinger?" she purred, her voice as seductive and charismatic as her gaze.

Azriel reluctantly pulled his gaze from Valeria to meet the woman’s. He looked back at Valeria. There was hesitation in his eyes, almost begging for Valeria to shake her head at him, to tell him no. Much to his disappointment, Valeria nodded at him and he reluctantly accepted the dark-haired woman's invitation.

As Valeria left Azriel's side, a sense of longing hung in the air–a dance interrupted and a moment deferred. She made her way back to the table with her brother and friends. She watched as Azriel and the woman began to dance with a mixture of curiosity and something she couldn’t quite name. 

Rhysand couldn't resist a teasing chuckle. "Look what you started.”

Valeria tried to hide her jealousy, but the sight of Azriel with another woman had her wrestling with her feelings. A small sigh escaped her lips. She couldn't blame him for being polite. She knew she had no reason to be jealous, but as a third female approached him for a dance, she couldn't help it. 

The Court of Nightmares' ball raged on. Valeria, still nursing her feelings of jealousy and insecurity, decided it was time to slip away from the festivities, using Mor’s drunken state as an excuse. Rhysand, her older brother, seemed oblivious to her inner turmoil, chatting with a beautiful stranger. Cassian had left earlier, sneaking away to visit his girlfriend.

“I think it’s time for bed.” Valeria said, looking at Mor’s slumping form at the table.

Rhysand chuckled and nodded. He began to excuse himself from the female, who had sat herself next to him, but Valeria stopped him with a wave of her hand. “I can handle it. I’ll take Mor to my room,” Valeria assured him as she placed the blonde’s arm over her shoulders and carefully lifted her from her seat.

Rhysand nodded, engaging himself in conversation with the pretty stranger once more, and Valeria slipped out into the cool night with Mor in tow. As Valeria discreetly made her way to the exit, her heart heavy with unresolved emotions, Azriel’s shadows noticed her departure and informed him.

As soon as the song came to a stop, a couple of minutes later, he was quick to pull away from the dance, bowing slightly at the female before making his way to where he had seen Valeria disappear into. On his way, he passed by the table that now consisted of Rhysand and a beautiful female, who sat on his lap. 

“Az,” Rhysand called out to him, forcing him to come to a stop. There was a glint in his violet eyes while the female on top of him raked Azriel’s body over with hungry eyes. “Care to join us?”

Their scent of arousal hit Azriel. If things were different, he would’ve gladly accepted Rhysand’s offer. It wouldn’t be the first time they shared a woman. But despite the female’s beauty and Rhysand’s promise of an entertaining night, he couldn’t bring himself to say yes.

Instead, he shook his head. “I think I should also call it a night.”

“Suit yourself,” Rhysand replied with a shrug. He feigned nonchalance on the outside but on the inside, his suspicions from earlier resurfaced...

Azriel excused himself and left the ballroom, his true intention to find where Valeria had slipped away to. In the darkness of the night, Azriel's shadows flitted through the corridors of the grand estate, searching for her. It didn't take them long to find Valeria at the opposite end of the palace. 

She was in the moon gardens, amongst the terrace of blooming flowers. A handful of night-blooming jasmines and gardenias lay beside her. She held a gardenia in her hand, plucking the petals one-by-one deep in thought, as she nestled on the soft grass.

Valeria didn’t seem to notice his arrival.

Plucking a purple peony that matched her eyes from a flourishing bush, he silently settled beside her. “A flower for your thoughts?” 

The gardenia Valeria had been holding slipped from her fingers, landing atop its own ivory petals. She started, caught off guard by the sudden presence of the Shadowsinger.

He reached out, brushing a loose curl of her hair away from her face and secured the purple peony behind one of her ears. His shadows swirled around him, enraptured by her beauty, each tendril whispering in hushed admiration.

“You left without saying goodbye.”

"I just need some fresh air.” Valeria brushed off his concern and without considering the meaning of her words, she added: “I didn’t think you’d notice. You seemed to be having an awfully good time with all those beautiful females.”

Azriel’s hazel eyes glinted with amusement. “Is this jealousy I sense?”

Valeria scoffed, heat rushing to her cheeks. “Me? Jealous?”

“You’re right, you have no reason to be jealous.” Azriel acknowledged, his voice a soothing murmur of understanding. His lips curled into a smirk as his fingers gently lifted Valeria’s chin, coaxing her to meet his gaze.

Reluctantly, her eyes locked with his, and in that moment, a daring boldness took over him.

“I only have eyes for you.”

As Azriel's words hung in the air, the tension between them thickened.

Valeria's heart raced as his thumb brushed softly against her lower lip, his eyes following his movement in a tantalizing tease that sent shivers down her spine. Valeria found herself inching closer and Azriel did the same, his breath mingling with hers.

The world around them faded into insignificance as their faces drew nearer. 

His lips barely brushed hers, almost in a teasing manner, and he rejoiced in the way her eyelids fluttered close and lips parted in anticipation. She wanted this as much as he did. 

“I only want you,” he murmured against her lips before he claimed them in a tender kiss full of longing.

Her lips were just as soft as he had imagined. Just as sweet as he imagined and he savored her taste, yearning for more.

Their lips separated for a brief moment as she adjusted herself and before she knew it, their lips were crashing against each other once again in a heated kiss.

With the guidance of his hand at her waist, she found herself straddling his hips. She wrapped her arms around his neck and the slit in her dress ripped further up, exposing her thigh but she did not care. All she cared about was the sweet taste of his lips and intoxicating scent of night-chilled mist and cedar. 

Azriel’s hand that had lingered on her chin found itself intertwining into the base of her hair. He pulled on it, angling her closer to him. The hand at her waist traveled down to her thigh before his fingers began to lightly trace their way up the newly exposed skin. His tongue traced against her bottom lip and she allowed him in, a soft moan escaping from her as he explored her mouth with his tongue.

He almost moaned at the sound. It sent a shiver throughout his body, fueling his insatiable urge to find out what other pretty sounds he can elicit from her pretty lips.

When they reluctantly pulled away to catch their breaths, their foreheads rested against each other. The garden around them seemed to hold its breath, as if nature itself recognized the significance of this moment and the stars above twinkled.

Azriel’s pupils were dilated as he intently gazed down at her, admiration and a hint of lust in his hazel eyes. 

“Only you.” Valeria breathlessly echoed, the look in her eyes mirroring his. 

Azriel smiled, feeling his heart fill with such warmth that he thought he was about to explode. His shadows danced around them as he peppered her face with tender kisses.

His nose brushed against hers and as the moonlight casted a soft glow on their faces, their lips met again.

**

A/N: after all the sadness and angst, I wanted to write something more romantic. Rhys and Cass are finally catching onto Az and Val and it seems like Rhys might not be too happy about that...

I hope the kissing scene was okay. I've never written anything beyond a simple kiss or suggestive content but I am willing to try for future imagines. It's just hard and kinda ironic for me to write romantic scenes since I fall under the aroace spectrum and lack the experience. yet I love reading all kinds of romance lol

tag list: @justrepostandlove , @kemillyfreitas, @thelov3lybookworm

[tbaluver]

bridgerton au! obanai iguro x reader

warning: none

a/n: this might be ooc and i fear i wrote too much detail. the context is still the same if you didn't read the sanemi one and if you did you can skip the context! i might redo the sanemi one bc i just found out there was no word block i was just being a dummy. i hope you all enjoy and req are open!

wc: 2k

context:

The great hall of Ubuyashiki Palace shimmered with a soft glow of crystal chandeliers, casting intricate patterns of light upon the polished marble floors. It was a significant evening, as the elites gathered for the anual presentation to Her Majesty, Queen Amane. Among the debutantes awaiting their turn, you stood as your heart aflutter with a mixture of excitement and trepidation.

You wore a gown with your favorite color in silk, with delicate laces and pearls. Your mother stands beside you with a mix of nervousness as this was your debut into society.

As the strains of the orchestra fills the air with a gentle melody, a hush fell over the assembled guest as the doors at the far end of the hall swung open. Each debutant was announced by name as she stepped forwards to curtsy before Queen Amane, each to all pounding with the weight of expectation and nervousness. Queen Amane, seated upon her throne watched as the debutantes approached. Her expression was composed but those who knew her well can detect a hint of uninterested as each debutant entered.

At last, it was your turn. With a graceful sweep of your skirt, you approached where Queen Amane sat. Your breath caught in your throat as you curtsied deeply, fixed upon the monarch, "Your Majesty," Your mother spoke, "may I present my daughter, (Y/N)"

Queen Amane regards you with a keen gaze, her expression unreadable. "Rise, Miss (Y/L/N)," the Queen's voice was soft yet carried such authority that echoed through the room.

You obey, lifting your eyes to meet the Queen. "And how do you find the season, Miss (Y/L/N)?"

As you gathered your composure, your voice steady despite the butterflies that fluttered in your stomach. "Your Majesty, I am humbled by the warmth and kindness I have encountered. The country has welcomed me with open arms and I eager to contribute to its traditions."

Queen Amane studies you for a moment longer, her expression softening. "You carry yourself with grace, Miss (Y/L/N). May your journey through society be as rewarding as it is enlightening."

With that, Queen Amane signals the end of their audience. You curtesy once more before going back to join your parents, your heart jumped with joy by Queen Amane acknowledgment and the promise of what lies ahead.

-

In society, as invitations poured in and gossiped swirled around, you find yourself at the center of attention.

From the moment you descended on the grand staircase of the Duke's ball, you became the focus of every eligible bachelor's gaze. However you remain blissfully unaware of your effect on the ton. With each delicate step, you sought not to conquer society but rather to savor the fleeting moments of freedom and excitement that this season has promised. You were groomed and taught for this moment ever since you learned how to walk. Your mother's careful guidance has shaped you into elegance and grace.

As you mingled with the crowd, your eyes danced with curiosity, eager to explore the world beyond the pages of your beloved novels. You've held a couple conversations with lords and ladies as if you captivated them. There was just authenticity in your words and how you spoke and how your laughter tinkled like crystal, possibly drawing a bright star in the evening sky that made you feel rare apart from the other debutantes.

Sure, there were a couple gentlemen that caught your eye but your heart remains untouched until you met him.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

obanai iguro:

✦ He did not attend the Ubuyashiki Palace either. He did however attend the ball but for strictly business purposes only. He hated when a new season started and tried to avoid them as possible. He skillfully avoided any eager debutantes that tried to capture his attention. Key word, tried, as some were afraid of approaching him due to the snake, Kaburamaru, wrapped around his shoulder.

✦ That was until he captured his eyes on you. Many heads have turned and murmurs of the ballroom received your attention as you descended down the ballroom stairs. He wouldn't admit it out loud but he did think you were quite beautiful. From how you walk and how you flowed conversation to conversation with people so easily. It was no wonder you were talk of the ton and considered diamond of the season.

✦ He internally cursed himself for getting distracted as he watched you across the ballroom. He continued his business conversation with the Lords associated with him.

✦ Although it may have looked easy to whoever gazes upon you as you talked to new bachelors, it was actually quite difficult. You were taught what to say, how to laugh, how to be graceful but all you wanted was true love. Yet it felt like each bachelor you met has given you no connection whatsoever and your mother has taken notice of that.

✦ Your mother clears her throat, with grace and took a step forward, drawing the attention of the nearby group of Lords that included Obanai, engaged in conversation. "Gentlemen," She says with a warm, inviting smile, "if I may have a moment of your attention."

✦ Obanai and the Lord beside him turned their gaze towards your mother, their expression shifting to one of curiosity and respect. "It is my great pleasure to introduce you to my daughter." The gentlemen stepped forward with a courteous nod, "Ah Miss (Y/L/N), a young lady of grace and intelligence, who has recently made her debut into Society." The Lord says, making your cheeks flush with a gentle rose hue and your curtsy with practiced elegance. "It is an honor to meet you, my Lords," You say with a delicate blend of shyness and earnestness. "I trust you are finding the evening to your liking Miss (Y/L/N)?" Obanai spoke up, his voice softer and gentler surprising the Lord. Your eyes seem to brighten in his eyes, "Thank you, my Lord. The evening is indeed enchanting."

✦ Your mother observes the exchange of look with satisfaction, taking the opportunity in the conversation, "If you must know, we are hosting a small social gathering tomorrow at our estate." Your mother invites the Lords but Obanai's gaze doesn't seem to leave you. You certainly made it an enchanting night.

✦ Your mother took a final look around, ensuring every detail was in place of your family's estate. The guest would soon arrive, and with them, the opportunities for you to make a favorable impressions. In moments, the estate would be alive with laughter, conversation, and a faint sound of orchestra music. However you were missing in the event. You sat there at the vanity of your mirror looking at your mirror in deep thought of what happened last night.

✦ One of your encounters last night with a potential bachelor was your least favorite.

After your mother has given you the courage to talk again with other bachelors, you decided to go mingle on your own once again. "Ah, Lady (Y/L/N)," he says, his tone dripping with condescension as he approached you. "Quite the choice of gown you wear! It seems it is the only color that complements your complexion so well." You were taken aback by his tone, yet you remain your composure. "Thank you my Lord. I find this color quite pleasant. It seems I am still learning how to achieve the approval of such a discerning critic" His eyes seem to glean with a mixture of amusement and continues. "Of course, my dear lady. One must ponder whether a lady's merits are truly sufficient for the discerning eyes of the ton, or more importantly, for those men such as myself." Your smile falters slightly, "You consider yourself such a discerning man, my Lord?" He replies smoothly, "Why, of course," His gaze sweeps over you with a hint of sarcasm, "It would be quite tragic if you were to only rely on your appearance. To say, your charm is quite a bore so it might be such a struggle to find suitable match. You are not serious to think these bachelors must want you other than pity right? You're lucky I am here to even consider myself a bachelor for you."

✦ Your mind keeps replaying that conversation from last night. An unsettling reminder of harsh truth had absorbed your mind completely. Your mother did not prepare you for this. As you contemplated, you had realized that dreams of love and marriage that you had so nurtured in your head seemed to dissolve into a harsh light of reality.

✦ As you made your way to the door, your movements remained purposeful and poised as a new plan began to crystallize in your mind. A plan that would redefine your path and your future. Maybe the man was right. You plan to no longer should rely on your beauty or charms but rather please any bachelors to only their favor.

✦ "Hello, I take it your enjoying the evening?" You smile widely. As you talked with the two Lords in the group, Obanai watches you carefully. You seemed different from last night. Your eyes did not shine as bright as they did last night and the way you gripped your fan seemed to be hiding some truth. The way how you talked to the Lords were only for their amusement. How typical. It was like this every season with any debutant. They acted artificial and were only after a title and wealth but he did not expect this from you. His attention was brought back into reality as you excused yourself, still continuing to watch you.

✦ You wandered off into the garden, taking a deep breath. "May I have a moment of your time?" The sudden voice startles you, only to find the yellow and turquoise eyed man. "Of course Lord Iguro. What is the matter?"

✦ "Forgive my intrusion my lady, but I could not help but notice you seem unwell." You hesitated as you avoid his gaze, "It is nothing that should concern you, Lord Iguro. I merely needed a moment away from the crowd." His expression seemed to soften with concern. "It is clear that something more than the crowd weighs on you. I have observed you throughout the evening and there is a shift in your demeanor that does not go unnoticed."

✦ Your composure falters and you sigh deeply, "I am merely a lady in search of a suitable match. The season has just been overwhelming so far."

✦ "You need not hurry nor merely entertain suitors just for their liking. You are deserving of a suitor who is genuine towards you as to you are with him. Pardon me my lady." He says excusing himself and leaving.

✦ You pondered his words throughout the entire night, the truth resonating deeply within you. With newfound resolve, you sprang from your bed and composed a letter to him, which you planned to dispatch later in the day. His surprise upon receiving your correspondence was palpable, for he swiftly penned a response, eager to continue talking to you more. Thus began a series of heartfelt letters exchanged between you both and spending time outside of your estates, leading to a new connection you both cherished.

✦ Whenever he was gone for a business trip, he would return with thoughtful gifts and trinkets chosen with care, each one a reflection of your preference or things that reminded him of you.

✦ When he returned from his journey, he could not help but observe a shift in your demeanor again. Seated together in the serene garden of your estate, you appear unusually subdued, and you barely touched the food the servants brought out. When he found out this was due to another caller, he thought to himself that maybe he might kill the men that invaded your mind. But he brushed that idea off for another time as he was worried about you.

✦ He took your hand in his, holding it tenderly, "My lady if I may be so bold, I must tell you that you are the very epitome of beauty. The evening I first saw you, you looked more radiant than the stars themselves." Your cheeks flush with a delicate pink, avoiding his gaze. "But it is not your beauty that has captivated me," His eyes never leaving you, "It is your spirit, your kindness, and the way you have illuminated the darkest corners of my world." Your breath caught in your throat as your heart races, finally meeting his gaze. "If you would do me the honor, I would wish for nothing more than to continue discovering the depths of your heart."

✦ While he waited for your response, he thought to himself, what ring would you love.