#speaking of airing grievances...

[basilspill]

my like. absolute most self indulgent headcanon for isabeau is that hes a big massive fucking sub. and he HATES it. but its one of those things he cant shake.

its not like he hasnt TRIED being in a more dominant role, he has, but theres something about it that even at the best of times leaves him unsatisfied. but hes a big strong man now. he should be dominant in that case, right? so he tries. and he does an okay job. he satisfies whoever hes with. they have a good time. he has a fine time.

but its what hes supposed to be doing! so he keeps doing it! but there is a very real part of him that wants so desperately for someone to call his bluff.

[kazehita]

when you go to click "show all" but you instead accidentally select one of the tags and are taken to the search page; you frantically hit the back button in vain, hoping beyond hope you will be taken to where you left off and feel the pure, drenching misery as it sends you to the top of your dash to posts you have already seen

[crescentfool]

just put a one star review on the tumblr app 🤧

[flowersandbirdsflyingfree]

And a Happy Festivus for the rest of us

[therealsirsticker]

uggggghhhhhh UGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH my fucking mom has been getting into goddamn ai art lately. And I can only offer my weakest and most casual points against it and only vaguely disapprove of it or else she’s gonna take it super way personally and we’d enter another Cold War argument and I am NOT dealing with another one of those. God, it makes me wanna chew my hands off. She’s so fucking annoying sometimes, I swear. No, I’m not going to coo and laugh at the shitty ai generated image of a cat in a pumpkin, I’m going to make my best casual discomforted sneer at it. And if I get into the actual problems with ai she’s going to get all defensive and refuse to admit she’s wrong. I don’t even think she’s done bad in using it! But she’s going to accuse me of thinking she’s a bad person for it! I know her! I REFUSE to just smile and nod though. I also refuse to get into another huge blow up cold fight with her again. So I will just continue to do my best casual discomforted sneer. God, I hate her sometimes.

[gutsby]

no offense but I feel like youre writing the same thing constantly always smut and nothing interesting can you write a different more thought provoking story

Sure thing! I wrote this one just for you, bud. I hope that it’s sufficiently thought-provoking and suited to your superior tastes. Remember, I mean no offense at all!

The Stupid Fucking Anon Chronicles

Pairing: Joel Miller x Stupid Fucking Anon

Summary: You decide to be a gigantic asshole.

Warnings: 18+. NO SMUT. SOMETHING INTERESTING! A tale so wildly thought-provoking and erudite that even its most vocal detractors must admit…it’s real different.

You were sick of seeing sex.

All the fanfiction you’d read of late? Perfunctory. Uninspired. Never mind the fact that these stories were being shared with you completely free of charge, at the writers’ own leisure, on a platform that didn’t pay in any way, shape, or form. Did I mention this shit cost $0.00?

Anyway, you’d decided to take it upon yourself that day to be a gigantic fucking asshole to one lowly writer in particular, so you pulled out your laptop and got to work.

Joel strolled into the room, sipping his beer.

“What’cha doin’, sweetheart?” he asked.

He leaned in to greet you with a kiss on the cheek, but you just swatted his touch away, too focused on the task at hand—How to be a Gigantic Fucking Asshole 101.

“Go away. I’m being insufferable online,” you snapped.

“Well, damn,” Joel said, scratching the back of his neck. “That sucks. What’s pissing you off so much, anyway?”

“This writer writes smut. Just…smut! So monotonous.”

“What, you don’t like to see us fuck?” Joel smirked.

“Well, I do, but…” you began to say, only to trail off into a blank, inane stare. You shook your head as if to clear it of the stupidity, but it was a fruitless endeavor. You were dumb as shit. “I just think their writing’s boring! There’s nothing thought-provoking to it! Just sex, sex, sex, sex!”

“Have you ever considered getting a job?” Joel asked.

“No, I enjoy being a spineless sack of shit who airs my grievances through anonymous mediums too much!”

“Oh, that makes sense,” he said. “What else?”

“And…and it’s not fair to me to read boring stuff!”

“Have you tried scrolling past their stories, maybe?”

“No. Again, I’m too fucking stupid to give that one a try. I’d much rather speak my piece to the writers online!”

Joel nodded in understanding. He heaved a sigh.

“Well, in that case…” he started, sitting down to place a hand on your shoulder and give you a firm, fuck-you look. “Maybe you should save the energy it took to type out a message to this writer, take your head out of your ass, and remember that these people owe you nothing. It makes you look like a gigantic fucking asshole when you send messages like these, denigrating the work they’ve decided to share online for free. I can assure you, the sentiment you’ve expressed in these lines will serve only to alienate the person whose writing you’re targeting. It’ll piss them off and discourage them from ever wanting to share a story online again. So before you get to typing out another one of these stupid fucking messages again, ask yourself: Am I being a Gigantic Fucking Asshole?”

You decided to shut the fuck up, for once.

[kitkatscabinet]

"THE WAYNE SIBLINGS READ THIRST TWEETS"

requested by anon

summary: the internet is horny for you, your brothers suffer for it.

pairings: platonic! dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake x batsis! reader

A/N: 18+, on account of horny twitter users ;)

You and your brothers are lined up in a semi-circle, Dick, you, Jason then Tim, each of you sporting different expressions as the cameras begin rolling.

You and Dick are cheerful mirrors of each other, while Jason and Tim look like they'd rather be anywhere but here as the four of you settle into place.

"So today we're going to have you reading thirst tweets, but the twist is, they're all about your sister." The producer says from out of frame. Abruptly, your brother's moods swing violently.

"No!" Dick cheers, the blinding smile plastered across his face never even twitching.

Jason's frown has evolved from "mildly disgruntled" to "about to start shooting people."

Tim, meanwhile, appears to have stopped working altogether. "Timmers?" You giggle, waving a hand across his face.

"Ew... I mean, people find you attractive?" He scrunches up his nose, and your face turns murderous.

"RIGHT! Listen here you little - " you lean across Jason to strangle your little brother when a giggle from somewhere on set reminds you where you are, and you paste on a practised grin.

"I can see why Damian wasn't invited now."

"None of us should have been invited, this shouldn't be happening." Tim mumbled with a thousand yard stare.

Relishing in his stress, you quickly pull a piece of paper from the oversized thirst jug, staring directly at Tim as you read. "Bruce Wayne's daughter could smack me across the face with a brick and I’d say ‘thank you, mommy’"

Tim dry heaves, face a little green.

"Damn, now I can never use that in bed again." Jason grumbles, causing Dick to spit out his water as Tim gags once more.

"You're disgusting." He kicks Jason as you hum in consideration.

"I don't know, I think I could get behind it."

"Never speak again, actually." Tim fires back.

"Well, if you liked that, then you'll love this one: Sit on my face, I'll pay you, anything! please, SIT ON MY FACE! SIT ON MY-” Dick, who's only just recovered from his previous near death experience starts choking again, making you hit his back a little harder than strictly necessary.

Jason starts attempting to take the jug off your hands, but you quickly dance out of the way, "Oh look, this one's not even that bad." Your brothers look sceptical, but they don't stop you, "She's so fine, I'd kill a man just to breathe the same air as her."

"What is with people and committing crimes?" Jason seems genuinely concerned. How chronically offline of him.

"I attract a very passionate demographic." You shrug.

"You attract future convicts," Dick mutters in devastation.

A shit eating grin covers your face as you read the next one, having lulled them into a false sense of security.

"Need her to pull on my hair like a leash as she fucks me into next week with the strap." Dick wails, falling sideways off the chair like a fainting Victorian woman.

"Hmm, you want the pink or the green one, baby?" you smile seductively at the camera.

"That's it! You're done, you're done!" Jason lunges for you at the same time as Dick, your older brother getting the jug whilst you're hauled over Jason's shoulder.

You shriek, but you refused to be deterred, unfolding one of the papers you'd managed to grab before Dick attempted to thwart your fun. "Not to be dramatic, but if Jason’s sister looked me in the eye and said ‘kneel’, I’d hit the floor so fast I’d break my - hey."

Tim pulls the paper from your hands, staring at it like it killed his puppy. "Why are you encouraging this?" Tim gestures accusingly at the Buzzfeed staff members laughing behind the cameras, before he does a double take at the twitter handle.

"Wait... This is from Roy's Twitter account!" Tim yells, whirling on Jason like he's personally responsible for all of his grievances.

"There's one here from Conner too," You clear your throat, holding the paper far above Tim's head with your superior height courtesy of Jason's unwilling help, "I’d treat you right. You ever want someone to make you cum till you forget your own name, hit me up babe."

Your brothers scream, and you’re having so much fun that you only mildly worry about Conner’s safety in the near future.

(You wonder if you’ll have time to take him up on his offer before his inevitable funeral.)

The video ends with a message flashing across the screen: "Several of the tweets submitted came from Wally West's Twitter account. Some were deemed too explicit to share."

[drdemonprince]

have you defined the meaning of “white woman brain” anywhere and if not, can you? /gen

Many Black and brown feminist writers have discussed this phenomenon and I encourage you to seek out a lot of writing about this subject, because there are a variety of perspectives, but to distill it, white woman fragility brain is a phenomenon that is not exclusive to either white people or to women, but is especially common among those who can weaponize white womanhood, and it consists of the following qualities:

A view of oneself as a helpless victim that is constantly in threat of being attacked, especially by strangers (even though statistically, this is not the case).

A refusal to consider oneself as capable of doing harm to others, especially a lack of consideration toward others' body autonomy or consent. (even while being highly concerned about one's own autonomy and consent).

A generally passive or passive-aggressive orientation toward the world: seeing oneself as a romantic or sexual object to be approached, but never wanting to initiate (or feeling that one never can), never feeling comfortable directly communicating displeasure or one's desires, believing that others instead must guess at it. (and then resenting people when they don't, but never expressing it).

A tendency to cry, excessively berate oneself, complain about being made to feel "unsafe," or give up when criticized or challenged, especially when challenged by people of color.

A tendency to associate a person's body type with how much of a threat they are. For example, feeling unsafe around people with penises and expecting a social space to accommodate that fear to cater to you, a fear of people who come from cultures where it's common to speak loudly, a fear of those who are large, assertive, and/or darker-skinned.

Instinctive fawning-type responses to stress, and a pattern of feigning happiness, agreeability, and ease when one is not genuinely feeling it, and expecting all other people (but especially other women) to feign happiness as well, paired with a deep-seated resentment of anyone who violates this illusion and expresses any negativity (being especially punitive toward women of color).

Instinctively "smoothing over" conflict between other people before it even begins, even when healthy conflict is necessary and not at all your business-- often performed by gossiping behind other people's backs, triangulating information when it is not yours to share, asking people to alter their behavior in order to avoid a reaction from somebody else, presenting your concerns as if they were somebody else's ("what will people think!"), tone-policing the airing of grievances, derailing hard conversations with more light-hearted topics, and excluding people who are known to be candid and assertive.

Here are some articles on elements of the phenomenon and why it is so dangerous:

Now, I single white cis women out a lot when I am describing this phenomenon, because they have the most to gain from exhibiting these qualities, but make no mistake: this is a pattern that many types of people can and do use. I have seen white trans women use white women's tears to silence critique. I have witnessed women of color being passive-aggressively derailed and silenced by a Black manager who was in a position of institutional power over them. Multiple of the women who sexually harassed me in the story linked above were not white. And LORD knows I see plenty of t boys falling back on this shit, as well as cis men from wealthy backgrounds. It's a mindset that has deep colonial roots and we all must be on the look out for it in ourselves and others, and we must be vigilant in uprooting it.

[tacticalprincess]

dad!könig has full on philosophical epiphanies while speaking german to his barely conscious, newborn baby :( the closest he gets to baby talk is softening his tone, something he can’t fight when met with the sight of her chubby, innocent face and large bright eyes, cradling her in his arms or hovering over her crib while he attempts to console her back to sleep at four in the morning. hes basically just talking to himself, but he likes to think his sweet little girl is somehow absorbing the more positive, concise things his half asleep brain musters up. showering her with compliments and crooning about everything ranging from her future to a g-rated retelling of one of his missions, his thick thumb soothing over her pudgy cheek or tummy. it’s his form of therapy, airing out all his grievances and contemplating life and getting nothing but the occasional coo or gargle in response. he always comes out of it more levelheaded than before.

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

I always have some discomfort with Discworld, particularly the Watch Series, for these reasons. There’s plenty to enjoy, for sure, but there’s a lot that sits a bit awkwardly for me and for the most part, I've given up attempting to reconcile the situation.

But my non-linear, half-hazard thoughts are that TP never nailed down what he wanted to do with the series. Or, rather, he kept changing what he was trying to do and that made a bit of a mess of it all.

In the beginning it was attempted satire of late 80s High Fantasy, which includes the subversion of the tropes &c. Guards! Guards! and the early Witch books and so on are all in this category.

Then, he began using it more obviously as a sort of Sledge Hammer of Morality. He had his little crusades and they very much reflect the political thinking of the 90s, which means a lot of it didn’t necessarily age well. And, because he’s doing his crusades through a fantasy comedy series, the concepts are not deeply thought through nor fleshed out—at least on paper. No idea what he was like in real life in terms of how deeply thought through his views were, but on paper they’re pretty shallow.

And shallowness works in terms of being quippy and easily digestible, which Discworld is. But it doesn’t often hold up to time or deep thought.

On top of this, we also have TP trying to do proper world-building. But again, he started with a satirical series with very little thought through so the world-building suffers as a result of it. And that also makes for this awkwardness to the whole series. The Watch is the series that suffers the most from this, I think. The Witches not as much and Moist Von Lipwig books were written late enough to not have that tone switch.

(A really quick, off the top of my head example of nonsense world building: we have Ankh-Morpork being canonically, from the start, a mercantile city state. Trade (and lending, it’s implied) is its bread and butter. Yet they have a Thieves Guild and a Teachers Guild &c &c but no Merchant’s Guild until the series begins? You're telling me that Ankh-Morpork, the epitome of mercantilism, based on early modern London and Florence and Venice, has gone hundreds of years with other guilds but no Merchant’s Guild? That makes no sense. The internal logic doesn’t hold up. And I understand the Funny Plot Reasons, but they don't hold water. For me, at least.)

(In general, they're not a well crafted series of books.)

But yeah, trying to address political and social issues through the lends of a Cop Procedural necessarily lands us with Thin Blue Line-ness to the entire series. A bit of cop-apologia happening, even if characters are self-aware about the Issues of the System. There’s an inherent conservativism that runs through Discworld—unsurprising when one considers the context of the time and the author—that sometimes bumps, uncomfortably, up against the ostensibly progressive ideals the series is also trying to convey. It’s a bit of a muddle, that’s for sure.

I’m not going anywhere in particular with this, it’s just something I’ve thought about from time to time.

Rereading Night Watch, it's definitely Thin Blue Line-y; there's no getting away from that, as the Discworld Watch series started as a subversion of the 'medieval fantasy guards who immediately get killed' trope. But it's a book about Sam Vimes reforming the police, forcing them to deescalate instead of resorting to violence first, and to support protestors instead of opposing them. And- this is important- he fails. Or rather, he loses- he succeeds for a little while, then his superiors have all the good cops killed. And he reflects that even if he had won in that time and place, the force would have become just another gang. The real success lies in laying the foundation to try again in the future, once they have institutional support and an idealistic new crop of recruits.

I don't know if that makes it okay, but I can't stop thinking about it.

[therogueflame]

The Diplomat

Hi friends,

Since I'm a Daemon girly through and through and horny as fuck, I imagined what it would be like to have terrible, angry sex with Daemon. None of the fics were hitting the spot, so I wrote one instead. There are two parts to this story, but the second part can be read as a standalone if you squint a little. Here is part one, enjoy!

✨ My Masterlist ✨

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❄️ My ASOIAF/GOT/HOTD Discord Server 🔥

Summary: Your marriage to Daemon has been marked by tempers and tempests, but when he proposes setting the Riverlands ablaze, the need for reason has never been more urgent.

WC: 9.4k

Warnings: 18+, just fluff and a lil suggestiveness, no use of y/n, light descriptions of fem!reader, kind of a little jumping around (let me know if i put too many sword dividers in)

Daemon Targaryen x Wife!Reader

MDNI!!!

The small council chamber was thick with unease. Though the warm spring breeze drifted through the high windows, stirring the black banners bearing the sigil of House Targaryen, it did little to lighten the atmosphere. The men gathered around the long oak table wore the weight of the discussion in their stiff shoulders and furrowed brows.

Ser Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, spoke first, his voice measured but edged with authority. “The Blackwoods insist their knight acted in self-defense. He claims the Bracken lord drew steel first and would have struck him down had he not defended himself.”

Across the table, Lord Lyman Beesbury adjusted his spectacles, his aged face lined with worry. “Regardless of intent, a Bracken heir lies dead. His father demands retribution, and he’s mustered men to see it done. This feud risks spilling over into open conflict, my lords.”

“It has always been this way between the Brackens and Blackwoods,” chimed in Lord Tyland Lannister, his golden hair gleaming in the sunlight. He leaned back in his chair with an air of indifference. “Their hatred for one another is practically tradition. Why should the crown involve itself in their petty quarrels?”

“Because they are sworn to the crown,” Otto replied sharply, his gaze narrowing. “Their lands and titles are held in service to the Iron Throne. If we do not intervene, their conflict will destabilize the Riverlands and undermine royal authority.”

Daemon scoffed loudly, drawing every gaze in the room. He lounged in his chair, though his posture was more calculated than relaxed. His dark eyes glittered with impatience. “Destabilize? Spare me your dramatics, Otto. This is nothing more than two dogs fighting over scraps. Let them tire themselves out.”

“And when those scraps include burnt villages and dead smallfolk?” Otto countered, his tone clipped. “You would have the crown turn a blind eye while the Riverlands descend into chaos?”

Daemon leaned forward then, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “I would have the crown remind them who they answer to. Send riders, summon their lords to kneel before the throne. If they refuse, then you send swords.”

Lord Beesbury sputtered, his hand trembling slightly as he adjusted his quill. “Violence is hardly the answer, my prince. Surely, diplomacy—”

“Diplomacy has done nothing but embolden them,” Daemon snapped, cutting him off. “Every year, it’s the same. Bracken blames Blackwood, Blackwood blames Bracken. It’s a waste of the crown’s time and patience. They need to be reminded that their squabbles end where the Iron Throne begins.”

“You speak of violence as though it’s the only solution,” Tyland interjected smoothly. “The Riverlands are already tense. A heavy hand might unite them—against us.”

Viserys, who had remained silent until now, raised a hand, commanding the room’s attention. His weary expression spoke of a man burdened by the crown he wore. “Enough,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “This matter is not so easily solved. Both houses have their grievances, and both claim to act in the right. I will need time to consider our response.”

Daemon’s chair scraped against the stone floor as he rose, his movements sharp with irritation. “While you consider, brother, they will act. And your indecision will be seen as weakness.”

Viserys’s gaze hardened. “Do not mistake thoughtfulness for weakness, Daemon.”

“Call it what you will,” Daemon muttered, turning on his heel and striding from the chamber, his dark cloak billowing behind him. The remaining lords exchanged wary glances but said nothing, the tension in the room thick enough to choke on.

Viserys sighed heavily, the sound of a man long accustomed to the burdens of the throne. His fingers drummed against the armrest of his chair as he watched the doors swing closed behind Daemon’s retreating figure. For a moment, the chamber was silent, save for the distant cries of gulls from Blackwater Bay and the faint murmur of activity in the Red Keep below.

“This council is concluded,” Viserys said at last, his voice quieter now, the fight drained from it. He rose from his chair, and the lords followed suit, their expressions a mix of relief and unease.

“Your Grace,” Otto began, stepping forward as the rest of the council prepared to file out. His tone was deferential, but the gleam in his eye betrayed his eagerness to press his point. “Might I suggest—”

“Not now, Otto,” Viserys interrupted, waving him off. “I’ve heard enough for today.”

The Hand of the King inclined his head, though the tightening of his lips spoke volumes about his displeasure. One by one, the council members departed, their whispered conversations trailing behind them like smoke.

Viserys lingered for a moment after the chamber was empty. The answers would come, but not today. 

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

Daemon stormed through the halls of the Red Keep, his boots striking the stone floor with forceful purpose. Servants and courtiers scattered at the sight of him, their eyes darting to the crimson and black of his cloak, the Targaryen sigil embroidered in rich gold on his tunic.

The prince’s mind churned with frustration, the council’s deliberations replaying in his head like a wound he couldn’t stop picking at. Otto’s pompous tone, Tyland’s smug indifference, Viserys’s endless dithering—all of it grated against his pride.

By the time he reached the chambers he shared with you, the heat of his temper had reached its peak. He flung the doors open with enough force to make them shudder against the stone walls.

Inside, the room was a picture of calm. Sunlight filtered through the open windows, casting soft, golden light across the chamber. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air, mingling with the sweet warmth of spring.

You sat near the hearth, cradling your young son in your arms. His small fingers grasped at a strand of your hair, his innocent laughter filling the room as you smiled down at him. The sight was a balm to any who might witness it—anyone but Daemon in his current state.

The nursemaid, standing a few paces away, froze at the sight of the prince’s thunderous expression. Her hands faltered mid-curtsy, and she looked to you for guidance, her face pale.

“Out,” Daemon barked, his voice sharp enough to cut. He didn’t bother looking at her as he strode into the room, his dark eyes locked on you.

The nursemaid hesitated for only a moment before gathering the child in her arms and retreating swiftly, her footsteps nearly silent against the rush of Daemon’s presence.

When the door closed behind her, Daemon’s pacing began, each step a sharp, deliberate motion that mirrored the storm in his mind. His hands flexed at his sides, as though longing to grip the hilt of Dark Sister and channel his anger into something tangible.

“This is what passes for leadership now,” he began, his voice low but vibrating with suppressed rage. “My brother, the king, sitting in that gods-damned chair, twiddling his thumbs while the Riverlands teeter on the edge of chaos!”

You set your book aside, folding your hands in your lap as you watched him. You had seen Daemon in this mood before, his temper a force of nature that could not be stopped but only weathered. It was better to let him speak, to let the storm rage until it spent itself.

“I told them what needed to be done,” he continued, his pacing growing faster. “Ride out, demand their fealty, remind them who they serve. But no—Viserys would rather sit and think.” His lip curled as he spat the word, as though it were a curse.

Daemon’s pacing was relentless, his steps carving invisible lines into the chamber floor. His voice rose as he continued, his words dripping with scorn. “Otto’s solution? Send letters. As if words written on parchment will mend generations of blood feuds! And Tyland—he all but shrugged! ‘Let them fight it out,’ he said, as though it’s his lands that will burn when the fighting starts. Useless, the lot of them.”

He paused, finally turning to you, his dark eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and expectation. “And my brother,” he growled, his hands clenching into fists. “The great Viserys, King of the Seven Kingdoms, paralyzed by his own fear of making the wrong choice. He’ll sit there until it’s too late, as he always does, and then expect me to clean up his mess.”

You met his gaze calmly, though you could feel the weight of his fury pressing against you like a tangible force. “Daemon,” you said gently, your tone an attempt to temper the flames threatening to consume him.

But he wasn’t ready to be calmed. “No,” he snapped, cutting you off before you could say more. “Don’t tell me to let it go. You weren’t there. You didn’t see the way they looked at me—like I was some brash fool for speaking sense. They undermine me at every turn, and Viserys allows it!”

His voice echoed off the walls, and for a moment, the room fell silent. The distant sounds of the Red Keep seemed impossibly far away, muted by the tension that filled the space between you.

You rose from your seat slowly, smoothing the fabric of your gown as you crossed the room to stand before him. He watched you, his chest rising and falling with the force of his anger, his jaw tight.

“I’m not telling you to let it go,” you said softly, placing a hand on his chest. His tunic was warm beneath your palm, the steady thrum of his heartbeat betraying the tempest within. “I’m asking you to save it for when it matters most. You’ll have your chance to be heard again. But not if you burn yourself out now.”

For a moment, Daemon said nothing. His eyes searched yours, his expression still tight with frustration, but the tension in his shoulders eased just slightly. He placed a hand over yours, his fingers curling around it as if anchoring himself.

“They don’t listen,” he muttered, though the edge in his voice had dulled. “Not to me. Not unless I force them to.”

“Then make them listen,” you replied, your tone firm but kind. “But not like this. Not in anger.”

His lips twisted into a smirk, though it lacked its usual sharpness. “You think you know me so well,” he said, his voice softer now, almost teasing.

“I do,” you replied simply, holding his gaze.

Daemon sighed, the last of his anger bleeding away as he pulled you into his arms. His embrace was strong, almost possessive, as if you were the only thing grounding him in that moment.

“You’re too clever for your own good,” he murmured into your hair.

“And you’re too stubborn for yours,” you replied, earning a low chuckle from him.

When he pulled back, his expression was lighter, though the frustration lingered in his eyes. “The feast,” you said gently, steering him toward a different focus. “Rhaenyra’s wedding is in a few days. You should be thinking about that, not letting the council get under your skin.”

Daemon snorted, but there was no heat behind it. “Unity,” he muttered, echoing words he had likely heard too many times already. “A grand spectacle to pretend the realm isn’t fracturing beneath us.”

You arched a brow. “Then let them believe otherwise. Isn’t that the game of thrones you so enjoy?”

He let out a short laugh, the sound both bitter and amused. “You’ve been spending too much time around me.”

You smiled, brushing a hand along his arm. “Perhaps.”

Daemon released a long breath, the tension in his shoulders finally softening as he stepped away, his gaze drifting toward the open window. The warm spring breeze ruffled his silver hair, and for a moment, he looked less like the fearsome rogue prince and more like the restless man you had come to know so intimately.

“The wedding feast,” he said, the words tasting foreign on his tongue. “A spectacle of union for a realm that can’t even decide which house to favor in a petty feud.”

You stepped closer, your tone light yet pointed. “And yet it’s not the realm’s union we’re celebrating, is it? It’s Rhaenyra’s.”

Daemon turned back to you, his expression softening further at the mention of his niece. His lips quirked into a faint smirk, and he tilted his head. “I’ll admit, the girl’s managed to surprise me. Agreeing to wed Laenor Velaryon of all people. I thought she’d have burnt the keep to ashes before conceding.”

You chuckled softly, reaching for his hand. “Perhaps she learned from someone that rebellion isn’t always about fire and blood. Sometimes, it’s about choosing when to bend, so you can strike harder later.”

He raised a brow at that, his smirk deepening. “If you’re insinuating that I’ve taught her anything resembling restraint, I fear you’ve misunderstood me, my lady.”

“Not restraint,” you countered, your thumb brushing over the back of his hand. “Strategy. She’s clever, your niece. As clever as you are, and just as stubborn.”

Daemon’s gaze softened further, and he let out a quiet laugh. “She’ll need that stubbornness to endure what’s ahead. The Velaryons are not without their pride.”

“And neither are the Targaryens,” you replied with a small smile. “It’s fitting, really—a match to unite two ancient houses and bolster the realm’s strength. A necessary union, no matter how imperfect it may seem.”

He sighed, his free hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “A necessary union,” he echoed. “And yet, Viserys sees it as more than that. He thinks it’ll heal old wounds and inspire loyalty. As if a feast and a wedding can undo years of division.”

“Maybe it can’t,” you admitted, your voice softening. “But it can remind people of what’s worth fighting for—family, unity, the realm’s future. Even if it’s only for a night.”

Daemon looked at you then, his expression unreadable. But there was a warmth in his gaze, one that seemed to melt away the last of his earlier frustration. He pulled you closer, his hands settling on your waist.

“You have a way of making everything seem simpler,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “Even when it’s not.”

“It’s a gift,” you teased, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “Now, will you let me dress you in something appropriate for the feast, or will I have to endure your complaints the entire evening?”

He chuckled, the sound deep and rich. “Oh, you’ll endure them regardless. But yes, my dear, I’ll wear whatever ridiculous finery you deem fit. I wouldn’t want to shame you in front of the court.”

“Nonsense, perish the thought,” you said with a grin, resting your forehead against his.

For now, the storm had truly passed, and in its wake, a fragile peace remained. The feast loomed ahead, a symbol of hope for some and an illusion for others. But in this moment, there was only you and Daemon, and that was enough.

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

The grand hall of the Red Keep was resplendent, its vaulted ceilings adorned with streaming banners bearing the sigils of the realm’s great houses. Flickering torchlight and the warm glow of chandeliers lit the space, casting dancing shadows over the lavish feast laid upon long trestle tables. The scent of roasted meats, fresh-baked bread, and spiced wine filled the air, mingling with the murmur of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter.

Rhaenyra sat at the head table beside her new husband, Laenor Velaryon, her expression poised but faintly distant, as though she carried the weight of the realm’s gaze with practiced indifference. Her silver hair was woven with pearls, and her gown shimmered with dragonfire embroidery, every inch the picture of Targaryen majesty.

The lords and ladies of the realm had gathered in full force, a sea of vibrant colors and glittering jewels, their movements a choreographed dance of subtle rivalries and unspoken alliances. Among them sat the Brackens and Blackwoods, carefully separated and positioned at opposite ends of the hall. Their faces were schooled into neutrality, their hands busy with goblets of wine or trencher bread, but the tension between the two houses was palpable to those who knew where to look.

You were seated at Daemon’s side at a table reserved for the royal family, a position that afforded you a perfect view of the festivities—and the undercurrents of unease beneath them. Daemon was dressed impeccably in dark crimson and black, his usual defiance tempered into a sharp elegance that suited him well. His expression was unreadable as he sipped his wine, but you could see the way his gaze flickered over the room, cataloging every interaction, every veiled slight.

“They’ve managed not to kill each other—for now,” Daemon murmured, his voice low enough for only you to hear. His eyes flicked toward the Brackens and Blackwoods, a glint of amusement mingling with his sharp scrutiny.

“Give them time,” you replied dryly, reaching for your own goblet. “The wine hasn’t yet worked its magic.”

Daemon chuckled, his smirk deepening as he leaned closer. “Or its mischief.”

You arched a brow at him, though you couldn’t help but smile. “You seem far too entertained by the prospect of chaos at your niece’s wedding.”

He shrugged, his gaze shifting back to the hall. “Chaos keeps the night interesting.”

Before you could respond, a herald’s voice rang out, calling for the first dance. All eyes turned to Rhaenyra and Laenor as they rose from their seats, their movements graceful as they stepped onto the polished floor. The music began, a lively tune that seemed to ripple through the hall like a spark catching fire.

The lords and ladies soon followed, filling the floor with a swirl of color and movement. Laughter and applause echoed as couples spun and twirled, their steps weaving together in intricate patterns.

Daemon leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming idly against the table. “Are you going to make me dance, too?” he asked, his tone teasing.

You smirked, leaning closer to him. “I was going to let you off easy tonight. But if you insist…”

He groaned in mock exasperation, earning a soft laugh from you. For a moment, the tension of the evening faded, replaced by the warmth of shared humor.

But even as the festivities unfolded, you couldn’t shake the sense that the peace was fragile, a veneer that could crack at any moment. The Brackens and Blackwoods were not the only ones walking a fine line tonight, and in the shadow of the Iron Throne, every move felt like a gamble.

Daemon’s groan was followed by a mischievous grin, the kind that always made your chest tighten and your resolve weaken. “You’re insufferable,” he said, though there was no heat to his words as he extended a hand toward you.

“And you’re predictable,” you countered, placing your hand in his. His fingers wrapped around yours, firm yet careful, as he guided you from your seat.

The music shifted as you both stepped onto the dance floor, the melody lilting into a slower, more intimate tune. The crowd parted, eyes subtly following your movements as you took your place in the center of the floor with the rogue prince at your side. You could feel the weight of their attention, but you were no stranger to it.

Daemon’s hand rested lightly on your waist, his other holding yours as he began to lead you in the dance. His steps were confident, fluid, each movement purposeful yet unhurried. “They’re watching us,” he murmured, his voice low and for your ears alone.

“They always are,” you replied, tilting your head to meet his gaze. “You’re hard to ignore.”

His smirk deepened, his thumb brushing against your hand. “And you,” he said, his tone softer now, “make it impossible.”

You rolled your eyes at his flattery but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. The dance brought you closer, his hand at your waist pulling you just shy of propriety, but enough to make your heart race.

The world around you seemed to fade, the music and laughter becoming a distant hum as you moved together. Daemon’s presence was magnetic, his intensity grounding yet exhilarating, as though the two of you existed in a world apart from the one where alliances were made and broken over cups of wine.

“You’re rather light on your feet for someone who pretends to loathe courtly things,” you teased, letting him spin you gently before drawing you back into his arms.

“Don’t mistake talent for affection,” he replied, though his smirk betrayed him. “I’d burn this entire hall if it meant avoiding another round of politics.”

“And yet, here you are,” you said, your tone light but pointed. “Dancing at a wedding, pretending to tolerate the people you claim to despise.”

“For you,” he said simply, his voice low and sincere in a way that made your breath hitch. “Always for you.”

For a moment, the tension of the feast melted away, replaced by the warmth of his confession. But it was fleeting, a stolen moment in a night that promised anything but peace.

As the dance came to an end, Daemon held your gaze, his hand lingering at your waist. Applause filled the hall, but you barely heard it, your focus locked on the man before you.

“You’re going to set tongues wagging,” you said softly, stepping back as decorum demanded.

“Let them wag,” he replied, his smirk returning. “They’d do it anyway.”

The spell was broken as the music shifted again, and other couples moved to fill the floor. Daemon led you back to your seat, his hand brushing against yours one last time before he turned his attention back to the feast.

The hall was alive with revelry, yet beneath the surface, you could feel the fragile balance of the evening teetering. The Brackens and Blackwoods had kept to themselves so far, but there was no denying the sharp glances exchanged across the room, nor the tension lingering like a storm on the horizon.

Daemon, of course, noticed it too. He leaned toward you, his voice low and conspiratorial. “How long do you think it’ll take before someone breaks the peace?”

You gave him a sidelong glance. “Hopefully not before dessert.”

His laughter was soft but genuine, a rare moment of levity in a night that felt like a game played on the edge of a knife.

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

The revelry continued unabated, the music and laughter rising to fill the cavernous hall. Goblets were refilled, plates heaped with delicacies, and the scent of roasted quail and sweet pastries hung heavy in the air. Yet, despite the vibrant atmosphere, an undercurrent of unease persisted—an unspoken tension that seemed to ripple just beneath the surface.

At opposite ends of the hall, the Brackens and Blackwoods remained in their carefully orchestrated positions. Their eyes rarely wandered toward one another, but when they did, it was with the kind of simmering disdain that no amount of protocol could conceal.

Daemon leaned lazily back in his chair, one arm draped over the back of your seat. His eyes roamed the hall, sharp and assessing despite the deceptively casual posture. He sipped his wine, his smirk growing as his gaze lingered on the Bracken table.

“They’re twitching like hounds on a short leash,” he muttered, the words meant only for you.

“You’re not helping,” you replied, though your own gaze flickered toward the Blackwoods, where a young lord’s hand gripped the stem of his goblet just a little too tightly.

The first sign of trouble came in the form of a raised voice—a sharp, mocking laugh from the Bracken side of the hall. Heads turned as Ser Amos Bracken, a stout man with a ruddy complexion, leaned back in his chair, his booming voice carrying over the din.

“Tell me, young Blackwood,” Amos said, his words dripping with condescension, “is it true your family still claims descent from the First Men? Seems a bold thing to boast when all it’s earned you is a table in the corner.”

A ripple of uneasy laughter followed, and for a moment, it seemed as though the insult might go unanswered. But then, a young Blackwood lord—tall, lean, and barely out of boyhood—rose from his seat, his face flushed with anger.

“And yet we’re here,” the Blackwood retorted, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. “Unlike your ancestors, who’d sooner kneel to any conqueror who offered them a scrap of power.”

The hall fell silent.

Daemon’s smirk widened, and he leaned closer to you, his voice a low murmur. “Here we go.”

You shot him a sharp look, but before you could reply, the tension in the hall snapped like a drawn bowstring.

Ser Amos Bracken surged to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. “You’ve got a sharp tongue for a boy who hides behind his mother’s skirts!” he barked, his meaty hand slamming down on the table.

“And you’ve got a lot of nerve for a man whose house clings to its titles like barnacles to a sinking ship!” the Blackwood shot back, stepping forward.

The two were separated by the breadth of the hall, but the air between them was charged, their mutual hatred igniting like dry kindling.

From his place at the head table, Viserys rose, his voice booming over the commotion. “Enough!” he commanded, his face flushed with the effort of asserting authority. “This is a wedding feast, not a battlefield!”

The hall quieted, though the tension lingered like smoke after a fire. The Bracken and Blackwood men glared at one another, their hands twitching near their sword hilts despite the king’s warning.

Beside you, Daemon watched with unveiled amusement, his smirk never faltering. “Viserys will tire of this soon enough,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “And when he does, the real fun begins.”

You sighed, your hand reaching for your goblet. “It’s a wonder we ever manage to call ourselves united,” you muttered.

The feast continued, but the mood had shifted. The Brackens and Blackwoods returned to their seats, though their tempers simmered just beneath the surface, waiting for the slightest provocation to boil over.

And in the shadows of the great hall, as wine flowed and music played, you couldn’t help but wonder how long this fragile peace would last.

The feast dragged on long after the first sparks of conflict had settled into the deep, tense silence of uneasy truce. The Brackens and Blackwoods remained seated at opposite ends of the hall, their eyes darting sideways, but never meeting. The music played, but it seemed faint, muted by the hum of strained politeness. The air was thick with the weight of unsaid words and the knowledge that the night was not done with its drama yet.

Daemon’s hand never left your side, though he barely spoke throughout the evening. His gaze, sharp and watchful, moved across the hall with the same intensity he had shown in the small council, as if he were cataloging every movement, every slight. Yet, when he turned to you, the ever-present amusement lingered in his eyes, softened by the flicker of warmth that only you could evoke.

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

Finally, the night wore on long enough that the revelers began to tire. The hall was slowly emptied of its guests, many of them still nursing their drinks, their conversations lowered to murmurs. It was only then that you and Daemon rose from the table, both of you feeling the weight of the evening—its many unspoken tensions—and the need to retreat from it all.

As you made your way through the shadowed halls of the Red Keep, your thoughts were heavy, your feet quickening to match the pace of Daemon’s long strides. The air had cooled slightly, but the heat of the feast still lingered in your chest, the pressing weight of what had transpired and what might yet come. You were both silent, the quiet of the corridors filled only with the faint sound of your footfalls.

Upon reaching your chambers, the door was barely shut before Daemon’s mouth found yours in a fierce kiss, a hungry press of lips that spoke more than words could. It was a fire that hadn’t been stoked since the tension of the council, since the weight of the evening’s events, and now, it erupted between you both, a spark turning into a blaze.

His hands were quick, unhurried but firm, as they sought the fastenings of your gown, the fabric brushing over your skin like a whisper. He pulled you closer, his breath warm against your ear, as he murmured words that had no need for meaning—just the undeniable presence of him, the demand of his touch. You responded in kind, your hands threading through his silver hair, pulling him even closer, your own lips demanding, pushing, surrendering.

The world beyond your chambers ceased to exist, only the feel of his body pressed against yours, the heat of your skin mingling in the dim light of the room. The frantic pace, the shared desperation—this was the only way to truly escape the suffocating expectations of the night, of the court, of the world that always surrounded you both.

Time seemed to lose all meaning as you moved together, your bodies in perfect sync, the world beyond the stone walls forgotten. And when it was over, when the storm had finally subsided, you lay together in the coolness of the sheets, breathing heavily, the weight of the night still lingering but now softened, shared between you.

For a moment, there was only quiet, the kind that spoke of an intimacy deeper than any words. But eventually, Daemon’s voice broke the silence, his tone low and thoughtful.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured, his fingers trailing lazily down your arm. “I expected you to have more to say about tonight.”

You shifted slightly, propping yourself up on one elbow as you looked at him, his silver eyes darkened by the faint candlelight, the weight of the evening still present but subdued now. “What more is there to say?” you asked, your voice soft, though a trace of the earlier tension remained in it. “It’s all a game, isn’t it? A dance between houses, between power, between… everything we can’t control.”

Daemon’s lips quirked into a faint, almost rueful smile. “Not everything is a game,” he said, his voice low, his hand coming to rest on your waist. “But sometimes it’s the only thing worth playing.”

You let out a small laugh, but it was tinged with weariness. “And we’re all just pawns.”

He turned toward you fully now, his eyes sharp but softer, the edges of his smirk fading into something more sincere. “Not pawns. We’re the ones pulling the strings, whether we admit it or not.”

You met his gaze, searching his face for any sign of doubt or calculation, but found none. For all his cynical remarks, for all his posturing, Daemon was a man who knew the weight of power—and the way it could be wielded.

And yet, there was a part of you that wondered if, beneath it all, he still feared being pulled into the same web of politics, of manipulation, of being a player rather than a kingmaker.

“I suppose we have no choice but to play,” you said after a moment, your voice softer now, more resigned. “And if we can’t win, we make sure no one else does.”

Daemon chuckled, the sound low and dark, and he pulled you closer, his lips brushing against your forehead. “That’s the spirit. And if the night’s mischief didn’t satisfy you, you can always count on me to make things interesting tomorrow.”

You smiled faintly, your fingers idly tracing patterns along his chest. “Let’s sleep first,” you said, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to you. “We can fight the battles tomorrow.”

Daemon’s arms tightened around you as he kissed your hair softly. “Tomorrow, then. But for tonight, let’s leave the world outside.”

And as the flickering candlelight cast long shadows on the walls, you closed your eyes, the weight of the night finally lifting, knowing that come the dawn, the battles would still await—but for now, you were content to simply rest beside him, the world outside a distant echo. ▪──── ⚔ ────▪

The next morning, the tension that had hung heavy over the wedding feast still clung to the air in the Red Keep. Even the rays of sunlight filtering through the high windows of the small council chamber seemed to carry an oppressive weight, as if the very castle itself was holding its breath. The room, normally filled with the dull murmur of routine affairs, now buzzed with the friction of yesterday’s simmering conflict.

Viserys sat at the head of the table, his usually placid expression marred by a faint crease between his brows. The day after Rhaenyra’s wedding feast, it seemed the wounds were still fresh, not just in the eyes of the Brackens and Blackwoods, but in the silent resentments of the council members who had grown all too accustomed to the tense dance of alliances.

Daemon sat with his usual relaxed posture, though there was no hiding the coldness that lingered in his eyes. He had never been one to mince words or tolerate the games of court, and today, it seemed, his patience was thinner than ever.

The council’s discussion was still focused on the aftermath of the previous evening’s altercation. Some spoke of ways to soothe the ruffled egos of the Brackens and Blackwoods, but it was clear no one quite knew how to do so without further escalating the situation.

Lord Mervyn, a portly noble with the tendency to speak before thinking, suggested, "Perhaps we should offer them gold—some measure of coin to settle their quarrels, a show of goodwill."

The Master of Coin, Lord Ormund, a sharp-eyed man with a wry sense of humor, laughed aloud, his voice cutting through the tension. “Gold?” he scoffed, shaking his head. “And where, pray tell, do you expect to find this coin? We are in a constant state of debt, Mervyn. Should we start selling off the castle to please the Brackens and Blackwoods?”

The room shifted uncomfortably, though Lord Mervyn, his cheeks growing redder by the second, remained silent, his suggestion now hanging in the air like a poorly timed joke.

Daemon rolled his eyes, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Perhaps we should all just stop speaking entirely, seeing as it’s become a contest to see who can drone on the longest about the same petty squabbles.” His words were not aimed at anyone in particular, but they struck a chord in the room.

The rest of the council fell into a strained silence. Viserys sighed deeply, rubbing his forehead as if to ward off the growing headache he surely felt. “Enough,” he commanded, his voice quiet but firm. “Let us take a break for now. I will consider all your suggestions and call upon you when I have come to a decision.”

The meeting, like so many before it, ended without resolution. There were no clear answers, no easy solutions to the brewing tensions in the realm. The room emptied slowly, each member of the council filing out, their faces etched with the same frustrations.

Daemon stood quickly, brushing past his fellow lords without a glance, his movements sharp and restless. He had never been one to tolerate idle chatter, least of all in a place that made him feel like a caged animal.

With a grunt, he headed for the exit, intent on blowing off steam in the training yard. It was there that he could find his peace, if only for a moment—away from the endless plotting and bickering of the council.

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

The council meeting had ended in a tense, uncertain silence. Daemon’s comments had left the room heavy with discomfort, and the usual murmurs among the lords had subsided into a quiet unease. The entire realm could feel the tension as it thickened in the Red Keep, especially with the lords now speaking in hushed tones about Daemon’s latest tantrum. His temper, unchecked and untamed, was becoming too much even for his own family to ignore.

You, however, were no stranger to Daemon’s anger, and as much as it threatened to boil over, you knew something had to be done. The matter was already critical—his pride had endangered everything, and the last thing you could afford was another of his impulsive decisions damaging the realm.

You had not attended the council meeting; there was no need. You knew that the key to solving this issue would lie not in words spoken around the council table, but in private action, taken swiftly and subtly.

When the last of the councilors had left the chamber, you’d already made your way to Viserys’s solar, your mind fixed on a plan. The moment you stepped into the room, you could sense the quiet weight of the king’s exhaustion. His shoulders slumped under the weight of the crown, and there was a weariness in his eyes that had grown familiar over the years.

He turned slowly as you entered, a faint glimmer of recognition in his gaze. “So, it’s done then,” Viserys remarked, his voice low and heavy with the same tension that clung to the walls. He knew. The moment Daemon’s rage had been unleashed, it had been clear that something would need to be done, but you had taken no part in the council’s discussion.

You closed the door softly behind you, moving closer to the king. “Daemon’s actions cannot go unchecked any longer, Your Grace. The Brackens and Blackwoods have made their demands clear, and the council is growing restless. This will escalate if we don’t step in quickly.”

Viserys’s lips tightened in a frown. “And you have a solution?” he asked, though the weariness in his voice suggested he was more than ready to hear one.

You nodded, settling yourself beside him at the table. “I do. I’ve already considered it carefully.”

Viserys raised an eyebrow, his gaze fixed on you with curiosity but no doubt. “Speak plainly, then. What do you propose?”

You hesitated for a moment before diving into the details, your voice steady and measured. “The Brackens are proud. They demand recognition, something that will soothe their wounded egos and quell their desire for vengeance. We offer them a royal boon—a land claim that will satisfy their pride and keep them from seeking bloodshed.”

Viserys listened intently, his gaze not wavering. You knew that he understood the importance of keeping the peace, especially in the wake of Daemon’s volatile temper. “And the Blackwoods?” he asked, his brow furrowing slightly as he sought clarification.

“The Blackwoods are more about justice. They’ll demand the life of the knight who wronged them, but we can’t allow that. Instead, I will offer them exile to the Night’s Watch. It’s a compromise—justice without bloodshed.”

Viserys nodded slowly, considering the weight of your words. “And how do we prevent Daemon from knowing about this?”

You smiled softly, though there was no humor in it. “That’s where you come in, Your Grace. This needs to be seen as your decision—your action. We will stage a public reconciliation ceremony, where both the Brackens and Blackwoods will swear oaths of peace before the Iron Throne. The realm will believe it was your command. Daemon will not suspect a thing.”

Viserys stared at you for a long moment, his expression shifting as he absorbed the intricacies of your plan. You could see the internal conflict on his face—he had always strived to maintain the appearance of unity between himself and his brother, but there was no denying the mounting pressure to act swiftly. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he sighed, his shoulders drooping.

“This will anger Daemon,” he said, the words heavy with the weight of a decision he knew he would have to make. “He will not take kindly to being excluded from such an important matter.”

You nodded in agreement. “I know. But we cannot afford to let his temper ruin everything. We need to act swiftly, before the situation spirals beyond our control. The realm depends on it.”

Viserys stood slowly, walking to the window and staring out over the city below. You could see the exhaustion and the weariness of ruling in his every movement. Finally, he turned back to you, his expression resolute.

“Very well,” he said, his voice carrying the heavy authority of a king. “I will handle it. But you must understand, this may not be the last time we face such a challenge with Daemon.”

“I understand, Your Grace,” you replied quietly, your voice resolute. “But for now, we act. This will prevent any further escalation, and it will protect the realm.”

Viserys gave a small nod, a faint trace of a smile appearing on his lips as he stepped forward, his resolve hardening. “Then we proceed as you’ve outlined. You’ve made it clear that Daemon cannot know, and I’ll ensure that the public sees this as my decision, not his. It will work.”

You bowed your head slightly. “Thank you, Your Grace. This is the only way forward.”

As Viserys turned back to his window, the weight of the crown settling back on his shoulders, you knew that the plan was in motion. The Riverlands would be pacified, the Brackens and Blackwoods would be brought to heel, and Daemon would never suspect that it was you who had orchestrated it all behind his back.

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

The quiet hum of the Red Keep was always present in the early morning hours—footsteps echoing down long hallways, servants bustling with preparations, the distant sound of metal clashing as the guards went through their drills. But in the stillness of your chambers, there was no sign of movement save for the careful glide of your quill as it moved across the parchment. The dim light of the hearth flickered, casting shadows across the room, and the quiet whisper of ink meeting paper was the only sound you allowed yourself to hear.

The plan had been set into motion after a whispered discussion in Viserys’s solar. He had agreed, reluctantly, that action needed to be taken—but he had trusted you to carry it out. You had laid out the details of the diplomatic approach, and while it was Viserys’s seal that would adorn the letters, the intricate work, the precise wording, and the careful manipulation were all your doing. The king, though burdened by his crown, knew you were the one with the strength to handle the delicate negotiations.

You’d already sent word to the Brackens, a carefully worded letter crafted with precision. To them, you’d extended an olive branch wrapped in gold. A recognition of a contested land claim, something that would soothe their pride without pushing them too far. You had given them a reason to let go of their anger, without allowing them to feel they’d lost face.

Now, it was time to turn your attention to the Blackwoods.

You dipped your quill in ink once more, the tip gliding across the parchment. This letter was more delicate—more intricate. The Blackwoods had a deep sense of honor, and while they were willing to settle, their thirst for justice could not be ignored. You’d offered them the exile of the offending knight to the Night’s Watch, a compromise that would keep his life intact while still serving a form of justice. It would appease their pride, for their enemy would face punishment, but without the bloodshed that would only fan the flames of rebellion.

Each stroke of the quill was deliberate, forming words that sounded gentle but carried the weight of authority. You wrote as Viserys would, sealing your words in the king’s name, though it was clear to both of you that it was your own hands guiding the outcome. Viserys’s approval had been given with the understanding that the matter would be handled quietly, behind closed doors. The lords wouldn’t question the king’s actions—they would simply follow his lead, as they always did.

The letters were ready, each addressed to their respective families. You carefully rolled them, ensuring no trace of ink stained the edges, before sealing them with the king’s seal. You paused for a moment, looking at the waxen emblem, the sign of Viserys’s rule. It was a symbol of power, but it also carried the weight of everything you were trying to protect.

Ravens were summoned, and you entrusted them with the sealed letters. They would carry your carefully crafted words far from the Red Keep, bearing messages that would shape the future of the realm. And while Viserys would ultimately take credit for the decision, it was you who had orchestrated it all.

With the letters dispatched, you turned your attention to the next step of the plan: ensuring that the public reconciliation ceremony would go smoothly. But for now, you allowed yourself a rare moment of quiet. The ravens were on their way, and there was no turning back.

The small council chamber fell silent as Viserys took his seat at the head of the table, his weary eyes scanning the gathered lords. The air was thick with tension, remnants of Daemon’s outburst still hanging in the room.

“Let us be clear,” Viserys began, his voice steady but firm. “The situation with the Brackens and the Blackwoods has been resolved. There will be no bloodshed, no more open hostilities.”

Daemon, who had been sitting quietly, his expression simmering with frustration, leaned forward slightly, his voice low but sharp. “And you believe you can simply end this, without consulting me?”

Viserys’s gaze met his brother’s, unwavering. “I did not consult you, because this matter required swift and delicate action. It needed to be handled quietly, with the authority of the crown, not driven by emotion or pride.”

Daemon’s jaw tightened, but Viserys continued, his voice cool. “I’ve sent a message to both houses. The Blackwoods will receive the justice they desire, but in a way that preserves peace. The Brackens, meanwhile, will be granted a significant boon—a recognition of their claim to disputed lands. A small price to pay to prevent further bloodshed.”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed, his frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “And what of my role in this, brother? What role do I play in this ‘delicate’ matter?”

Viserys looked at him, unflinching. “Your role, Daemon, is not to interfere. You are the Commander of the City Watch, but this was not a matter for the City Watch. It was a matter of diplomacy. Of keeping the peace.”

He paused, allowing the words to settle in the air. “The reconciliation ceremony will take place before the Iron Throne. Both the Brackens and the Blackwoods will swear oaths of peace, under my direct orders.”

Daemon opened his mouth to speak, but Viserys raised a hand, silencing him. “The matter is settled. There will be no further discussion. The lords of the realm will see this as a wise move—one that ensures peace in the Riverlands.”

Viserys leaned back in his chair, his expression softening as he glanced around the room. “Now, we move on. We have more important matters to discuss. The realm cannot wait.”

The silence in the room was palpable as Daemon, his temper barely contained, stood up abruptly. His chair scraped loudly against the stone floor as he stormed out, leaving a tense stillness behind him.

Viserys turned to the remaining council members, his voice once again calm. “Let us proceed with the agenda.”

And with that, the council resumed, but the air was thick with unspoken words.

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

You weren’t expecting to find yourself outside the council chambers today, but the moment you heard raised voices echoing through the halls, you knew something was amiss. You didn’t need to hear the words to understand what was happening—Daemon and Viserys were locked in yet another heated argument.

As you neared the door, you paused, quietly listening to the tension that hung thick in the air between the two brothers. You knew this wasn’t a casual disagreement. No, this was deeper, more volatile than anything that had come before. Daemon’s temper was a fire that could not easily be quenched, and Viserys’s patience had long since reached its breaking point.

“—and you’re willing to let them do this without me?” Daemon’s voice rang out, full of disbelief and fury. “You sit there in your throne and make decisions that should be mine to make!”

Viserys’s voice followed, sharper, colder. “I am the king, Daemon! Not you. And you’re not in charge of the Riverlands. You’ve made it abundantly clear that your temper will only make matters worse, and I will not let you jeopardize everything we’ve worked for.”

You couldn’t help the tightness in your chest as you slowly opened the door. You knew that Viserys had been under pressure, but hearing the raw anger in both of their voices made your heart ache.

Daemon’s eyes snapped to you as you entered, his features momentarily softening when he saw you. But it didn’t last long. His frustration was too much to hide.

“You heard all of that, didn’t you?” he growled, his words aimed not at you but at the air around him. “He undermines me, as always.”

Viserys, still seated at the council table, gave a weary sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s for the good of the realm, Daemon. Your actions, your temper... they’ve made it impossible to move forward.”

Daemon took a step toward him, eyes blazing. “And you think I haven’t sacrificed enough for this family? For you?”

You stepped closer, placing a hand on Daemon’s arm gently, though the weight of the argument still hung between the brothers.

“Daemon,” you said softly, “let’s not do this now.” Your voice was calm, but firm, a gentle anchor amidst the storm. “You can talk about this later, after you've both had time to breathe.”

Daemon’s jaw clenched, his eyes still locked on his brother, but his posture softened ever so slightly as your touch worked its magic. He exhaled deeply, frustration still etched in every line of his face, but he made no further move toward his brother.

Viserys looked between the two of you, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer. There was a faint flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before he stood, straightening his robes. “I’m done with this conversation for today,” he said coldly, and Daemon shot him one last, bitter glance before Viserys turned to leave.

As the door closed behind the king, the weight of the room seemed to lift, but Daemon’s anger still simmered beneath the surface. You could see it in his clenched fists, his furrowed brow, and the way his shoulders tensed with each breath.

You didn’t say anything at first. Instead, you gave him a moment to calm himself, knowing all too well that a conversation now would only lead to more frustration. Slowly, Daemon turned to face you, and when his eyes met yours, they were softer, though still clouded with the storm of emotion he was struggling to contain.

“You shouldn’t have heard that,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, the anger in it fading, replaced by a weariness that had settled deep within him. “It’s not for you to hear.”

You reached up, brushing your fingers along his jaw. “I know you’re frustrated, Daemon. I don’t like seeing you like this.” You paused, your gaze steady. “But this fight... it’s not one you’re going to win. Not now.”

Daemon was quiet for a long moment. Then, with a sigh, he pulled you closer, wrapping an arm around your waist. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with all this,” he admitted, his voice raw and vulnerable. “I don’t know how to make it stop.”

You held him a little tighter, feeling the weight of everything pressing on him. “I know. But we’ll figure it out together. You don’t have to do this alone.”

His arms tightened around you as he buried his face in your hair. For a moment, the tension seemed to lift, and all that remained was the two of you, holding on to each other in the quiet aftermath.

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

A week passed since the resolution of the Bracken and Blackwood dispute, and while Daemon’s anger had simmered down to a quiet brooding, the tension in the Red Keep was palpable. The lords had spoken their piece, the council had concluded their deliberations, and the kingdom, for now, appeared to be at rest. Yet you knew better than to believe in a calm that came too easily. The peace had been achieved—quietly, subtly—without Daemon’s direct knowledge.

It had been your plan, executed with careful precision. The letters sent under the king’s seal, the meetings with the Brackens and the Blackwoods, the subtle maneuvering to avoid bloodshed—all of it was your doing. Daemon remained unaware of your role in it, and you intended to keep it that way. His temper, as volatile as ever, had quieted somewhat since the ceremony in the throne room. Still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the quiet between you both was fragile, and the whispers of the court only added to the unease.

The public reconciliation between the Brackens and the Blackwoods had been nothing short of a spectacle. The Iron Throne witnessed their sworn oaths of peace, pledging loyalty to the crown under Viserys’s direction. And while the ceremony had been regal and well-executed, the true work—the work done behind the scenes—remained a mystery to most.

But not to you. The weight of the success felt heavy, and you knew it would not stay secret for long. Even as you stood in the shadows of the throne room, observing the lords of the Riverlands make their pledges, you could hear the faint murmurs beginning to stir. First, it was a passing remark. A raised brow. Then, it grew louder, until it was impossible to ignore.

It was Daemon’s wife who had orchestrated it, they said. Not Viserys, not the king—Daemon’s wife. The rumors spread like wildfire. How had she managed to bring two feuding houses to the table? How had she secured the peace when all seemed lost? The whispers spoke not of Daemon’s involvement, but of your quiet influence. It was you who had orchestrated the peace—through your diplomacy, your steady resolve, and your deep understanding of the delicate balance that held the realm together.

At first, the whispers were faint, almost unnoticeable. But the longer the court simmered in its quiet post-celebration lull, the louder they became. A glance here, a sidelong comment there, as courtiers spoke behind their hands, careful not to draw too much attention. You overheard their theories—the reader of the letters, the one who had soothed the lords’ tempers, the one who had convinced the Brackens and the Blackwoods to lay down their swords.

Daemon had been busy in the training yard, his mind focused elsewhere, and so the whispers were a quiet storm that he hadn’t yet noticed. Yet, you knew it was only a matter of time before he pieced it together. For now, you kept to your silence. Your role in the peace had been deliberate. The credit, you were certain, would fall to Viserys. He was the king, after all, and it was his decision in the eyes of the realm. But it didn’t make the whispers any less insistent, nor did it quiet the growing suspicion in your heart that your husband might soon learn the truth.

You didn’t seek attention for your actions; your only goal had been the realm’s safety. But with each passing day, you could feel the weight of what you had done. Viserys had given you the freedom to act, trusting you to handle it, and you had. But now, as the court grew more talkative and the truth became less veiled, you couldn’t help but wonder: When would Daemon learn the full extent of your involvement? And what would his reaction be when he did?

The whispers only grew louder as the days wore on, echoing in the hallways and chambers, but for now, you remained tight-lipped. The peace had been secured. The rest, for the moment, didn’t matter.

part two

[viagostalons]

imagining if Illario was a companion for a moment, alongside Lucanis, and Rook takes him out of the toxic Crow environment.

Illario comes to the Lighthouse and I feel as though the Lighthouse gives what you want as far as rooms go (we won’t talk about rook’s room) and it adapts over time to that person. We obviously don’t know what Illario is like in his private space, but I imagine he’s fairly used to luxury; but we could also maybe assume the lighthouse is attuned to the person on a deeper level and gives them what they need to be successful.

Illario’s room, in my mind, is quiet and dark, lit by some spare candles. Maybe it has a place to read and relax. It is nothing like what he has in Treviso, a total divorce from the Crow lifestyle. To the point, where maybe he doesn’t even like it at first, maybe it bothers him. Rook can usually find him outside looking at the Fade or in the little music room.

Having Illario at the Lighthouse, the other VG companions start to hang out with him; furthermore, they see how Lucanis interacts with him and how he speaks to him; maybe they’ve even heard how Lucanis speaks about Illario and they have expectations that Illario doesn’t pull his weight and isn’t capable.

however, they find the assessment about Illario is wrong.

they come to realize Illario is not only capable but he’s also very good at what he does; he is meticulous and highly skilled.

I think the first time Emmrich personally hears Lucanis give a backhanded compliment, he shuts the whole situation down. He is ready to help Lucanis unpack what he just said, while also bolstering Illario’s confidence.

Rook takes Illario out and the companions offer compliments to Illario

“Great job, Illario!” “Well struck, Illario!” “Excellent hit!” Etc etc etc

I think at first, he’d resist and not believe them but over time, I think hearing genuine, kind praise would fix him

and if Rook could romance him??? Oh, I imagine it would start as Illario being charming but disingenuous. In his mind, why would Rook choose him when his great cousin the Demon of Vyrantium is already here and knowing Rook. Or any of the other companions. OR he’s assuming that Rook is also being disingenuous; obviously, Rook picked him, he’s known for his charm and body, to the point he’s weaponized his charm and good looks.

but Rook keeps coming back; Rook flirts with him and not just surface level flirting. Rook sees him; the first person to ever see him. The first person to peel back his layers and look inside. Rook calls Illario out for only giving surface level compliments and maybe for trying to speed run a relationship because that’s all Illario has ever known. Rook forces him to slow down, figure out what he wants. Rook never forces him to do anything he doesn’t want to. They take their time. Rook really romances him.

Illario is known for his flirtation skills and the way he can charm anyone. But I doubt he’s ever actually had someone want him beyond a one night stand. He’s probably allergic to real feelings and Rook pursuing him so much is probably alarming and confusing. I imagine his romance is actually just as slow as Lucanis’ because it’s a genuine romance. But by the end of VG, Illario is fiercely loyal to Rook; not quite a guard dog and more of a feral wolf, ready to tear out anyone’s throat who so much as looks at Rook funny.

making him a companion might have also healed his trauma with Lucanis. His cousin learns his behavior is wrong and Illario has a chance to air out his grievances in a healthy way. They deserve to be close, especially out from under Caterina’s influence. They could really be something; by the end, they are unstoppable and a great team. I imagine taking them both along by the end is a riot. Illario is very funny and charming but he’s also Lucanis’ brother. The sibling antics would be in full swing. And finally, they can discuss First Talon openly and honestly. Lucanis might even bequeath his cousin the seat in the end.

tldr; Illario could be fixed if he’d been recruitable in VG as a romanceable companion

[gay-dorito-dust]

Can I request headcanons for Vox Machina reacting to gn crush telling him/her that they had been told by their crushes that they're not good-looking and interesting please?

Vax thinks that’s an utter bollocks statement to make, especially since it was coming from someone you had feelings towards.

This absolute sweetheart would sit by you under a blanket of stars and keep you company until he thought you were ready to get back on your feet and show the fucker what they were missing out on.

‘They speak the universal language of bullshit.’ He’d say, which made you laugh in how he worded it. ‘I’m being serious! They don’t fucking know what they’ve missed out on, so don’t be too sad because they knew you were out of their reach and didn’t want to admit it out of their own pride.’ He adds as he allowed you to toy with his dagger

‘Still hurts though.’ You murmured as you tossed the dagger into the air and catching it by the handle as it comes down again. Vax frowns before nudging you in the side playfully.

‘Hey, it may suck now but sooner or later we’re going to look back on this and laugh at how much of a loser they were and how much better off you were without them to tie you down.’ He says and you look at him deeply before smiling. ‘Yeah they were a bit bland featured to be honest.’ You shyly admitted as vax laughed.

‘They’re bland as fuck and you are not, they’re a cunt and your far better then to let that twat have any ounce of power over you in any aspect, oh we can go see if I can pickpocket the bastard for everything their worth? Would that cheer you up?’ Vax asked as you mulled over the idea in your head, but it didn’t take long for you to want to see chaos ensue and you were quick to agree.

You and vax then ran off into the night like two giggling idiots, feeling a thousand times better then you were before.

Vex

‘Oh sweetheart that isn’t true, far from it.’ She’d say as she holds your face, wiping away your tears from your cheeks.

‘Then why would they say it.’ You said as you looked to her for answers within her eyes and Vex couldn’t help but feel her heart crack for you.

‘They’re not worth your tears, none at all if this is how they’re going to make you feel all the time.’ Vex told you as her bear companion huffed and cuddled into your side, sensing your sadness and distress and you were quick to run your hand through their fur in silent thanks.

‘I guess I shouldn’t have expected so much from them to begin with. After all nothing is set in stone.’ You murmured under your breath. ‘But it still hurts regardless.’

‘And it will my dear, it will hurt but sometimes it can motivate us into going the path we were meant to all along.’ Vex replied as watched you and trinket interact with hope in her heart that you’ll be okay, that you’ll be alright in due time.

‘Thanks vex, I really needed to hear that today.’ You tell her, only for trinket to huff as you laugh and ruffle their fur, ‘and yes thank you too trinket, thank you for the emotional support.’

Trinket huffed again but this time in triumph.

Percy wouldn’t know how to comfort you at first but would find it easier to just let you air out your grievances instead.

‘They said I’m bland and unappealing! Only to then call me childish when I showed that I wasn’t happy being called such, claiming I can’t handle the truth.’ You groaned as you fell in to the empty chair that awaited you. ‘What a fucking joke.’ You murmured.

‘What they said is uncalled for and rude on all accounts,’ Percy said calmly, ‘they claim it’s true but from the stories you’ve told me about them, they’re the most boring and unpleasant person to ever engage in a conversation with without feeling the need to bring up your topic of the weather.’ He adds and you snorted at his sarcastic tone.

‘Yeah, they do tend to find the most boring things and talk about them for hours, how I thought that was attractive I’ll never know, blinded I guess.’ You shrugged as you both began to shit talk about your former crush and nitpick at their every aspect with scrutinising detail.

‘They cannot tie a cravat properly to save his life.’ Percy quipped.

‘They avoid taverns because they don’t like the liveliness of them, nor the rowdiness.’ You add.

Percy scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. ‘Pretentious prick.’

You jolted forward in your seat towards him as though you were going to tell him a secret. ‘He’s not even from a well known enough family for that Percy’s they just wanna act like they are.’ You swore you saw Percy smile before he hid it behind his hand.

‘How embarrassing.’ He mumbles.

‘I know right?!’ You exclaimed as throughout the night you and Percy spend most of it together and shit talking the rejection away.

Keyleth would immediately try to disprove this by taking you out to her garden and showing you all the flowers.

‘Why am I here keyleth? To show how unappealing I am in comparison to pretty flowers?’ You asked.

‘No! I brought you here to show that every flower within my garden is no less loved than the other, all of them are watered and properly cared for regardless of how they look or what they smell like.’ Keyleth replied as she made you look at the daises, lavenders, chrysanthemums, water lilies, thistle, roses, Lilly of the valley and many more as thought they were a kaleidoscope of beauty in all its forms.

‘They are indeed all beautiful in their own unique way.’ You mumbled as you brushed one of the petals of a rose. Keyleth smiled as she put her hands on your shoulders and giving them a squeeze.

‘All flowers are loved by someone and you will find someone who will love you just as much as a Gardner loves their flowers.’ She reassured you in a sweet yet calming voice. ‘For you are worthy of love just like these flowers and you’ll find them, it just takes a little time and patience to happen. So hold on tight because someone is out there looking for the prettiest flower; you.’ She finished and you smiled back at her, resting your hands on top of hers, feeling reassured.

‘Thanks keyleth, I really needed it.’ You replied.

Grog

‘Well they’re stupid.’ He’d say in response.

‘but what if they’re right?’ You asked, defeated. ‘What if I am boring and unappealing?’

Grog huffs. ‘Bullshit. You’re far from either boring or unappealing, they’re just weak shit and cowardly because they know they can’t handle someone like you.’

You’d lean into his side and smiling softly. ‘Thanks for cheering me up Grog, I really needed it.’

‘No problem buddy.’ He smiles as he pats your head as a moment of silence passed between you two. ‘So…do you wanna fuck up some bad guys to relive the stress?’ He then asks and you smiled at him.

‘You don’t even have to ask.’ You tell him as you both set off to kick some ass.

[saucerfulofsins]

I love the juice bar scene as much as the next person. I especially love the juice bar scene in conjunction with the confession.

And yeah, the "I'm straight" is chekov's gun, and the chemistry between Eddie and father Brian too. I love the meta/spec/headcanons!

That's not what I want to talk about. Instead, I want to talk about how sensitive Father Brian has been to Eddie's needs. He offered Bobby help in the church, face to face, and that worked for Bobby because he's a religious man. Eddie went to confession, and got his grievances aired, but -

we know Eddie's relationship with the church and religion is more complex than Bobby's. It doesn't work.

And then Father Brian runs into Eddie, recognizes him although he probably only saw Eddie through the confessional's grate. He remembers Eddie's name, too. He cares! And I don't think that's a sexual/romantic thing at all - and I don't think it is religious either. Yes, religion is the context within which he works, but it's not the only context.

He's not technically on the job when he sits down at that table; he's away from the protection by the grandiose rituals embedded in going to church, confession, wearing robes. He does it out of personal care, affection for humanity; he fills the role of a social worker, a guidance counselor - and religion is one of his tools but it's clearly not his only tool. It's also his ability to observe, and to listen, and to reflect on things - putting his finger on the sore spot in ways no one else in Eddie's life has done. That takes guts, especially because he knows Eddie's in a vulnerable place.

And he does it not because he's interested in Eddie romantically/sexually - that is not the reciprocity he seeks, nor the reciprocity that fulfills him. He does it because he cares.

The setting certainly helps too. Eddie doesn't feel as intimidated, not like a fish out of water. Only his title marks Father Brian as a religious figure; he uses it to break the ice and mark himself as safe ("I am celibate"), and then finally invokes his position to speak to Eddie's Catholic guilt and get him to do something for himself.

I don't know. It just felt deeply human and caring and I enjoy that a lot, and I love how it all connects back to Eddie first realizing his Catholic guilt in 7x05.

[sturniolospumpkin]

matt’s — m.s. & c.s.

part four

(part one // part two // part three)

pairings: bf!matt x gf!reader x chris

summary: after last night’s events, you and matt have a conversation with chris.

warnings: MDNI. contains smut, oral sex (f!receiving), fingering (f!receiving), overstimulation, squirting, crying, angst.

disclaimers: this is all fiction. obviously the triplets are not like this in real life, these are just fics i write out of boredom. please do not republish my work as your own, and please credit me if using my writing as inspo <3

the unmistakable squeak of matt’s door pulls you from your sleep. turning to the other side of the bed, your eyes land on a shirtless matt, clad only in a pair of grey sweatpants. you watch as he quietly places a glass of water on his nightstand, still unaware that you’re awake.

“matty?” you croak, eyes squinted as you adjust to the bright sunlight that peaks through the windows.

his gentle eyes flicker to you, a soft smile appearing on his tired face.

“morning baby.” he greets, voice raspy as he climbs into the bed, pulling you into his warm chest.

his fingers along trace your back soothingly as he hugs you, placing a kiss on your forehead before resting his chin atop your head.

“did you sleep okay?” his raspy morning voice is low.

“mhm” you hum, still groggy as you nuzzle your head into his chest.

silence fills the room after you answer. your head moves with the rise and fall of his chest as he rubs your back. he’s so soft, so warm, but his embrace around you grows tighter, until eventually he’s clutching you for dear life. the silence persists, but he doesn’t need to speak for you to know what he’s saying.

“do you wanna talk about it? last night?” matt mutters after a few minutes.

“um—i— i dont know.” you stutter, throat suddenly going dry.

“we don’t have to. i just— i just want to make sure we’re okay. yesterday was a lot. i hurt you, and i understand if you’re upset with me.” matt explains as the memories of the previous night flood your brain.

you hesitate for a moment, unsure if you want to air your grievances, but matt’s soft touch on your back reminds you that you’re safe.

“i’ve just never seen you so— angry” you start, voice barely above a whisper, “like you hated me, like i was nothing to you. it was scary.”

matt lets out a shaky breath, before placing a kiss on your forehead.

“i know baby, i know. i’m so sorry, so fucking sorry for treating you like that. i could never hate you okay?” voice cracking as he speaks. “i didn’t mean any of that awful shit i said to you. i’m so sorry princess.”

you nod your head in his chest, trying to accept his words, but there’s one other memory from last night that you can’t quite shake.

“and then you just left. i thought you were going to break up with me. i thought i lost you.” you squeak.

“im so sorry baby, i really fucked up. but i will never leave you, okay? you will never lose me. i can’t apologize enough for even putting that fear in your head.” he sighs, pulling you back from his chest.

his teary eyes meet yours, pleading not for forgiveness, but for belief. he knew you wouldn’t forgive him immediately, and he didn’t expect you too, but he couldn’t stand the thought of losing your trust.

“okay.” you respond, feeling reassured by his words. you know he’s being genuine— matt has never lied to you.

“i love you more than anything y/n.” he whispers, “you are my everything. i’m sorry i made you feel any less than that. i don’t expect you to forgive me overnight, i just need you to know that it’ll never happen again.”

“i know matty, i love you too.” you nod.

“and i meant what i said— about you and chris.” he adds, “if that’s what you want still.”

you nod your head slowly, taking in the weight of his words, “are you sure? you aren’t just saying this because of what happened last night?”

“i’m sure. i wouldn’t lie to you baby. especially about you dating my brother.” he chuckles attempting to lighten the mood, eyes still fixed on yours.

“i don’t need to have both of you though. you know you’re more than enough for me matty.” you explain.

and you genuinely meant it. you would be more than happy with just matt for the rest of your life if that’s what the future held. he’s everything you could ask for in a partner. but he and chris complimented each other so well—no—complimented you so well. the dynamic between you and them was something you didn’t want to give up, but you would if you had to.

“i know you don’t need both of us, but you want both of us— and you deserve whatever you want. you have no clue how deserving you are baby. i mean it when i say i’d do anything for you.” matt tells you.

the room falls silent again.

“i don’t wanna hurt you though.” you whisper, “it’s not really fair to you.”

matt let’s out a soft chuckle, “baby you’re not hurting me. nothing would change really. chris already spends most of his time with us, and you guys have already had sex. it doesn’t mean less for me, it just means more for you, and more for him. it’s entirely your decision baby—i’ll be happy as long as i have you. i just want you to be happy and not hide your feelings from me because you’re afraid it’ll hurt me.”

your eyes are locked on each others as you take in his words, and then you feel it—tears flowing down your face.

“baby what’s wrong? please— i didn’t mean to make you cry.” matt shushes you, voice laced with concern.

but they aren’t tears of sadness, they’re tears of relief. you had been so worried about hurting matt, or chris for that matter. the feeling had weighed heavily on you since the day had sex with them both. you were terrified of what having to pick between them would mean for the three of you. but matt’s words send the fear and anxiety out of your body, leaving only gratitude as you bury your head in his chest, clinging to him tightly.

“i just love you so much. i don’t know how i got so lucky.” you cry.

“i ask myself the same thing.” matt chuckles, “you know i’m gonna love you forever right?”

you nod your head before responding, “i love you forever too matty.”

“y’wanna go talk to chris?” he asks.

“chris, you up?” matt follows his question with a few knocks on chris’s bedroom door.

there’s no response on the other side of the door, and for a moment you wonder if he’s even awake. the two of you exchange a glance before the door suddenly opens, revealing a disheveled chris. his eyes are puffy and bloodshot—he’s been crying. his gaze finds you first, lingering for only a second before shifting to his brother.

“yeah?” chris’s voice is hoarse.

“can we talk? all of us?” matt gestures between the three of you.

chris’s eyes go wide, shooting you a worried glance before giving matt a hesitant nod. he turns around, taking a seat in his desk chair as you and matt make your way over to sit on his bed. the room is nearly silent, only the sound of chris’s leg bouncing on the floor—a nervous habit of his that you’ve noticed—fills the room. his eyes dart between you and his brother as he gnaws at his lip. you want to tell him that everything is fine, but you yourself are too nervous to speak.

“you were right, we need to establish some uh— boundaries going forward.” matt’s voice pulls your attention.

“what?” chris questions.

“boundaries? like y’know, what lines can and can’t be crossed.” matt clarifies.

“no—i mean, i know what boundaries are,” chris shakes his head, eyes landing on yours, “but, i mean—you want to—matt you’re saying you’re okay with—” chris struggles to form a coherent sentence, letting out a shaky sigh.

“go ahead baby, tell him.” matt gives you a reassuring nod.

you’re suddenly aware of how fast your heart is beating, and how sweaty your palms are. you try to compose yourself under their gazes, taking a deep breath before speaking.

“i want both of you.” you blurt out, voice so quiet you aren’t even sure chris heard you.

you watch his face contort, brows furrowing and head tilting in confusion, until it all clicks for him. his mouth falls open, eyes widening, and you swear you catch a small smirk start to form before he shakes his head.

“what do you mean?” chris asks.

“i have feelings for matt, and for you.” you respond, voice a little louder this time.

“so when you say you want us, you mean like—” he pauses, eyebrows raised at you.

you nod, “i wanna be with you both. if you’d be okay with it.”

“and you’re okay with this?” chris asks his brother in disbelief, considering his actions less than 24 hours ago.

“as long as there are boundaries.” matt nods.

“jesus christtttt” chris draws, a hand running through his hair as he leans back in his chair, eyes trained on the ceiling, “thought you were coming in here to tell me to move out and never speak to you again.”

chris sits back up, eyes shifting between you and his brother before locking on matt.

“and instead you’re telling me the best news of my life.” chris smiles before letting out a chuckle, “you need to work on your delivery.”

“so you have feelings for me too?” you squeak, heat rising to your cheeks.

“sweetheart,” chris practically scoffs before standing up and walking over to where you and his brother sit.

he reaches a hand out to touch you, but abruptly stops himself, remembering what matt said about boundaries. he didn’t want to cross a line before even starting.

“you already know the answer to that. i’ve had feelings for you since the day i met you—sorry matt.” chris confesses.

“hard to blame ya’.” matt shrugs, flashing you a quick smile.

“so what sort of boundaries?” chris’s question is directed at matt, but his eyes stay on yours.

“i don’t know exactly, i think we all just need to be on the same page and communicate. and if we think this is ruining shit between us, we all agree to go back to how things were before?” matt suggests, pulling a nod from you and chris.

but your heart stings at his last sentence for a reason you can’t entirely understand. it’s not like being with matt wasn’t enough, or that you weren’t happy with him.

“so you don’t care if we’re alone together?” chris presses, needing reassurance that something like last night won’t happen again.

“chris she’s just as much your girl as she is mine. as long as she’s okay with it, we can share her.” matt looks to you for approval, to which you nod.

chris exhales, burying his face in his hands as he tries to process the conversation. he quickly picks his head up, turning to meet your eyes.

“my girl” he mumbles to himself with a smile, eyes shifting to his brother,“you know how fucking insane this is right?”

“yeah,” matt sighs, “you telling me you don’t want her though?”

“you kidding? c’mere sweetheart.” chris pats his lap for you to sit.

you happily oblige, plopping yourself in his lap, legs hanging over his. his hand finds your lower back, rubbing gentle circles.

“you sure you want this?” chris asks softly, his eyes flickering to your lips.

your eyes shift to matt, seeking his reassurance once more. he gives you a nod, his smile soft and genuine. you can’t deny your nerves though. your mind spins at the thought of everything that could go wrong. but you also can’t deny your feelings. you want them both— you love them both. so you nod your head.

“words sweetheart?” chris requests.

“i’m sure. if that’s okay?” you respond.

“more than okay.” chris chuckles before connecting your lips in a soft kiss.

it’s the first time you’ve kissed him since the night you slept with him. this kiss is much more brief, but just as passionate. chris pulls away only moments later, prompting matt to speak again.

“i think i owe her an apology for last night, you wanna help me out?” matt smirks, your heart racing in anticipation.

“fuck yeah” chris nods breathlessly, pupils blown with lust.

“sit her up against the headboard with you.” matt directs his brother.

chris taps your hip gently, signaling for you to stand up. he props himself against his headboard before pulling you back onto the bed to sit between his spread legs. you watch as matt situates himself between your legs, ridding you of your sleep shorts. his soft fingertips drag across the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. chris’s hand tangles in your hair gently, tilting your head to expose your neck as he leaves a trail of wet kisses, whispering praises with every kiss.

“gonna make you feel so good baby. gonna show you how sorry i am, okay?” matt’s blue eyes are locked on yours as he waits for your permission.

his mouth is on you the moment you nod your head, tongue gliding through your folds, exploring every inch before plunging into your hole. his movements are slow and deliberate, low groans leaving his lips when he removes his tongue from your hole to suck on your clit. meanwhile chris’s free hand has wandered to your breast, massaging gently through the fabric of your shirt. you let out a moan when chris’s hand grazes your nipple, causing your hips to buck forward on matt’s face.

“that’s it, such a good girl.” matt praises with a hum.

chris lifts your shirt over your head, revealing your bare chest. the tip of his finger gently circles your nipple, chills dancing down your spine before he rolls it between his thumb and forefinger. moans fall from your lips as the two boys pleasure you. it’s not long before the familiar feeling grows inside you, causing you to squirm under their grip.

“you gonna cum for us?” matt asks— but he already knows the answer.

you let out something of a squeal as the coil inside you snaps, your pussy spasming against matt’s mouth. pleasure courses through your veins as chris attempts to holds you in place, but your hips practically grind against matt’s face.

“i love you, fuck, i love you, i love you so much, you’re perfect, i love you.” matt repeats as he laps at your juices.

“dude you gotta have a taste of her,” matt suggests, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “always tastes so good.”

chris nods, getting up from behind you and switching places with matt. you’re still coming down from your high, eyes widening as you process what’s about to happen before chris’s mouth connects with your core. a whine of overstimulation leaves your mouth as you try to squirm out of place, but matt, now sitting behind you, holds your legs open for his brother. chris’s tongue circles your sensitive clit causing you to throw your head back.

“shit baby, look at him.” matt grabs your face, his grip firm but gentle, tilting it to where chris is positioned between your legs.

you let out a moan at the sight beneath you. chris’s eyes are shut, his moans muffling against your pussy as he devours you. you’re completely soaked from the combination of your arousal, matt’s spit, and now chris’s spit.

“you a happy girl hm? got us both to yourself.” matt coos.

you nod your head, unable to speak.

“my baby always gets what she wants huh?” matt whispers, “’cause you deserve the world.”

his tone is so sweet it makes your stomach tingle. his lips are pressed against your ear as he speaks softly to you, the vibrations and warmth of his voice only add to the sensation. chris suddenly pulls his mouth off of you, but before you can protest you watch as he spits directly onto your pussy, his fingers coming up to drag the spit through your folds before plunging into your hole.

“oh fuck” you let out a high-pitched whine.

“gonna cum for chrissy?” matt asks.

“yeah sweetheart? feels good?” chris peers up at you, “like when i spit on you like a dirty girl?”

his words send you over the edge, your orgasm washing over you as he returns his mouth to your pussy, tongue fucking you through it. when you finally come down from your high, chris removes his face from your core, pressing a kiss to your thigh before sitting up to grab a tissue to wipe his fingers.

“such a good girl.” matt praises, lips pressing against your cheek.

suddenly he reaches his fingers in between your legs causing you to whimper at the sensitivity, having already cum twice in all of 10 minutes.

“one more baby? wanna make it up to you please, wanna make you feel so good.” matt pleads.

you nod your head before he slips two fingers into your wet hole, a choked moan escaping you. chris sits face to face with your pussy, mesmerized at the way you take matt’s fingers.

“what a good fucking girl.” chris hums, his fingers trailing your thigh as he makes eye contact with his brother.

you’re almost certain you feel matt nod behind you—to what, you aren’t sure. until chris returns his gaze to your pussy and lines two of his fingers up just below matt’s, pushing into your soft walls. you gasp at the unexpected intrusion, chris smirking below you as he begins moving his fingers in tandem with his brother’s. whines leave your lips and you squirm under matt’s hold as they finger you.

“you like that sweetheart?” matt asks with a kiss to your jaw.

you nod rapidly, glancing down to take in the sight. matt’s arm is draped over your waist, fingers curling up into your pussy while chris’s chin rests on his arm, eye level with your pussy as he fucks the fingers of his free hand in and out of you.

“fucked soaked sweetheart, making a damn mess.” chris chuckles as your arousal drips onto his bed.

“not my fault.” you mutter, barely audible.

“what’s that baby?” matt asks.

“’s not my fault.” you whimper at their fingers, “can’t help it, you— you keep making me feel good.”

“oh we know sweetheart, not your fault at all.” chris coos.

“we just can’t help ourselves baby.” matt adds, thumb connecting with your swollen clit to rub slow circles, “just love making you cum for us.”

the added stimulation sends you reeling, and you struggle to sit still as you the boys continue their actions.

“close sweetheart?” chris asks.

you nod your head before matt slides a third finger inside of you, a loud moan leaving your lips as you squirm in pleasure. you’re impossibly full of their fingers, the sight alone nearly pushes you over the edge. desperate whines leave your lips as they continue thrusting their fingers in and out of you.

“look at that, taking five fucking fingers in your pussy. that’s our good girl.” matt praises.

“so perfect, bet that feels so good doesn’t it sweetheart?” chris’s glazed eyes are locked on yours.

“yes— fuck” you moan.

“gonna cum for us aren’t you baby?” matt asks.

you nod your head rapidly, an unfamiliar sensation growing in your abdomen. you feel yourself tipping, heart racing as you realize what’s about to happen.

“i think i’m gonna—” your sentence is cut off by a yelp as matt and chris speed up their fingers, only exacerbating the feeling.

“that’s it, let go baby.” matt hums.

“cum all over our fingers sweetheart.” chris chimes.

and to everyone’s surprise, you do exactly that, liquid shooting everywhere as your orgasm washes over you. tears of pleasure flow down your cheeks as a slew of moans leave you, the boys never stopping the movements of their fingers.

“holy shit—” matt starts.

“did she just—” chris begins before exchanging a glance with matt.

you think you’re finally coming down from the most powerful orgasm you’ve ever had when matt and chris increase the pace of their fingers, matt’s other hand moving to rub your clit. the sensation is incredibly overwhelming and you yelp as the feeling in your abdomen returns.

“i—” you start to protest before matt cuts you off.

“more baby.” matt demands, eyes completely entranced on their soaked hands, the wet spot on the bed, and the loud squelching of your pussy.

your whines and babbles are incoherent. it feels so good that all you can do is cry in pleasure as the dam breaks again. liquid gushes all over, adding to the mess between the three of you. their fingers slow this time, relief washing over you as you catch your breath.

“there we go” matt hums in satisfaction.

“you are fucking amazing.” chris groans.

“fucking perfect.” matt corrects, “did so good for us baby, squirting all over. look at the pretty mess you made.”

you shift your eyes down, gasping at the wet spot soaking through chris’s comforter, their shiny hands, and chris’s glistening face.

“i’m sorry, i couldn’t—” you whisper.

“don’t apologize.” the two of them respond in unison before chuckling.

they pull their fingers out of you slowly before chris gets up to grab a towel. matt rubs soft circles on your thigh, placing kisses to the side of your face.

“such a perfect girl, we’re so lucky. did that feel good baby?” matt asks.

“really good matty.” you nod your head.

“i hope you know how sorry i am for yesterday. i will spend the rest of time making it up to you.” matt whispers, his head dropping into the crook of your neck.

“i’m okay matty, you’re okay.” you reassure him as chris returns with a towel to wipe you up before tossing the towel to his brother.

“think i’m gonna need to wash my sheets sweetheart,” chris chuckles, “y’wanna go take a shower then we’ll watch a movie or something?”

“yeah c’mon baby let’s get you cleaned up.” matt nods, climbing out from behind you to get off the bed before picking you up bridal style and carrying you to his bathroom.

matt sits you on the edge of the bathtub before turning on the shower. once he rids himself of his clothes, he reaches his hand out for you to grab. you take his hand, but your attempt to stand is unsuccessful as your wobbly legs cause you to lose your balance, nearly falling over before matt’s hands catch your hips to steady you.

“woah” he chuckles before guiding you into the shower, a smile of pride spreading across his face, “i gotcha princess.”

after showering, you find yourself on the couch, head resting in matt’s lap, legs sprawled out as chris enters the living room in new clothes, his hair damp from showering. he smiles at you, making his way over to the couch and lifting your legs up gently to take a seat before placing your legs over his. his soft hands rub along your calves as he searches through netflix. matt’s hand finds it’s way into hair, fingers gently rubbing your scalp. the duality of their soft touch causes your eyes to shut, an exhale of relief leaving you. this feels so perfect.

chris puts on an episode of criminal minds before tossing the remote next to him and leaning back. his eyes scan your figure, spread perfectly across him and his brother.

“this is going to be fun to explain to nick.” chris laughs.

“oh my god” matt responds with a chuckle, “his head’s gonna explode.”

the two of them exchange laughs at the thought of their brother’s reaction. but chris’s words don’t amuse you, they scare you. reality sets in, fear trailing in it’s path as you realize they’re right, nick is going to freak out— and if their own brother is going to freak out, how will everyone else react? you know what will the public reception will be, you know what will be said about you, what will be said about matt and chris. your mind spirals at the thought of hurting their public image, or worse, their careers entirely. you sit yourself up, suddenly feeling like you’re going to be sick.

“you okay baby? what’s wrong?” the concern in matt’s voice pulls chris’s attention to your face.

“what’s everyone going to think—say—about… us?” you mumble, eyes dropping into your lap.

matt sighs at your question, exchanging a glance with his brother before leaning his forehead against the side of your head. he knew it was only a matter of time before this conversation came up, but he hoped somehow it wouldn’t.

“honestly baby, i don’t know.” his voice is soft as his fingers play with the hem of your shirt, trying to calm his own thoughts, “i’m sorry.”

his words offer no comfort to you as the room falls silent, the three of you processing your situation.

“honestly,” chris speaks up, “i don’t give a fuck what they say.”

you and matt turn to look at him, taken aback by his bluntness and the small smile that tugs at his lips.

“but—” you start before his arms wrap around your waist, leaning forward to kiss your cheek.

“i don’t care. this is the happiest i’ve ever been in my entire life. i’m not letting anyone take that from me— from us.” chris states matter of factly.

“chris is right.” matt nods, “how ’bout we just keep it private for now? just between the three of us. i don’t want other people involved in this part of our lives.”

both of their words calm you, but chris isn’t pleased with his brother’s suggestion.

“i mean, that’s not fair matt. i’m not hiding my girl.” chris responds.

“it’s not hiding, chris, it’s protecting.” matt’s tone is sharp.

“we’re not protecting her by pretending people aren’t gonna have negative shit to say.” chris retorts.

“we’re not pretending anything, i just don’t think we need to immediately subject ourselves, especially her, to that.” matt explains.

“so what, we don’t even tell nick? and i’m just supposed to restrain myself when he’s around? pretend like we’re not— together?” chris continues.

you feel tears brim your eyes, guilt washing over you as you sit between the bickering pair. this is exactly what you feared, you’re already a source of tension and causing issues between them. matt’s hard expression softens when he notices your glossy eyes, a hand instantly reaching to cup your cheeks and wipe your fallen tears with his thumb.

“hey, hey, it’s okay, you’re alright baby.” matt coos before pulling you into his chest for a hug, his chin resting atop your head. “let’s not talk about this right now okay?” he suggests to his brother.

chris nods, rubbing your back softly for a moment before he too wraps his arms around you from behind. he places his head in the crook of your neck before a soft voice leaves his lips.

“i’m sorry sweetheart. we can do whatever you want, okay? always.” and you know he means every word.

a/n: hope you guys enjoyed part 4! this is going to be the last chapter of this series, BUT i will still be writing small blurbs for this series. i just don’t want to drag out the storyline by continuing to write long chapters if that makes sense :)

✧ tags✧ @m1zzi3 @pepsiisgoatedasf @courta13 @2muchofaslvt @monroesturnns @emmaweasley @iloveduckssm @tahliama @ellajane2332 @riowritesitall @izzysturniiolo @angeliijay12-blog @brianna-grace12

(if i missed you on my taglist or you want to be added, please lmk!)

[captainamericasmotercycle]

Can I request one for Jacaerys Velaryon where Rhaenyra betroths him to his twin sister and they're both super awkward about it. You can write it as you wish.

warnings: i didn't make them twins so interpret her as you'd like, targ!cest (unintentional?), aemond and aegon taunting jace, high valyrion (i'm not fluent forgive me), takes place in 1.08 (lord of the tides), more angsty than awkward, aemond x reader if you squint really really hard?

“Her children are bastards! And she is a whore,” Vaemond Velaryon spoke with vemon on his tongue.

You and your brothers shared a glance of embarassment with one another.

Viserys hobbled up from his seat on the throne, “I will have your tongue for that.”

Before Viserys could get any further Dark Sister flung through the air, taking Vaemond’s head with her. Everyone in the room jumped back, your mother pushing you behind her, as your younger brother gasped.

“He can keep his tongue,” chaos erupted with the King’s guard.

“Disarm him!”

Daemon wiped the Velaryon blood off his sword and sheathed it, ushering you and his daughters out of the room, “No need.”

-

Later in the dining hall, you and your estranged family stood around a large table, Viserys was carried in and sat in between your mother and Alicent, “How good it is… to see you all tonight… together.”

One he was situated, all sat in the respective places, you between Jacaerys and Lucerys.

Alicent looked to her husband, “Prayer before we begin?”

“Yes,” your family was not the most religious, you looked to Jace, you looked back at you with an annoyed expression.

“May the Mother smile down on this gathering with love. May the Smith mend the bonds that have been broken for far too long. And to Vaemond Velaryon, may the gods give him rest.”

Viserys was the first to speak, just barely lifting his cup, “This is an occasion for celebration, it seems. My grandson Luke, will marry his cousins Rhaena, further strengthening the bond between our houses. A toast to the young Prince… and his betrothed! Hear, hear!”

The rest of the table rose their glasses and toasted to your younger brother.

Aegon, sitting next to Jace leaned over and spoke quietly, “Your younger brother bests you once again. Laying with a women before you.”

Viserys spoke again, “Let us toast as well Prince Lucerys… the future Lord of the Tides. Hear, hear!”

You smiled at him, squeezing his hand, “You’ll be great.”

Aegon continued on with him, “You do know how the act is done, I assume? At least in principle? Where to put your cock and all that.”

“Let it be, Aegon,” Helaena chastised him, tired of his jokes.

“You can play the jester if you wish, but hold your tongue before my sister,” Jace defended you.

Your family sat in tension, your grandsire felt the need to clear the air, “It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table. The faces most dear to me in all the world… yet grown so distant from each other… in the years past.”

He takes his mask off his face and drops it on the table, “My own face… is no longer a handsome one… if indeed it ever was. But tonight… I wish you to see me… as I am. Not just a king… but your father. Your brother. Your husband… and your grand sire. Who may not, it seems… walk for much longer among you.”

He breathes heavily and struggles with his next words, “Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts. The crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided. But set aside your grievances. If not for the sake of the crown… then for the sake of this old man who loves you all so dearly.”

Your grandsire sits and the room was filled with silence, your mother arose from her place next to him.

“I wish to raise my cup to Her Grace, the Queen. I love my father. But I must admit that no one has stood… more loyally by his side than his good wife. She has tended to him with… unfailing devotion, love, and honor. And for that, she has my gratitude… and my apology.”

Alicent smiles solemnly to Rhaenyra, “Your graciousness moves me deeply, Princess.”

She stands and raises her cup, “We are both mothers… and we love our children. We have more in common than we sometimes allow. I raise my cup to you… and to your house. You will make a fine queen.”

Each at the table took turns toasting to the family, each aggrivating Jacaerys more.

Aegon, drunkenly, rose, turning to Luke, “I, um… I regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer. But if you ever wish to know what it is to be well satisfied, all you have to do is ask.”

Aegon smiles and turns to Jace now, “Ask me, of course. Your older brother would not know how to guide you.”

Jace stands, slamming his hands down on the table, you grab his wrist, “Jace.”

Sternly looking at him, he glances to you before raising his glass, “To Prince Aegon and… Prince Aemond,” Aemond’s face hardens, “We have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth. And as men, I hope we may yet be friends and allies. To you and your family’s good health, dear uncles.”

Jace sits and Heleana stands, “I would like to toast to Baela and Rhaena. They’ll be married soon. It isn’t so bad. Mostly he just ignores you… except sometimes when he’s drunk.”

Aegon rolls his eyes in embarassment, Viserys smiles at his youngest daughter, and Daemon gently laughs.

Viserys feels ill and is taken out of the room. Only the Hightower side of the family is left.

You’ve always had a strained relationship with your uncles, but you did love Helaena, often times strolling in the gardens with her, or her teaching you some embroidery tricks.

Aemond glances at you from across the table, a dark and hungry look in his eyes. You look away from him and to your mother. She nods at you, as a way of saying that she would take care of it.

The pig comes out of the kitchens and is brought to the table, Luke chuckles at the sizzling pig. Aemond slams his fist on the table, capturing everyone’s attention.

“Final tribute. To the health of my nephews: Jace… Luke… and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise… hm… strong,” he looks to you and smirks, “And my niece, you are of age now, luck to you in finding a husband. Perhaps someone strong, maybe you will find home in the Riverlands.”

“Aemond,” Alicent warns.

You can see Jace fuming from beside you, but you gently nudge his foot under the table with yours. You keep your composure.

You hum, smirking back at him, “Kirimvose, yn nyke gīmigon nyke kostagon become tolī than sepār mirtys’s riñnykeā ābrazȳrys… Kepa.” Thank you, but I know I can become more than just someone's lady wife… uncle

“Kostilus se ābrazȳrys hen nykeā darilaros?” Perhaps the wife of a prince?

“Nyke unyishishk jorrāelagon daorun tolī than naejot sagon se ābrazȳrys hen dārys's tȳne tresy.” I would love nothing more than to be the wife of the king's second son.

Aemond’s face hardened. Only you, Aemond, your mother, and Daemon fully understood the words exchanged. Your mother and Daemon shared a look of pride.

Alicent looked at the interaction with confusion and furrowed brows.

“What are they saying?”

“Aemond has proposed a marriage it seems,” Rhaenyra speaks.

Jace looks at you almost angrily, “What did you say?”

All eyes were on you, “What she said is not important,” your mother interrupted.

She cleared her throat, “What matters is that my daughter will wed her brother, Jacaerys, heir to the Iron Throne. She will become queen one day; something more than someone’s lady wife.”

Everyone’s eyes widened. You felt heat rise to your cheeks. There is no way that your mother would have you marry your brother?

Aemond’s hardened grin turned to a smug one, “Well then, congratulations is in order to my niece and her strong husband.”

Jace stood and walked towards the center of the room, challenging his uncle, “I dare you to say that again.”

Aemond stood with him, walking to him, “Why? ‘Twas only a compliment,” he leaned into Jace, whispering into his ear, “Do you not think yourself Strong?”

Without hesitation, Jace swung at Aemond, getting in a good punch onto his jaw. Everyone around the table gasped, your mother yelled sternly, “Jace!”

Aemond reached for his blade, but his mother’s voice stopped him, “Aemond! That is enough!”

“Go to your quarters. All of you go, now.”

You stood and watched Jace walk out. You didn’t follow him to his quarters to check on him. You stayed in the hall and waited for your mother.

As she came out of the dining hall, you caught up with her.

“Mother!”

She turned to you, “Were you telling the truth… about me.. and Jace?”

Holding your face in her hands she stroked your cheek with her thumb and smiled gently at you, but you could not meet her eyes, “You will make a great queen one day, my sweet girl.”

She tugged at your chin to force you to look at her, “But now, you need to rest, we have quite the journey ahead of us back to Dragonstone, tomorrow.”

You nodded before heading back to your quarters. Nodding at the guards standing at your door, you pushed them open.

Jace, who was waiting for you on your bed, stood at your entrance. You sighed and rolled your eyes.

“Jacaerys, it is not proper for you to be in here… not anymore.”

“Please just listen.”

You walked around the room, releasing the maids of their duties, “Leave us.” The maids were quick to exit.

“I did not know she was going to say that!”

“I did not know Aemond would try to wed me tonight.”

“I’m sorry. We do not have to wed if you choose to take someone else’s hand—”

“No,” shaking your head, “It is.. our duty now, as the future queen’s eldests.”

“I promise to be a good husband—”

“Jacaerys, I do not wish to speak of this any longer.”

He spoke your name softly, “I’m sorry.”

“Leave me, Jace.”

He said your name more sternly now.

“Leave me, your grace.”

He sunk into himself, hands on his sheathed sword, nodding at you, “As you wish.”

You watch him leave, the door slamming behind him. You groaned in frustration, running your hands over your face and through your hair.

How are you supposed to marry your brother of all people?