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theanoninyourinbox · 1 month ago

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No one asked but here's Ulric's (the Drow from the Yuan-Ti art) beautiful fiance and her family, and her most favored investigator!

(It took hours for this to get uploaded because I had to split the image in half apparently? Curse you Tumblr for making me split them up)

SO the adventuring party (consisting of Ulric the Drow Wizard, Ghrosh the Orc Ranger, Thimble the Halfling Bard and Needle the Cat, Many Fingers the Tabaxi Fighter, and Nils the Dragonborn Cleric) have discovered that one group is funding the various Large Crime Families, Creepy Cultists and General Evil Mayhem (and one house of well-intentioned body horror), and the trail leads to the capital of the small kingdom of Kilnvalley (named for its abundance of metals, fine pottery clays, and high quality sands). So they head out, and make it to the capital city of Casteltun.

The group hangs out at the Pewter Palace Inn, and somehow Ulric accidentally drinks alcohol. This is a Mistake, because Ulric is a lightweight who gets startlingly good at brawling and really loud. It gets worse when he wanders off, and hears some Dwarf degrading the royal family - specifically degrading the royal women. This is also a Mistake, because Ulric was raised communally, and calls nine different women Mom.

So Ulric starts loudly telling the Dwarf to stop being such a bull headed yellow bellied sapsucker, and the Dwarf swings on him. After a short scuffle, Ulric pins the Dwarf in a head-and-beard-lock and makes him apologize to women, apologize to all of them NOW! And gets hustled off by the only woman in the bar, a red haired Gnome named Grenda.

Now you may see where this is going...

She helps him escape, and gets him to the very worried party, and she slips off into the night after speaking to Thimble and Ghrosh, while Nils and Fingers corral the now-singing Ulric into bed. He wakes the next day very confused. Everyone is even more confused when a royal guardswoman shows up to talk to them - no one had even looked funny at a guard oh wait no the dwarf Ulric whyyyyy?! But Captain Thunder brightly assures them that there's no trouble, but someone wants to talk to them about the incident - it's becoming startlingly common for strangers to come to town and try to stir up anti-non humanoid rhetoric lately, and that Dwarf was one of the culprits. So she wants to talk somewhere more private than the Inn, and vows that Ulric is NOT getting arrested for defending himself, if a bit interestingly, and Thimble sees this as a great way to make a connection, so off the party goes.

Once Ulric tells Captain Thunder what he remembers, she thanks him, but asks the party to keep an eye out - things haven't been smooth lately, and she's worried. And after a quick huddle, Nils presents the Captain with their findings, as everyone chimes in with their experiences. Captain Thunder looks them over, then makes some magic copies and asks them to meet her and some allies behind the lower quarter pub The Beer Stein the next night.

After a thankfully uneventful day of shopping and information gathering, the party gathers behind the pub, and right on time, Captain Thunder pops up - literally out of a manhole cover. Behind her are a half-elf man she introduces as the Royal Advisor Lowery, and a familiar gnome woman - the third in line to the throne, Princess Gunda. Fingers exchanges money with Thimble, who called her being a noble at least. The three exchange information with the adventurers, and Lowery brings them into a conspiracy - someone has been trying to kill King Geiron and his heir Princess Meridella. Seeing the investigative prowess (also known as accidental bumbling and guesswork proved correct by later evidence) of the adventurers, he asks them to help them save the King and kingdom.

And he'll pay them!

The adventurers agree, and are given a cover story, to get them into the castle - the royal family is always looking for new talent, and they can meet up each night at the Inn to hopefully put the pieces together. The next day, Ulric begins under the Royal Wizards; Thimble in the Music Hall, Ghrosh in the Hunter's Guild; Fingers in the Guards; and Nils in the Halls of Healing.

Ulric keeps getting assigned to Princess Gunda, apparently as hazing, but they get along really well actually! He infodumps about the legendary smith that forged her sword Whistling Doom, and she gets to talk about the pressures of nobility, and hear from someone who understands the world like her sister Gemma but has the words to explain sensory issues and overstimulation. It's nice to have someone to talk to, and Ulric keeps having Feelings. Gunda also is having Feelings. Neither of them talk about it. Thimble can taste the Yearning in the air.

But the investigation goes on, and enough solid evidence is found to implicate the underhead of the Merchant Guild, the deputy of the Guards, and a diplomat from the neighboring country of Nellingstor. The evidence is brought to his majesty, who is appalled, but the traitors strike out at the king and royal family. After a huge fight, the diplomat and Deputy are killed, and the underhead is taken into custody. However, when the King of Nellingstor is informed, he demands recompense - his son to wed the princess Gunda, unless she has a true love (for Nellingstor was founded on such things) or a large sum of money. She immediately freaks out, for she has long thought herself unloveable, and Ulric nearly has a panic attack.

And he steps up, all nerves and determination.

"I don't know what true love is. I've heard love is-is fiery passion, hot blood and searing to-touch. I've heard it's-it's at first sight, or at a tou-touch. But all I know is that the world is brighter si-since I met you, and that I look forward to seeing you every day. I hear that a loved o-one is a perfect pri-pricceless treasure, bu-but they're a person, with a-all the flaws that frame the strengths. I-I don't know what love is, but I think I'd like to-to find out with you."

The room goes silent, and Gunda goes redder than her hair. Thimble gives a low whistle of approval and the room erupts into noise. Ulric puts his head in his hands as Fingers covers the ambassadors mouth. Ghrosh calls for quiet when the king's voice goes unheard. Gunda slowly smiles.

"I think that's a wonderful idea."

The price is paid, and as Ulric and Gunda have their first official courtship meeting, Ghrosh gets a call on his Sending Stone. His son Brisbane frantically asks for help, grandpa Richard died and Aunt Kelena is sending him away-

and the call cuts.

Thunder Follows the Lightning Strike the Tabaxi Paladin

The Zealot - The Hunter

Everyone in The Court knows that King Geiron’s advisor is the problem in the kingdom. The old Gnome would have been done away with by his peers if not for his loyal guards - especially that dratted fleabag! She’s not Court Material - too blunt, too innocent, too cheerful! It’s insane how she knows when the wine is poisoned, or where the assassin is. And then someone will be arrested! In full view of The Court! It’s scandalous!

Behind a tapestry, Thunder stifles a chuckle. The idiots in the court really think she’s a country bumpkin, when she’s been responsible for the investigations into their crimes. Just because she’s chipper doesn’t mean she doesn’t understand the convoluted laws they try to pass, even if Royal Advisor Lowery has to explain some of them. This idiot, for example, put forth a law that would ban non-human races from petitioning the King! She writes down the sedition that the racist is slinging to his mistress, and as soon as he leaves, Thunder will gladly report to Lowery, then take a shower to wash off the filth the idiot was slinging.

Part 8! Gotta Write Fast!

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starcurtain · 4 months ago

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Another Phaidei Fic I Want to Read

It's the political arranged marriage AU but make it (ooooo) complicated~

Crown Prince Mydeimos of Castrum Kremnos was born under a dark star, with a prophecy of abject despair uttered at the moment of his birth: Mydeimos will be the last king of Kremnos. The city-state will fall, her people will be lost, and the glory of Strife entirely will fade into nameless oblivion. Year after year, the prophets repeat the same warnings: Mydeimos is cursed, and he will bring the downfall of their kingdom and all its inhabitants.

But no one in Kremnos knew just how cursed their prince was until the day the regent's war council convinced their king to do the unthinkable: If Mydeimos was sacrificed, perhaps their prophecy of destruction could be averted and Kremnos saved...

Only Mydei couldn't even die like he was supposed to. No matter how many times he was mortally wounded, the boy just kept standing up--not even Thanatos would take him. That glorious death in battle that all Kremnoan warriors were expected to achieve--even this most central aspect of Mydei's own culture rejected him.

This life of betrayal and total loneliness, with the promise of eventually destroying everything he knew and cared for, seemed inescapable--until one day, when Mydeimos had already passed the age of majority (and would have long since been allowed to challenge his father for the crown if it weren't for the despair prophesied to be his reign), a new vision was shared among all of their people's seers: There was a way to avert their kingdom's impending destruction and save their people. "Only the son of Aedes Elysiae can deliver Castrum Kremnos from the dark tide and restore the true king to her throne."

Aedes Elysiae is a tiny city-state with nowhere near enough military might to defend against a full onslaught from the Kremnoans. But the risk that the Elysian prince could be harmed--and all of Kremnos' future lost in the process--is too high to engage in a traditional war of conquest. Although it runs contrary to the Kremnoans' very natures, if it means securing their kingdom's future and hiding the truth of their foreseen fate forever, they will engage in any manner of subterfuge and political maneuvering necessary.

Namely, by using the threat of war to force Aedes Elysiae to surrender their crown prince to a permanent and binding political alliance. If the Elysians want to avoid obliteration by the military might of the Kremnoans, they will tie the destiny of their crown prince to the Strifewalkers' through blood and oath--a marriage to Kremnos' own Prince Mydeimos. In this way, perhaps the curse can finally be outweighed by the glory of a savior.

Enter Phainon: the pride and joy of Aedes Elysiae, the golden sun to his people, loved by everyone who knows him. Although his heart has always been soft and romantic, rebelling fiercely at the idea of marrying someone he's never met and doesn't love, there is nothing Phainon won't do to protect his people and his kingdom--even if it means sacrificing himself.

So Phainon agrees to leave his family and homeland behind, and makes the miserable journey to Castrum Kremnos to meet his destiny... as well as his new husband.

Too bad Mydei wants absolutely nothing to do with him.

Disgusted by his father's willingness to forsake Kremnos' sacred principles of pride and integrity by using underhanded tactics and falsehoods to force Aedes Elysiae's prince into compliance, Mydei refuses to even acknowledge his marriage to Phainon, let alone look in his fellow prince's direction.

Which wouldn't be a problem, honestly, if it weren't for the fact that poor Phainon is smitten within days.

When the Kremnoans were strong-arming Aedes Elysiae's king into giving up his beloved son, why had no one thought to just tell Phainon that Prince Mydeimos was so... so... upright and honest and brave and powerful and gorgeous and straightforward and humorous and quick-witted and honorable and also gorgeous? (Phainon thinks perhaps this last point should be repeated a few more times for good measure.) Truly, Phainon might have gone willingly if anyone had just thought to show him a portrait of his husband-to-be in advance!

While Phainon struggles to catch his own husband's attention and soften Mydei's seemingly unbreakable stone heart, Mydei struggles with his father's demands to keep his curse hidden, to not reveal the omen of destruction lurking behind this sham of a marriage. Though having to lie shreds every last tatter of pride Mydei has, if this prince of Aedes Elysiae discovers the truth, that he's been brought here solely to counteract Mydei's prophesied inability to reign, Kremnos' enemies will know it within the hour. A single weakness will be all the world needs to turn on the Kremnoans, to bring Mydei's terrible destiny to pass.

And... And if Phainon learns the truth about Mydeimos, about his curse, about how he is an abomination that not even death will accept, about the misery he is destined to bring, about the failures that are sure to come, about how he is hated by his country, his people, his own family--then Mydei will lose the first person who has ever smiled freely at him, ever wanted to walk beside him, ever spoke kind words in his direction...

There is no way Phainon would ever look at him the same again.

There is no way Phainon would stay.

And that would be cruelest fate of all.

(What Mydei and Castrum Kremnos don't know is that Phainon has a secret of his own: He's not royalty by blood in the slightest. He was a penniless orphan who just got lucky enough to be taken in by the castle and end up, through twists in his own destiny, to be raised by the childless rulers of Elysiae from nothing but the kindness of their hearts.

There is no son of Aedes Elysiae to save Castrum Kremnos from its fate--and the dark tide comes for all.

But visions bestowed by the gods must not be doubted. Perhaps the combined efforts of two lonely people--the one who forsook his own land for love and the one who could only be loved by someone from another land--will see the sun of Aedes Elysiae delivered to Kremnos once more...

And put a true and honest king upon her throne at last.)

#honkai star rail #phaidei #myphai #mydei #phainon #amphoreus #amphoreus spoilers #maybe slightly #even though this is an AU #look man I just need to see everyone angsting over hidden identities #Mydei acting so proud but having crushingly low self-worth from a life of being villianized and ostracized #Phainon ancient Greek googling 'How can I make the man I'm married to notice me'#mutual pining but being so sure the other person could never love them #listen I think every ship needs an “arranged marriage royalty” AU #but the fact that I couldn't ALREADY find one for this ship #which is literally PERFECT FOR THIS TROPE #is actually crazy #send fics #please help

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therogueflame · 1 month ago

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Dragonseed

Hi my horny little fuckers (affectionate),

This piece is based on this ask that requested breeding kink daemon so like...you know i went all out.

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WC: 6.7k

Summary: A night of unrestrained passion blurs the lines between power, devotion, and desire.

Warnings: 18+, rough sex (p in v), oral (kinda? f!receiving), multiple positions, creampies, breeding, possession, talk of pregnancy, obsession with legacy, targcest, dirty talk

Daemon Targaryen x Targaryen!Wife!Reader

MDNI!!!

The blood of Old Valyria coils hot beneath your skin, an ancient river that hums through your bones and shudders in your breath. It is a birthright and a curse, a fire no ocean could drown. In the towering halls of Dragonstone, where the stone still remembers the beat of leathery wings and the roar of beasts who ruled the sky, you move as though you were born from the very heart of the mountain. Silver glints at your temples beneath the wavering torchlight, a crown by blood if not yet by name, and your gaze carries the weight of a hundred generations who refused to kneel. You are a Targaryen, daughter of a house shaped in fire, and tonight the blood of your ancestors drums louder than ever, answering the pull of the man who stands just beyond the threshold.

Daemon is your husband now, tied to you by oath and ceremony and the raw, unbroken thread of your shared bloodline. The union is so new that the scent of burning oils still clings faintly to the hem of your gowns, that your chambers have not yet been stripped of the lonely air of a maiden's room, that you still wake some mornings and marvel at the iron weight of a ring on your finger. There has been little time for tenderness and even less for patience. The feasts were endless, the faces eager and expectant, the smiling lords and ladies who whispered in corners about the strength of your bloodline, the power of your children to come. You had smiled too, wearing the mask expected of you, all the while feeling the restless fire building beneath your skin with every passing hour you spent at Daemon’s side, untouched and unfinished.

Now, finally, there is no one left to watch. The last servants have retreated. The heavy oak doors have been drawn shut. The night belongs to the two of you alone.

You feel him before you hear him, a shift in the air, a gathering of something too potent to be named. His boots strike the stone floor with a slow, deliberate rhythm, echoing up the length of the corridor, a hunter’s patience wrapped in a soldier’s stride. When you turn to face him, he is already so close that the torchlight trembles against the broad line of his shoulders, painting his hair in violent shades of gold and red, his eyes catching the light and reflecting it back to you with a hunger that strips you bare. His presence crashes over you like a tide, stealing the breath from your lungs, and still you stand, shoulders squared, chin lifted, refusing to look away. You may be his wife now, you may ache for him with a need that gnaws at your very soul, but you are Targaryen too, and you will not go to him meekly. He must come to you.

He does.

He crosses the last few steps without breaking eye contact, every line of his body coiled and burning with a heat that has long since left patience behind. When he reaches you, he does not touch you, not yet, but the nearness of him is suffocating. The heat of his skin leaches into yours, dizzying, relentless, making your heart hammer wildly against your ribs. His voice, when it comes, is roughened from restraint, low enough that you feel it more than hear it, vibrating through the narrow space between your bodies.

"You think I have not imagined it?" he breathes, and the hunger in his voice has teeth. "How you would look with my child growing inside you? The curve of your belly, heavy with our blood, with our fire?"

The words strike you like a physical blow, tearing away whatever fragile composure you had clung to. Your lips part, a sharp breath escaping, but you catch yourself before you can give him the satisfaction of seeing you undone so easily. You tip your chin up a fraction higher, your pulse roaring in your ears, and meet him blow for blow. When you speak, your voice is soft but steady, threaded through with a challenge you do not bother to hide.

"Is that all you want from me?" you ask, and even as you say it you know you are taunting him, daring him, beckoning the beast that lurks just beneath his skin.

For a long moment, he says nothing. His eyes roam your face, greedy and reverent all at once, and then his mouth curves into something that is not quite a smile, something sharper, something older. He moves then, closing the final sliver of space between you, his hands finding your waist with a grip that is possessive and unyielding, strong enough to remind you that you are his and always have been, even before the vows were spoken. His forehead presses to yours, and for a heartbeat he simply breathes you in, his fingers digging into the rich fabric of your gown, his body trembling with the effort it takes to hold himself still.

"No," he murmurs, his voice a prayer offered at the altar of your body, his words sinking into your skin like claws. "But it is where I will start."

The last of your defenses crumble then, shattering like fragile glass beneath the weight of him, beneath the certainty that there is no undoing what has been set into motion. Whatever waited between you all those endless nights before the wedding, whatever unspoken promises passed between glances across court, whatever fevered dreams you nursed in the dark when no one could hear you cry out his name, all of it is nothing compared to this. This is real. This is fire. This is the dragon you married coming to claim what has always been his.

And you, daughter of the same flame, do not fear the fire.

His hands tighten at your waist, anchoring you to him, and you feel the tremor that runs through his arms, a thread of restraint pulled tight enough to snap. For a moment, he simply holds you there, his forehead resting against yours, breathing you in like a man starved. The space between your bodies vibrates with the force of everything unspoken, every vow that lived in your blood before it ever passed your lips.

His movements are slow and carefully deliberate, sending a shiver down your spine. As his fingers locate the fastenings of your gown, he undoes them one by one, his knuckles lightly brushing along your spine. There's no rush or tearing of fabric—his actions are marked by a reverent devotion, a deep and intense admiration that leaves you quivering. The air is saturated with his scent and warmth, and every touch exudes a profound, overwhelming devotion.

The weighty cloth slides off your shoulders and gathers at your feet, exposing you to him. For a moment, Daemon remains still and silent, his eyes sweeping over every part of you as though he intends to etch your image into his very being. His hands drift to his swordbelt and the fastenings of his tunic, moving deliberately slow, his gaze never leaving you. Each movement is a declaration, a vow, a challenge.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low, rough, scraped raw by everything he’s been holding back.

“You were made for this,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing low across your belly, slow and reverent, like he’s already imagining the shape of his child there. His eyes drag up your body, heavy with want, his breath shuddering. “To carry my blood. To give it form.”

He leans in, mouth nearly at your ear, every word shaped around hunger and certainty.

“Let me fill you. Let it take.”

The last breath of distance dissolves between you, and Daemon’s hands transform from languid to fervent, no longer restrained or patient. They carve into your skin, leaving fiery marks of ownership that sear like a brand. His mouth crashes onto yours with a ferocity that eradicates any possibility of doubt—a kiss that steals the very breath from your lungs and ignites a wildfire in your veins. There is nothing gentle in him now, nothing tender. Only a blazing inferno of hunger and an unwavering, unbreakable devotion.

You surrender to him, mirroring his hunger with your own, your teeth grazing his lower lip in a possessive claim of your own. Your fingers clutch the fabric of his tunic, pulling him closer, as if sheer willpower could dissolve the boundaries separating your bodies. His growl reverberates against your mouth, a dragon's deep rumble that sends molten heat cascading through your veins.

He guides you backward with deliberate steps until your spine meets the unyielding cold of the stone wall. The stark contrast of temperatures—his searing skin against your front, the icy chill of ancient Valyrian rock at your back—elicits a gasp from your lips. Daemon captures the sound, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with practiced dominance, tasting you, consuming you. His hands cradle your face, fingers weaving through your silver hair, tugging just enough to expose the vulnerable column of your throat to him.

"Mine," he breathes against your pulse point, where your lifeblood thunders beneath the skin.

"Yours," you echo, a fierce promise and an ancient truth.

His teeth graze your throat, sharp and possessive, before he soothes the sting with his tongue. You arch against him, hands clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric still separating you from his skin. With a growl of frustration, you tug at his tunic, desperate to feel him, all of him.

"Take it off," you command, your voice low but unyielding. A queen's demand, even now.

His eyes flash with heat at your tone, a smile curving his lips that's all predator. He steps back just enough to pull the garment over his head in one fluid motion, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, marked with the scars of battles won and lost. Your breath catches at the sight of him, at the coiled strength evident in every line of his body. You reach for him, hands splaying across the warm skin of his chest, feeling the thunderous beat of his heart beneath your palm. There is a symmetry to this moment, a rightness that sings in your blood. Targaryen to Targaryen, fire calling to fire.

He catches your exploring hands in his own, bringing them to his lips to press fervent kisses against your knuckles, your wrists, the sensitive skin of your inner arms. Each touch is a brand, each breath a claim. When he releases your hands, they fall to the lacings of his breeches, working them free with trembling fingers.

His eyes follow your movements, pupils blown wide with desire, his breathing growing more ragged with each passing second. When you free him from the confines of his clothing, he hisses through clenched teeth, his hands flying to your hips with bruising intensity.In one swift movement, he lifts you, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he presses you against the wall. The stone is cold against your back, but you barely notice through the haze of heat enveloping you both. His hands slide beneath your thighs, supporting your weight with effortless strength as he positions himself at your entrance.

For a heartbeat, he pauses, his forehead pressed against yours, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that steals your breath. In this suspended moment, something passes between you that transcends mere desire—a recognition, soul-deep and ancient. The bloodline that binds you together, that separates you from all others, pulses between your joined bodies like a living thing.

He snarls "Mine" once more, a primal claim, before he impales you with a brutal thrust, filling every inch of your slick, tight heat.

The overwhelming sensation is almost unbearable—more intense than you ever dared imagine, more carnal and raw than your wildest fantasies. Every inch of you is electrified by the way his thick cock fills you, how Daemon dominates and claims every secret, sensitive crevice of your body. It’s a delicious torment, a fierce collision of agony and ecstasy, as if you’re being violently split open only to be remade entirely. The brutal, unyielding fucking merges with tender intimacy, each shared breath, every lewd glance, and each heated caress building to a climax that shatters all restraint. Your body is a willing vessel, hips thrusting and desperate to meet his relentless thrusts, the two of you locked in a wild, naked abandon. His every thrust drives you to the razor’s edge of ecstasy, keeping you there as your nails tear into the glistening, sweat-soaked muscles of his shoulders—a mark he brands upon you as you brand him in return. The cry that escapes your lips is a fierce, primal scream, a raw mating call that resonates with the ancient pulse of lust passed down through generations.

That guttural cry is the embodiment of your passion, bridging the scant gap between your bodies with the force of your urgency. His name is enunciated in every moan—a declaration, a desperate plea, a demand for submission, and a surrender so complete. Its raw power unspools the last shreds of your control, leaving you with nothing but the searing heat of him, the undeniable confirmation that you were forged solely for this carnal conquest. Not a moment passes when you aren’t hypersensitive to his every movement: the hot rush of his breath against your skin, the insatiable hunger in his eyes, the relentless pressure of his thrusts. Every part of you is consumed by his raw nearness, his unquenchable desire, his absolute certainty in this savage dance of lust.

This, this, this is what your flesh and blood scream for.

In the midst of the lust-fueled fire, only he exists—Daemon, the center of the universe where everything else is reduced to smoldering cinders beneath the blaze of his presence. Even the coarse stone pressing at your back and the crushing grip of his hands fade away beneath the incendiary passion he ignites, until it’s impossible to tell where you end and he begins. It is as though he has embedded himself within your very soul, rewriting your essence in a language of searing desire.

Every forceful, calculated thrust is a symphony to your fevered heart—slow, deliberate, yet impossibly potent. With every deliberate motion, every promise fulfilled and vow cemented in the heat of your shared passion, your senses shatter. Your breath nearly escapes you from the intensity of his presence, and each deliberate drive shoves you deeper into vulnerability. The measured pace is deceptive; underneath lies the savage fury of an unbridled storm. Standing on the precipice of obliteration, you can feel the raw, destructive power of his desire, knowing with absolute certainty that you are destined to be engulfed without escape. At a moment’s pause, as he buries himself deep within you, his ragged breaths hit your neck like incendiary whispers. You feel his dominance everywhere—those hard, sculpted planes of his chest against your bare skin, his iron grip seizing the soft curve of your thighs, and the overwhelming fullness where your bodies merge. Even the chill of the ancient stone behind you is eradicated by the blazing intensity he thrusts into you—a relentless, consuming passion that permeates every fiber of your being.

When he resumes his savage onslaught, his expertise as a seasoned lover becomes undeniably clear—each thrust like a masterstroke that has conquered a thousand hidden desires. His eyes burn with an intense, animalistic heat, and his taut muscles ripple beneath his skin like a living, sinuous serpent poised for an all-consuming, torrid encounter. He is indiscriminate and unstoppable in his desire, his determination an intoxicating force that engulfs you completely until you yield without reservation. His raw strength is overwhelming—a magnetic presence that obliterates any gray area between agonizing pleasure and unmitigated ecstasy. Every whispered, breathless moan, every racing heartbeat, all your fleeting moments of awareness are claimed by him, as each powerful, relentless motion peels away your defenses until nothing remains but the hot, desperate fire of his need.

His forceful, unrestrained thrusts penetrate you with a brutal intensity that leaves you gasping for every precious breath, every second undone by the raw physicality of his touch. Your lips meet his in a fierce, ragged clash, a desperate moan escaping as every deliberate drive plunges you into a vortex of unfiltered, overwhelming desire. The slick, heated contact of his skin upon yours—soaked in sweat and unabashed lust—sparks a tormenting ecstasy that razes every coherent thought. Each powerful thrust is a calculated siege on your senses, dismantling every barrier until you are completely at his mercy. You grasp him with desperate, animalistic fervor, your nails carving savage lines into the taut muscles of his shoulders, a crimson trail attesting to your fervent claim. His eyes, dark and dilated with raw need, mirror the relentless rhythm of his body, drawing you into an inescapable spiral of rapture and submission.

Just when you believe you can take no more, he shifts his hips with calculated precision, thrusting up and deeper into you with unyielding force that makes you scream and writhe uncontrollably. The cry that erupts from you is primal—a raw and frantic admission of surrender that shatters the silence and fills the space between you with a shared, undeniable lust. That haunting sound reverberates within you, unraveling every last thread of resistance until you are stripped bare, reduced to your most elemental, primal self by the insatiable demands of his passion.

Your eyes find his, barely focusing through the haze of his relentless pace as the air is punched from your lungs with his every movement. His gaze is smoldering and fierce, a storm that promises your ruin and deliverance all at once. This deliberate, unyielding rhythm draws you impossibly closer until you can no longer tell where you end and he begins. The heat is almost unbearable, a fiery consummation that binds you tighter with each hard thrust of his body. You lose yourself in it, in him, abandoning all control and letting the vivid sensation overwhelm every part of you.

He drives you to the ultimate brink of sexual oblivion, pressing you against the hard edge of ecstasy with the relentless force of his body and desire. Every thrust quickens, each movement more insistent than the last, as you drown in the intoxicating musk of his skin and the searing heat of his arousal, burning as fiercely as your own. In this vortex of raw lust, the cold stone behind you and the desperate grip of his hands vanish, overwhelmed by the incendiary passion he ignites within you. It is not merely intimacy—it is a voracious claiming, a deep consumption that invades every secret corner of your being, stripping you bare until every gasp and pulsating heartbeat testifies to the sheer power of his carnal need.

You become liquid desire, a living flame flickering in his orbit, completely lost in him as your last threads of resistance disintegrate. In a single, instinct-driven motion, you wrap your legs more tightly around his waist, pulling him even closer, urging him deeper into your core.

He growls in a low, guttural tone—a sound blending triumphant conquest and unyielding demand—while his hands grip you with such intensity it seems as if he plans to merge your flesh into one unbreakable entity. Despite the harsh bite of the stone against your back as he pounds into you with ferocious intensity, you welcome the stinging pain—a delicious reminder of this moment's brutal reality. In that overwhelming surge of animal passion, you exist solely within his heat, his raw, primal drive, surrendering without hesitation to the way he fills you, claims you, and ultimately owns you.

Your voice, a shattered echo of his, finally finds strength to call out his name—a plea and challenge intermingling in your trembling sighs. He responds with one savage, unremitting thrust that robs you of every breath and thought, and for one earth-shattering, ecstatic moment, you feel yourself unraveling completely. Yet his relentless hold grounds you, a forceful reminder that there is no escape from the fierce, binding union between you—no escape from the chains forged of raw, unyielding desire.

Sensing the shift in him, you feel the mounting tension as he loses even a fraction of his control. An urgent need courses through you in tandem with his, compelling you to pull him ever deeper. With your legs tightening around his waist like steel, you drag him further into a frenzy of lust. He growls again, raw and victorious, as his fingers claw at your skin and his savage drive accelerates, sending a seismic pulse of pleasure from your spine that consumes your very being.

You are submerged in him, lost in the cavernous depths of his body and the ferocity of his desire, with no relief in sight—only the all-consuming, suffocating sensation of being utterly possessed, merging with his primal force and burning need. Your voice shatters again, this time into a sound that is neither a plea nor a command—merely the cataclysmic release of every pent-up desire reverberating in the charged space between you. The air trembles with your mutual, raw surrender.

He silences your cry with a searing, possessive kiss, his mouth crushing into yours with an intensity that declares him your absolute master. As his rhythm spirals into a chaotic, unbridled tempo, you realize that his own self-control is crumbling, mirroring the uncontrollable passion that engulfs you both. In that fraught moment, he is as lost in desire as you are, and that mutual surrender propels you both deeper into a swirling maelstrom of pleasure, pain, and primal need.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice a rasp cutting through the haze, demanding to see your raw, unguarded desire as he prepares to seed you with his essence. His pace falters, growing erratic as both of you crest toward complete dissolution, his fingers digging deeper, his breaths raspy against your heated skin, all building to an orgasmic crescendo that threatens to shatter your resolve.

"Say it," he growls, his voice stripped down to its most elemental edge. "Tell me what you want."

With a voice raw from desire, you break the silence, every syllable dripping with unabashed longing: "Your seed. Your child. Fill me."

That declaration shatters his restraint; his last grip on control snaps, and his movements become wild and desperate, discarding any semblance of rhythm in favor of raw, unfiltered force. He captures your mouth in an insatiable kiss—a declaration of conquest that swallows your cries as his pleasure explodes, threatening to overwhelm you both. You melt into him, body and soul, as every muscle convulses in a fevered embrace, pulling him further in a perfect, feral union.

With a guttural roar echoing off the ancient stone, Daemon pushes you beyond the point of return. His body rigidly melds with yours as his fingers mark you with bruises while pulse after pulse of his seed floods deep inside you, a scorching, undeniable imprint of his desire. The exquisite overwhelm of his heat and raw power fills you completely; his body trembles as he releases, forehead pressed to yours, murmuring your name with the fervor of prayer and salvation.

For endless moments, you remain joined, trembling in the aftermath, your bodies slick with sweat and desire. The world slowly reassembles itself around you as your heartbeats slow, but nothing seems as real or as vital as the weight of his body against yours, the lingering heat where you remain joined.

When he finally speaks, his voice is rough, stripped bare of artifice, a raw intimacy that feels more profound than the physical joining of your bodies.

"It will take," he murmurs against your temple, his lips brushing your sweat-dampened skin. There is certainty in his voice, a conviction that brooks no argument. "Our blood is strong. Our line will continue."

His hand slides between your bodies to rest possessively over your lower abdomen, as if he can already sense the new life that might be forming there. The gesture is both tender and fiercely possessive, a dragon guarding its most precious treasure.

You let your head fall back against the stone wall, your chest rising and falling with each labored breath. You close your eyes, savoring the weight of his palm against your skin, the imprint of his body still throbbing within you. The ancient blood of Valyria sings through your veins, harmonizing with his, creating a melody as old as dragonfire itself.

"Yes," you whisper, your voice hoarse from crying out his name. "It will take."

Your mind is crystal clear, filled with utter conviction—a knowledge that blazes as intensely as the fires that consumed your house. The union of your bloodlines feels inevitable, inscribed by the same ancient magic that bound your ancestors to dragons. His seed is inside you now, potent and alive, seeking the perfect fusion that will perpetuate your lineage.

Daemon's breath comes in rough, heavy bursts against your neck, gradually steadying as his body recovers—but still he remains wrapped around you, refusing to yield even an inch of space between your bodies. The intensity of the moment lingers; the shared heat, the raw physicality of his passion, keeps you both locked in place, savoring the powerful aftermath. His lips brush your ear, your temple, pledging an intimacy that transcends mere words, and his arms tighten for a moment before he finally pulls out. As he sets you down on shaky legs, you feel his semen immediately begin to drip down your inner thigh. It is a visceral reminder of his possession, and he does not let it go unclaimed.

Daemon drops to his knees before you, his hands clamping over your hips with bruising strength to keep you steady. His thumbs dig possessively into your soft flesh, spreading you open as his mouth descends, and the heat of his breath scorches against your exposed core. There is a certainty in his movements, a confidence that none of him will be wasted. "Not a single drop goes to waste," he rumbles, his voice resonating against your skin. A moment later, his tongue sweeps upward, licking up his cum and your juices in one deliberate stroke.

The sensation is so surprising, so intensely erotic that a ragged moan escapes your lips. Your fingers thread through his hair, unsure whether to press him closer or push him away from the overwhelming sensitivity. He decides for you, his grip tightening as he feasts on the mixed evidence of your fucking, groaning against you as if savoring the finest delicacy. When he finally stands, his mouth is shiny with your combined fluids, his eyes heavy with renewed lust.

"You taste like us," he says, his voice a deep rumble that sends waves of pleasure coursing through your hyper-sensitive body.

Without warning, he lifts you into his arms, cradling you against his chest as if you weigh nothing. You allow yourself this moment of surrender, resting your head against his shoulder as he carries you to the bed that awaits across the chamber. The furs are soft beneath your back when he lays you down, a stark contrast to the unyielding stone that has left marks across your skin.

Daemon follows you down, his body covering yours like a living blanket of heat and muscle. His hands frame your face, thumbs brushing gently across your cheekbones in a gesture so tender it makes your heart ache with its unexpected gentleness. After the savage claiming against the wall, this shift in his touch is almost disorienting. His gaze sweeps over your face, searching, memorizing, his expression raw with an emotion that transcends mere desire.

"Wife," he breathes, the word heavy with meaning, with possession, with promise.

In that single word, you hear everything—the weight of your shared blood, the responsibility of your line, the fierce protection he offers, the claim he stakes. You reach up to trace the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the slight rasp of stubble beneath your fingertips. This close, you can see the flecks of indigo in his eyes, the subtle variations in the silver of his hair, the thin white scar that cuts across his left eyebrow.

"Husband," you answer, and your voice carries the same weight, the same claim.

His lips capture yours again, softer this time but no less consuming. The kiss deepens, languorous and exploring, as if you have all the time in the world. His hands move with deliberate slowness now, mapping the contours of your body, learning you inch by inch. The urgency hasn't dissipated—it has merely transformed, like dragonfire banked but still smoldering, ready to ignite at any moment.

You arch beneath him, your body still sensitive from his earlier claiming, yet already hungry for more. This is what the blood of Old Valyria demands—insatiable, endless, consuming. Your hands trace the hard planes of his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your palm.

"Again," you whisper against his mouth, a command rather than a plea.

His answering smile is predatory, a flash of teeth in the dim light. "Greedy," he murmurs, the word a caress against your skin. "But I would expect nothing less from a true dragon."

His mouth traces a burning path down your throat, lingering at the pulse point where your heartbeat races beneath his lips. Every touch is deliberate, a stark contrast to the frenzied claiming against the wall. This is a different kind of possession—slower, deeper, more thorough. His teeth graze your collarbone, marking you with gentle bites that send shivers cascading down your spine.

"I will give you everything," he promises, his breath hot against your skin. "Every drop. Every heir. Every kingdom."

Your body responds to his words as much as his touch, a liquid heat pooling between your thighs where you're still slick with his seed. His hand slides down to cup your breast, thumb circling the sensitive peak until you arch into his touch, seeking more. His fingers find you impossibly wet, your body still quivering from your first release yet already desperate for more. The combination of your arousal and his seed makes his entry effortless as he slides two fingers deep inside you, curling them against that spot that makes your vision blur at the edges.

"So responsive," he murmurs, his voice dark with approval. "So ready to be filled again."

Your hips roll against his hand, seeking more friction, more pressure, more of him. There is no shame between you now, no hesitation—only the raw, primal need that pulses in your shared blood. His thumb circles your sensitive bud, drawing tight, deliberate patterns that have you gasping his name, your nails digging into the corded muscles of his shoulders.

When he finally withdraws his fingers, you whimper at the loss, your body clenching around nothing. He brings those same fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean with deliberate slowness, his eyes never leaving yours. The sight is obscene and intoxicating, a visual representation of how thoroughly he intends to consume you.

"Turn over," he commands, his voice a velvet rumble that brooks no argument.

You comply, rolling onto your stomach, the furs soft against your sensitized skin. His hands slide up the backs of your thighs, kneading the firm flesh, spreading you open to his gaze. You feel exposed, vulnerable, and yet there is power in your surrender—in knowing that this man, this dragon in human form, craves you with such intensity.

He leans over you, his chest pressing against your back, his hardness nudging insistently between your thighs. His breath is hot against your ear, his voice a ragged whisper as he positions himself at your entrance.

"I want you to feel me for days," he growls, his hands gripping your hips, raising you slightly to align your bodies. "So that every step you take, every breath, reminds you of who you belong to."

With one brutal, powerful thrust, Daemon slams into you, filling you so completely that you lose all sense of the world around you. A hoarse, involuntary cry tears from your throat as he stretches you, deeper than before, claiming every inch. The angle is intense, searing, and your muscles clench instinctively at the invasion, already on edge from the relentless sensations. Your fingers dig into the furs, desperate for something to ground you as he starts to move inside you with a punishing rhythm that leaves you gasping for air. His body is a heavy, solid weight on top of you, his chest smothering your back as if he intends to merge with you entirely.

He fucks you with ruthless purpose, with the unyielding strength of a dragon laying claim to its hoard. Each thrust is a declaration, a physical vow that will not be denied. The sheer intensity of it has you teetering on the brink of another climax, and you hear yourself whimpering, half-formed words of need slipping past your lips. Nothing else matters but this—the firestorm he ignites within you, the raw, visceral connection that makes everything else fade to insignificance.

His breath is hot and ragged against your neck, and each exhalation sends a shiver coursing through your body. One arm supports his weight beside your head, the other snakes between your damp bodies to cup your breast, thumb grazing your hardened nipple in time with the pounding rhythm. The friction of the furs, the unrelenting force of his thrusts, the way his fingers press into your flesh—it all becomes a maelstrom of sensation, drawing tight, unbearable coils of pleasure in your core.

With each violent thrust, you feel your own climax building, impossible to hold back. He drives into you harder, deeper, slamming you into the mattress with an intensity that feels as if it will tear you apart. His lips are at your ear, his growls vibrating through your body, too caught up in his own fierce need to offer even an ounce of mercy. Every second brings a fresh onslaught of sensation, the friction and fullness pushing you to the brink again and again.

The world shrinks to nothing but the feel of him inside you, the relentless pace, the overwhelming pleasure building to a fever pitch. It is too much, almost painfully exquisite, and you know you are lost. Your nails rake down his arms, a silent plea for more, for everything.

"Say it again," he demands, his voice rough with exertion and need. "Tell me what you want from me."

You turn your head, cheek pressed against the furs, words spilling from your lips without thought or hesitation. "Your seed. Your child. Your empire." Each declaration punctuated by a particularly deep thrust that makes you see stars behind your eyelids.

His rhythm falters for a moment, a groan torn from his throat at your words. His hand slides from your breast down to your stomach, splaying possessively over the flat plane where his child might already be taking root. The thought of it—of your womb quickening with his seed, of your body changing to accommodate the heir you'll create together—sends a fresh wave of arousal coursing through you. You push back against him, meeting his thrusts with equal fervor, a silent demand for more.

His teeth graze the sensitive skin where your neck meets your shoulder, nipping hard enough to leave a mark. "Mine," he growls, the word vibrating against your skin. "Every inch. Every breath. Every drop of your blood."

The possessive claim ignites something primal within you, and you feel yourself tightening around him, your body responding to his dominance with a pleasure so intense it borders on pain. The coil inside you winds tighter, tighter, hovering on the edge of release.

"Come for me," he commands, his voice hoarse and strained. "Come on my cock.”

The command itself is enough to shatter the last of your restraint. Your climax crashes through you with devastating force, your inner walls clenching around him in rhythmic pulses that tear a guttural groan from his throat. The intensity of it steals your breath, your vision, your very sense of self as pleasure consumes you entirely. Your body convulses beneath him, every muscle drawn taut as the sensation radiates outward from your core, setting every nerve ending alight.

Daemon doesn't slow his pace, fucking you through your orgasm with relentless determination, prolonging the waves of pleasure until they blur into one continuous, overwhelming sensation. You're barely coherent, reduced to gasping sobs and broken pleas as he drives you higher, refusing to let you descend from the heights. Your vision swims, tears of raw sensation blurring the world around you as your body surrenders completely to his relentless possession.

His rhythm grows erratic, his breathing harsh and labored against your ear as his own release approaches. His fingers dig into your hips with bruising force, holding you in place as he drives deeper, chasing his pleasure with single-minded intensity. You can feel the tension coiling in his body, the slight tremor in his powerful thighs as he reaches the precipice.

"Take it," he groans, the words barely human. "Take all of me."

With one final, brutal thrust, he buries himself to the hilt inside you, his cock pulsing as he floods your already-slick channel with another hot rush of his seed. The sensation of his release triggers another aftershock within you, your body milking him instinctively, drawing every drop from him as if your very existence depends on it. He collapses against your back, his weight pressing you deeper into the furs, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your sweat-slicked skin.

For long moments, neither of you moves, too consumed by the aftermath of pleasure to do more than breathe. The world slowly reassembles itself around you, the distant sounds of the castle filtering back into your consciousness. Your bodies remain joined, his softening length still buried inside you, his seed trapped deep within your womb. The thought sends a fresh shiver of satisfaction through you—the knowledge that even now, life might be taking root, a new thread in the tapestry of your ancient bloodline.

Eventually, he shifts his weight, his body heavy and warm against yours, the drag of skin on skin making you shiver despite the heat still lingering in your blood. He doesn’t speak, just moves with uncharacteristic care, pulling you with him as he rolls onto his side. His arm locks across your waist, solid and unyielding, anchoring you to him as if he would not suffer even an inch of distance. He does not withdraw. He stays inside you, buried deep, the stretch of him a slow, aching throb — both relief and torment. You are full in every sense, body trembling with the aftershocks of being taken, claimed, worshipped. And still, some part of you aches for more.

His lips press to the back of your neck, a breath of warmth, a kiss that lacks the violence of earlier and carries something quieter. Gentleness from Daemon is rare. When it comes, it feels more dangerous than his rage. It feels real.

“You are magnificent,” he murmurs, the words rough and low, colored by exhaustion, possession, and something deeper that trembles beneath the surface. His hand slides from your hip to the softness of your lower belly, splaying wide across it, as if he can already feel the beginning of something there. His palm lingers with weight and meaning, fingers pressing into the flesh with unspoken promise.

“Carrying my seed. Bearing my name.”

Your breath catches. Not from the words, but from the way he says them — like a vow. You turn your head slowly, limbs still heavy, and find his eyes in the flickering glow of the fire. They are dark with satisfaction, shadowed with something fierce and unreadable. The silver of his hair clings to his temples in damp strands, tangled and wild, and there’s something feral in the way he looks at you. Like he would tear the world apart to keep you like this.

“Our name,” you whisper, voice hoarse but steady, your eyes locked on his.

Something in him stills — not in anger, not in resistance, but in reverence. And then he leans forward and presses his forehead to yours, as if to say yes. As if to say always.

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la-libreria-chula · 1 month ago

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Reread the first book and I am reminded of why I gave it 5/5 stars. But the second book?

Well, it's the second book. I was still hooked to it, there were so many revelations that had me gagged.. but Soren...I needed some more groveling. I needed a little more punishment to him. Even though, how this book ended, I guess it's punishment enough.

I need to know when the next one is coming.

If anyone wants to buddy read these again, please follow me on the Storygraph! I do other book challenges as well.

la_libreria_chula | The StoryGraph

#the mortal fates #the crown of oaths and curses #the throne of honor and blood #j bree #booklr #bookstagram #books #book recommendations #book review #bookworm #fantasy books #sci fi and fantasy #fae books #fated mates

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phoenixrisingastro · 1 month ago

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𝐀𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲 𝐖𝐚𝐬 𝐍𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐁𝐞 𝐒𝐨𝐟𝐭: 𝐀 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐍𝐞𝐰 𝐒𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐬

You were not born for comfort.

You were not written into the stars to be stroked, flattered, or cradled.

You were drafted into a war.

A covenant was forged before your first breath—

signed not in ink, but in the fire between your lifetimes.

Your birth chart is not a personality quiz.

It is a binding oath.

A sacred contract between your soul and the machinery of the heavens themselves.

You did not come here to "cope."

You did not come here to "manifest ease."

You came to be burned into sovereignty.

The chart was never meant to tell you you’re perfect as you are.

It was meant to expose you.

To crucify you on the altars of your own avoidance.

To rip open your Memory Vaults—

those sealed places inside you where every betrayal, every cowardice, every abandoned destiny still echoes.

It is not a gift.

It is not a curse.

It is a map written in bone and blood.

A battlefield coded into your fingerprints.

Every square is a scar you agreed to bear.

Every opposition, a wound you promised to transform.

Every conjunction, a flame you vowed to either honor or be consumed by.

If your birth chart has not made you weep—

if it has not broken your illusions, cracked your bones open under the weight of your own soul’s hunger—

you have not met yourself.

You are not your Rising Sign aesthetic.

You are not your Sun Sign memes.

You are the architect of a forgotten Temple buried inside your marrow.

The Moon did not promise you emotional safety.

It promised you the ruins of your ancestors' grief.

And dared you to resurrect it into wisdom.

Saturn did not come to punish you.

It came to bind you to your original word.

It came to break your false crowns and carve real ones in the hollows of your surrender.

Pluto did not come to “transform” you gently.

It came to gut you.

It came to tear the rotting flesh off your complacency

and crown you in the fire you were too afraid to become.

This is not astrology for comfort.

This is astrology for coronation.

You were never meant to be merely happy.

You were meant to be legendary.

Every house you fear to enter, every planet you blame, every wound you anesthetize—

they are not obstacles.

They are the Judges.

The Guardians.

The Gates you must die and be reborn through.

You are not here to heal.

You are here to burn,

to break,

to resurrect.

You are here to remember what you promised before the blood clot formed, before the first cry, before the forgetting.

You are here to rise until there is nothing left of the coward you once called “self.”

You want astrology?

Come crawl through the fire for it.

Come earn the right to wield your own chart as a weapon, not a shield.

Come bleed for your divinity.

Come resurrect your flame from your ashes.

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bookished · 7 days ago

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( a collection of ROMANTASY drunken confessions dialogue prompts. adjust phrasing as necessary.) feel free to make edits to better suit your muse.

"I could face a thousand monsters and never flinch, but one look from you and I fall apart."

"You're the reason I stayed human this long. Do you even know that?"

"They say love is a weakness, but you make me wish I'd fallen sooner."

"Every spell I’ve cast, every curse I’ve broken—it was always to get closer to you."

"You’re the only thing in this realm that makes me believe in fate."

"If the court knew what I feel for you, they'd have my head… but I’d still say your name with my last breath."

"We’re enemies. I know. I know. But damn it—I think I’d burn down my kingdom for you."

"The prophecy said I’d betray someone I love… and I’ve been terrified ever since I met you."

"I swore an oath to protect the crown. I didn’t expect the crown to have your eyes."

"Touch me like that again, and I might forget we’re not supposed to be doing this."

"You're more intoxicating than any fae wine, and twice as dangerous."

"I tried to dream you away, but the stars kept whispering your name."

"Do you know what happens when a phoenix falls in love? We burn. And I’m already burning."

"I’ve kissed gods and danced with shadows, but none of them ever made me feel like this."

"Your magic feels like home… and I haven't had one in centuries."

"You’ll forget this by morning. But I’ll remember every word I didn’t say."

"You said you'd never fall in love with a mortal… but what if I already did with you?"

"This isn't just wine talking. It's every silent night I wished I was brave enough to tell you."

"If we weren’t cursed, if we weren’t doomed—would you have loved me back?"

"When I’m sober, I’ll pretend this didn’t happen. But tonight? I just needed to say it out loud."

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suppose-i-was-worm · 12 days ago

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Marzipan Boy pt 4

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64048147/chapters/169063705

“I don’t bloody have time to tell you about the pecking order in the Infinite Realms unless you tell me why the hell you’re looking into it.”

Tim glanced over at Batman, who was glaring Constantine down over a video call.

“We met a ghost who called themselves the Voice of the Crown. It sounded important, so I wanted to make sure we weren’t making any interdimensional blunders.”

John Constantine cursed a blue streak back and forward.

“Stay where you are. I’ll bring the presentation.”

With one hand, Tim signaled to the others in the batcave to put on their masks and cowls as he did the same. Justice League Dark knew who they were, but they did have images to maintain.

Moments later, Constantine opened a swirling gold portal into the cave and tossed a thumb drive at Batman.

“It’s one o’ yours, there shouldn’t be any bugs.”

Bruce checked it anyways on his wrist computer before plugging it into the main bat computer.

Tim and his siblings crowded around the large screen and the magician.

“So. You met the Voice of the Crown. Probably one of the most powerful beings in the entire Realm, and you made it out alive. Well done.”

“I would assume the King would be more powerful? Or whomever wears the crown?”

John glared at Dick and took a long drag of his ever-present cigarette.

“That’s the thing, the Voice is the one who wears the Crown.”

A grunt from Bruce prompted the Brit on.

“The Crown is the ghostly manifestation of the concept of monarchy. The Voice becomes the Voice when they make an oath to uphold the virtues and values of a good monarch.”

“So this Voice hasn’t always been the Voice?” Duke spoke up. “I thought ghosts were pretty static. Unchanging.”

“The previous Ghost King- feel free to laugh, he was a Voice with delusions of grandeur who insisted on that name- broke his oath centuries ago in his pursuit for power. He took on another oath, therefore breaking both and driving him mad. The current Voice has only been in power for a decade or so.”

Constantine took the computer mouse from the desk and clicked to the first slide of the PowerPoint.

‘Ghosts and How to Respect Them’

Tim grabbed a nearby tablet to keep notes.

~~~

Danny watched his two best friends bicker with a level of disinterest honed by years of watching the same argument. He knew the argument would continue up until they reached the mall food court, and then possibly until after they had all eaten.

Part of him wondered why they were rehashing the vegetarianism vs meat eating argument again, but the rest of him knew they would be fighting over it until their death beds and beyond.

“Oh, is that Tim Drake?”

Sam’s comment stopped Danny in his tracks, and he looked up. Sure enough, Tim was standing by the Wayne Electronics shopfront, fiddling with his phone.

“You should go say hi, Danny!”

Tucker ducked around Danny’s back and pushed him forwards gently, but it didn’t take much persuasion.

Tim looked up as Danny approached, and his face lit up, which was honestly flattering.

“Danny, hey! Wild running into you here- shopping for something?”

“Yeah, Sam and Tuck dragged me out to get a birthday present for my little sister. Not that I wouldn’t have gotten her a gift, of course, but I probably would have just ordered something.”

Danny turned to gesture to his friends, but the traitors had vanished into the crowd at the food court.

Tim chuckled at what was probably a frustrated expression on Danny’s face.

“Well, I don’t know your sister, but I’d be happy to help you look for something if your friends have abandoned you?”

“I would like that.”

Grinning, Tim lifted his phone as if showing it off.

“Sure! Let me text Jason and let him know that I’m leaving him behind. Why he insists on coming to the shopfront when I literally run the company, I’ll never know.”

Danny chuckled and waited for the other man to finish his text. When Tim slid his phone into his pocket, Danny held out his arm as if to escort him.

Tim slid his arm into Danny’s, and they both blushed.

“Well, tell me about your sister, and we can start our search.”

~~~

“You got me a skateboard?”

“Yeah! Apparently there’s a really awesome skate park in Gotham, so next time you visit, you can check it out!”

Ellie Nightengale kicked her feet in the air excitedly from where she sat on the edge of the apartment building. Dan was behind her, braiding her hair and silently listening to the conversation she was having with Danny.

“That sounds great! Jazz is gonna lecture us about safety.”

Danny laughed, the sound distorted by the phone despite the ectoplasm in the inner workings.

“By the way, how was the reaction after I left the other day? Sorry I couldn’t stay at family day longer.”

“There were a lot of questions, but you know me! Obfuscate, Complicate, and Discombobulate!”

“Of course, much better than Gaslight, Gatekeep, Girlboss.”

“Duh.”

“I hope they won’t bother you too much with their prying.”

Dan’s ring got caught in Ellie’s hair, and they spent a few moments disentangling it before she spoke to Danny again.

“They’ll pry, but it doesn’t bother me. It’s kinda funny? Like, there’s Batman, the world’s greatest detective or whatever, and he’s calling Constantine to ask about ghost culture. Instead of asking the actual ghosts- just because he’s emotionally constipated about the idea of a teenage girl having died.”

“How do you know he called Constantine?”

“Connie told me himself. Something about wanting to know why I was palling around with the Voice of the Crown? He was pretty shocked to learn I hang out with the Rage Bearer too.”

Danny and Dan both chuckled, clearly pleased that the laughing magician was bothered by it.

“Like, can’t a girl be the mirror born of the two most powerful individuals of the realms in peace?”

“You’re only Dan’s mirror-born on a technicality.”

“Hey! It would hold up in a court of law! I’m half you and Vlad, he’s half you and Vlad- it all comes together.”

“Gross. Don’t remind me of that Fruitloop.”

The window below Ellie’s feet slid open and Jazz stuck her head out.

“Dinner’s ready, you two. Say goodbye to Danny and get your butts in here.”

Ellie obliged, and she and Dan climbed down the fire escape, closing the window behind them.

The Star City night was quiet outside their apartment.

#dp x dc #dp x dc fanfic #dp x batman #dpxdc #tim drake/danny fenton

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alicesivory · 10 months ago

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Old Habits Die Hard [2/?]

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Pairing: Nightwatch! Aemond Targaryen x wildling female! Reader

Genre: Historically accurate Aemond

WC: 3115

Summary: The Night’s Watch was a nightmare to the one eyed prince. Longing for his freedom once more, the gods decided to toss a coin and play with him. Meeting a peculiar wildling that could be his answer. And the Targaryen prince could be the answer to her people.

“Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honour to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come.”

Aemond knelt before the weirwood tree as he spoke the watch’s oath. Although he was devoted to the seven, a hint of guilt lies deep in his heart. He recalls how his mother devoted her life to the seven and prays daily to the sept. Praying for him, Aegon, Helaena, Daeron, her own mother, it felt wrong kneeling in front of the old gods. What would his mother say of him?

Does she know that he’s alive?

Did Lord Stark told her of his fate?

He could only get lost in his thoughts as he stood up to face his commander. The summer snow falls heavy upon his now black garb, traditionally worn by the order. He should’ve had drowned in that lake alongside with Vhagar and his uncle. Why did the gods saved him just to give him a fate worse than death?

May the gods be with me.

“Just so you know, new recruits are sorted into three orders. Rangers, warriors of the watch to patrol beyond the wall and fend off any wildling. Then we have Builders, tasked to maintain The Wall itself such as castles, arms, and all that shit. And uh last we have Stewards, cooking and tending horses,” His commander said.

“As much I would love to put you as a Steward, princey…we all know you are needed as a Ranger. You are a skilled warrior aren’t you not?”

Aemond could only stare at the commander, letting out a quiet hum. “You don’t talk much do ya?” Stepping closer to the one eyed prince. “It’s better that way,” Aemond replied coldly.

The northerner scoffed, spitting onto the ground.

“Cocky little shit.”

Walking away from Aemond alongside with the other crows. Turning his back on them, Aemond stared down at the weirwood tree. It was laughing at him. At his demise, his fate. The old gods were not with him. He cursed them under his breath, stomping away from the scene as his cloak dragged across the snow.

Training with the northerners wasn’t any different than he had with ser Criston back then in the keep. It’s even easier for his liking. Aemond being a skilled swordsman he is, didn’t hesitate to show off his skills as he competed with new recruits of the watch. Even the ones that were longer in the brother hood had to put up a good fight to keep up with his skills. Yet Aemond was persistent on winning every single time.

“Get up,” Aemond said coldly to a young boy aching in the ground after getting hit by Aemond. “We are not done yet. I said get up,” he repeated himself. Is this the kind of men that they’re sending to the wall? Meek and puny men who are supposed to defend the realm from savages and creatures?

Pathetic.

“Stand up straight, boy,” Aemond told his competitor, tapping his leg. “Keep your legs strong if you want to live,” he said before striking again, thankfully the boy paid attention and kept his form strong. It went on for awhile after Aemond defeated them again and again.

“Enough!” His commander’s voice boomed. “You, Targaryen.” Pointing at the one eyed prince. Approaching Aemond, he questioned, “What d’you think you’re doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?”

“That’s enough.”

“These men aren’t ready—,”

“—oh now you’re lecturing me? A fucking know it all?”

“Yes I know it all. You’re sending these men into a death sentence,” Aemond pointed his sword towards the new recruits. “Is that what this brotherhood is meant for? Sending men into their deaths because they chose not to die sooner in the hands of you northerners? This is not honour, this is a—.”

Before Aemond could even finish his sentence, his commander punched him in the face, hard. A punch he haven’t felt in years throughout his youth. Tumbling to the ground, Aemond felt his cheek was sore and aching. Wincing in pain, he felt his nose bleed.

Stupid northerner.

Licking the blood flowing through his nostril, he scoffed. “That’s what you northerners always do, hm? Finishing the matter with violence.” Prancing up, Aemond wanted to behead his commander right there on spot. But he was held back by the other watch members. Grunting, ordering them to let him go, their grip only tightened.

“If it weren’t for Lord Stark, I would’ve stabbed you here for tainting the watch’s name.” Tapping Aemond’s chin with his own sword. “You’re lucky you’re protected under the starks, boy. Or else your corpse would be lying in the forest as those savages feast on ya.” Tapping Aemond’s cheek with a mocking laugh before his men threw Aemond to the ground, leaving him alone.

His clothes, once neat and tidy, were now tattered and stained, clinging to his battered frame. Aemond lets his legs give up as he was left alone in the field. Even if his face was in pain, he was relieved that he is finally alone in this dreadful place. Even if it was for awhile, he savoured the moment and laid back on the cold harsh ground of the north.

Looking up, he saw the sky being dark and grey. Snow has stopped falling from the sky, that’s also relief. He wondered what his mother is doing right now. Is she praying for him? For his brother? What about Helaena? Has she forgiven him after what he had done and asked her for? She was kind. Helaena didn’t deserve the war or any of them. Not even himself.

What of Alys? His newborn? What does he look like? Will she successfully give him an heir? But what is the use of an heir if he is not present to see its birth? If he has lost the war. If the blacks had claimed the throne and cast his family aside? Was the war actually worth the fight? He should’ve perished at that lake to end his misery. At Least he didn’t have to endure the aftermath of the war. But now he’s nothing but a crippled Targaryen, surrounded by a useless brotherhood that we would die to escape from.

A crow flew above him, landing on one of the trees surrounding the base.

He used to see dragons flying above him.

Now he is only left with dreadful black crows.

Yet they are free. Unlike his fate. Trapped in a cage he wished to be free from.

May the gods be with him.

He wasn’t surprised when they put him on duty that very night to the Nightfort. Of course they put him in the Nightfort. They said that the fort was haunted since it’s twice as old as Castle Black. Aemond sighed, lighting up his torch looking around the barely standing fort. They would have abandon this fort in a few years. Aemond didn’t mind the dark or the haunting noise of the creaking floors of the fort. For Harrenhal was far more haunting than this old fort.

Even Alys’ visions were far much terrifying.

He saw a few men on the ground as he stood by the bridge of the old fort. Scared shitless when they felt a small blow from the wind. “Cowards,” he muttered under his breath. The cold wind swept his hair as he stomped through the old fort. Yet when he slowed down, he heard a double foot step. He kept walking.

Tap…tap..Tap..Tap..tap..Tap..tap.

A quite tap was heard from a distance trying to sync with his steps.

Someone was following him.

For the love of the gods, Aemond whined in his head. He drew out his sword and faced his stalker, finding the boy he duelled earlier raising his arms with a shocked expression. “I-I’m sorry!” The boy stuttered in fear as Aemond’s sword touched his chin.

“Why do you lurk in the shadows, boy? Did they send you to assassinate me?” He accused the boy.

“N-no, ser—,”

“—Prince. Prince Aemond.”

The boy swallowed a lump in his throat.

“My pr-prince..I…I am not here to kill you.”

“Then why did you stalk me in the dark?”

“I…I did not want to disrupt your peace. I swear it!”

Aemond stared at the boy for a moment, trying to find guilt in his expression. Yet he found none, so he lowered his sword. “Speak,” he commanded. “I…I..I am..scared…of the nightfort.” The boy’s confession made Aemond scoff, “Those stories they tell you were only lies.” Walking ahead, not bothering to stop and have a proper conversation with the young recruit. “Oh but it’s true!” The boy jogged, catching up to the Targaryen prince. “My brother saw a ghost in the halls. It was the perished wildling who died in this fort!”

Rolling his eye, Aemond said, “Lies.”

The boy curiously looked at Aemond as they walked side by side. “What happened to your other eye?” A question that Aemond’s sick of hearing and answering. “My nephew took my eye when we were children,” he coldly said. “Why a sapphire?”

No one ever asked him that before.

Only his mother asked him why he chose a sapphire. He remembered her smiling when he requested a sapphire to replace his eye. He remembered how she told him it suited him. How it made him handsome.

He smiled thinly at the memory.

“Symeon star eyes,” Aemond proudly said.

“The blind knight? Ah yes that makes sense. I read about him once. He’s an amazing hero, isn’t he?” The young boy asked, intriguing Aemond. “He is..and he is a brave knight. Taught me that being blind does not mean you must limit yourself from greatness.” Touching his sapphire eye, he recalled how uncomfortable it was when they placed the stone into his socket when he turned 13. But now he is used to it. As time went by, it slowly moulded into his skin. It was his identity now.

“What is your name, boy?”

“Jack.”

“And how old are you now?”

“I just turned Ten-and-three now.”

He was just a boy.

Aemond stopped in his tracks, “You are merely a boy. Why are you here at the watch?” Aemond asked curiously.

“I wanted to.”

Aemond scoffed.

“It’s true! I want to be a crow! My brother was one and I have become one!”

“Where is your brother now?”

Jack went quiet, looking down to his feet. “He died. A wildling shot an arrow through his heart,” he answered. Aemond sighed, in normal circumstances he would not say anything and leave the matter behind. But Jack’s loss reminded him of his own. Aegon. “I lost my brother too,” Aemond said reassuringly. Jack looked up, wiping a snot away from his nose. “You did? What happened to him?”

“He was poisoned. By his own council, I heard,” Aemond vaguely said. “Oh, you were a prince, weren’t you?”

“I still am.”

“What is it like…riding a dragon?”

Trying to recall what it was like to mount on dragonback, feeling the wind blowing through him as Vhagar took him up to the skies, he answered,

“I was free.”

He missed Vhagar. His only companion. The only thing that made himself worthy. Without Vhagar, what is he? Without his claim as prince, what is he? Just a skilled swordsman who coincidentally has silver hair. What has he put himself into?

Crack. Thump.

Aemond turned his head towards the haunted forest. “What was that?” Jack asked. “D’you think it’s a squirrel? Or a bird?”

Thump. Thump.

“That is no bird, boy,” Aemond warned, shielding Jack from their surroundings.

Swish- crack!

An arrow shot beside his head.

“Wildling,” Jack says in horror

Aemond pulled the arrow out from the wooden walls of the fort. Examining its sharp carved edge of the arrow. It was clearly handmade with lack of detail, yet it is efficient to kill. “Warn the others,” Aemond said under his breath. “What?” Aemond rushed and hurriedly push the boy out from his place. “Warn the others. We’re under attack.” Aemond’s words drove Jack into panic before he runs away from the bridge. Leaving Aemond alone with the wildling arrow.

Pulling his sword out once again, Aemond aimed the sword around him.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

“I know you’re there. Show yourself!” Aemond commanded, “Do not hide yourself from me, you savage!”

Thud.

He felt the floor shake as he heard something- or..someone jumping inside the bridge he stood on. Before he could fully turn around, the wildling pounced onto him. He landed on the floor with a thud. Aemond hastily aimed the sword to the intruder but when he looked up, he saw a she-wildling curiously looking down at him.

Her messy wavy hair was braided disorderly as it hangs above his face. He felt how thick her fur clothes were as a few leftover snow stuck onto her fur slightly falling when she pounced on him. Aemond was ready to strike if the wildling made sudden movements or even dared to harm him. He glared at the she-wildling, gripping his sword.

“Do as you please, wildling. And I shall stab your hea-.”

She curiously lifts a strand of his hair. Feeling the texture of his hair.

What?

She looked at his hair with a smile, “It’s actually silver,” her sweet voice said with a chuckle.

“So you speak?”

She looked down at him, “Of course I do,” she answered with her thick rough accent. “Good. Then keep your hands off me!” Shoving her away, Aemond quickly stood on his feet. Pointing his sword at her.

“Where are the others?”

“What others?” She smirked.

“Do not think this is a joke, wildling. We know your attacks—,”

“—Attacks? No! No! Gosh.”

What is this wildling trying to do? Play with him?

“You’re different.”

“Pardon?”

“You’re not from the north,” she repeated, stepping closer towards him in which Aemond does not want her to do, still keeping his sword pointed at her. “And you’re not here by choice,” she continued, stopping right in front of his sword. One step closer, Aemond could stab her through her chest with his sword. “Is it true?” She asked.

“What?”

“That you are those people who owned a dragon?”

“What does a wildling know about dragons?”

“Surprisingly we know some things,” she lightly said. “And my grandfather has seen two dragons flying above the wall. But they refused to go beyond the wall.”

King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne.

His ancestors.

“What do you want, wildling?”

“I have a name, y’know.”

She spoke of her name that sounded foreign to his ears.

“I do not care of your name, tell me why are you here before I drag you to the watch—,”

“—oh, now you’re loyal to the crows? The last time I saw you, you threw a punch at the Lord Commander.”

What? How did she know of it?

“Were you spying on us?” Aiming his sword closer to her throat. “Oh really? You’re asking me that? We’re wildlings, of course we spy on crows like you. Or are you really one?” Her question made him grunt in frustration. “Tell me why are you spying on me?”

“Because you’re different. You didn’t ask to be a crow!”

“You do not know that!”

“Oh but I do. I do,” she challenged him.

“And not to mention, your purple eye and sapphire eye caught our attentio-.” Aemond frustratingly tackled her down. “You’re wasting my time,” he hissed at her. Their faces are inches away from each other. She scoffed, “Am I? Or am I making your job far much more entertaining? You seem bored being stationed in this old fort,” she chuckles.

This woman is insane.

“This is going nowhere. For the last time, tell me why are you here,” he warned her. “Before I cut your throat, you savage.”

“Do you want to be trapped among these crows, snow haired?” She asked.

Did he want to be trapped amongst these crows?

The watch?

No.

But he could not admit that.

Not to a fucking wildling.

“You know nothing, wildling.”

“Oh but I know some things. I know you wished to be freed from this prison.”

He did.

He did want to be free.

“You are such a know it all, wildling.”

“Aye, I am a savage. But I am also a free woman. Do you want to be free like me?”

Her eyes bore into his healthy eye. “If you were to kill me, you could’ve done that minutes ago. You would’ve cut my throat right here, right now. But you didn’t. For you knew my offer is too interesting to igno-,”

“Do not test me, you savage.”

She scoffed at him.

“Then do it. Cut my throat. Drag me to those men you call brothers,” she challenged him.

Aemond aimed his sword at her.

One swift motion, her throat would be slit and she will lie there lifeless in his arms. That's easy.

But why couldn’t he move?

His sword just stayed in place.

He was a ruthless warrior who burned everything to the ground. He slew the strong family line. He killed those bastards and beheaded their men. Killing a wildling is nothing to him.

But he didn’t.

Fuck.

For she could free him from the watch.

“Come with me. And you can escape from this place. I can help you go back to your home behind the wall. If you agree to come with me.”

She can take him home?

To Kings Landing.

His mother.

The keep.

“And you can help us as well. You don’t have to stay and become a crow—,”

“Targaryen!”

He heard a watch man called him from afar with Jack pointing to Aemond’s direction with the wildling. “Ah so that’s your name. Targaryen,” she jokingly said with a light laugh. She shoved Aemond away making him stumble back onto the hard floorboards of the fort. “Catch her!” He heard a watchman said again as they ran towards them. Aemond picked himself up and was ready to leap and stab the wildling.

To no avail, the wildling was swift and jumped on the edge of the bridge.

“This is my cue to leave. My offer stands still, Targaryen. We shall meet again.”

Giving Aemond a wink before jumping down, nowhere to be seen. Disappearing into the cold night air.

a/n: woohooo Aemond finally gets to meet the reader! Hope he’s fond of us🫶🏻🐇 Anw thank you for reading this chapter until the end! I will upload the next chapter asap<3 Alsooo I currently don’t have any taglist so if you want me to tag you in upcoming chapters just LMK🌷

🍰current tags: @suntizme @8812-342 @ladytargg @barnes70stark @magpiewritingsforonce (bold means I can’t tag you and idk why😔🐦‍⬛)

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two-white-butterflies · 11 months ago

Text

coaxed you into paradise - c. 33

Description: The life of Saera Targaryen told in four acts. She was her father's forgotten daughter, cast aside as she looked nothing like her mother. Her younger days were spent beside her uncle. Years following her marriage with Ser Harwin Strong, she catches him in an affair with her older sister. She returns to seek solace in the arms of Daemon, whose loved her all her life.

masterlist for this series

Chapter Thirty-Three: Born With Sharp Teeth

In his day there was not a man so admired, so beloved, and so feared. To his enemies, he was the blackest of villains. There was not a rebel in the Stepstones that lived after his crusade.

But fatherhood has softened him to some extent.

Having children made him want to become a better person. When a man reaches his age, they only yearn for a warm home filled with healthy sons and daughters.

The old crown has chipped, but fragments of his past remain. He still acted upon impulse, allowing his fury to govern over rational thought, or in this case governing over his ability to do the right thing.

He closes his eyes, 'what would his wife do?'

He licks his lips, taking a sip of his wife's wine that Elinda Massey generously laid out for him.

Saera would return to Harrenhal, gather their losses and remain in the castle until the war is over. She'd do that to protect their other children. Saera would do the good thing.

There was a voice in the back of his ears, preying upon this vulnerability. All these years you tried to be a good person, but this is what fate gives in return. Set this ghost of yours free. Peace can only be achieved through violence.

An iron fist that would rule Westeros.

'I am not my wife' he told himself.

And therefore his actions must hinge upon what he desires to do.

He took mammoth strides towards Rhaenyra's chambers; the Dark Sister twirling around his fingers as he prepares for easy battle. He was not a sentimental person, he didn't feel love for anyone outside of his family. He believed that he loved Rhaenyra, because behind her eyes he sees his brother, Viserys.

But that love has turned into hatred now.

"Daemon," her lips turned into a thin line.

She knows that he knows.

"Rhaenyra," he replied.

A member of the Queensguard stands in front of him. Ser Erryk, a follower of his oaths. "- I apologize, uncle, but it needed to be done." she articulated, the aura of command radiates her figure.

"You have slaughtered your legacy," he responds coldly. "- those bastard sons of yours will not birth trueborn dragons." he added.

She laughs at him.

"Daegon and Alyssa are bastards too, fathered by your very own." she raises her voice, the madness of dragons behind her eyes.

"I'm tired of your whitewashing, uncle - tired of Saera boasting her children's Valyrian features when their claims stand upon lies." she gritted her teeth. "- you are greedy, the both of you have always been." she berated, not a shred of guilt behind her eyes.

"And what would that make you? The court of Dragonstone believes Jacaerys to be your heir - a child fathered by Ser Harwin Strong." he responded, the years have not stolen his wits.

"Those that are born with sharp teeth must use it well." she used his own advice against him.

He feels his vision blur, the feeling of drowsiness invades his being. Rhaenyra takes a step forward, and he remembers that Elinda Massey was Rhaenyra's handmaiden - not Saera's.

'The fucking wine.' he cursed in his head.

"When Saera and I were younger, you told us about a story: The Dragon and the Sheep..." she breathed.

The forest animal run away when they see the Dragon's shadow. The hares swiftly hide under their forms, the monkeys gecker and stay close to the trees. The runaway sheep does not know why the animals cower at the sight of a shadow.

But she knows that she must protect her lamb.

She tries to follow the hare and the monkeys and the bears, but all bend at the shadow of the dragon.

And the dragon feasts on sheep and lamb alike.

To the animals of the forest, the dragon is the blackest of all creatures. But when you are born with sharp teeth, you must use it.

Daemon awakens inside of a cell.

He sees nothing but darkness, smells nothing but shit. He remembers the commotion that happened hours days ago.

Issa ābrazȳrys.

His chest tightens, the room seems to have grown smaller. What if Rhaenyra were to happen upon his wife? He closes his eyes, not a firm believer of the gods, but he prays.

He prays to the gods that his family remains safe.

Daegon. Alyssa. Viserra and Daelon.

He opens his eyes, but is greeted with darkness once more. "I need to get out of here," he mumbles to himself. He will rot in this place if he stays for too long and he cannot stay for too long.

He needs to be in Harrenhal. He needs to protect his family.

"How long do you plan to hold him there, my Queen? Prince Daemon is an asset to the crown, without his military prowess - we'll lose." Ser Erryk speaks as the Queen's conscience.

She takes a sip of her tea.

"We'll leave him there for a few more days, allow the cells to soften his resolve, then I shall strike a proposal." she surmised. She remembers his advice again: give them pain so they're thankful when they're not in pain.

She breathes for a second.

"There was a time, you know, when Daemon adored me the most. He'd tell me stories and let me sleep in his bed. He was more of a father than my own, but things swiftly changed when he was exiled. My sister was whelped into this world soon after. I loved Saera, she was such a demure little thing who barely misbehaved - she listened to everything that I told her to do." she chuckled bitterly.

The ages have changed the sisters.

"When Daemon returned, I was no longer a child. I thought that he'd give me the same attention as before, but then he saw my sister and decided that she was worthy of better love. I was so angry at her, I barely spoke to her - I spent my time around Lady Alicent. It was unfair, our mother loved Saera the most and my father only wanted a son. I thought that Daemon was for me." she continued, feeling the tears pool around her eyes.

She wanted to speak about her sister further, but she prevents herself. She prevents herself from saying the whole truth, that she hated Saera, no matter how kind or obedient she is.

In Rhaenyra's eyes, it was just unfair.

How Saera had the freedom to choose her husband and live a happy life, while she's forever burdened by the weight of the crown.

A crown that she will fight for.

"She has everything, Harwin, Daemon, and she wants to take everything." she finished, but there were still words left unsaid.

(THE RED KEEP. KING VISERYS' REIGN)

Daemon takes a deep breath, the scent of the Red Keep was unique. A mixture of lavender and sandalwood oils that the handmaidens used on linen to ensure that fresh scent. "Uncle," he hears Rhaenyra's voice from behind him. He smiles.

"Rhaenyra, the sight of you is good for sore eyes." he places a hand around her shoulder. Daemon adored his nieces, he often brought gifts from the many kingdoms that he visited. "It's been far too long," she replied as they continued walking down the halls of the castle.

"Where is your sister?" he inquired, finding himself searching for Saera. While Rhaenyra has the same fire inside his veins, he finds peace with the younger niece - he finds tranquility in her.

"She spends time with mother sewing and embroidering. I cannot find myself to enjoy that hobby, no matter how hard I try." she chuckles, eyes suddenly filled with loneliness. She cannot relate to her own mother, and she doesn't know why.

"I came bearing gifts," he informed and Rhaenyra smiles - happiness finally reaching her eyes. "Her nameday is coming soon, and I figured that she deserved to have a lot of gifts." he added implying that all the gifts he bought were only for Saera.

"I'm sure she does," she mumbled.

She sees the way Daemon's eyes light up at the mention of her younger sister. She plays with the rings on her fingers.

Is she losing him?

Is he slipping through her fingers?

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