#the thief and the dragonrider

[ivypos-writes]

with my touch (i have cursed you)

— aemond targaryen

summary: His first touch plants a seed of desire, and it is only a matter of time before it blooms.

Or, all the times Aemond touches her, and the one when he lets himself be touched.

warnings: 18+, au—no dance of dragons, targcest, aemond being a tease and a little shit, mutual pining, unhealthy amounts of tension, first times, oral (f receiving), fingering, piv, multiple orgasms, aemond being pathetic (he whimpers), smut with plot (and the plot is just prolonged foreplay)

word count: 8.7k

notes: so. i wrote this thing. english is not my first language. all reblogs and comments are very appreciated! aemond girlies, we are so back.

(also available on ao3.)

The street is bustling with life.

She is little more than a dull spot against a variety of colours, and something about the thought of blending with the surroundings is more comforting than anything she has ever known. She tightens her hold on the large hood of the cloak and pushes past a gathering of haggling customers, giggling as they shout in indignation.

It is still early, though the skies above head are spotted with warm oranges and pinks. The air is different here. Sultry. She traverses the cobblestone paths and passes through alleys filled with shops and boisterous merchants, and her eyes grow brighter with each step.

She has known life in its subdued form—in gold and jewels, and soft-spoken words, and lullabies sung at nighttime. She has been sheltered, and dressed in gowns, and taught to wield practiced smiles and pretty countenance. It is the first time that she experiences havoc. There is dirt and dust, and curses falling left and right, and women dressed scarcely in anything, scraps of fabric falling down their shoulders without care for decency.

In these streets, life is fervent. Chaotic, unashamedly passionate, and lewd in ways that render her breathing shallow.

At once, she is filled with greed.

Led by impulse alone, she blurs into the masses of depravity. She forgets about her name and titles. Here, she is just a woman—not a silver-haired maiden, or a dragonrider, or her mother’s daughter. It is easy to forget duty when it is nowhere to be seen; when it is replaced with pure, unadulterated perversity.

Something flutters in her heart, and it must be freedom.

She passes by multiple stands, and because here she is not a princess, she catches the string of a flower pendant and snitches it from its spot. The trader doesn’t notice, too engrossed in his attempts to sell his goods for a too-high price. She is quick to hide it deep inside her pocket, and the smile that lightens her face is radiant.

Her feet ache, but she stubbornly speeds towards the nearest corner. It is right there, and she almost reaches its edge—

“Are you up to no good, niece?”

A gasp tears out of her mouth. She turns, wide-eyed and flushed, and finds a splash of silver-white strands shining against worn-out fabric. She scans the porcelain skin and the puckered scar that paints it in pinks; traces the leather of the eyepatch. He looks different in this particular light. Warm hues of the sky bathe him in a gleam that softens the curves of his features; there is an odd gentleness in him that she doesn’t recognise.

“Aemond,” she murmurs.

He seems pleased with himself. She catches a glint in his eye that whispers of carefully restrained mischief; his lips are curved into the beginning of a smile. She’s seen this particular expression only a handful of times, and always in the face of chaos.

It suits him. More often than not, and only ever quietly, she thinks he was carved for it.

“I didn’t take you for a little thief.”

Her cheeks burn. They must be scarlet red, and she inwardly curses both the humidity and the weight of his gaze that only fuels the onslaught of the tint. Aemond’s smirk grows. The blatant exhibition of her shame appears to have entertained him.

“A thief?” she repeats, eyes rounded with what she hopes is a convincing display of innocence. “Have you any proof?”

He breathes out a little laugh. It’s sharp and fleeting, and she drinks up the sound of it, oddly enthralled. She is not familiar with his laughter. Her skin prickles as its remnants linger between them.

Aemond moves closer, and soon the distance between them is so small that their cloaks brush against one another.

She is so caught off-guard that she barely notices the pendant dangling from his finger. Aemond swings it in front of her face, and when she reaches for it with a surprised gasp, he moves his hand away in the blink of an eye.

Her mouth twists in displeasure. His grin grows.

“Give it back,” she demands.

“It wasn’t yours in the first place.”

“I claimed it as mine.”

“Did you?” Aemond’s eye lights up in flames. From this close, she can almost sense the heat. “Is it as simple as that?”

“It is.”

She doesn’t expect him to truly return the pendant into her waiting hand, and her eyebrows furrow in surprise when he does. Aemond says nothing more. His expression is meticulously crafted—it is layers upon layers of riddles that she does not know how to solve. She imagines peeling them off one by one and finding him as he is—bare before her eyes. She wonders what she’d find written over his face when it is unspoiled by composure.

His fingers briefly tickle the skin of her palm before they’re gone. They leave a searing trail in their wake.

“It’s a poor disguise.” Aemond eyes the hood that falls onto her forehead, and the few curls that cascade down her face in silver streaks. “If you want to sneak out into the city, you ought to be more clever.”

She scowls. “And you, of course, know everything about it.”

There is contemplation in his eye. He rids himself of the smiles that she doesn’t recognise, and puts on a calculating face that she’s seen many times before. It makes him look more familiar. Most of the times that their paths cross, she finds him lost deep in thought.

“Come.”

She eyes his outstretched hand with scepticism.

He will likely drag her back to the Red Keep—to the judging stares and stinging reprimands and her mother’s burning disappointment. There is nothing she loathes more than being forced to endure interrogations regarding her behaviour. She will be scolded, as if it is a crime that she, a girl, has decided to experience something more than feigned propriety.

She thinks she would rather stay within the dirt and stench of the city.

Aemond hums in response to her silence, and the sound is so low that she needs to chase it through the clamour of the street. There is something akin to understanding that appears on his face.

His hand remains still.

“Do you wish to see the city or not?”

She blinks, perplexed, and it takes a mere moment for her fingers to lace with his. His are warmer than hers; heat engulfs her, and she unconsciously presses against him with doubled force.

When her eyes return to his face, Aemond is already watching her. He leans towards her. His breath tickles her cheek.

“Stay close,” Aemond orders. He stands in such proximity that they breathe the same air. “And don’t be a brat.”

She lets him tighten his hold on her hand, and soon they are walking the path side by side.

Aemond shows her the city in all its glory, and not once does his grip waver.

She spends the night tracing the remnants of his fingertips on her skin.

He smells of smoke.

It is a cloudless day, and she has decided to forsake the red walls of the castle in favour of the sun-soaked yard. There is only the scent of grass and parchment. It is why she senses him before he speaks. He permeates the air like he owns it.

“Shouldn’t you be with your septa?”

The skin of her palm tingles with the memory of his touch; she clutches at the silken fabric of her dress, if only to smother the sudden urge to hold something between her fingers. There is a large tome in her lap, and she flicks the pages absentmindedly, determined not to look at him.

She hasn’t seen him since their escapade through the streets of King’s Landing. It is not that she avoids him—only she does, because it feels as if the line between them that she’s known all her life became blurred. She searches for its remains and finds them long shattered. There is void space in its stead that she knows not what to make of

“Shouldn’t you mind your own business, uncle?”

She hears him snort quietly. There is a rustling sound that follows, and soon Aemond’s arm is brushing against hers. It is a feather-like touch, but she freezes all the same.

He smells of smoke. Fire. Scorching flames. Her skin burns beneath the sleeve of her dress in all places he has touched.

“The Seven-Pointed Star,” Aemond reads, blissfully unaware of her turmoil. “I didn’t take you for a woman of faith.”

Slowly, a little hesitantly, she turns her face towards him. His own is perfectly neutral, but she finds a glimpse of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. She squints at him, feigning offence.

“Did you take me for a woman of sin, then?”

He doesn’t answer. She supposes it is an answer in its own right. Before she can think it through, her arm shoots forward; she elbows him in the side and smiles at the startled gasp that leaves his mouth.

It is a nice sound. Her cheeks warm.

When her eyes return to the book, she finds herself eager to continue the conversation, though whatever it is that urges her to do so remains unclear.

“Septa Marlow is under the impression that I lack virtue,” she says, voice dripping with venom. She glances at him, suddenly needing to add a rushed, “It’s a vile accusation.”

Septa Marlow is a cunt. Her mother will not say it aloud, but she knows that they both hate the woman with equal passion. The septa is stuck in her old ways, and no longer remembers youth well enough to comprehend it. Her teachings persist only for the sake of upholding etiquette, and only for as long as it’s necessary.

Not much longer. She is almost a woman grown.

Aemond chuckles. “Certainly.”

She shoots him a withering look. The corners of his lips tremble; he seems to be holding back another fit of laughter, and she narrows her eyes at the sight.

“Do you disagree?”

He faces her fully, and she can now see the scar marring his skin. It looks softer in sunlight; its edges blend with his flesh. She traces its shape and length; wanders through every inch. If she tried to touch it—to caress it with gentle fingers—would he move away? Would he give her his scorn, and his anger, and would the fire that they share turn deadly? Aemond keeps the scar out of sight for a reason. He must hate her for looking at it.

But Aemond doesn’t shy away from her gaze. He doesn’t seem to mind the way she is watching him; his body tilts towards hers, and now both their elbows and their knees touch.

He’s beautiful. It is a thought that never once crossed her mind, and yet it’s true. Sunny spells hit his face in all the right places, and the purples of his eye glow, and the sight of him steals her breath away.

When he speaks, it is closer to a whisper, as though meant for her ears alone.

“I wouldn’t dare question your virtue, sweet niece.”

Fire returns, stronger than she remembered it to be. It’s all she knows.

“Good.”

Silence befalls them again, and her eyes revert back to the tome in her hands.

They widen when nimble fingers grab the book. It is gone from her grasp before she can blink. She opens her mouth to scold him; to demand that he give it back, even though she doesn’t truly want it.

Words die on her tongue when the heavy weight of the old tome is replaced by softness in the hues of silver-whites.

Aemond’s head is in her lap.

Her heartbeat jumps.

She stares at him, and then around the yard, and then once again at him. They are sitting in a fairly private area of the yard, but she knows that they’re never truly spared from eyes that are hungry for controversy. Someone will see. Someone will see, and then talk, and soon they will become yet another spectacle for vicious tongues. Protests rise to her lips—numerous, and each of them quite rational. Surely, he will see reason.

But then he turns, and his eye reflects the sun, and she forgets what she wanted to say, or why she wanted to say it, or why it matters if they were discovered at all.

He looks so peaceful. She’s never seen an expression quite this soft on his face. There is a trace of pink on his cheek, and his lips are curved, and he eyes her with emotion she cannot fathom.

She couldn’t possibly disturb him when his face is smoothed with serenity. Just a little longer, she thinks. She wants to see him like this for a few more stolen moments.

“Go on, then,” Aemond says without a care. “Read to me.”

Her mouth is dry. She clears her throat and hopes that her face doesn’t betray her.

“My lap isn’t your spot to rest on.”

Except it is. She will not say it—she’ll never say it—but having him this close feels right. Like this, his softness is for her eyes only.

“I have just claimed it as mine.” His eye speaks in a language of pure intensity, and in response she burns. “Is it not as simple as that?”

She bites her tongue and says nothing else, and the stray strands of his hair tickle her arms. Her skin is on fire. She’s sure that her cheeks are, too.

When she reads to him, she prays that her voice does not waver.

The feast thrown on her name day is a boastful one. She weaves her way through crowds of faces she doesn’t recognise, and pleasantries fall from her lips as befitting the daughter of a royal household.

A woman grown. It seems half the realm had been eagerly waiting for her to come of age. She is mostly surrounded by men, and they all appear to be looking for excuses to touch her.

She is in search for any of her brothers, hoping for a moment of respite from the dancing. It isn’t that she dislikes it, but she has long since grown tired of foreign hands palming her body as though they owned it. She would rather dance with Jace, or even Luke whose clumsiness precedes him—or all by herself, uncaring for the crowds that wish to sink their claws into her.

Respite evades her. Just when she spots familiar heads made of brown curls, another stranger forces his way into her personal space. The man is twice her age, and she immediately finds herself repulsed by the leering expression that he cares not to veil for something more respectful.

His palms are clammy. They will surely leave stains on her skin.

The man leads her towards the centre of the hall, and his spine is straightened in a pathetic display of pride. His hands find her hips before she can protest; his grip is harsh, verging on bruising.

The dance couldn’t last longer. Her head spins from the force with which the man whirls her around, and she must steady herself by gripping his shoulders, even if the prospect disgusts her. She prays that Daemon sees them; that he comes with his sword in hand, ready to spill blood.

But it isn’t Daemon that grabs the man by the arm and sends him backwards. It isn’t Daemon that takes her hand into his own, shielding her from the eyes of the stranger.

She is at peace. Safe. Fire licks at her skin and sinks deep into her bones.

Aemond remains silent. He leads her away from the man, not sparing him a glance. As always, his hand is warm.

“Uncle.” She cannot help but grin. “It would have been more polite to wait your turn.”

He hums, quick to find the right steps. He is a good dancer. His body was made for it.

“Would you rather have him paw at you like an animal?”

She twirls, and the colours of her dress blur into a rainbow.

Aemond is a pitch-black spot against the canvas of vibrant hues. She is drawn to him; drawn to his darkness, and the violet of his eye that disrupts it. Her palm finds his, and she bites back a smile when he boldly presses his skin to hers.

It is not a dance meant for touching.

“What if I liked it?”

Once more, she spins.

They stand back to back, and her spine tingles from the proximity. He is close; too close. His scent is all she can feel.

He has corrupted her with his disregard for propriety. She knows it, because not once does she consider what their family would say if they saw them.

“Did you like it?”

Heat spreads from her back towards her chest. There are many things she has come to like, and none of them are quite related to some unnamed lords.

She could say it. Whisper every perversity her mind has conjured.

But more often than not, their short exchanges seem to be a game that none of them truly understands. She must keep playing. It is what keeps him returning for more.

She turns around to face him and shrugs. “I’m not made of glass. There is no need to handle me gently.”

There is a beat, and silence, and hands itching to touch. Suddenly, without any warning, she is pulled into Aemond’s embrace; a gasp escapes her throat when she feels his hand tighten around her waist.

His fingers dig into the flesh of her hip. He holds her firmly against his chest, and she imagines their bodies blending together into one.

There is nothing appropriate about this kind of proximity. She stands before him as a woman, and he holds her like a man would, and surely no one sees through the flames that have flared around them. This—whatever it is—belongs to them alone.

But her skin tingles.

“Uncle,” she pants, face scarlet red with something unspoken. It is not shame, but something of a darker nature. She is not yet ready to name it. “People are looking at us.”

“Let them look,” he says, and each word has his lips brushing against her ear.

They are so close that she feels his heartbeat. It is as quick as hers.

Not alone. They’re not alone.

“Aemond.”

“Do you want me to let go?”

She doesn’t. He must know that she doesn’t. There is something perverse about his hands on her body—right there, in a hall full of strangers and curious gazes. In the centre of everything. She would gladly let him hold her like this forever—until everyone in the hall understands that she is his, and it is his arms that she belongs in.

“I do,” she says instead.

In a rush of boldness, with utter disregard for her own words, she presses her chest closer to his.

She hardly knows where her body ends and his begins, and if she wanted to—oh, how she wants to—she could step onto her toes and reach towards his lips—

“You're not very convincing,” Aemond whispers into her hair, and then his hands are gone.

He leaves her amidst crowds, surrounded by dozens of onlookers, and yet she sees nothing but the lines of his shrinking silhouette.

It is hours later that she lays amidst silken bedcovers, a sheen of sweat clinging to her bared body, and furiously rubs the spot right between her legs. Her teeth are clenched, and her eyes are burning with vexation, and her hand is not enough. It’s not enough.

She is half-sprawled atop the wooden table.

Her braids have long since come undone, and her hair now cascades down her back like a shield. She plays with one of the strands, curling it around her finger. Her other hand flips the pages of whatever book she is pretending to read.

The library is quiet. It is located deep enough into Maegor’s Holdfast that she knows none of her siblings will find her. It offers the kind of solitude no other place in the Red Keep ensures. Dozens of shelves thrice her height have been installed within the walls, all filled with the oldest and rarest of volumes in the realm.

She cares not for the scent of parchment. It is not books that she came for.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

A small smile creeps onto her lips.

She knew he would come. His presence no longer takes her by surprise. Everywhere she goes, Aemond dutifully follows; no longer does she need to search for him in dark corners.

He is her shadow.

Every day, she breathlessly waits for night to come.

“Aemond.”

“Niece.” His footsteps echo through the walls. “It nears the hour of the owl.”

She rubs the tiredness from her eyes and swallows the yawn that has crawled up her throat. The book is now forgotten; she pushes it away, no longer interested in keeping up the pretence of studying its contents. When she turns, she does it slowly, if only to conceal her traitorous eagerness.

It is too dark. All she sees is a mark of silver painted on pitch-black canvas. His face is shielded from her view, and she bites back the bitter disappointment. She has gone the entire day without a single glimpse of him.

“Why do you care?”

Her eyes trace the outline of his silhouette. He strides towards the chair in front of her, and though she wishes he would sit beside her instead, she appreciates the closeness all the same.

The table is too large. She should have chosen a different one.

The air grows heavier, like it always does when she is with him.

“A princess shouldn’t be spending her time alone in the darkness.”

She wishes he could see her coy smile; wonders if he would offer her one of the private smirks she now knows by heart, or if he’d playfully scold her, or throw a comment that would induce a blush in response.

“It is a good thing, then, that you’ve found me.”

“Yes,” Aemond murmurs, and his voice is so guttural that she nearly melts at the sound. “It is.”

Then it is them, and silence, and darkness. It seems to have become a usual setting for their meetings, as though they required the shroud of night’s secrecy to conceal something illicit.

It isn’t wrong. Whatever it is—whatever looms above their heads—it is not wrong.

Absentmindedly, she reaches for the book; as always, he is quicker.

Their hands meet. There is nothing innocent about the touch, and she no longer desires to pretend that she is not burning. Aemond’s fingers trace the skin of her palm; tickle it, and she bites her lip at the sensation. It lasts only for a short moment—too short, never enough—and then his touch is gone, and so is the book.

She wishes he would forgo this restraint. She has long since grown tired of it.

“I was reading this,” she lies.

“Were you?”

She wants to tear the tome away from his grasp, if only for their hands to touch once more.

“No.”

“No,” Aemond repeats lowly.

If there was any light, she imagines that she’d find his eye intense and hungry; or maybe playful, betraying his endless desire to leave her breathless. He would look at her without a trace of shame, just like he always does. He would set her alight with one glance alone.

There is a thudding sound that cuts through silence. It breaks her out of reverie, and she flinches, squinting into the darkness.

Silver wisps cut through the air. Then they’re gone.

She straightens her spine, brows furrowed in confusion. It looks like he dropped the book and bent to pick it up, only she cannot see his hair. She opens her mouth, not quite understanding this particular game of his, until she feels it.

Something slithers up the skirts of her dress. Fingers wrap around her ankle, and then the other one, and suddenly her legs are forcefully parted. She gasps, and the sound echoes against the empty walls.

“Be quiet, niece,” comes Aemond’s muffled voice. “You’re in a library.”

This is madness. She cannot let it happen—cannot let him touch her like this, right there—

Aemond’s hands slide higher up her legs.

Her muscles tremble. He holds her with enough strength that she cannot escape his grip, forced to yield. Her vision swims, and there are only his hands—his hands—

He uses them skilfully. She has seen him hold a sword, and he now holds her skin with equal passion. His fingertips draw patterns down the length of her shins, and if she could—if she wasn’t possessed by a blinding desire—she would try to discern their meaning.

She feels his breath on her knee.

A small moan falls from her lips, and she clasps her hand over her mouth to cover it. It’s too late. He’s heard it.

Aemond’s grip turns vice-like.

He sears circles into her thigh. One of his hands is replaced by something softer, plushier, and she knows that it must be his lips atop her skin. He leaves fiery kisses on both her knees, and her heart gets stuck in her throat, threatening to jump out.

Higher, she thinks, and immediately bites her lip to prevent herself from begging aloud. If he moved his mouth higher—just a bit, only a bit—he would find out how much she needs him. Her desire has long since become choking. It takes a single brush of his skin against hers to get her slick and wet and ready.

Her skin is engulfed by flames. She must be touched, she must be touched—

Aemond’s lips are gone. She holds back a whimper when she feels fingertips brushing against her thigh in a parting gesture—little more than a caress, gone sooner than it came.

She closes her legs when Aemond’s head resurfaces from underneath the table.

Empty. She remains painfully empty.

“You should return to your chambers.” Aemond stands from the ground. He sounds cocky. “Who knows what lurks in the darkness.”

In the privacy of her bedchamber, she finds the mark that he left on her thigh. It is there for her eyes only. The mark haunts her, and she finds no sleep.

“I know you’re there.”

It seems that they only ever exchange words in darkness. Just today, she was seated opposite him during dinner, and he didn’t look at her once. She wonders if it is fear that holds him back in daylight. Her own fingers forever burn with the desire to hold him, and more often than not, she forgets about the reality of their relationship. Perhaps avoiding each other in the presence of others is safer. They were never meant to burn together.

Her steps halt.

“I’m beginning to think you’re looking for trouble.”

She bites back a grin. “What if I am?”

Finally, he emerges from the shadows. She looks at him without a hint of shame; traces the line of his jaw, and his nose, and the purples of his eye. His hair looks soft. She finds herself overtaken by the desire to grasp it with her fingers and tug.

“You’ve found it.”

“Have I?” she says, and her throat is oddly dry. She watches him, and he watches her, and flames arise. “You don’t look much like trouble to me.”

Aemond’s steps are slow. She has learned their pattern by heart. He has a habit of moving at a leisurely pace, and more often than not, she imagines that it’s yet another way of tormenting her. He knows of her impatience and aims to use it to his advantage.

When he stops, he is still outside of her reach. He raises an eyebrow challengingly.

“What about now?”

It is another game, and she shakes her head because she must.

Aemond hums. His eye wanders down her neck, and her skin prickles underneath his gaze. She holds her breath when he takes another step forward.

Still, he is not close enough.

“And now, niece?” Aemond asks. “Do I look like trouble?”

“No,” she breathes.

His scent wafts through the air, and she ravenously inhales it. Aemond’s eye darkens. He moves closer, and she laces her fingers together in order not to reach out for him.

Maybe she should stifle the last of self-control. Maybe she should grab him by the collar of his riding leathers; pull him as close as she needs him to be. Sometimes, it feels as though he is waiting for her to do it. To make the first move.

Before her contemplation turns into action, his fingers catch the skirts of her gown. She takes a gulp of air when he easily tugs her closer.

“No?” Aemond mutters.

He studies her mouth in silent deliberation, and it prompts her to take her bottom lip between teeth. His nostrils flare.

“No,” she repeats firmly.

His smile is pure sin.

“Good.”

Aemond’s lips claim hers before she can say anything else. Words die on her tongue, and she scarcely remembers what it was that she wanted to say at all. His skin is scorching hot, and his mouth is demanding, and when she gasps into his mouth, he swallows the sound like a man starved.

She throws her hands around his neck before he disappears; before once more he flees from her touch. He is both soft and solid, and her fingertips go alight from the fire flowing through his veins. Aemond pushes into her, and soon her spine connects with the stone wall. His hands wander over her body, tugging impatiently at the endless pieces of material that separate them.

His kisses are flames. None of her dreams have done them justice. Her tongue dances as led by his own, and her teeth graze his bottom lip, and she can no longer think straight when he whimpers into her mouth.

“Sweet girl,” he breathes, and she drinks up the words straight from his tongue.

She pulls him closer, closer, and he hitches her leg over his hip, and she thinks that there is no going back from it. She will forever be cursed with the memory of his taste.

Her lips are full of him even when he’s gone.

She is a woman possessed by madness.

An entire moon has passed, and he hasn’t touched her once. It is as though he forgot that she exists; as though her existence meant nothing at all. Distance stretches between them, sharp and thorned, and it cuts through her skin with vicious force. She burns with want. She burns until there is nothing left but ashes.

When she dreams, it is of his lips. Their taste has long faded, and though she chases the memory every night, she is left with emptiness. Sometimes, it feels as though she’s dying of hunger. She must taste him again. If she won’t, she thinks she’ll wither away.

She once thought that his teasing touch was torture. It’s only now—only when it’s gone—that knows it is the lack of it that elicits true torment.

It’s been three days since she saw him last. Even their last meeting was only in brief; he was gone as soon as her eyes found him amidst crowds of the Red Keep, his steps too quick for her to catch up with.

He has left her to burn alone. Now the flames have grown wild and lethal, and she succumbs to this insanity because she must.

She stays close to the stone wall.

It is nighttime, and most of the residents have retired to their bedchambers. The corridors are empty, guarded only in a few spots; her footsteps echo through the walls, accompanied by complete silence. She appreciates the semblance of privacy that has come with sunset. It is easier to slip by unnoticed when the lights are subdued.

Less than an hour ago, she caught a glimpse of Aemond in the courtyard, sword in his hand. He looked composed as ever, and by the end of the training session his forehead was sheen with sweat. It is what brought about this madness—the sight of him panting for breath.

It’s why she follows him now. He is quick on his feet, and so quiet that she cannot even hear him. All she sees is the broadness of his shoulders and silver-white wisps resting on his back.

She moves faster, determined not to lose him. Her pace turns unrelenting; she watches Aemond reach for the gilded knob. Just before the doors close behind him, she slips inside.

His bedchamber is swallowed by darkness. It is the first thing she sees; her eyes strain, eager to scan the entirety of the room. It looks pristine. His inclination for tidiness doesn’t astound her. She now knows that he keeps all his chaos leashed, preferring to build walls of purity around himself.

She sees through it all. Knows his vices by heart.

Aemond watches her without a trace of surprise. He must have known, then, that she was hunting him down.

It is different this time. The air is thicker. They are alone, and no one can enter his bedchamber without explicit permission. He must realise it. The purple of his eye is darker, and all she finds in it is desire.

Because it is him who has this time become prey, she is the first to make a move.

“I’m here, uncle. I came to you.”

It takes only one step for their chests to come closer, now on the verge of pressing together. Aemond’s face is a perfect image of indifference, but she knows better. There is something dangerous in his eye. She must push further than this to draw it out.

Her eyes go round with feigned innocence, and his own become hooded.

She wonders if his lips still taste the same.

“Won’t you touch me?” she whispers, never letting her gaze falter.

Aemond’s face remains carved in stone. “Perhaps you should ask nicely.”

It is as though he had struck her.

A beat passes, and she knows not what to say. Her mouth is dry. Her hands itch from the constant urge to sink into his flesh.

“Ask?”

He repeats without hesitation, “Ask.”

She bites her tongue hard enough to wince.

It was foolish of her to come. He must think her desperate; corrupt, with her displayed flesh pulsating from the desire to be touched. She is wanton and wicked, and shame burns her cheeks upon the realisation.

A woman of sin.

If he wanted to, he would have touched her already. He would take her into his arms, and breathe in her scent, and bury his fingers deep in her soul. If he wanted to, all hesitation would shatter into pieces, and there would be no need to collect them anymore.

And yet his hands remain still.

She must have been wrong. So, so wrong.

With her eyes stinging, stubbornly downcast, she moves towards the door. If she leaves quickly enough, perhaps he’ll forget she was there at all. Perhaps she’ll awaken the next day and it will all turn out to have been a nightmare. Perhaps she—

Aemond’s hand clutches her forearm. His touch is gentle but firm; she can feel his fingers slither around her skin, closing his grip to prevent her from moving.

She holds her breath. All air is gone.

“Ask,” he says again, “and you shall have it.”

He pushes into her from behind, and his heat engulfs her in wild flames. Aemond’s chest presses against the length of her spine; his hair tickles her skin. She bites her lip when his nose brushes her cheek.

Her heart beats in a wild tune. Does his own match it?

It must. Surely, it must.

“Ask.”

There is something desperate about him; something in his tone that whispers in a language she knows by heart. He is half-begging. She recognises it, because he has done the same in her dreams.

She yields. Utterly. Completely.

“Touch me,” she whispers.

He does.

Aemond grabs her hips and turns her around, and all softness she has come to know him for is gone. His eye is blown wide; it burns, it burns, it burns.

The kiss is bruising. His tongue enters her mouth before she can reciprocate; her spine connects with the surface of the door, and she welcomes the chill it provides with relief. Aemond’s lips are demanding and forceful, and he gasps into her mouth when her hands finally touch his bare skin. She digs her fingers into his neck, and tugs at his hair, and pulls him closer. It is not enough. She needs their mouths to mould into one—to never separate again.

He kisses her without his past control. She gasps for air, and Aemond breathes out into her skin, refusing to let go. His teeth nibble at her bottom lip, and she swallows down a whimper.

His fingers find her neck. The rings that adorn them are cold.

“Here?” he pants, breathless. “Do you want me to touch you here?”

She wraps his hair around her fingers, searching for an anchor. Her head swims, and all air is gone, and if it weren’t for his grip on her hip, she would crumble to the floor. Aemond groans when she pulls at the strands in her hand; she wants to bottle the sound and keep it as hers forever.

“Yes,” she whispers into his lips.

Aemond’s hand wraps around her throat; she sees stars.

Their tongues are at war, and she matches his tempo with determination. He tastes like smoke. Like the sun. Like oxygen. His thumb comes up to stroke her cheek, and the gentleness of this touch is a stark contrast to the way he devours her. She throbs with want. Now that she has touched him, she doesn’t think she could ever stop.

She didn’t know it could feel like this.

Because she’s possessed by greed, she breathes out a quiet, needy, “More.”

Aemond’s lips part with hers, and she immediately wishes to cry out in protest.

She burns under the weight of his gaze. Without once taking his eye off hers, Aemond’s hand leaves her throat, trailing down to her collarbone. His touch is feather-like; fingers tickle her skin. She sucks in air when his hand moves lower, playing with the lace neckline. One of his fingertips sneaks beneath the fabric.

“Should I touch you here?”

His hand boldly grabs her breast. She has never been touched like this. Her mouth dries, and she pushes her chest into Aemond’s grasp, flushing at the low hum he lets out in response. His lips find a spot on her neck that has her panting, and he sucks at the sensitive skin with such ardour that she’s certain he’ll leave a mark.

She moans when his fingers find her pebbled nipple and flick against it, and the wanton sound induces hot shame. He touches her through the fabric of her dress, and it is not enough. She needs more. She needs everything.

Embarrassed, she covers her mouth with her hand.

Aemond’s eye flashes with a wicked glint.

“Here?” he asks, pinching the nipple.

The sound that escapes her throat is smothered by her palm. Desperate, suspended on the verge of madness, she nods. Aemond’s lips curve into a smile, but his fingers refuse to give in.

Their lips touch when he whispers, “Say it.”

And because she’d do anything, anything, her hand obediently falls down.

“Please.”

“How prettily you beg.”

There is a tearing sound; she watches Aemond rip the corset of her dress apart, tugging it down so that her chest is exposed. She has no time to cover herself in scarlet shame, nor to complain about him ruining her favourite gown. His mouth finds her nipple, and she cries out when he sucks at it.

She knows nothing but his tongue that swirls around the nipple in torturous circles; nothing but his teeth when he bites down. Aemond presses her body further into the door, and there is not an inch left that separates them. They are one. Her arms hold him tightly. If she lets go, she will collapse.

His lips are gone. Before she can object, Aemond slides his palms lower—between her breasts, down her waist, over the curve of her hip bone. He sinks to his knees before her, and she watches, wide-eyed and unable to move. Aemond’s hand catches the skirt of her dress and hitches it upwards, bunching the fabric so that her skin is on display. His fingers find her bare thigh, and they are quick to wrap around its width. She whimpers when he pushes her legs apart, forcing himself in between. When he puts her knee over his shoulder, holding her upright with the sheer strength of his arms, she is gone.

“You have cursed me,” he murmurs into her skin, lips nibbling at her inner thigh. “I spend my days thinking of you.”

Her mouth parts; she gasps for air, chest rising and falling with increasing speed. Aemond’s hold on her thigh tightens when she squirms in his arms.

“I spend my nights dreaming of you.”

His sinful lips traverse the expanse of her exposed skin. They move higher, higher, and her muscles twitch with anticipation. He’s too slow, and her hips involuntarily push forward, seeking his touch. Aemond cruelly holds her still. She’s convinced that he’ll leave her skin bruised; convinced that before he reaches the spot where she aches most, she will have died from this torture.

When his tongue first touches her cunt, her vision blurs.

It feels nothing like her fingers. He is skilful and hungry, and the wet muscle laps at her clit in furious motions. Moans spill from her lips, and she has long since forgotten all about propriety. It means little when Aemond’s head is buried between her thighs; when the sinful act feels this holy. All thoughts dissolve into nothing, wiped away with his expert tongue. Aemond’s grip turns vice-like. There is nothing she can do but take whatever he wants to give.

Her clit pulsates from the onslaught. He spits, and then licks up the saliva, rubbing it in between her folds, and she nearly squeals at the sensation. It’s wet and filthy, and when he moans into her cunt, sending chills down her spine, she knows she won’t last much longer.

“Aemond,” she gasps, because his name is the only thing she knows anymore. “Aemond.”

Whines fall from her lips, and she no longer cares to smother them. Her hips rock, and his mouth keeps moving against her cunt, and she can’t, she can’t—

Right there, with his wicked tongue inside her, she erupts.

It’s like a storm. A wildfire. She shatters into thousands of pieces, and Aemond dutifully collects them all, drinking up everything that she offers. Her body rocks, and he soothes her with his touch and keeps her still. Their hands are joined, though she doesn’t recall the moment when they first touched. Aemond doesn’t stop until her gasps turn into cries. Before he moves away, his lips plant one more kiss right on her oversensitive clit.

Her body trembles. Aemond pulls her down, and she allows herself to be led by his hands. His touch is strong and gentle, and she cannot quite believe that he’s real. He puts her thighs around his waist; right there, on the cold ground, she straddles his lap. Aemond’s fingers weave through her hair, and he brushes them away from her face with such gentleness that she thinks she might weep.

“Pretty girl,” he murmurs, thumbs stroking her wet cheeks. “Such a pretty girl.”

For a moment, they just breathe. Their chests heave with equal fervour, and there is only silence and tender caresses. Her fingers trace the curve of his cheek; she follows its shape, searing it deep into her memory. She wants to remember this. Every detail.

Aemond’s mouth glistens in the spells of moonlight. He is wet with her. Her trembling fingers collect the moisture, and when she brings them to her lips and wraps her tongue around them, he groans.

Involuntarily, her hips rock. She sees him swallow down another sound.

Not once did he demand that she touch him. Aemond is hard beneath her, and yet he stubbornly clings to the restraint she thought to be long erased.

As though he didn’t think himself deserving of her touch.

“Take it off.” Her fingers reach for the eyepatch that separates them, tugging lightly. “I will see all of you.”

He eyes her with emotion she cannot name.

There is something achingly vulnerable about him. She watches as Aemond’s trembling hand reaches for the leather strap, brushing against hers in a feather-like manner. His good eye drops to the ground beside them, and she is quick to put her palms on his face.

She wants him to see himself as she sees him. To rid himself of whatever shame clings to his soul. She wants him to know that all she finds in him is heart-wrenching beauty.

“Aemond,” she whispers. Her fingers find the clasp, and she awaits his permission.

He hesitates. His gaze is dark. She counts the seconds, prepared to let go, but his voice stops her.

“Whatever you want,” he says at last. “It is yours. It is yours.”

Just like that, the eyepatch is gone. The scar stretches from above his eyebrow to the middle of his cheek, and although her hands are shaking, she reaches to stroke the mangled flesh.

Aemond wheezes. She catches the slightest trembling of his lips. His head drops, and for a moment she fears that he’ll move away from her, but he doesn’t. He pushes closer, as though seeking warmth. She will give it to him. She’ll give him whatever he wants.

He seems at war with himself, both touch-starved and unable to give in. But then he faces her once more. Her eyes trace the scar, and she bites back a gasp when she sees the sapphire in the place of his eye.

“You’re beautiful,” she tells him, because he is.

When he says nothing, she replaces her fingers with lips. She kisses every inch of the slash, and his sharp inhale is the only answer she receives. It is enough. She just needs him to know that she wants him as he is.

Aemond’s arms wrap around her waist, and it is enough. It’s everything she wants.

“I dream of you,” he tells her. “Of this.”

She opens her mouth, prepared to pour her heart out—to confess the lengths of her own desire, and the way it has rendered her mad. But Aemond grabs her hips, breaking them out of tranquility, and pulls the dress up so that it no longer sets them apart. She sees questions in his eye, though she doesn’t understand why he feels the need to ask them. Surely, he knows how deep the roots of her want go.

Wordlessly, she reaches for the laces of his leathers. It is enough of an answer; Aemond’s face softens, and then their lips collide again.

There are so many layers between them. Too many. She claws at his shirt, and he tears the last shreds of her bodice, and then they are skin to skin. She touches every single part of him, learning his shapes and curves. His body is toned, and his skin bears multiple small scars that must have come from a sword, and he is soft. Warm. Hers.

Aemond’s fingers find her entrance. She is slick for him—aching, pulsating, dripping. He circles her clit and swallows her moan, and then he is knuckle-deep inside her.

“Please,” she whines, though she knows not what she’s begging for.

His finger thrusts, and then it curls, touching a spot she never knew existed. She throws her head back, mouth open in a silent gasp. Aemond attaches his lips to her throat.

Release comes in waves, quicker than the previous one. It crashes into her body with full force, and she is helpless against the currents. Before she comes down, Aemond lifts her up and buries his cock in her cunt.

It hurts. It hurts, and he holds her close, and she whimpers into his mouth. Aemond is patient with her. He peppers her face with kisses, sighing into her skin, and stills his movements. The stretch burns, and she cannot help but clench around him. Her hips move on their own accord; her body chases what it inherently wants.

There is tenderness in his eye. It’s enough for her body to melt.

Aemond grunts and pushes deeper into her. The pace is slow, agonising, and she cannot take it. Her muscles spasm beneath his hands; she is completely at his mercy, waiting for each thrust. She tugs at his hair and whispers into his ear, demanding that he fuck her properly.

Time stills. Her clit throbs, and she aims to seek relief with her own fingers, but then Aemond pulls her hand away. The hunger in his eye has turned dangerous. It’s more black than purple.

“As you wish.”

She whimpers when he grabs her by the thighs and moves her body away from the door. He pushes her into the ground, spreading her dress beneath her back to soften the surface, and climbs atop her. His moves are frantic, and there is a glow on his features that must reflect her own. His hair tickles her face. She gives him a beaming smile, and his breath hitches.

His cock drives into her, and at the same moment his sinful fingers find her clit. She cries out. Her eyes roll back, and she tries to close her legs, trembling from the onslaught of pleasure. Aemond grabs her knees and holds them apart. Her dripping cunt is on full display; she sees him watch the place where they’re connected, his lips swollen and eyes glazed over. Aemond rubs her clit and thrust into her like a madman, and the bedchamber is bathed in sounds of clapping skin and wanton moans.

She makes no sound when she peaks. Her mouth falls open as she convulses beneath him, and Aemond pushes his fingers down her throat.

“One more,” he grunts. “Give me one more.”

Her body trembles. She can’t. No more, no more—

But Aemond’s torturous fingers keep flicking against her nub, and his rock-hard length twitches deep inside her, and she can’t stop. She can’t stop.

She is boneless. Her spine arches, and Aemond topples over her chest, and their orgasms come at once. They’re amidst clouds, suspended in the air; above turbulent waters; high enough to be scorched by the sun.

They burn. Together, they burn.

Their hearts beat in the same tune. Aemond puts his hand on her chest, in the hollow between her breasts, and she weaves her fingers into his hair. When he looks at her, all she sees is scorching affection.

He stays buried inside her, as though equally reluctant to let their bodies part. Purple and sapphire glow in the dark, and she watches him, breathless and enthralled, unable to look away.

“I have claimed you,” he whispers into the night.

Her eyes are soft. With her fingertips, she writes letters down the length of his spine. She knows the words, though for now they remain invisible to the eye. Aemond looks at her with awe, hands still warm against her cheeks as he holds her. She wishes she could hear his thoughts. Wonders if she’d find remorse and guilt, and the desire to turn back time.

There is no regret in her heart. This—their bodies woven into one—was fated. His first touch planted a seed inside her, and its destiny was to bloom.

“Then I’m yours.”

His hands find hers, and there is only fire.

[ride-thedragon]

NETTLES AND RHAENYRA, CHARACTER FOILS.

Because I'm not an English teacher

So the question is, How is Nettles Rhaenyra's foil?

1. Appearance .

Rhaenyra is a pretty standard Valyrian beauty. Silver locks, purple eyes, quite pretty, later on in life we get the change that she didn't lose the wait after giving birth to her kids and becùase of misogyny, her beauty has faded. Features like her long hair worn in the style of Visenya and so on are also mentioned. It's giving the Realm's delight in a real sense (not the weird sense).

Nettles, on the other hand, is juxtaposed as 'ugly'. She's brown, is skinny, has crooked teeth, a nose scar, and has short hair.

The maesters like to play to damn much, basically. But they are described as almost exact opposites. Short and long hair, skinny and fat, white and brown skin, purple and brown eyes, etc.

The narrative purpose is to ultimately show their different upbringing and places in this society.

2. Status

Rhaenyra is shown to be the princess, heir to the throne and queen throughout the book. No matter what happens with her, the security and privilege she has almost always goes over what other women have. Her only real threat is the men (and book Alicent) who have personal stake in her not ascending her throne. She's also entirely spoilt as princess and heir by her father and more so her uncle.

Nettles, on the other hand, is introduced to us as an orphan from Driftmark. We're told she could've been a thief and a sex worker by the time we met her. She has no name, lands, titles, or family that we are presented with in the narrative and her backstory for better or less is a patchwork of what her life was possibly like on Driftmark.

Unlike Rhaenyra, we don't follow every salacious rumour and really don't know much about her past.

3. Dragons

Rhaenyra’s dragon Syrax was a cradle egg hatched to her, a Targaryen custom. She's also the youngest dragonrider at 7 I believe.

Nettles claims her dragon at no older than 16 years old. He is a wild dragon (a distinction given to hatched Targaryen dragons that haven't been riden and live away from the keep) and slaughters many before she claims him.

4. Virtue

The notion of virtue in asoiaf is extremely complex, especially with these two women and the vastly different backgrounds. But virginity and speculation also develops both their characterizations in the narrative.

Rhaenyra allegedly "sleeps" with Daemon to practise what she wants to do with Criston (she's 15-). In the show, it becomes obvious that she almost sleeps with Daemon and officially sleeps with Criston. Either way, promiscuity and naivety are written into her character. The only point of conflict is who is involved with what happened in these instances less than what happened. Later on her promiscuity is brought up when Ser Harwin Strong is said to be the father of her first three children.

On the other hand, Nettles' sexual promiscuity is given to her in the narrative. The claims of her being a whore or sleeping around with shepherds are claims made by men who don't know what she was doing at that time. Men who made similar claims about Rhaenyra and their involvement in her loss of virtue as well. Where these stories differ is in Maidenpool, where the assumption of promiscuity is given a different voice.

This time, maids are alluding to an inappropriately close relationship between Daemon and Nettles (yet again, he finds himself here).

5. Daemon

Speak of the devil, and he will appear.

His dynamic is important to these women and their place in the narrative. Saving one dooms the other, leaving with one isolated the other. His decisions ultimately affect one while benefiting the other.

The cruellest example of this dynamic is him letting Nettles go after being the reason she is trapped in the narrative and ultimately dooming Rhaenyra by choosing to kill Aemond instead of going back to her.

His dynamic with both was also comparable with gift giving and quality time and even inappropriate relationship he developed with both of them, notably around similar ages. ( Both these relationships have significant power imbalances).

Between them both, his affection to one affects the other detrimentally.

6. Jace

Specifically in reference to his death, it's notable that within the narrative, while Nettles is described as crying by herself in response to his death, Rhaenyra is hardened by it.

Also, as symbols for legitimacy and legacy, Jace is the reason Nettles is recognised as a dragonseed, and Rhaenyra's line is secured as her first born, but in his absence, Nettles is delegitimised and said to be not a dragonseed. Around that time, Rhaenyra is beginning to be questioned by all the men around her as well, whereas before, Jace was a notable voice in decisions.

7. Dragons in the End.

They both meet their 'end' in the narrative with Dragons. Rhaenyra is killed by her brother's dragon Sunfyre burns and eats her, killing her in front of her son.

Nettles, however, escapes the narrative on dragonback, with the stories that follow explicitly explaining how dragon fire protects her and leads her to become a deity for the burned men.

8. Children

In the narrative, Nettles has no children. Children would explicitly be a burden in her described circumstances as a mouth to feed and someone else to care for. Effectively, children would trap Nettles in a cycle of poverty and inability to experience ethe freedom presented in the narrative.

Rhaenyra is expected to have children to secure her legacy and reign. Children, especially sons, would be her greatest benefit to ensure her ascension to the throne. They are her biggest strategy and losses throughout the war because of that reason.

This dynamic carries out to a head with the death decree for Nettles. The possibility that she would have a child by Daemon is a definitive reason that her 'treason' calls for her head. A child would give her a claimant but also be proof of infidelity by Daemon. It would be a slight to Rhaenyra’s pride and grief as she at this point has lost 4 children during the war.

9. Loyalty of men

This is one of the most interesting for me because the disloyalty of men for Rhaenyra meant the loyalty of men to Nettles. When the Mootons decide not to kill her, they are traitors to Rhaenyra. When Daemon lets her leave, he's a traitor to Rhaenyra. When Corlys stands up for both her and Addam, he's treated like a traitor. Furthermore, the Mootons turn to Aegon’s side directly after because they did not obey her for two reasons, Nettles being accused and sentenced without trial, and Rhaenyra wanting them to break guest right.

Within the narrative, at that point, loyalty to Rhaenyra was a sentence on Nettles' life, and loyalty to Nettles was treason to Rhaenyra.

Conclusion.

In other ways, like the impact of their legacy, the symbols of their identity (dragons), other ways that their narratives with Daemon (the stories) play out and so on juxtapose these women against each other in the narrative. Age and innocence in both a meta and narrative sense also play into Nettles being a foil for Rhaenyra’s character. Personally I think the reason ts written that way is for Nettles to cause a Stark difference in behaviour with men like Daemon and the Mootons as well as to show the contrast of what is expected and what is to be done and what actually happens.

Hope this helps 🩷🤎

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 3

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you," the witch said….

Daenera Velaryon returns to King's Landing with the intention of bolstering her mother's position and reminding both the Greens and nobility that Rhaenyra is the rightful heir to the throne. She has a specific goal in mind: to be a constant source of annoyance to the Greens and is willing to play the political game without hesitation.

However, what catches her off guard is the way Aemond gazes at her and seems to relish in her suffering. He openly expresses his desire to bring about her downfall, her ruination.

This situation leads to a tense game of cat and mouse, with each move escalating the already high stakes. Will their precarious situation crumble as the dragons soar above, or will fate intervene?

After all, love often demands the sacrifice of duty, just as duty can sometimes lead to the demise of love. Characters: Aemond Targaryen X OC, HOTD characters.

Chapter 3: A debt made

AO3 - Masterlist

Startled, Daenera was yanked out of her sleep as she felt a pair of hands grab her arms and shoulders, and a voice urgently whispering something in her ear. Disoriented, she struggled to make sense of her surroundings in the dimly lit room. She blinked and rubbed her eyes. 

“I’m awake, I’m awake! What’s happening?” She groaned, shaking off the hands and rubbing her eyes. 

“Someone stole Vhagar!” Baela answered in a loud whisper. Someone stole a dragon? How could someone steal a dragon? You couldn’t just pick it up and put it in your pocket. Daenera’s gaze shifted to her cousins to her brothers, finding them all wide-eyed and awake.

“Come on!” Jace urged, tearing the sheets away from her. Daenera grumbled and climbed out of bed, shrugging on a dress and her shoes before following the group into the night, her hair messy and in tangles. 

All the halls were dark as night, orange light flickering from the candles, shadows dancing on the walls. 

“Shouldn’t we get the guards?” Daenera asked, only to be shushed. She repeated herself just lower. 

“We’ll get the guards when we’ve caught the thief,” Jace said in youthful bravado. 

Daenera was less convinced that this was a good idea. They shuffled down the halls, led by Baela carrying a torch. 

“If it's a dragon thief we might need the guards,” Daenera pointed out. 

“There’s no time,” Baela urged. “Someone took Vhagar before…”

Her voice went out, silencing herself. Before Rhaena had the chance to attempt to claim the dragon. Daenera suddenly understood the urgency of it all. Why it was so important that they intercepted the thief. In all Rhaena’s grief, she had yet to claim what her mother had once done. 

In the shadows, a figure emerged, throwing off his cloak. Aemond approached, confidently walking towards them, skin dirtied, smelling of dragon. 

“It’s him,” Baela accused. 

“It’s me,” Aemond confirmed. 

“Vhagar is my mothers dragon,” Baela spat at him, voice quivering in anger and pain. 

“Your mother is dead,” Aemond curtly pointed out. “And Vhagar has a new dragonrider.”

“She was mine to claim!” Rhaena hissed. Daenera shifted uncomfortably, feeling the cold of the night creep up her legs. This was going to end badly.

“Then you should have claimed her!” Aemond hissed back, his voice as loud as Rhaena’s. His hateful eyes turned to Jace and Luke, narrowing with bitterness. “Maybe your cousins can find you a pig to ride. It would suit you.”

Rhaena lunged at Aemond, growling in anger, ready to throw punches. Aemond wasn’t easily unfooted, he had his height and strength on his side, and he swept Rhaena to the side, tossing her to the ground. That single decision set the hall ablaze with anger, Baela attacked to protect her sister, swinging a fist that collided with Aemond’s cheekbone in a direct punch that sent him stumbling, reaching to cup his cheek, a yelp leaving his lips. Daenera looked over her shoulders, hoping that the guards would hear the scuffle. Aemond got on his feet, swinging at Baela and striking her in the face, the girl falling back to her ass, crying. 

“Come at me again, and I’ll feed you to my dragon!” Aemond threatened.

Daenera jumped in, pushing Aemond back. “Stop this!”

“Or what! You started it.” Aemond forcefully pushed Daenera back, the girl stumbling over Baela’s legs and falling to the dust, hands scraping on the loose stone. Baela sobbed, covering her already bruised cheekbone.

“And we’ll finish it,” Jace yelled, throwing a punch to Aemonds nose, the blond rearing back. Jace punched him in the stomach, but the advantage he had gotten from the first punch disappeared and his smaller arms were unable to find its mark again, swinging from one side to the other in fervent tries. Aemond avoided her brother's punches, kicking him in the chest, sending him sprawling as well. 

Like the little hellion he could be, Luceryes screamed and tried to defend his brother, but he was hit in the nose. A sickening snap sounded, and Luke fell back, blood streaming from his nose, tears stinging in his eyes. 

Daenera was on her feet again, kicking Aemond over the shin and slapping him across the face, clawing at it. Three red lines drew down one side of his face from her nails and Aemond hissed, punching her in the teeth. She felt pain explode in her head, her lip splitting open, blood filling her mouth. She stumbled to the other side of the hall, leaning against the wall with one hand, trying to get her bearings. 

While she did that her older brother got on his feet along with Baela and Rhaena, pushing Aemond down to litter him with punches and kicks. 

In all honesty, it sounded like they were beating on a dummy, like the ones they used as sword practice. The only difference was that this one groaned when he got hit. And he had the ability to hit back. 

Daenera spat out the blood and got ready to join the frey, when Jace was kicked back and Baela was thrown into her sister, the two falling in a heap of arms and legs, groaning. Luke screamed again trying to push Aemond back, but Aemond grabbed him by the throat, getting to his feet, one hand curled around something hard and deadly. Blood smeared his face, his white strands in a tussle around his head. He held up the object. 

“You will die screaming in flames just as your father did,” he spat at Luke, who choked in his iron grip, blood in two streaks under his nose. 

“Let him go!” Daenera yelled at Aemond, anger burning in her chest, lungs heaving to provide air for the fires. How dare he say that to Luke. Luke, who was completely unaware of his true parentage. Luke, who believed Laenor to be his father. And to add insult to injury, he had the nerve to make a mockery of Ser Harwins death.

Daenera was ready to pull that precious white hair straight out of his skull. He wasn’t deserving of it. 

“Bastards,” Aemond spat again, glaring at Jace and Daenera. 

“My father’s still alive,” Luke cried, his hands around Aemonds wrists, trying to pry him off. 

A cruel smirk grew on Aemonds lips, and he lowered the rock, malice shining in his eyes. “He doesn’t know, does he, lord Strong? Lady Strong?”

Daenera didn’t know Jace had brought a knife and was just as surprised as the rest of them, when he produced it from his sleeve. He wouldn’t let this slight pass. He wouldn’t let Aemond get away with it. He dishonored him and his mother. He attacked Baela and Rhaena. Stole Vhagar. Jace shifted from one foot to another.

“Jace!” Baela and Daenera yelled in unison. 

It didn’t matter. Jace stepped forward trying to get to Aemond, but Aemond threw Luke at him, the smaller boy falling to the dust. Jace almost stumbled over him, but he managed to avoid his brother, holding out the knife, swinging it. The blade cut through the air and Daenera held her breath, anxiety coursing through her veins. 

Aemond avoided the knife, swinging the rock and hitting Jace in the head. Daenera screamed at the sight, running to her brother, knees sinking in the sand. He was bleeding from his head, eyes rolling and blinking, trying to focus through the pain wrecking through his skull. Blood ran down his skin from a gash on top of his head.  

It was then that Aemond revealed an unhinged smile, eyes wild, cruel, filled with malice and bloodthirst. Years of bullying, years of being pushed around, all rushed to the surface. 

Daenera knew it then, that he would hit Jace again, even if it took his life. If Luke had not crawled around them and grabbed the knife, Daenera would have, and she later wished she had been the one to do it. 

But it was Luke who picked up the knife, it was Luke who defended his brother and sister, and it was Luke who swung the knife with a furious scream, the blade slicing through air, through skin and tissue, through eye and brow. Blood immediately streamed out and Aemond howled, falling to his knees, holding one side of his face. Blood seeped through his fingers, ran down his face, dripped onto the sand, and he screamed again. 

The Kingsguard came too late to save the prince from maiming. Commander Westerling yelled, eyes darting around the scene, landing on Aemonds hunched over form. 

“My prince, my prince, let me see,” Westerling said, trying to calm the groaning child.

Daenera and her brother got on their feet, she looked back at Aemond, face screwed up in a grimace, caught between anger and disdain. He had brought it on himself. She turned to her brother, trying to twist his head to see the damage. It wasn’t bad, but it would undoubtedly be swollen and sore for days. 

“Take them to the great hall and get a Maester,” Westerling ordered. 

Daenera and her brothers, as well as Baela and Rhaena were guided to the great hall, the big space cast in dark shadows, only lit by the fireplace. Daenera stayed close to her brothers, hand holding Luke’s, while her heart raced with fear and anticipation. 

Aemond refused to let Westerling carry him but instead allowed the older Kingsguard to guide him to the chair in front of the fire, the boy still holding his face. By the time the Maester came, the whole castle was up and about. 

The king yelled in fury over the laps in protection that had happened. And while Commander Westerling accepted that something had gone wrong, that they were at fault, Ser Crison Cole held another opinion entirely, casting all the blame on Daenera and her brothers. It was he who had the watch, and yet they were to blame. She hated him almost as much as she hated Aemond. 

“The Kingsguard never had to defend princes from princes, your gra-,”

“That is no excuse!” Viserys roared at Ser Criston. 

“It will heal, will it not, Maester?” Alicent asked in a breathy, quivering voice, eyes big and watery, looking at her son like she had failed him, like he was fragile and in pieces… Daenera supposed he was in pieces. 

“The flesh will heal, but the eye is lost, your grace.” That sentence seemed to ripple through the room, stirring up the shadows, an indignant and hostile atmosphere thick as the fog and twice as deadly. 

Aemond hadn’t screamed not even once as the Maester had sown him up. It was disconcerting. 

Alicent took out her anger and frustration on her firstborn, slapping the boy who was swaying with exhaustion and wine. 

Daenera wondered where her mother and father were. They needed them. The tides were turning and her and her brothers could so easily be swept up, left to drown alone. Jace put his arm around his siblings, trying his best to protect and comfort them.

The heavy doors opened and Corlys immediately commanded everyone’s attention with his voice. “What is the meaning of this?!”

Baela and Rhaena ran to their grandmother's open arms, sobbing into them, their small bodies shaking with cold and fear. 

The next one in was the heir to the throne. Rhaenyra hurried inside, eyes shifting across faces, landing on her three children. Her eyes widened at the sight of the blood and the way her youngest covered his nose, not wishing to reveal the damage or let anyone touch it. “Who did this?”

“They attacked me!” Aemond yelled. 

“He attacked Baela!” Jace yelled right back. “He broke Lukes nose.”

Every child involved with the incident began yelling, throwing the blame back and forth. Their voices intermingled into a mess where there were no heads or tails. Rhaena and Baela yelled about the stolen dragon. Jace was yelling about the whole attack and how Aemond hit him with a rock. Luke yelled about his broken nose and how Aemond would have killed Jace. Daenera remained silent. 

“Enough,” Viserye’s voice sounded, trying to cut through all the yelling to no avail.

“He tried to kill Jace!” Luke repeated three times. “I did nothing wrong.”

“Enough!” Viserye’s tried again, only for his wife and queen to join in the yelling. “SILENCE!”

The hall went quiet. 

Jace leaned into his mother and whispered, bringing up the forbidden. “He called us bastards.”

Rhaenyra looked to Daenera who nodded. Then she stood, placing herself between her children and everyone else, a tight look upon her face. Jace took his mothers hand, while Luke leaned into her comforting touch on the other side, small hands gripping her skirts like he had so often done as a toddler.

“Aemond.” The king walked towards Aemond, cane tapping on the stone, the only real sound there was. “I will have the truth of what happened. Now.”

“What else is there to hear? Your son has been maimed and her son is responsible,” Alicent pointed resentfully at Rhaenyra and her children. 

“It was an regrettable accident,” Rhaenyra voiced, arms wrapping around her boys. 

“Accident? The prince Luceryes brought a blade to the ambush. He meant to kill my son,” Alicent testified, looking at the nobles. She was painting a grim picture of intent and vengefulness. 

Daenera swallowed. 

“It was my sons who were attacked and forced to defend themselves,” Rhaenyra argued, her anger flaring. “Vile insults were levied against them.”

“What insults?”

“The legitimacy of my children's birth was put loudly to question.”

“What?” Viseryes responded, a certain hardness darkening his tone.

“He called us bastards,” Daenera voiced. “We thought someone stole Vhagar but it was him and when we confronted him, he called us bastards and he would have killed Jace had Luke not defended him.”

“You hear that, your grace? My sons are in line to inherit The Iron Throne and their legitimacy is put to question. This is the highest of treasons,” Rhaenyra spoke confidently, approaching her father, hands clasped together. It seemed like all the air in the room had been sucked out and everyone was holding their breaths, waiting, watching. “Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such slander.”

Aemond was the only one who moved, the chair creaking underneath the shift of weight. He looked back at Rhaenyra, at Jace and Luke, at Daenera, with a singular eye, burning with hatred, disdain and resentment. The wound had been sown crudely together, tugging at the inflamed and swollen skin. It was a grim sight that made Daenera’s heart shutter in her chest. 

“Over an insult?” Alicent's voice was steeped in disbelief. “My son has lost an eye.”

“You tell me, boy,” Viseryes leaned down to his son, no longer the kind and pliant king. “Where did you hear this lie?”

Daenera looked at Alicent and saw the panic flash in her eyes, how the corners of her lips tugged down, knowing that if she were pointed out, that it would cost her everything. It would only be right. Given that she was the one who started the rumors after all, the one who kept them well fed and free to roam. Daenera glowered at the queen, holding her breath, waiting for Aemond’s answer that she hoped would implicate his own mother. 

But as a dutiful son, he saved his mothers skin by serving up his brothers. “It was Aegon.”

His brother sounded shocked. “Me?”

Viserys approached Aegon, his oldest son taller than him and yet, Aegon felt so much smaller. His eyes remained forward, hands clasped behind his back. Viserys continued. “And you, boy? Where did you hear such calumnies? Aegon! Tell me the truth!”

Viseryes knew of course, how could he not. But he needed certainty, needed confirmation. Aegon swallowed thickly, and for just a moment Daenera felt bad for him. Viserys was never really a father to his other children, he was just their sire, and yet, as children of his blood, all they’d want is for his attention, his appreciation, his acknowledgement. But Aegon had grown to become an unlikeable boy, and Daenera reigned in her sympathy. 

“Tell me the truth of it!”

“We know, father,” Aegon answered, eyes staring into space then turned slowly to his father. “Everyone knows. Just look at them.”

Daenera straightened her back and refused to feel any less than, just because she didn’t have the same pale hair all the other descendants of the Valyrians had. Why should her hair color matter? She was still the blood of the dragon. All eyes of the room had turned to them, scrutinizing their appearance, judging them. She felt the looks prickle over her skin like a spider, the feeling uncomfortable and disconcerting. 

“This interminable infighting must cease!” Viserys growled, stomping his cane for emphasis. “All of you! We are a family.” 

It didn’t feel like family. There was too much bad blood, too much resentment between them. Aemond and Alicent would forever blame them for the loss of his eye. A debt had been made and no kind words, no well wishes, would make up for it. It was naive and foolish of Viserys to think that his words would put it all to bed. 

“Now make your apologies and show good will to one another. Your father, your grandsire, your king demands it.”

Alicent scoffed.

As Viserys began walking away, refusing to look at his wife, the deadly glare in the queen's eyes grew, a sickening blame and disgust building on her features, tugging on her pretty face. “That is insufficient.”

Viserys turned.

“Aemond have been damaged, permanently, my king,” Alicent continued. “‘Good will’ cannot make him whole.”

“I know, Alicent, but I cannot restore his eye,” Viserys faltered, tired of this whole ordeal. Couldn’t they see that there was nothing to be done? What had happened, had already transpired. Time would forever move one way, and even a king could not turn the tides of it.

“No, because it has been taken,” Alicent urged.

“What would you have me do?”

“There’s a debt to be paid.”

Daenera swallowed, stepping in front of Luke, looking over her shoulder and up at her mother. “Are they going to try and take his eye?”

“I don’t want them to take my eye, mother,” Luke muttered, clutching his mothers arm tightly, leaning into her warmth and the safety of it. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Aemond glare at them, muttering so low that only because she was looking at him, she knew what he said; I didn’t wish to lose my eye either. 

Alicent confirmed their fears. “I shall have one of her son's eyes in return.”

Aemond smirked viciously. 

Low voices arose, most in disbelief, a few in agreement. An eye for an eye, blood for blood. Debts made and paid in equal measure.   Luke withdrew from his mother, looking back and forth between her and Daenera, fear shining in his eyes. He shook his head, his dark curls swaying, tears filling his eyes. 

“My dear wife,” Viserys tried. 

“He is your son, Viserys. Your blood.”

“Do not allow your temper to guide your judgment,” Viserys warned his wife. 

“If the king will not seek justice, then the queen will,” Alicent’s voice had turned cold and determined. With tear streaked cheeks, she looked upon her sworn sword. “Ser Criston, bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon.”

Luke flinched back in fear. “Mother!”

“He can choose which eye to keep, a privilege he did not grant my son,” Alicent announced as if it was a blessing, though her tone spoke of malice and mockery. 

“You will do no such thing,” Rhaenyra opposed, a wall of iron and dragonfire, a mother protecting her sons.

“Your son would have killed Jace!” Daenera yelled, pointing at Alicent and then at Aemond. “Luke was defending his brother! He himself put him in that position, so do not blame anyone else but him.”

“Ser Criston! You are sworn to me! Bring me his eye,” Alicent yelled. 

“Stay your hand,” Viserys ordered the kingsguard, slowly approaching Alicent, his eyes firmer than his body. “Alicent… this matter is finished. Do you understand?

“And let it be known; Anyone who’s tongue dares question the birth of Princess Rhaenyra’s children should have it removed.”

“Thank you, father.”

The room exploded in roars as Alicent gripped the King's knife, holding it up to cut down whoever got in her way. Luke screamed in fear, clutching his mothers skirts as she put herself between them, gripping Alicent’s arms, trying to hold her off. The rage burned across the queen's features, her mind clouded in smoke and resentment. Daenera tried to push the queen away from her mother, but the queen was a rock, unmoving, unrelenting. It was the Lord Commander who swept the little princess away from the scuffle, pushing her out of harm's way, trying to hold back the crowd. 

Daenera shuffled out of Westerlings grip, taking hold of Luke and tugging him towards Rhaenys, pushing between her and Corlys. She slipped her hand into her grandmothers, and the older woman looked down, a pinched look on her face. Daenera felt her grandmother hesitate to close her hand around hers, but eventually did, thumb rubbing across her hand trying to comfort the girl as tears streamed down her face, heart hammering in her chest. 

“Is she going to kill mother?” Daenera asked, voice raw.

“No, no she won't. The king won't let it happen.” 

A debt made in blood will be paid in blood, Daenera thought. Debts made and paid in equal measure… The Stranger follows you. 

The witch's words echoed inside her head. Was this the debt she meant? And would her mothers death repay it? No… No, her mother wasn’t dying. 

The scuffle ended with her mothers blood, the Valyrian blade slicing through the air, never dulled, cutting clean and true. It bit into Rhaenyra’s forearm, slicing through flesh as if it was nothing but water. Blood welled and ran thick and warm, dripping down onto the floor. Corlys had caught Rhaenyra as the queen and princess had split apart. The world froze in shock. The queen had harmed the heir. The queen had drawn blood.

A debt made in blood will be paid in blood , and it had been paid then. Rhaenyra would leave with a scar and so would Aemond. It was over, right? The blood debt had been paid. Daenera could only hope. 

She tore her dress, quickly trying to stop the bleeding, but she was pushed out of the way by Corlys, who took the fabric and wrapped it around Rhaenyra’s arm, putting pressure on the wound. 

Silence filled the room only broken by Aemond. “Do not mourn me, mother. It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye… but I gained a dragon.”

Aemond hugged his mother, but his one remaining eye focused on Daenera, the look piercing her dress, her flesh, her soul. There was room for nothing but hatred, resentment and disdain in that eye. Cold and hard, like a flame of ice. Daenera glared back at him. 

The day had started with a funeral and ended with blood. 

That night when all had settled down, she had fished out the coin the witch had given her, tracing the symbols and turning it over in her hands.

One funeral became two. And two became a wedding. 

It was the screams of a mother that drew Daenera down the stairs, that made her feet almost slip on the steps, the sound harrowing and haunting. The great hall smelled of burned flesh, it crept up every crevice and settled into the stone. It made her stomach turn. 

She found Rhaenys on her knees, screaming over a burned corpse and Lord Corlys yelling at the guards, beating on their breastplates. Daenera blinked, mind not caught up with the scene. Her quick feet slowed their pace, her eyes landing on the necklace around the body’s neck, one similar to a present she had given her father. 

Rhaenys rocked back and forth, hands shaking, the anguish making her bones creak. “My son! My son!”

Daenera was now standing beside her grandmother, staring down at the burned corpse, its face indistinguishable, eyes melted out of the socks, teeth charred. The smell coiled within her. Her lip quivered, heart beating rapidly, not broken, not yet. She shook her head. 

It was then Rhaenys noticed her, the older woman looking at her granddaughter, not by blood but by love. She wrapped her arms around the girl, pulling her to her knees as well, brushing her dark hair out of her face, the hair that caused so much chaos and division. “You shouldn’t look. Don’t look.”

“Who is that?” Daenera asked but already knew the answer, the tears were streaming down her face. Must she mourn another father? Must death really visit her again? 

Rhaenys wiped the girl's tears away, holding her face, not able to find a trace of her son in her. It was painful. It was pure and utter anguish. There was nothing of her son left on this earth. None of her children were left. She had outlived both of them. Rhaenys couldn’t help but resent Daenera at that crumbling moment. She released her and turned back towards her dead son.

Corlys was the one to pull Daenera away from the scene, the girl finally crying out, trying to beat his hands from her but his hold was firm and strong. Coryls knelt down to her height, his brows inched up, eyes sympathetic. “Where’s your mother?” 

“Is-is that my father?” Daenera choked out. 

“It is,” Corlys confirmed. Daenera’s nails dug into the skin of his forearms, she beat at him, crying out, refusing to believe what was true. “Hey, hey, Daenera, look at me, look at me. Where’s your mother?”

“She’s… she’s out for a walk,” Daenera answered him, voice loud and clearly in pain. “I want my mother.”

Coryls nodded, rising from his position, to look at his guards that had let his son be murdered. “Take the body to the Maester and find whoever did this to my son!”

He then picked up Daenera, the girl too big to usually be picked up, but Corlys didn’t care. He held her to him, let her sob into his shoulder while he patted her back as he walked away from the smell of burned flesh. Years of war told him that the smell would cling to fabric, that it would take weeks if not more, to get it out of the room. He had seen burned men before. He had seen men fed to craps. He had seen men flayed. But he had never seen his son dead. It would haunt him.

They met Daemon and Rhaenyra coming in from their walk, the pair’s eyes immediately going to Daenera and Corlys. Rhaenyra stormed forth, eyes wide, flickering between her daughter and her father-in-law. 

“What happened?” 

Corlys let Daenera down on her feet, the girl turning on her heels and throwing herself into her mothers arms, crying all the more. Corlys looked between Rhaenyra and Daemon, eyes lingering on the ladder. It crossed his mind then, for just a second, that Daemon could have had a hand in his son murder. 

“Your husband and my son is dead,” Corlys answered, voice hard and unrelenting as the sea. Still there was a timber of sadness, of fatherly agony. 

“Laenor’s dead?” Rhaenyra hugged her daughter to her, Daenera burying her face in the crook of her mothers neck. Her tears stained the fabric, ran down her mothers skin like rain. “But-but how? I don’t understand.”

“We don’t know how yet, but the castle is being searched as we speak and I will not rest until the culprit is found,” Corlys vowed, again looking between Rhaenyra and Daemon. “I must go to my wife. I entrust you to inform your other children.”

“Of course,” Rhaenyra agreed. 

Daenera hadn’t been meant to see it. And Rhaenyra glanced up at Daemon for a moment, her hands continuously running up and down her daughter's spine, trying to calm the girl. 

Laenor’s funeral was smaller. With the king having left the day before, taking most of the nobles with him, it was really just the family that remained. Rhaenys were inconsolable, wrapped in black and grief. And yet she stood tall, her spine of Valyrian steel. Corlys was the same. The castle had been searched from top to bottom along with the whole island. In the end, they found out that their son had been murdered by a scorned lover who fled on a ship and to the free cities. There would be no justice for their son. It was another layer to their grief. 

Jace, Daenera and Luke mourned their father, the man who helped bring them up, who played with them when they were small, who tucked them into bed, who taught them about the finer things in life. Now, they and their cousins were equal in their loss… Now, Jace and Daenera were able to mourn both their fathers. Daenera wished there was only one. Wished that it was none . 

It wasn’t long after the funeral that Rhaenyra whisked them away to Dragonstone along with Daemon and his children. It was a matter of two days. Two days and they stood among the rocks of Dragonstone, the fog rolling in thick and cool over the island. The small altar was littered with candles. 

Daemon cut his finger, smearing the blood between Rhaenyra’s brow, on her lips. And she did the same to him. Their children watched the wedding ceremony, none of them able to object. It was strange how fast it had all gone. The moment they set foot on Dragonstone they sent for a priest capable of performing a Valyrian wedding ceremony. It was only the priest, a Maester and the children that were there as witnesses. 

It felt wrong.

Daemon cut his palm, the blood welling in the gash. Rhaenyra took the dragonglass dagger and drew a similar line on her own hand. They pressed their wounded hands together, the blood mixing. It would have been romantic, the sharing of blood, binding oneself to another, like all the great love stories that had been told at bedtime. But in those stories no one married mere days after the loss of a spouse. 

The only time Daenera had seen her mother look at someone like she did Daemon was when she had looked at Ser Harwin. And yet, this was different. Deeper. A twin flame, a twin soul, and if she wasn’t so bitter over her fathers death, Daenera would have welcomed Daemon with open arms. But Laenor had just died. And they decide to get married immediately. ‘ To strengthen the family. To protect. ’

Daenera wasn’t the only one who thought it strange, but there was nothing to be done. The fires had already been lit, and she would be unable to put them out, all she could do was watch them burn. 

Three deaths, two funerals and a wedding. 

A family forever altered. 

“I, Princess Daenera Velaryon, wish to speak with you, Daemon Targaryen, in private,” the little princess said, shoulders squared, head held high, a determinant look on her face. Daemon tried to withhold the smile on his lips, but the corners tugged up and his eyes flickered to his wife, who had the same smile on her lips, hand on his shoulder. Rhaenyra lifted a brow at him and Daemon motioned to the door with his head. 

The little princess had come into their chambers with such confidence that they couldn’t help but find it adorable. 

“Very well,” Rhaenyra said, kissing Daemon’s temple before heading towards the door, passing Daenera on the way, her hand patting the child on the head. The door closed behind her, leaving Daemon and Daenera alone. 

They regarded each other. One in amusement, while the other glared, putting ice in her veins. It was cute, Daemon thought. She had her mothers fire. 

“Are you an honest man?” Daenera asked with a firm voice, her hands clasp in front of her, the very image of poise and propriety.

Daemon’s brows rose, and his fingers turned the goblet in his hand, head tilting in interest at where the princess was going with this. It was clear that she was on a mission, that this whole thing had a purpose. She acted so much older than her true age. He wondered whether she had always been like that, an old soul in a child's body, ancient and yet confined to a childish temperament. 

“I am,” Daemon answered. As honest a man could be. He didn’t hide from who or what he was. He didn’t play pretend and found it tedious. It wasn’t that he was a good man, no one other than Rhaenyra would call him that, but he wasn’t a cunt either. He played his own bloody game. It wasn’t his fault that everyone else played by the rules. 

“But you lie,” Daenera continued steadfastly. 

“What is it that you wish to know, Princess Daenera?” He regarded the girl with amusement. 

“Did you kill my father?” Daenera asked, the grip on her own hands tightening. She was afraid. Afraid of the answer and afraid of the possibility of what that answer could be. Daemon scared her. He knew that. She didn’t know him, not really.

Daemon’s brows rose, eyes lighting up with interest and intrigue. He pursed his lips in thought. Of course, he couldn’t tell her the truth. That her mother and him had planned it together. That it was all a show. That Laenor was alive and well in Essos or one of the other free cities, out of sight and out of mind. That he had left them so willingly. It would be cruel to tell her that. And while Daemon had an infinity for cruelty, he didn’t wish to turn it upon the brave little princess that had come all the way to his chambers to ask the questions all the children were wondering. 

“No,” Daemon answered her. It was the truth. He hadn’t killed him. Laenor wasn’t even dead. 

Daenera’s eyes darted over his face, trying to read his honesty. Daemon was hard to read, no, nearly impossible to read and he could see it upon her face. Her brows inched down in a frown, lips growing thinner. 

“Do you love my mother?” 

Daemon let out an amused chuckle, leaning back in the chair relaxed. “I do.”

The princess shook her head, those dark, troublesome curls of hers waving through the air. She might not look like her mother, except perhaps the shape of her eyes, but she reminded him of her. 

“You shouldn’t have married,” Daenera spoke, a childish worry filtering through the tone of her voice. 

“Oh ? ”

“My grandmother thinks you killed her son and others will think the same,” Daenera added, worry building inside her. She began nervously playing with her hands, looking down on the floor as she spoke, her resolve crumbling. “If-if you did not kill my father, why sweep us all away to Dragonstone to marry my mother? Why couldn’t you have waited a year, or-or just six months? It would have dispelled some of the rumors and maybe my grandmother wouldn’t be mad at us.”

Finally the child in Daenera showed. A girl worried about her mothers reputation, worried about her grandmother's feelings, worried about the repercussions of a decision out of her hands. Daemon found it amiable. She’d have to learn not to worry about such things, it would only weaken her. 

“The marriage was your mothers decision,” Daemon said in all honesty. 

Daenera’s big blue eyes flickered up to him, a confused scowl on her face. 

“I merely accepted.”

“You should have told her it could wait.”

Daemon leaned forward, placing his forearms on his knees, hunching down to her level, hands clasped together. He watched her swallow nervously. “We did not wish to wait. I’ve loved your mother for years. I will protect her with my life.”

Daenera nodded, still apprehensive. “But can you protect her from the rumors?”

“You mean the rumors of your birth,” Daemon stated. 

“And the rumors that you killed Laenor.”

“We married to protect Rhaenyra’s claim, to strengthen it. The game is so much bigger that you can possibly understand. You’re still a child, Daenera, be a child.”

“I am not just a child,” Daenera hissed, hands now clutching her skirts. “I am a Princess. I am my mothers daughter.”

“You are,” Daemon agreed. “But you still have so much to learn.”

“Then teach me,” Daenera said suddenly, the urgency in her voice surprising Daemon. This was a girl who’d caught a glimpse of the game, a girl that had been swept up in it, a girl who had come to understand what was at risk. She wasn’t the child that had arrived at Driftmark for her aunt's funeral. 

An amused smirk grew on Daemon’s lips. He could work with her. Teach her, guide her. “I will.”

[glitter-lisp]

Au game but I’m making you au your fandom into mine — give me a tangled dragon rider au (doesn’t have to Napoleonic wars related bc I’m a nice person)

jaylia this is so funny because literally in the last chapter of multiverse i sent them to a dragon rider world specifically with you in mind omg okay so this is less of a 5 fun facts and more of 1 setting and 4 character sketches ok SO

think typical high fantasy there are Kingdoms and the the Kingdoms have Magic and also some of the Kingdoms have Dragons and and the Dragons have Dragonriders and when a newborn Dragon picks a human to be their Dragonrider they are shipped off to a multination Dragon School Up In The Mountains To Learn How To Do It also worth noting for this world im stealing the eragon thing that dragons can choose their riders from inside the egg so if you touch a dragon egg sometimes that bitch will hatch on the spot for you and oops now you gotta deal with that. so anyways our cast of character in the ya novel i am dubbing the dragon thief:

hugo. the eponymous dragon thief. part of a thieves guild, stole a dragon egg in transport to sell to the highest bidder because that shit is EXPENSIVE if the sale went through he'd be set for life, except oh holy shit what the fuck it fucking HATCHED, and since dragon bonds are considered sacred across all nations (dragons are too Wise to choose random shitheels obviously) he's immediately pardoned of all crimes and shipped off to dragon school with his hatchling, but being pardoned of your crimes doesn't mean your fellow trainees have forgotten them and everyone at the school knows you once tried to kidnap and sell the baby dragon that is now bonded to you for life, and they treat you accordingly

nuru, a young princess who's descended from a long line of both nobility and dragonriders, but always like, yknow. the eldest daughters. the only-kind-of-joking family motto is "first on the throne, second in the saddle" and nuru is the fourth child so the best she could hope for was a decent dowry and a husband who let her keep studying astronomy, but then at her family's hatching ceremony the hatchling stumbled out of its egg and trotted right past all of nurus sisters and into her arms, so now her family is furious even though she really, really, really didn't mean to buck tradition and steal her sister's dragon, and all of her sister's friends who expected her there after the egg hatched are instead stuck with her pesky baby sister instead

yong. tiny baby child whose parents are trainers at the school, and was therefore raised on the property, and was therefore raised as much by dragons as people. is accidentally EXTREMELY magical by virtue of growing up around so much magical energy. his parents keep him the fuck away from any eggs because of that, for fear of him accidentally pulling an unhatched dragon into a bond because of his power instead of the dragon actually wanting to bond with him as a person. yong somehow manages to find, befriend, and bond with a young wild dragon ("young" by dragon standards at least) instead, leaving him half a decade younger than his mostly teenage and young adult classmates, and his dragon close to a century older than their hatchlings

varian. the first dragonrider trainee from his kingdom invited to study at the school. At least, the first in close to 30 years, since his uncle the king and his dragon were both defeated in battle a few years ago after waging war on the rest of the world for a quarter of a century. edmund is gone and his son eugene, varians older cousin, is doing what he can to fix the wreck of his own kingdom, make amends with their neighboring kingdoms, and restart the dragonrider corps in the dark kingdom, since edmund demanded all other dragons and riders be banished a few decades ago. varian never had anything to do with the war, never fought in it and barely knew his uncle or his dragon, but that doesn't stop people from treating him and his dragon like they're also going to go insane and start murdering people any second

soooooo yeah that's all i got band of misfits at magic school sticking together because everyone else hates them so they might as well

[fandomtrumpshate]

By the Numbers update!!

With just over a day left to sign up as a creator for Fandom Trumps Hate 2023, here's a quick roundup of all of the numbers:

We have 705 offers by 527 creators (I've had to update this three times while writing this post!). Of those, 97 are offering to work in ANY fandom! The rest have signed up offering fanworks in 273 fandoms, including 177 write-in fandoms! (To compare that with roughly the same time last year, as we approached 24 hours left to sign up for FTH2022 we had 680 offers from 525 creators in 257 fandoms including 153 write-ins … meaning we have 23 more offers in 16 more fandoms by the same number of creators for 2023 … SO FAR.)

A look at the offers, broken down by type (with last year's numbers in italics for comparison purposes) -

458 Written fanwork (fic, fan poetry, etc) (457) 107 Fan art (103) 63 Fan labor (beta services, translation, Brit-picking, etc) (70) 59 Podfic (39) 13 Other Digital Fanwork (7) 5 Video (4)

Nearly 65% of creators are opting to let their bidders choose which org to support with their donation. The orgs most often chosen by those who wish to direct donations to a particular nonprofit remain the Transgender Legal and Education Defense Fund, any/all abortion fund, Rainbow Railroad, and the Navajo Water Project. The orgs selected least often are The Appeal, Razom, and Violence Policy Center.

In our listed fandoms Good Omens has increased its lead and its lock on the top spot. MCU caught up with Sherlock and Teen Wolf for a brief 3-way tie for 4th place behind HP and K-pop, but has since gained an additional signup to claim that spot, leaving Sherlock and Teen Wolf tied for fifth ahead of Star Wars, Stranger things, SVSSS, The Untamed, and The Sandman.

A handful of signups could still shake things up here, or over in the unlisted fandoms, where the Young Royals lead has been cut in half … see the full list of all 177 write-in fandoms under the cut. Sign up to create fanworks to push your fandom up in the rankings! Reblog FTH posts so your fandom friends can do the same! Sign ups are open until Sunday Feb 19 at 11:59 PM Pacific.

8 Young Royals 7 Malevolent (Podcast) 5 The Queen's Thief 4 911 Lone Star 4 Homestuck 4 Overwatch 4 Red White & Royal Blue 4 The Owl House 3 Alex Rider 3 Attack on Titan 3 Between Us 3 Chainsaw Man 3 Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency 3 Disney's Descendants 3 Erha He Ta De Bai Mao Shizun (The Husky & His White Cat Shizun) 3 Justified 3 Lout of the Count's Family / Trash of the Count's Family 3 Love in the Air 3 Miraculous Ladybug 3 Not Me 3 Pokemon 3 The Legend of Zelda 3 Top Gun Movies 3 Witch Hat Atelier 3 X-men 2 Aphmau MyStreet 2 Bungou Stray Dogs 2 Carmen Sandiego 2 Danganronpa 2 Destiny 2 2 Digimon 2 Escaflowne 2 Gravity Falls 2 Hollow Knight 2 Howl's Moving Castle 2 Kingsman 2 NU: Carnival 2 Professional Wrestling 2 Scholomance 2 Stargate: Atlantis 2 Stephen King's IT 2 Suits 2 Supergirl 2 The Song of Achilles 2 Twilight 2 Video Blogging RPF 2 Warrior Nun (TV Show) 2 What We Do in the Shadows 2 YuYu Hakusho 1 A Series of Unfortunate Events 1 A Voice from Darkness (Podcast) 1 Ace Attorney 1 Alex Stern series - Leigh Bardugo 1 All The Wrong Questions 1 Animorphs 1 Be Kind My Neighbor 1 Bioshock 1&2 (only) 1 Blood of Youth 1 Blue Exorcist 1 Blue Lock 1 Bug Fables 1 Cabin Pressure 1 Call the Midwife 1 Cats the Musical 1 Cherry Magic 1 Citizen Sleeper 1 Cobra Kai 1 Coco Pixar 1 Cosmere (Brandon Sanderson) 1 Crossover Chaos AU (multifandom crossover AU) 1 Cyberpunk: Edgerunners 1 Dead by Daylight 1 Dead Poets Society 1 Derry Girls 1 Dice Punks (podcast) 1 Divergent (Movies) 1 DMBJ/Grave Robber's Chronicles 1 Downton Abbey 1 Dr. STONE (anime/manga) 1 Dragon Ball Z 1 Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey 1 Dungeons and Daddies 1 Eerie Indiana 1 Elder Scrolls 1 Emma - Jane Austen 1 Fire Country 1 Firefly 1 For All Mankind 1 Glee 1 Grace and Frankie 1 Greys Anatomy 1 Grimm 1 Guardian/Zhen Hun 1 Gundam 1 Half-Life 1 Hello From The Hallowoods 1 Higurashi No Naku Koro Ni / Higurashi When They Cry 1 Hit the floor 1 House of the Dragon 1 Hudson & Rex 1 IDOLiSH7 1 Ikemen Vampire 1 Imperial Radch Series - Ann Leckie 1 Infinity Train 1 Jane Austen (any novel any pairing) 1 Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse 1 Jojo's Bizarre Adventure 1 Jurassic Park 1 King of Scars Duology 1 Les Misérables 1 Los Simuladores 1 Love Between Fairy and Devil 1 Madre Solo Hay Dos 1 Miss Scarlet and The Duke 1 Mob Psycho 100 1 Monochrome Factor 1 Motorcity 1 Obey Me! 1 One Last Stop 1 Outlast 1 Paper Girls (TV) 1 Parasol Protectorate 1 Peacemaker 1 Persuasion - Jane Austen 1 Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen 1 Psych 1 Qi Ye 1 Ranger's Apprentice 1 Ranma 1/2 1 RPF 1 Sable 1 Sanders Sides 1 Scooby Doo 1 Shadow and Bone 1 Shameless (US) 1 Sidemen 1 Silicon Valley (TV) 1 Skins (UK) 1 Tamora Pierce works 1 Tangled the Series 1 Ted Lasso 1 Teen Titans (Animated Series) 1 Temple of the White Rat series by T. Kingfisher 1 The Ancient Magus Bride 1 The Boys 1 The Daevabad Trilogy 1 The Dark Pictures: House of Ashes 1 The Diviners (Libba Bray) 1 The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison 1 The King: Eternal Monarch 1 The L Word: Generation Q 1 The Legend of Drizzt 1 The Lion Hunters Series - Elizabeth Wein 1 The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015) 1 The Man From UNCLE (TV) 1 The Princess Weiyoung (Jinxiu Weiyang) 1 The Tarot Sequence - K.D. Edwards 1 The Terror (TV 2018) 1 The Vampire Diaries (TV) 1 The Wilds (TV 2020) 1 This Way Up 1 Tortall - Tamora Pierce 1 Tower of God 1 Transformers 1 True Blood (TV) 1 Until We Meet Again 1 UuultraC 1 Valorant 1 Velvet Goldmine (1998) 1 Vikings (TV) 1 Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold 1 Warframe 1 White Collar 1 Whiteley Foster's Mansong 1 Xena: Warrior Princess 1 Yellowjackets (TV) 1 Yu-Gi-Oh!

[navree]

When Rhaena told Jaehaerys that she always thought she was a Visenya and Alysanne was a Rhaenys, what did she meant? That’s an interesting parallel, given that she said it in a bad way (sadly) for herself.

(Beyond my personal view that Visenya was a lesbian and that Rhaena is also a lesbian in canon?)

There's the fact that a lot of Targaryens all throughout history have been trying to recreate the dynamic of the Conquerors and their concept of the dragon having three heads, and that this is a dynamic everyone in the family is hyper aware of and is always looking to repeat to see if they can match that sort of greatness, similar to the way good kings are always compared to Jaehaerys himself. There are also some parallels in the situations, such as birth order, with Rhaena being the eldest sister (and eldest child), Jaehaerys being the middle one and her only little brother following the deaths of Aegon and Viserys, and Alysanne being the youngest and the baby. There's also the fact that Jaehaerys is obviously married to Alysanne and had a productive and mostly happy marriage with her, and the generally accepted fact in Westeros that Aegon was only ever in love with Rhaenys and the dynamics of the Conquerors' relationship paralleling Rhaena and Jaehaerys and Alysanne in the vein of "one sister with her two little siblings, and then those youngers as two romantic/sexual partners".

I think it's important to remember the context that these words are said in. It's just after Elissa Farman stole the three dragon eggs (heavily implied to be the three that eventually end up in Dany's possession in the narrative proper) from Dragonstone and absconded to Essos, something that Jaehaerys is very mad about and more importantly, puts some blame on Rhaena for.

“What do you mean to do?” his sister Rhaena asked him. “What I must. What YOU must. Do not think to wash your hands of this, sweet sister. You wanted Dragonstone and I gave it to you, and you brought this woman there. This thief.”

So already, while he's primarily angered at Elissa for actually stealing the eggs, he also puts some of the onus on Rhaena for having put them in the position where this was possible (not entirely unwarranted tbf), and he's willing to take her to task over it even while discussing the primary goal of trying to get the eggs back. And it's when they're discussing that goal, and how Jaehaerys and Rhaena will fly to Essos to reclaim the eggs themselves if they have to, even if by force, that Rhaena says that line.

“No hatchlings can hope to stand against Vermithor and Dreamfyre.” “And Silverwing?” asked Rhaena. “Our sister—” “—had no part in this. I will not put her at risk.” The Queen in the East smiled then. “She is Rhaenys, and I am Visenya. I have never thought otherwise.”

The context here is that Rhaena points out the more logical choice, that they have three grand dragonriders in their family and that Alysanne could very easily participate in taking back any dragon eggs or newly hatched dragons from whatever Essosi noble Elissa sold them to. And before she's even done speaking, Jaehaerys cuts her off and explicitly says that he's not going to risk Alysanne's life for this, and implicitly prioritizing her safety over Rhaena's. Just as Aegon is remembered as having prioritized Rhaenys and his relationship with her over Visenya, to the point where his relationship with Visenya got actively worse when Rhaenys was out of the picture, Rhaena now sees Jaehaerys as prioritizing Alysanne over her, her safety over Rhaena's safety and her ability to live long over Rhaena actively flying into battle to fix a mistake that, while maybe somewhat her fault, is certainly not entirely her fault. And given the commonly accepted history, isn't that very-Aegon like, prioritizing the sister he loves over the sister who is only a sister (ignoring, of course, that both Rhaenys and Visenya flew into battle and fought in the air with their dragons and that Aegon certainly didn't treat Rhaenys as a princess in the tower but an active ruler alongside him and a worthy battle commander in both the Conquest and the First Dornish War before she died)?

And it's also important to note that the past as prologue is a significant factor in this. Out of all of Aenys's still living children, Rhaena's probably the one who has heard Rhaenys talked about the most. She was Aenys's first child and the one who had the most face time with Aegon, and it's explicitly stated in the text that Aegon spent a lot of time with her not just because she was his granddaughter but also because of who she reminded him of.

“It was written that King Aegon himself wept the first time his granddaughter was placed in his arms, and thereafter doted upon the child…mayhaps in some part because she reminded him of his lost queen, Rhaenys, in whose memory she had been named.”

Jaehaerys and Alysanne were both toddlers when Aegon died, but Rhaena was fourteen, and she spent a lot of time with Aegon. It's not impossible to imagine that she heard a lot about her namesake, both out of her own curious questioning and Aegon likely reminiscing. She's the only person living at this time who has likely heard firsthand just how much her grandparents loved each other and how devoted Aegon was to his younger sister, how much he missed her after she was dead. So looking at Jaehaerys's immediate dismissal of putting Alysanne in any danger, even if it put his other sister in more danger, out of his love and care for his wife, might have reminded Rhaena specifically of Aegon and how he'd talked about Rhaenys to Rhaena herself.

Rhaena's also got a lot of bias in the situation. She's just been, in her view, very cruelly betrayed by a woman she loves, after already having had to deal with a fair amount of tragedies in her life and is rapidly losing a lot of personal connections (again, Elissa betrayed her, she was never close with Androw and that's only gotten worse, Rhaella is a septa and therefore not close to her and certainly not living with her, Aerea practically straight up hates her at this point, Jaehaerys is putting blame on her for the entire dragon egg situation and thus pulling away as well). It's not unreasonable to assume that Rhaena felt unloved, as unloved as people hypothesize Visenya was, given how people assume that neither of her siblings ever felt any affection for her and also her son was kind of a monstrous psychopath. Rhaena comparing herself to Visenya isn't just her viewing the situation through a historical lens and going "ooh parallels", but also just her feeling alone and isolated in a dynamic with her siblings and comparing it to the one other dynamic that she could, casting herself in the negative role due to her own issues and her own burgeoning detachment from people. Alysanne is loved by the commons, loved by Jaehaerys, protected and considered precious and adored by her family, satisfied romantically and sexually and with a family; much like Rhaenys. Rhaena is alone and isolated and the odd one out in her remaining siblings, considered aloof and cold and austere, doesn't have a good relationship with the people and an increasingly negative reputation; much like Visenya. It's Rhaena's issues about herself and her circumstances bubbling up in this moment and being tacked onto an already existing relationship type that she's heard the most about, and is already incredibly famous.

In short, Rhaena isn't just looking at the objective parallels between them, but also adding on her own views, in a situation that was already emotionally fraught for her, and was doing so negatively due to her own problems with herself and the problems others are starting to have with her.

[bohemian-nights]

Why would Nettles love Daemon?

I don’t think it gets stated enough, or at all, why Nettles might love Daemon. I mean most people(myself included) focus on how or why Daemon loves Nettles. This emphasis is for good reason given how you have to practically pull teeth to get people to acknowledge that he even loves her, but Nettles own feelings for him are lost in the shuffle.

I will not sugarcoat things, Daemon is a pretty problematic character who titters on the very edge of being morally gray.

Basically his only redeeming moments in the books are during his marriage with Laena(where he’s behaving normal for once) :

And his time with Nettles at Maidenpool(where he is acting in a completely altruistic fashion, going so far as being willing to give his life so she can escape and live):

Any other time and he’s behaving the way you’d expect someone with the moniker the Rogue Prince to behave. He’s a murderer. He’s committed Kinslaying(several times over). He is a groomer. He’s a rapist(those young maidens he deflowered couldn’t exactly consent).

He’s pretty awful, though entertaining in my humble opinion, and one of my faves, for most of the books. So why would a character like Nettles, who despite everything she has gone through in life is described, from the little that we do get on her character, as being an empathetic person(see her crying over Jace a boy she barely knew as well as the home she lost during the Battle of the Gullet)?

Well, Nettles can see past what is there. What is beyond the surface. She’s more observant than most(She’s had to be living on the street). We see those deduction skills at work when she claims Sheepstealer:

She’s the only one to use Sheepstealer’s love for sheep to successfully tame and claim him where even those with certain Valyrian blood died in the process of trying to claim him. She can see something more. Even where others can’t or rather won’t look.

So with Daemon, who is a hot-tempered man, she as well sees past the bravado. Past the rebellious younger brother of Viserys Targaryen. Sees past the Rogue Prince label. She sees Daemon Targaryen. She can see something more in people. She sees a yearning.

Daemon Targaryen is at the end of the day just a man. He yearns for acceptance. He wants to be recognized. You have to keep in mind that Daemon is a second son. He will never inherit the throne. He will never be king, but he still has will and passion. He wants to make a name for himself. He wants his brother's love. He wants to be recognized.

He wants to be his brother's heir, but he’s never accepted as such by his brother or his brothers court:

As a result of this partial rejection by this man who he loves, he’s always yearning to prove himself. He’s yearning for love, acceptance, and recognition.

Now with Nettles, she’s someone who lives on the very margins of society. She’s a bastard girl born to a whore. She doesn’t know who her father is. She has no place to call home. She grew up on the streets of Driftmark. She’s an unlikely dragonrider.

She’s had to fend for herself because of the circumstances which she was born into. She hardly ever can get a kind word said about her. Compliments are riddled with snide comments, and yet oddly enough, Nettles sees a kindred spirit in Daemon Targaryen.

Yes, he’s a Targaryen prince and she’s a lowborn bastard girl, but they have a commonality at their cores. They are both outsiders in a way.

They’ve both never had someone accept them for what they are. Loving and truly caring for them. They’ve had anyone see the actual person within. Past the title of being the Rogue Prince. Past the “stench” of being a brown-skinned bastard girl. They’ve never had that except with each other. Out of everyone they see each other.

Nettles isn’t this dirty unworthy lowborn girl who used her wiles or a spell to claim something she shouldn’t have been able to. She’s not a whore or a common thief. She’s just Netty to Daemon.

She’s an incredibly brilliant and courageous young woman. She’s ingenious. She’s someone who despite it all manages to show compassion to others. She hasn’t let the world break her. She’s learned how to live without love, but she's a still a girl. She’s a girl who is young with so much life in her. Who is deserving of love and affection just as much as any other

Nettles loves Daemon for Daemon. Not because he is a Targaryen, a charming prince, or the Royal consort of a queen. He’s not just a murderer or a rapist who only takes pleasure in chaos. He is Daemon Targaryen and he is just a man.

A man who is capable of great cruelty, but also acts of great kindness. He can be patient and benevolent. He can be loving, generous, and he can be gentle:

He also a man of rage. Of great intensity and passion. Of fire and blood. He would kill for those he loves:

Daemon Targaryen is a man of duality and Nettles sees the good and the bad. She sees the impatient man. The rogue. The man who wants to be loved. To love in return. She recognizes that longing because she longs to.

She longs for something more and she finds that in Daemon. Their souls find a place with each other despite their stations. They see past the surface because that is what love is.

[thief-throwdown]

Ok, that was the last ask. Now, I just have to do two more things.

First of all, I told you at the start of this tournament that one Character has been sent in by me personally. That Character was…

The Thief Lord!

And oh boy, you bet I’m gonna talk about this dude for the rest of this post.

First of all, as you could probably guess, the Thief Lord, real name Piscio, is from a book written by the famous German Children and YA writer Cornelia Funke, who quite possibly had the biggest effect on my childhood with her Books. I basically read almost everything she wrote, from the Inkheart Trilogy to the dragonrider series. Her books are what really got me into reading!

But one book from her always stood out to me in particular. The Thief Lord, or as I know it, Der Herr der Diebe.

It was one of my favorite books as a child. The aesthetic, the characters, the story just everything about it spoke to me and fundamentally changed me as a person. It deals with the topic of growing up, but in such an interesting and unique way. If you have the time to spare please give it a read.

The Story revolves around two children who recently lost their parents. Prosper, a 12 year old boy, and Bo, his little 8 year old Brother. They fled to Venice to escape the clutches of their new legal guardians. Here they come across a group of Orphans like them and their leader, the 15 year old boy Piscio who calls himself the Thief Lord. He breaks in the richest houses of Venice to steal their most valuable possessions, just to give them away to the group of orphans. Prosper and Bo are welcomed with open arms and become new members. Soon after, our thief Lord gets his first mission, which is to steal a part of a magical artifact which apparently has the power to spin through time itself…

And that’s all you’re gonna get from me. But if think you might like it, then I can’t recommend this Book enough.

But yeah, I think you see where my love for thief Characters comes from now. Tbh, I didn’t even expect him to make it past round 1 after all no one submitted him and how many people even know that guy? But then there were the first tags with people saying „IS THAT THE THIEF LORD“ and getting really excited. The fact that Piscio made it past Round 1 is a miracle for me, and even though he stood no chance against Carmen it was still nice to see him getting a few more votes.

So anyways, that was it from my character. Now there’s just one more thing.

[pen-of-roses]

My name is Rowyn, and I was a knight of the Veyrit Order of Evashen...

I am Leyna VII, the last Prophet of a long fallen kingdom...

It's Damen Rinbeyn, the best dragonrider this side of Wyvwelen...

Oliver Rook at your service, explorer, thief, guide, whatever suits your fancy...

Just Serah works, Reide if you must know, and I'm a healer from the Coven...

I guess you can call me Silver, and....I have no idea who I am.

[murdock-and-the-sea]

Giselle, Eilonvy, Snow white❄

Thank you for the ask~ 💕

giselle: what fictional world would you love to live in?

Dragonriders: Chronicles of Pern. I want to have my own telepathic dragon >:I

eilonwy: name an underappreciated film you love.

It might just be my perception but I think Monday (2020) with Sebastian Stan and Denise Gough could have gotten more love and I feel like many people hated it simply because they couldn't recognize a good slice-of-life-type media if it spat them in the face. The directing was amazing and the cast was really good

snow white: name the oldest film or book you like.

Movie: The Thief of Bagdad (1941)

Book: Ursula K. Le Guin - A Wizard of Earthsea (1968)

| Ask Game |

[ride-thedragon]

You know, I'm glad they did not give Nettles' story to Rhaena.

Truth is, even if Show! Velaryons are black and therefore Laena's daughters are black, they still take part in an elitist society and part of a race considered the most beautiful and most powerful of the world that used to have an empire that took part in the Conquest of Westeros; and the Velaryons are also considered to have magical Valyrian blood like the Targaryens.

And even if Rhaena is not a princess because her relation to King Jaehaerys is that of a great-granddaughter/great-great-granddaughter through her father and mother; Rhaena is still a lady of House Targaryen, the most powerful family in the world.

Rhaena has lived with her stepmother, stepbrothers and half-brothers for so long she knows a lot about dragons and because of that she would never have to retort to herself slitting the throat of a sheep and would never get to sleep in dirty alleys and have so many scars from encounters with merchants.

Not even Baela, who is a tomboy, has the narrative of sleeping near commoners nor having a thief scar on her nose.

Rhaena has the privilege of the highborns and most specifically the privilege of being a Targaryen; whereas Nettles is a commoner girl who has had to adapt to live as a thief to survive and whose only proof she's a dragonseed is that she claimed Sheepstealer, and even then, her method is not exactly common among the current dragonriders even if the original ones did it that way.

Personally I dislike the theory of Nettles being Daemon's daughter, Daemon is explicitly described as fond and preferring of Valyrian maidens, and given Nettles' looks it's obvious her mother was not Valyrian; and if Nettles was his daughter we have to remember that's the only form of incest the Targaryens never ever had.

In my own headcanons, Nettles has more possibilities of being a descendant of Aegon the Uncrowned who was known for entertaining many maidens, or Maegor Targaryen, and she could even be a descendant of Daemon Velaryon the brother of Queen Alyssa Velaryon as they themselves had Targaryen blood.

I agree mostly. It's not a narrative that makes sense for Rhaena. No matter how they try to position her. Even if we look at her show characterization thus far, it would be unfortunate to give her another plot. I see a lot of people saying they're glad rhaena has something to do, but it's a disservice to her character. As though the show couldn't think of a role where she isn't head first in war even though she's such an important character towards the end of the dance. They just have to get a Vale plot, which could simply be her teaching the boys as best as she can and looking over dragon eggs. But they didn't give her morning.

I have no idea what their plan is. What I do know is that if it happens, it doesn't make sense. Nettles' story is important, and seeing as the fans have found a way to push her specific arcs unto every character that breathes when Nettles isn't on screen, it's more difficult to replace her in the story. It's a disservice to them both.

Nettles isn't Daemon's daughter 100%. He's a weirdo, but he isn't insane. He'd groom 100 teens, but he wouldn't sleep with his daughter. We know that because he largely ignores them in the show.

Lastly, I do see the Nettles is a bastard of theories as a waste of time. They don't make sense why George would go through all the trouble of her appearance and story just to be like she she great grand child of Aenys through a bastard that ended up on Driftmark. It's odd. But if I had to guess, I could see Aegon the auncrowned potentially, maybe even Jaehaerys or one of his sons. Perhaps a Baratheon. Who knows.

Overall, now we just wait and see. I, for one, won't be tuning in as much if she isn't included. (Rhaena and Baela scenepack folks, you'll have my subscription). They seem to have forgotten Alysanne and Sabitha as well. I do think if she is included, her arc will be different, but that's another thing I just will hold off on until she's announced. And if she isn't, it's been fun. As for Nettles' theories, my personal HC is that if she is a bastard, it's from Jaehaerys onward, and if she is, I hope it's from her mother's side.

[the-honey-dukes]

i like your new pfp!

what are books in it?

Thanks! They are mostly german children's book classics. Except for Harry Potter. ^_^

"Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone" by J.K. Rowling

"Inkheart" by Cornelia Funke

"Dragonrider" by Cornelia Funke"

"The Little Witch" by Ottfried Preußler

"The Thief Lord" by Cornelia Funke

[ezra-squall]

YALL PLS I JUST HAD THIS IDEA

(i am now fully aware that jessica townsend has said this is canon but this post was made before i knew so pls excuse my dumbness)

So we all ship Mordence, right?

I've been rereading the series AND I CAN'T BELIEVE I DIDN'T NOTICE ARCH AND HAWTHORNE BEFORE. LIKE THE WILD IMPOLITE IDIOT AND THE COOL, SMART COLLECTED ONE IT'LL BE LIKE OUR FANDOM'S VERSION OF WOLFSTAR. I HAVE PROOF THEY HAVE CHEMISTRY. it might not be SOLID proof but I AM CONVINCED arch has feelings for hawthorne and can't admit it FUCKING FIGHT ME

PROOF OF ARCHTHORNE SCENE ONE

context: they are all on the steps of proudfoot house after inaugration waiting for their patrons to find out about mog being a wundersmith. from Wundersmith: The Trials Of Morrigan Crow, page 32

Hawthorne was predictably the first to speak up. 'You know that thing you did at the Show Trial,' he began, giving Archan Tate a quizzical look, 'that thing where you went around the audience and pickpocketed everyone's stuff while we all thought you were just playing the violin?' 'Um, yes?' Archan was a sweet faced, almost angelic looking boy who seemed entirely too innocent to be such a talented thief. He looked uncertainly at Hawthorne. 'Sorry about that. Did I steal something of yours? Did you get it back after? I tried to make sure I gave everything back to the right people. It's just, my patron thought it would be-'

'Absolutely brilliant,' Hawthorne interrupted, eyes wide with awe. 'It was absolutely brilliant. We were blown away, hey, Morrigan?' Morrigan grinned, remembering Hawthorne's sheer delight at the Show Trial when he'd realised Archan had pilfered his own dragonriding gloves right out of his pocket, without him noticing a thing. She'd been impressed, but Hawthorne had been positively thrilled by Archan's knack. ... 'Brilliant,' said Hawthorne again. 'Maybe you can teach me a bit. Archan, isn't it?'

'Just Arch.' He shook Hawthorne's offered hand.'

scene two proof of archthorne context: they are all at station 919 at the beginning of Hollowpox, getting ready for the train. (idk the page but i memorised this im too invested in archthorne now)

Hawthorne Swift, Morrigan’s best friend, arrived in his typical morning state – unbalanced by armfuls of dragonriding gear, grey shirt not quite properly buttoned, unbrushed brown curls sticking out at wild angles, blue eyes sparkling with some mischief he’d either just dreamed up or just committed (Morrigan didn’t want to know which). Archan Tate – who was always impeccably mannered and dressed – took half of Hawthorne’s teetering pile of kit for him without a word and gave the badly buttoned shirt a discreet nod.

PLEASE IK THIS POST IS WAY TOO LONG BUT I NEED YALL TO SEE MY POV THAT ARCHTHORNE IS AMAZING AND CAN BLOSSOM INTO THE CUTEST THING ASDFHLAFGKDAFD

[fandomtrumpshate]

Unlisted Fandom Challenge - update

We now have 151 write-in fandoms. Egads.

At the front of the pack it's still Young Royals leading Malevolent and The Queen's Thief, with 911: Lone Star now in a 3-way tie for 4th place with Overwatch and The Owl House. Fifth place is an eleven-way tie -

3 Alex Rider 3 Chainsaw Man 3 Disney's Descendants 3 Erha He Ta De Bai Mao Shizun (The Husky & His White Cat Shizun) 3 Homestuck 3 Justified 3 Lout of the Count's Family / Trash of the Count's Family 3 Miraculous Ladybug 3 Red White & Royal Blue 3 The Legend of Zelda 3 Top Gun Movies

Under the cut is the full list of all write-in fandoms with one or two signups … so far. Write in your own fandom, or sign up for one of these to bump it up the list.

Signups are open through Feb 19!

2 Professional Wrestling 2 Aphmau MyStreet 2 Attack on Titan 2 Between Us 2 Bungou Stray Dogs 2 Carmen Sandiego 2 Destiny 2 2 Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency 2 Escaflowne 2 Gravity Falls 2 Hollow Knight 2 Love in the Air (Thai BL) 2 Not Me 2 NU: Carnival 2 Pokemon 2 Scholomance 2 Stargate: Atlantis 2 Supergirl 2 The Song of Achilles 2 Video Blogging RPF 2 X-men 2 YuYu Hakusho 1 A Series of Unfortunate Events 1 A Voice from Darkness (Podcast) 1 Ace Attorney 1 All The Wrong Questions 1 Animorphs 1 Be Kind My Neighbor 1 Bioshock 1&2 (only) 1 Blood of Youth 1 Blue Exorcist 1 Blue Lock 1 Bug Fables 1 Cabin Pressure 1 Call the Midwife 1 Cats the Musical 1 Citizen Sleeper 1 Cobra Kai 1 Coco Pixar 1 Cosmere (Brandon Sanderson) 1 Crossover Chaos AU (multifandom crossover AU) 1 Cyberpunk: Edgerunners 1 Danganronpa 1 Dead Poets Society 1 Dice Punks (podcast) 1 Digimon 1 Divergent (Movies) 1 Downton Abbey 1 Dragon Ball Z 1 Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey 1 Dungeons and Daddies 1 Eerie Indiana 1 Elder Scrolls 1 Emma - Jane Austen 1 Fire Country 1 Firefly 1 For All Mankind 1 Glee 1 Grace and Frankie 1 Greys Anatomy 1 Grimm 1 Guardian/Zhen Hun 1 Gundam 1 Half-Life 1 Hit the floor 1 Howl's Moving Castle 1 Hudson & Rex 1 IDOLiSH7 1 Imperial Radch Series - Ann Leckie 1 Infinity Train 1 Jane Austen (any novel any pairing) 1 Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse 1 Jojo's Bizarre Adventure 1 Jurassic Park 1 King of Scars Duology 1 Kingsman 1 Les Misérables 1 Los Simuladores 1 Love Between Fairy and Devil 1 Madre Solo Hay Dos 1 Miss Scarlet and The Duke 1 Mob Psycho 100 1 Monochrome Factor 1 Outlast 1 Parasol Protectorate 1 Peacemaker 1 Persuasion - Jane Austen 1 Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen 1 Psych 1 Qi Ye 1 Ranger's Apprentice 1 Ranma 1/2 1 RPF 1 Sable 1 Sanders Sides 1 Scooby Doo 1 Shadow and Bone 1 Shameless (US) 1 Sidemen 1 Suits 1 Stephen King's IT 1 Tamora Pierce works 1 Tangled the Series 1 Ted Lasso 1 Teen Titans (Animated Series) 1 Temple of the White Rat series by T. Kingfisher 1 The Ancient Magus Bride 1 The Boys 1 The Daevabad Trilogy 1 The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison 1 The King: Eternal Monarch 1 The Legend of Drizzt 1 The Lion Hunters Series - Elizabeth Wein 1 The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015) 1 The Man From UNCLE (TV) 1 The Tarot Sequence - K.D. Edwards 1 The Terror (TV 2018) 1 The Vampire Diaries (TV) 1 This Way Up 1 Tortall - Tamora Pierce 1 Tower of God 1 Transformers 1 True Blood (TV) 1 Twilight 1 Until We Meet Again 1 UuultraC 1 Valorant 1 Vikings (TV) 1 Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold 1 Warframe 1 Warrior Nun (TV Show) 1 What We Do in the Shadows 1 White Collar 1 Whiteley Foster's Mansong

[k-she-rambles]

Hmmm.

What about a Queen's Thief/Dragonriders of Pern AU?

(Premise of Pern: a long time ago, human colonists settled a back end of nowhere alien planet, without asking all of the "why is there no sentient life already?" questions they might have asked. Turns out a neighboring dwarf planet's erratic orbit brings with it deadly meteor showers, if meteor showers are Viruses that Eat carbon based life. Humans Make It Work, though, because humans are Space Orcs and because when faced with impossible odds they build giant robots invent telepathic dragons to protect them. Cue Adventures.)

(Premise of Queen's Thief: the continuing adventures of a smarmy kid named Eugenides. Except that's not it at all, because it's also a story about family, and love, and choosing to believe you can be loved even after you've done unlovable things. It's a story of heists and long cons, and global politics (and interpersonal politics) It's a story about choosing to trust and choosing to be kind. It's a story of learning humility and learning pride and taking responsibility, told not just through the eyes of Eugenides; Thief of Eddis, but a prince, a queen, a 'good enough' heir; a soldier, a king, and a disabled young nobleman. This series is so good.)

-> It's a long interval, an age where the red star has not come close enough to bring Thread for so long that it's beginning to sound mythical. But Eddis has had visions of the long interval ending.

-> Eddis has the only active Weyr on the Little Peninsula. They've been the only country to fully maintain the Holder-Crafthall-Weyr system. But it's only one Dragon-Weyr, and they have no Queen dragon. Eddis needs dragons, and riders. It needs the diversity of the lowland countries to build up enough strength to have a chance at saving one country, let alone all three. If that means Eddis has to rebuff Sounis (the country and the king) and possibly invade Attolia, so be it...

-> Sounis (the man) thinks Thread is a myth, but wants dragons as war beasts

• Attolia (the woman) hates dragons. (Bit odd, though, since that bit of wasteland in Attolia is so obviously Thread-scoured...)

• There are no Impressed firelizards or "dragonettes" in the Attolian court. Or at least, they keep a low profile. Relius has a brown who is extremely spoiled and Always Watching

• the Queen Thief, Gen's mother, was so called because she Impressed a Queen dragon. It prevented her from being the next Thief of Eddis. When she fell from the roof, her dragon went between.

• Gen always wanted a firelizard, but he can't. It would be a personal identifier, not good for the Thief of Eddis. Gen's father was pushing Gen to become a dragonrider like his mother if he wouldn't be a soldier (even better! Riders can't be landholders! How much does he have to do to make people stop spreading that rumor that Gen has an equal claim with Helen to be Lord Holder of Eddis?)

• (Joke's on the Minister of War. Eddisians never let anything go.)

• Helen has a lovely bronze firelizard that catches squirrels and gossiping courtiers. People will do anything for a smile from Helen Eddis. They'll also do anything to avoid being bitten by Festa.

• Sounis (the man) does not think very highly of firelizard-owners, because he is notoriously unsuccessful at keeping his own. He doesn't pay them enough attention, and cages do not work on a creature that can go between.

• Sophos' Queen firelizard is a darling. Ambiades is so jealous. He has her with him while he's in hiding in Conspiracy, and it's yet another clue he does not belong there. There's...an attempt to use firelizards to pass telepathic messages during Sophos' imprisonment leading up to the vote at Elisa. But getting straight answers out of a nonhuman creature is difficult, even if you have the aptitude for speaking to dragons. Commanding a firelizard is difficult, too. Easier to give a firelizard a message tube and tell it to find the recipient like a game.

• Hamiathes' Gift is the location of a Queen egg possibly?

• Gen accidentally Impresses a firelizard during his recovery in qoa and it's a great leap forward. He's a clever little Attolian blue. And since everyone knows Gen doesn't have firelizards, he can pass messages around the court.

• Attolia dislikes dragonkind partially because she's jealous. She was actually Searched as a young girl while on a state visit to Eddis. But even the unnecessary (at the time) daughter of a Lord Holder can't be a dragonrider.

-> Part of the resolution of QoA is Eugenides' firelizard letting Attolia care for him while Gen is recovering from his encounter with the gods. Imagine that last scene but with a firelizard trying to get under Attolia's folded hands for scritches. Or protesting why she's stopped feeding them from the little bowl of meat scraps.

• Attolia does get a firelizard of her own. A LOUD green that no one believes is hers..

[agentrouka-blog]

I find it hard to believe Viserion and Rhaegal would just be cool with dany after she locked them up. They’re feral beasts at the point in time where the books end and I dont think the show included that scene of them nearly attacking her when she went to visit them randomly.

Dany does note that her children grow wilder, and she even has a hard time controlling Drogon until their bond really kicks in at the end of her stay in the grasslands.

Resentment on part of the dragons would certainly set up both the possibility and perhaps even Dany's increased personal desire for another dragonrider. Feral and disobedient "children" are, after all, no use to her.

It also provides room for a dragon thief. Someone who has the opportunity to form a separate bond with one of the dragons that alienates it from Dany.