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houseofhyde · 2 years

Text

dressed in white (putting off crying).

pairing. daemon targaryen x fem!reader

synopsis. he knows of those who whisper that seeing the bride in her dress before the couple stands beneath the eyes of the seven births nothing but bad luck for a marriage, but daemon targaryen cares little for superstitions.

warnings. canon appropriate sexism/misogyny, implied valyrian!reader, implied incest (if you interpret this as the reader being targaryen), daemon is a simp for his lover!, likely ooc!daemon (i'm new to writing for him, i’ll get better, i'm sorry), poorly translated high valyrian, angst, fluff, descriptions of sex.

word count. 5.6k

hyde's input. lmao the title is based off a lyric from the (superior) the 1975 song meanswear. this whole scenario has been playing on my brain since i first watched hotd and i need to get it out before it drives me crazy by living in my tiny pea-brain for too long. i literally only made this blog to post this (since it wouldn't suit the writings on my main blog), so idk if i'll actually post anything else on here but feedback would be appreciated! anyway, daemon is a menace to society, i love him. sidenote,, i've always been terrified to post any fics in the got/hotd fandoms because istg every writer in this fandom has a god-like level of prose and it intimidates me, so please be nice if you think this sucks :) i’ve only read through this once, there may be spelling errors but it’s late and i just want to post this already!!!

tight braids rip hair from skull, gold incased jewels trap a delicate neck in a chokehold, stiff fabrics snuff out any heat of the westerosi sun from gracing dampened skin.

you aim to breathe in an air of relief for your aching lungs, yet the maiden behind you denies you of such a virtue as she pulls tighter on the set of strings holding up your bodice. you grow more lightheaded, oxygen starved body swaying momentarily, as a few more of your ladies in waiting assist with dressing you in the white coffin, lace cuffing your wrists like shackles and the weight of the gown feeling akin to that of a great beast, be it the weight of a stag, or a lion, or a wolf.

or a dragon.

“please,” hardly recognising your own voice, you flinch at the broken rasp that makes its way past your lips. your throat burns, your stomach churns, your eyes carry bags beneath them. far from a blushing bride, you are. the days of celebration leading up to the ceremony have taken an effect on both your mind and body, restless nights leading to uneaten feasts and unquenched thirsts. alas, you push such thoughts to that corner in your mind you reserve for nothing but tales of docile dragons and knights in dirtied armor as you straighten your stand, shoulders rising and head holding itself high. “may i have a moment of solitude within my chambers?”

your ladies shoot their attention over to the eldest among them, a septa who's hair has grown a deeper shade of grey with the passing of time and face has grown wrinkled by a history of smiles and laughter, and who bares the name of dorothea.

“of course, lady y/n. every woman must steal her last moment of solitude before she marries herself off to her lord husband. solitude will be sparse once you are wed.”

like an army of men, though far more graceful and colourful, the ladies make way towards the entrance of your chambers, spilling out in a single file line and shutting the door behind them.

and finally you breathe.

once, twice, thrice, and then you are a mess of desperate gasps and trembling limbs. you make your way over to the mirror which centres the room, steps more of an uncoordinated tumble than a graceful walk of a future lady of court.

met with your own reflection, something feels off. like a lack of connection, your astute mind can not fathom how this frail, tired, solemn looking girl bares any resemblance to the confident, bright eyed and quick witted woman you'd grown to be.

you trace your hands over the flaring of the dress' skirt, as if working out the creases in the fabric will loosen the ones that line your forehead. so caught up in your own unfitting image, you barely register the reopening of your chambers door.

“please, dorothea,” you sigh the woman's name out like she's bound to you by something more motherly than mere duty, the years spent in her company making for far better memories than the fleeting time you've passed with your true mother. “just a few more minutes. i'm... not ready. not yet.”

“i should hope not, you've yet to finish fastening the buttons on that ridiculous gown they've forced you into.”

the first thing you notice as your eyes meet the mirror once more is that your frown has deepened.

“you can't-” the second thing is him, dressed in the onyx and blood colours of his house, his newly shortened hair styled in a way that gives him a near boyish charm. the only visible slither of dark sister- nothing but a handle pressing into his left side- reminds you this is no boy, but a man, brutal and abrasive and protective, fresh from a victorious battle in which he walked away with a crown and the offering of another sword for his brother's throne. you're quick to correct your choice of words. “you shouldn't be here, prince daemon.”

if you were anyone else, you'd think the prince cares little- if anything- for the words you cast his way, arms clasped behind his back as he strides across the room with an air of arrogance, confidence, the stature of a man who not only belonged within your chambers but within your heart.

but, alas, you are you, and that means a great deal when it comes to the study of one targaryen prince. only you would notice the twitch in his brow, the snarl across his lips that is quickly denied in exchange for a smirk, the slight shrink of his shoulders as the weight of the truth sets itself upon them.

he's displeased.

whether the reason be your unusual use of his title- an act he knows you've committed with the foolish hope of putting distance between you both, if not physically then at least in power- or your attempt to banish him from your quarters evades you, but it matters little, really, for daemon is still approaching you.

he's upon you quicker than you expected, quicker than you wanted.

“let me.” two words, simple and used from the most common of folk to the most regal of lords, uttered in an infinite number of scenarios. yet, they may be your undoing as the silver haired man welcomes himself to the feel of your skin, a single finger trailing it's way down what remains exposed of your back. the touch mimics a shiver, something that tickles down your spine in a disturbingly enjoyable manner.

you nod your approval, too afraid to open your mouth and see what sounds he elicits from you, your heart too long starved of affection and his gentle caress the first it's tasted in years.

the fear of speaking carries on even as he departs from your skin, both hands joining in finishing the task of clasping your dress together. maybe this is worse, you think, having his knuckles bump against you every so often as he fiddles with the pearly white buttons, teasing you with what could be, what could've been.

“i never imagined us marrying under the seven.” part of you believes he's mocking you, torturing you with words he knows will wrap around your heart like vines and pierce the delicate organ with its thorns. you wonder if this is the targaryen prince known for his callous words and disregard for the sentiment of another come out to show you his true colours once and for all, gone now the days where he'd shower you in expensive metals and feed you the sweetest of treats.

he catches your line of sight in the reflective glass and his smile widens, pulling his lips with a heavy sense of dishonesty that makes your insides twist. never did you think there'd come a day where daemon targaryen would fake a smile towards you.

“īlva qilōni carry se ānogar hen uēpa valyria should dīnagon isse se ways hen uēpa valyria.” us who carry the blood of old valyria should marry in the ways of old valyria. there was a moment in time- back when the sight of a man was enough to make you blush- that you believed there was nothing, and no one, that compared to the beauty of hearing daemon speak his ancestral language, the old flame of valyria setting his soul ablaze. as you stand now, eyes stuck on watching how he's focused on one particularly stiff button, you find only heartache in hearing him speak high valyrian. not even the way he breaks his composed facade- though only for a mere handfull of seconds- to frown and scowl down at the stubborn button is enough to ease the tension in your chest. “ondos bound ondoso ānogar, daor dovodedha cloth.” hands bound by blood, not silly cloth.

by the time he finishes off fastening your gown, bile burns the back of your throat as his hands smooth down your back, painfully slow in their travels, giving you enough time to think of how this isn't how things were meant to be.

daemon was supposed to be the one eagerly tearing off your dress, not trapping you in its suffocating confines.

you decide to play into his fantasy, to let not only him but also yourself indulge in the sweet naïveté of wishful thinking.

“skoros ābrar gōntan ao imagine syt īlva?” what life did you imagine for us?

he takes a breath, pausing the conversation and inhaling as if to stable his wavering heart, focus his mind on choosing his next words wisely or run the risk of you shoving him away completely.

when he at last answers, you wish you'd never asked.

“i saw us trading life in the keep for dragonstone, making a home for ourselves where the targaryen history runs deepest. it's where we'd wed, where i'd get to listen to you swear vows to me that carry true meaning, unlike the shit i’ll have to endure hearing you spew later in the sept.” relief floods over you like a great storm as he switches back to the common tongue, a downpour which serves to dampen the fiery passion in his voice. his hands have found rest upon your mid-riff, large and warm and protective in the way they pull you back against his muscular chest. “we'd host feasts for whenever my brother insists on visiting us to keep up appearances of a false bond between his new family and his old one. you'd teach me about other languages, so i could express my adoration for you in every tongue known to man, and i'd show you what it is to never want for anything, make sure you own every possession you desire and feel every emotion you require.

“when we're not busy playing politics, in the moments you're not teaching our sons how to thread needles and to be good husbands, while i encourage our daughters to wield swords and to be strong, we'd spend that time in the throes of pleasure." the blunt ends of his nails dig deep into the layers of fabric, as if he's trying to tear the dress off to reveal the real you beneath, the you he's become all too enthralled by. the you that's bare, and pliant, and begging for his touch in a way that is not only sexual but primal, as though you'd perish if not for the brush of his lips against yours and warmth of his body casting over you like a shadow meant to seal you away from the harsh world. "fuck a marital bed, we'd make it into a marital home, a marital garden, a marital beach. i'd take you anywhere, work my fingers into you till they are broken, bruise my knees just to drink your sweet nectar, fuck you so full of my seed till it has nowhere else to go and no choice but to drip out of you, covering us in our brutal lovemaking.”

“daemon-”

“they'll tire of us, eventually, all our poor maids and guards. tire of catching me with you bent over any surface, tire of hearing you chant my name like i'm your only god. they'll be running back to kingslanding with their tails tucked between their legs, ready to spread the gossip of just how insatiable the rogue prince and his ravishing wife really are.”

“daemon, you really-”

“we can still have that life, my love.” he sounds so hopeful, glances upon you so eagerly in the reflective glass that you near crumble to the ground if not for the support of his arms around you. “hmm, wouldn't you prefer we do that, instead of this over the top ceremony that'll leave you with nothing but a headache and sore feet?”

the heartache behind his intentions sedates the anger that quells within your chest, way past the layers of bodice. it is not born from nowhere, this anger. not a fiery pit lit from an explosive catastrophe but, rather, a sole flame that has simmered and festered and burned for a near three years, mothered by solitude and fathered by abandonment.

“no, we can't.” intending to put your foot down, reign in control over yourself, hands reaching to tear his tiresome hold off of you, you're bereft to find yourself sighing a breath that leaves clear the exhaustion you've been harbouring- far beyond just physical, deep in the trenches of neglected emotions- , body melting into a puddle at his feet upon watching the familiar sight of your embracing limbs in the reflection. bitterness bites the back of your throat in this repeat of familiar history: you, daemon and bodies touching away from prying eyes and gossiping courtiers. “my father... he'd have your head, daemon. after everything he has done to secure this union happened... after all the rumours... it wouldn't be fair to him.”

daemon hums out an acknowledgement and you nearly convince yourself he's in agreement, that he understands the repercussions that would entail if you gave in to his game of make-believe; that he knows these pretty words that once were a gift for a younger version of yourself to hear, all tied up in a bow made of his velvet kisses upon your silk skin, have become a punishment meant to torment a child who'd dared to play with a toy that was never hers to touch in the first place.

all hope of redemption is lost with the tightening of his hold.

muscles flex beneath the red of his sleeves, an unspoken promise of the strength he harbours, the brute force he’d be more than willing to use should someone aim to take you from his hold. what follows is a resounding silence, where you’re too shaken to speak and his head rests it’s weight on your shoulder, the near-white crown of his head staring back at you in the mirror as it blends with the white of your gown. he burrows his face into the spot where your neck meets your shoulders, hiding whatever broken, troubled, pathetic- his own word for sad- expression paints his features.

“i thought you would wait for me.”

and just like that, the illusion is shattered, an accusatory tone to his voice which leaves behind nothing of the false sense of bliss or the hopeful future but jagged shards scattered along the ground, threatening to split your skin and make you bleed should you dare to clean it up.

“how could i, prince daemon?” the anger works its way through the cracks in your broken heart, taking up the space you’d once reserved for tears and forgiveness. “you left. no words, no warning, no goodbye. my loyalty is with my father and my house, and therefore marrying to secure a fruitful alliance for said house comes above all, even petty little princes.”

“i was banished! by my own brother! by your own-” he halts the words before he can speak them. though the dragon in him is awakening- the slightest of conflict rousing the ugly defensive side of him-, he stubbornly holds his position, eyes squeezing shut a little tighter to fight out the light of reality he’s trying to evade. “and now here i return to find the one person i came back for could not wait a measly three years for me!”

“if you think i’ve waited only three years for you, you’re an even greater fool than otto hightower.”

the prince tenses, the mention of his sworn nemesis (a feat which had earned him plenty a mockery on your end, forever bereft at the fact a supposed grown man could live with a near-playground level of hatred for another) causing the fire within him to grow more violent. he unwinds himself from the hold he’s got on you, arms dropping to his side and face rising from it’s hiding spot within your skin. in the mirror, he looms over you, staring down at you like he’s the red wyrm and you are but a helpless doe moments away from having your flesh burnt by his fire.

“forgive me, lady y/n,” the hairs on the back of your neck stand to attention as darkness overcomes his voice, matching the expression on his face. “i wasn’t aware of how deep your loyalty ran for you to whore yourself out so easily for some lord’s name and gold.”

with the twist of an ankle, you come face to face with the dragon prince, chest heaving with each laboured breath which fails to calm your nerves and nose blowing out what you imagine to be the steam of your fiery anger. you stagger back, he leans forward. hands land on your elbows and steady you, draw you nearer till the mounds of your breasts brush against his cloth-covered chest.

daemon is stunned to silence, a rare feat, as he gazes down at you and sees not the woman who’s wrapped up in white lace but the girl who’d been covered in tears and carried fear in her eyes as she took in the sight of the man she’d crashed into- quite literally, as he’d enjoyed reminding you whenever you had gotten a little too generous with the wine and led yourself down the path of unadulterated reminiscing in his chambers- in the halls of the keep. he remembers how it felt to truly look upon your face for the first time, to be lulled into a sedated state just by hearing your soft voice stuttering out apologies, to part ways from you with hands still burning from the heat of your flesh, refusing to cool down even as he sat among the small council, too busy clenching his fists and questioning what exactly was so bewitching about the maiden he’d caught in distress.

a sharp sting to his cheek is enough to shatter the memory, bringing him out of the looking glass of the past and into the present where your eyes are filled with more disgust than tears and the burn of your flesh is against his face instead of his hands.

you’d slapped him.

by gods, you’d actually struck him.

if the circumstances called for it, the prince wonders if his cock would be stiffening by now.

“you, of all people, have no right to call me a whore, lord fleabottom.”

“and yet i seem to recall you begging me to call you that during our past encounters.”

you grab at his collar, sharp nails digging into the dark material as if it were his windpipes, crushing them under your brutish strength. tugging him down with what you believe to be force- and what is truly just him giving into your attempt-, the pair of you find yourselves eye to eye, nose to nose, frown to frown.

oh, yes, his cock would certainly be hard, were his heart not so weak.

“you are a despicable excuse of a man.” you mean to spit the words in his face, praying to all the old gods and the new for this feeling to truly be hatred, disgust, disdain. three years have passed and, with it, so has your love, leaving a gapping hole meant only to be filled with hate. were it not for the shaking of your free hand, or the pounding of your heart in your ears, you’d believe your prayers had been answered. alas, the gods are cruel and your words fall only as a whisper on his ears. “i pity the women who have been scorned with loving you.”

“come now, my lady, you were always so against those who pitied themselves.”

“do you hear how pathetic you sound?” taken aback by his rebuttal, your response comes with a moments delay, one you hope he does not notice. the grin he casts down at you proves otherwise, and serves as yet another plank of dry wood tossed on to the blazing embers of your ire. “i am to be married come high noon, and you are already a married man! put aside your wants and realise your duty, perhaps then your king would not see it necessary to rid himself of you.”

“and what a marriage it’ll be, my lady! with your dearest lord cunt lannister parading you around as though you are some prized deer he’s caught for a feast, and you drowning yourself in riches and wines to forget the horrid memory of his red face above yours.” he matches your own grip on him, his far larger and far stronger hand shooting out to take a hold of you by the neck of your dress. he’s a brute, tugging on the expensive cottons like they are no more than the clothes of a common whore. “rumour has it your dear husband-to-be is one of those one-pump-chumps, so at the very least he’ll get it over with quickly, allowing you to roll over and bring yourself some satisfaction as his pathetic seed paints your thighs.”

“at least my marriage will be consummated!” daemon scoffs as quickly as the words have shot out your mouth, no harm coming from them, not with how many nights he’d spent in your sheets claiming he’d sooner fuck his own dragon than touch his so-called bronze bitch. the real kicker, the true spear through his pride, the thing you know only by rumour and not by fact, is what you say next. “meanwhile you’ll continue to chase pleasure in whores who look like me from the back, but just never quite sound, smell, taste, feel the same as i do.”

“keep talking and i’ll take it as an invitation to remind myself of just exactly how you feel.”

“if the recent rumours about you are true, my prince, i doubt you’ll be capable of getting your cock to rise for the occasion.”

silence takes hold of the little space between you. contemplation evident on his face, he straightens back up to his full height, eyes no longer at level with your own as they cast down a look which lacks all the sharp edges from before. no longer are his eyes daggers that threaten to slice through you but, instead, blankets of warmth and safety which ache to wrap around your tired bones and shield you from the cold which accompanies the feeling of solitude.

the hand which once held you by the top of your dress has traveled up the expanse of your neck, fingers soft and lazy in the way they stroke over the skin. before you even process your own actions, the grip you have on his own clothes loosens, till your hand is merely resting against the solid mass of his chest.

for the first time since the rogue prince had returned to the capital, victorious and wearing a crown, you allow yourself to take in the sight of him, wholly and unserved. you admire the shortened length of his hair, noting how it frames his face in a way that fully brings out its sharp edges. you trace over the new lines in his skin, unintentionally reminiscing on words you'd both exchanged between tangled limbs and the moonlight ( “they are a sign that i'm aging, sweetling.” “they are a sign that you've lived.”). you catch sight of mangled skin along his right side, peeking out from beneath his clothing. your heart clenches at the thought of him in pain, and you distract yourself from thinking of what other marks decorate his war-torn body by returning attention to his lilac eyes.

three years have passed since you had last held each other and, against your own wishes, your heart still remembers to beat harder around him.

“he will not love you.” the words are an exhale from him, like he's resigning you to your own fate.

“i do not need love.” the words you speak become the first lie you've ever told him, making even with the way he'd faked his smile earlier.

“then if not love, freedom. that cunt will not give you that." you aim to tear away from his piercing eyes, yet the force of his hand tilting your chin upwards gets in your way. he may have been at war, you think, but he's inflicting a greater torture upon you than any fallen soldier right now, imploring you to look upon his weakened state in a way he's never allowed before. "he will give you gold, and dresses, and dresses made of gold to occupy yourself with, but never freedom.”

“freedom is a fool’s game.”

“gaomā daor ȳdragon hae aōla.” you do not speak like yourself. this time, he does not prevent you from looking back at your own reflection. you wish to whine about how you do not look like yourself either, dressed in such a ridiculously white gown but don't in fear that he'll take it as invitation to slice through it with his dear dark sister. “what happened to the girl who used to make plans to see the world on dragon's back, to taste every wine, to be tied to no land?”

“she died somewhere between the first time you kissed her and six moons into your war for the stepstones.”

like the mirror were something akin to the mystical, future-telling balls you'd heard of in the stories of witches and seers, the memory of your first kiss plays out before you. you remember it all like it was merely yesterday. the way you'd at last bested him after the five moons of midnight training you'd endured. the way he lay frozen on the ground, eyes widened in a mixture of shock, irritation and pride. the way he'd marched over to you and sent thrilling chills of fear down your spine as you worried he aimed to scold you for daring to nick the right side of his cheek with your blade, drawing out blood. the way he'd ripped your weapon from your hand, thrown it off to some unseen part of the dark training grounds and proceeded to attack you. only, where you had expected raised fists and seething words, he gave bruising kisses and sighs of satisfaction, the victory of at last going against everyone else's supposed better judgement and giving into the carnal desires he'd tried to cast aside in favour of protecting your virtue in the eyes of the cunts that sat with himself and your own father at the small council.

and then, you blink and suddenly it is half a decade later and you're standing in those same dark, cold, training grounds, only this time the prince is nowhere in sight and you're hacking at a man made of straw, picturing the king's brother's face with every swing of the blade.

“most nights i barely knew if you were alive, daemon! any news of you was sparse, and never meant to fall upon my ears. were it not for rhaenyra serving as cupbearer for the council, overhearing the gossips that ensued in their meetings, i'd never have found out you'd gone to war in the first place. waiting for you to send a raven, or send at the very least a sign that you ached for me as much as i did you, it broke me. and, as i put the fractured pieces of myself back together, i found i was no longer the wide eyed fool you'd left me. i was no longer going to cry over a man who didn't respect me enough to let me know of his leaving.”

“how could i write you, my lady? was it not you who asked of me that our affairs be kept a private matter? i'd have thought our scandal was lesson enough for you to learn there are rats in every crevice of kingslanding. a single letter from me would have been your undoing.” the anger returns to his voice, though not so all-consuming this time around. behind your own reflection, you see him shifting around, body growing agitated with the need to do something, anything to expel the dark energy coursing through his veins. “we both know i have not once had an issue with making my affections for you known, it is you who was so scared to be branded as my mistress! so do not dare question my respect for you. everything you've wanted, i've given. anything you've asked of me, i've done. and it was still not enough to mark my claim on your heart.”

“why do you still not see my heart is not some land to be won?” if at any moment you pondered the possibility of the maids outside your chambers being aware of the reason behind daemon's current presence, the raising of your voice and the words you spit out at him must be enough to confirm any of their suspicions. you wonder which of them will be the one to spread the word, until it reaches your father's ears or- worse- your betrothed. “nyke daor mirri sombāzmion hen pryjata syt ao naejot hang bona jaes-forsaken bartōro hāre zaldrīzes banner iemnȳ.” i am not some castle of ruins for you to hang that god-forsaken three-headed dragon banner within.

if words were daggers, yours would have pierced through his darkened heart and twisted the blade. for there is nothing more prideful to a targaryen than their own bloodline- and many a nights you'd spent, sat at candlelight with the infamous conquest of aegon targaryen himself depicted to you in a written word, pondering if this grandiose sense of self is what lead to their customs of taking their own kin to wed-, the hot tempered prince being the greatest example of this, rumoured to have once made a eunuch of a man who dared to so little as roll his eyes as a young viserys targaryen passed by him in a brothel.

you feel him more than you see him move behind you, weight shifting from one leg to another and carrying the rustle of metals and leather with it. he's glaring at you through the reflective glass, mouth pressed shut in a straight line and hands clasped behind his back, as if holding them there is some way of holding off whatever thoughts he had of touching you with hands that had brought so many people to their end- his own wife being their latest victim.

several minutes of silence pass by before you realise he's weighing out his options, trying to choose what to say next. the rogue prince, known for his unmatched wit and possessing the ability to argue his way out of acts of war against his very own brother, is lost for words for a second time.

when the words come to him at last, you wish they'd disappear again.

“i am a proud man. i have fought, and lived, and fucked with fire and blood, so this will be the first and only time i will ask this of you.” you watch with baited breath and sweating palms as daemon's figure lowers itself behind you and, with no second thought to be found, you swirl around in your gown just in time to watch his right knee meet the floor, his other one positioned perfectly at a ninety-degree angle and holding his weight as he leans his arm against the muscular thigh. his head is tilted up, desperation dancing gracefully with the heartache in his eyes as his right hand finds comfort in tangling itself with your own, him relishing in your touch and you fighting so hard to forget each and every other time he'd held your hand so gently.

in an imitation of his return to king visery's graces, he's bowing for you as though it will win him back your favour and the warmth of your bed.

“do not make yourself a lannister, do not wed him. lady rhea royce is dead, there is nothing obstructing our path. we can make it to the dragonpit before anyone even notices you're gone, we'll be wed by sundown, i beg of you. kostilus, marizzo hen ñuha prūmia, mazverdagon nyke aōha valzȳrys.” please, owner of my heart, make me your husband.

it is a plea for so much more than your hand.

it is a plea for your life, a plea for your future, a plea for a world where you reside upon dragon's back and he resides anywhere that is by your side.

it is everything you've ever wanted to hear from him, coming into fruition in the worst way imaginable: dressed in a wedding gown meant for another man.

“skoro syt sir? skoro syt līs ao epagon bisa hen issa sir?” why now? why must you ask this of me now? you pull in a breath and push out a sob, eyes welling with unshed tears as you force yourself to rip away from his lilac irises to find safety in staring up at the cold, unfeeling ceiling. “skoro syt daor skori nyke istan nykeēdrosa dāez naejot vestragon kessa?” why not when i was still free to say yes?

before he can fumble out a response, the door to your chambers reopens.

unlike before, it truly is dorothea this time.

“my lady,” she looks past the prince on his knees as though she can not even see him, too committed to her loyalty for you to rub a greater amount of salt in the gaping wound upon your heart which is daemon targaryen. there is no doubt when believing she'd never utter a word of the scene she has walked in on. “we must make haste. the ceremony will commence shortly, and there can be no wedding without a bride.”

the grip on your hand grows tighter, a silent plea from daemon to get you to look at him again, to see him for all that he may be- a man made of untamed disrespect, a tally of war crimes, blood of the so called dragon seed and, above all else, love for you- and take him as your own.

it makes it an even greater battle when you force your aching body to pull away from him, hands patting down the creases in your dress one last time before making your way over to the door.

this time around, it is you who leaves daemon a mess on your chambers' floor, kneeling there till his knees ache and the wedding bells have long ago rang out.

#daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen imagine #daemon targaryen oneshot #daemon targaryen fic #daemon targaryen angst #daemon targaryen fluff #house of the dragon smut #lmao the description of this fic is so misleading.. it's basically click bait i'm so sorry 🥴

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droughtofapathy · 24 days

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The DroughtofApathy Theatre Awards Nominations:

Best Ensemble Stereophonic Jaja's African Hair Braiding Merrily We Roll Along Illinoise

Best New Song "Evanesce," Days of Wine and Roses (Adam Guettel) "Masquerade," Stereophonic (Will Butler) "East of Eden," Stereophonic (Will Butler)

Bad Accent Eddie Redmayne's Muppet Voice Whatever the fuck Jeremy Jordan was doing Colton Ryan's Muppet Voice from last season, I'm still not over it

Diva Performance of the Year Jennifer Simard, Once Upon a One More Time Jessica Lange, Mother Play Emily Skinner, Suffs

Most Incredible Scene Transition The I Need That home cleanup transition Opening up Jaja's African Hair Braiding shop Mary Jane's apartment set lifting up to reveal the hospital set Doubt revolving set Appropriate house falling into shambles with a tree and everything De-renovating the Broadway Theatre after Here Lies Love flopped

Most Beautiful Woman On Stage Bebe Neuwirth, Cabaret Kelli O'Hara, Days of Wine and Roses (bonus points for The Hours) Jessica Lange, Mother Play Anika Noni Rose, Uncle Vanya

Moment So Horrifyingly Bad I Physically Recoiled Eddie Redmayne as the Emcee singing "Tomorrow Belongs to Me" BEFORE the party Everything Gayle Rankin did on that stage "My name is Ponyboy//I'm the youngest of the three," lyric from The Outsiders The Hell's Kitchen book being allowed on Broadway at all

Most Hated Sound Designer Gareth Owen, The Who's Tommy Jon Weston, The Wiz Gareth Owen, Hell's Kitchen (hey, a doubly-bad showing) Brian Ronan, The Great Gatsby, but specifically those gunshots

Floppiest Flop Show How to Dance in Ohio Lempicka Here Lies Love Grey House Once Upon a One More Time

Weirdest Marketing/Publicity/Social/Design Decision How to Dance in Ohio only emphasizing "AUTISM REP" over everything that might have drawn in any kind of crowd at all.

The Lempicka social media team just straight-up lying with their pull-quotes and then doubling down and getting snide.

Broadway producer Greg Nobile's twitter discourse.

The Cabaret social media brand refusing to acknowledge Bebe Neuwirth exists and is the only thing holding that show together.

Who did the Days of Wine and Roses cast album design and like...why?

Can You Spell Miscast? Eddie Redmayne, Cabaret Gayle Rankin, Cabaret Eden Espinosa, Lempicka Basically all of The Wiz Doubly so for The Great Gatsby

Star-in-the-Making Sarah Pidgeon, Stereophonic The Grey House kids Hannah Cruz, Suffs Amber Iman, Lempicka Anna Zavelson, Encores! The Light in the Piazza (not Broadway, but I said what I said)

Criminally Underutilized Older Character Actress Jayne Houdyshell, Uncle Vanya Emily Skinner, Suffs Andrea Burns, The Notebook Beth Leavel, Lempicka Mia Katigbak, Uncle Vanya Bebe Neuwirth, Cabaret

Worst Audience Behavior The couple who stayed on their phones the whole time at The Wiz.

The guy who started screaming and fighting at the top of act two at Hell's Kitchen.

The drunk women at Melissa Etheridge who were singing and flailing the whole show.

Shrieking girls at Bad Gatsby whenever the leading man did anything.

Family in front of me at Heart of Rock and Roll.

Guy behind me at Cabaret crunching wine chips through all of act two.

Iconic Merch Item Rosie the Elephant, Water for Elephants: she's so soft and well-made and perfect and I love her and need her. Great American Bitch clothing, Suffs Mother Hat, Mother Play Tissue box, The Notebook

Moment that Had Me in Tears When *spoiler* off-stage, Jaja is taken in by ICE and her daughter can't find her and may face deportation herself.

Merrily We Roll Along overture.

Mary Jane breakdown over the music therapist.

All of Maryann Plunkett's masterful performance in The Notebook.

Me going home to sob over how they butchered Cabaret.

Kimberly Akimbo final performance, it might've opened last season, but fight me

Reading an article on the opening of the Bad Gatsby where a car hit a pedestrian right next to where all the celebrities were getting their photos taken and no one noticed. (tears of laughter-pedestrian was not hurt badly)

Single Best Costume Emily Skinner's Dorothy Louden coat Jennifer Simard, titties up and out as the Stepmother Sara Gettlefinger's fun jumpsuit and headscarf combo Anika Noni Rose entrance blue gown with the plunging neckline and deep v back Bebe Neuwirth's little pink nightie and phenomenal shawl Kate Baldwin's off-the-shoulder outfits in the regional production of A Little Night Music

Best Playbill Design Stereophonic - 10/10 no notes Suffs - Like the art style Illinoise - I really like the colors and art style Here Lies Love - I like the colors

Worst Playbill Design Cabaret - you should be ashamed of yourself. Not even the title Doubt - I know there was a last-minute replacement, but c'mon Lempicka - whoever did this should be taken out back and shot Spamalot - it's just the same damn design as the original, but brighter and worse

Tony Snub Laurie Metcalf, Grey House Jennifer Simard, Once Upon a One More Time Chip Zien, Harmony Days of Wine and Roses, Best Musical Grey House, Best Scenic Design of a Play

Cars on Broadway The Bad Gatsby cars that actually drive The Lempicka silver car that isn't green and doesn't drive The Illinoise concept car made out of props and actor's bodies The Back to the Future car that files and spins and shit

#broadway #theatre #welcome to the theatre: diary of a broadway baby #we're having fun over here at DOA headquarters

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waltwhitmansbeard · 7 months

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a my fair lady playlist

a year ago today i posted the first chapter of my fair lady, which was supposed to be a little thing that i just needed to get out of my head after reading @romeoandjulietyouwish's for the love of a princess. 144 chapters and one year of obsession later, what i got is my biggest writing project to date. it was also my first real foray into the cr fandom, which has since become, frankly, the biggest part of my life, and i'm just endlessly grateful to each of you who read and interacted with mfl in any way. i'm so lucky to have gotten to share this with all of you.

so to celebrate, i have assembled a way-too-long playlist inspired by the events of mfl. the songs represent the moments and feelings that most stood out to me (or that i could find an appropriate song for, lol). it was fun trying to remember everything that happened (as of rn the entire fic is 450 pages in google docs so...there's a lot) and piece together the story through song. i've written a little blurb to justify each choice in the cut below, but you can listen to the playlist on spotify here! thanks again for sticking around!

1. "My Fair Lady" - KALEO as the song from which i took all the titles for the series, i couldn't not start off with this one. i can't even hear this song now without thinking of mfl.

2. "Security" - Joss Stone since this is a song about being there for a friend in a time of crisis, i thought it was the perfect choice for the beginning of keyleth and percy's lifelong friendship. percy showed up in zephrah traumatized and barely holding it together, and keyleth was the rock that kept him from collapsing.

3. "Best of Friends" - Pearl Bailey marisha put this one on one of her keyleth playlists to represent keyleth and percy, and she was right! is there any better song for those two growing up as best friends?

4. "Fountain" - Sara Lov keyleth grew up under the shadow of her mother's loss and the pressure of a nation's expectations. someone give this child a BREAK!

5. "Uptown Girl" - Billy Joel oh, you think this is about vax and keyleth? WRONG. percy is an uptown girl and vex is his downtown man coming to shake his world.

6. "Stay Awake" - London Grammar how many nights did keyleth and vax stay up with the moon, learning to love each other? who did they become with no one but the shadows and each other to watch them grow?

7. "goodnight n go" - Ariana Grande this song just gives me such intense vex vibes. she wants so bad to get percy out from under her skin but no dice, he's there to stay.

8. "Foolish Thing" - Darren Criss vax knows that he absolutely cannot be catching feelings for the princess for any number of reasons. but that doesn't stop him from being a dumbfuck in love!

9. "Sacrilege" - The Yeah Yeah Yeahs keyleth knows that she absolutely cannot be catching feelings for her guard for any number of reasons. but that doesn't stop her from being a dumbfuck in love!

10. "You Get Me" - Michelle Branch even though she grew up royalty, keyleth never felt like she fit in in her own world. she was always different, out of place. but vax sees her strange edges and knows the shape they make.

11. "Dreams" - Caroline Glaser keyleth is down bad! she can't sleep without vax there, and vax is more than happy to reassure her that she's it for him.

12. "Take Me to Church" - Hozier this is my pick for some night just seem forever lasting, because if there's one thing vax is gonna do it's worship on his knees at keyleth's altar.

13. "Holy" - King Princess keyleth is busy with a nation and a war but she has time at the end of the day to fuck her man, and that's what really matters.

14. "Into You" - Ariana Grande this one is for the true sluts of the castle, vex and percy. stay horny, you absolute lovesick fools.

15. "River of Tears" - Alessia Cara just absolute depression and forlorn longing from vax and keyleth both when they're forced to be apart. drama queens, the both of them.

16. "The Lightning Strike (Part I: What If This Storm Ends?)" - Snow Patrol remember that time keyleth summoned lightning and used it to strike a bunch of attackers dead? so do i, and so does vax. it was his first time being confronted with the possibilities of the wild power she wields, and it definitely isn't something he was ever going to forget.

17. "Rich Youth" - Hayley Kiyoko keyleth and tiberius were both raised in the shadow of powerful fathers, and they came together to advocate for a future that represents the nations they want to lead.

18. "My Immortal" - Evanescence thank you to @ravendruid for the suggestion! does anything say vaxleth more than melodramatic longing? this song is for all the lingering heartbreak as they tried (and ultimately failed) to stay apart for so long.

19. "I Don't Mind" - Darren Criss one of my favorite pieces of writing from mfl was keyleth's proposal to vax. he's so convinced that she'd be better off without him, and all she wants to do is convince him that he's worth all the trouble waiting them.

20. "Love Story" - Taylor Swift forgive me for adding taylor swift to this list but you gotta admit, it's very appropriate for the vaxleth wedding.

21. "Dancing in the Rain" - Johannes Bornlöf let me be indulgent! this is the song i picked to play while reading the wedding chapter, so ofc it makes the list.

22. "The Deal" - Mitski thank you to @crispysnake for the suggestion! i mean, this is absolutely vax carrying his dead wife's body beneath the castle and striking a deal with the raven queen to bring her back. it's like it's what the song was written for.

23. "Castle" - Halsey just big keyleth charging to the throne room to demand her father release vax energy with this one.

24. "Growing, Growing, Gone" - Theo Katzman korrin was confronted very suddenly with the reality that his little girl wasn't a little girl anymore. she has a whole life ahead of her that is outside of him, and that's hard for a dad to come to terms with.

25. "Kiki (feat. Iron and Wine)" - Rett Madison y'all, the way i SCREAMED when i first heard this song on rett's new album!!! i just imagine vilya trying to reach out to keyleth, to let her know that she's been watching and of course, of course she's proud of her, of course she approves of vax, of course she wants nothing more than for her baby girl to happy.

26. "Wildflowers (Tom Petty Cover)" - Miley Cyrus this song makes me thing of the little cottage on the hill, and of korrin's wish for his daughter to have a place where she feels free. he knows that the castle has never really felt like her home, and so he gives her and her new husband a place they can build a home for themselves.

27. "Bubbly" - Colbie Caillat this song is just the pinnacle of happy love. it's vax and keyleth waking up in their bed, in their house, in their love's arms. it's happiness.

28. "Sunday Morning" - Maroon 5 remember that time vex was like "this was fun but i gotta go home" and percy was like "but what if i was home?" and fluttered his lashes like a harlot? me too.

29. "Family Tree" - Matthew West pending fatherhood is terrifying, especially when your own father is a sack of shit. of course vax would doubt his own ability to be for his child what syldor couldn't be for him and vex.

30. "A Woman's Work" - Kate Bush the definitive anthem for women creating life. keyleth is a goddess for so many reason but especially for making a literal person.

31. "Dear Theodosia" - Original Broadway Cast of Hamilton just DAD feelings up in this bitch! vax is a dad and korrin is a dad and percy (eventually) is a dad! also there's a new nation coming just around the corner! the perfect song!

32. "Brother Run Fast" - KALEO to me, this song represents vax and percy's understanding that the horrors of percy's past are coming for vax's present, and the two of them will stop at nothing to fix what was broken. they are both desperate for forgiveness they do not need, and they are both determined to keep the other on course.

33. "Yours & Mine" - Lucy Dacus imagine telling keyleth of the air ashari to sit at home while her family and friends venture out to save her daughter's life. IMAGINE!

34. "Trials - Demo" - London Grammar what is keyleth and vax's relationship if not an endless gauntlet of trials from which they must continually find their way back to each other?

35. "Delilah" - Florence + the Machine this song is just...everything. it's delilah and sylas. it's cass and the ghosts of the castle she's caged in. it's vilya, crying out for her mother. it's keyleth, coming to kick ass with a daylight spell. it's percy, reclaiming what was his all along.

36. "Show Me the Way" - Styx vax went THRU IT during gocmh, and his turning to the raven queen was a move of absolute desperation. he needed his matron's guidance not only to get his daughter back, but to put the pieces of his life back together.

37. "Glory and Gore" - Lorde what can i say? vox machina fucks shit up.

38. "Work Song" - Hozier percy may die twice but that ain't gonna stop him from simping for vex.

39. "Happiness" - The Fray this song is about happiness, but it has such a melancholic sound to it, which really works for baby vilya's return to zephrah. yes she's home, which is an immense relief, but she's brought home to a tragedy. nothing is simple.

40. "Kingdom of One" - Maren Morris hey vallen: get fucked.

41. "Lullabye (Goodnight, My Angel)" - Billy Joel this is, to me, the ultimate father-daughter song, and in the context of mfl it makes me think of the unfinished letter keyleth found in her father's room after his death. just a reminder that even after someone dies, their love for those they leave behind never will.

42. "Starts With Goodbye" - Carrie Underwood i don't know what it's like to fundamentally reshape the structure of an entire nation in order to secure a more stable future for your child, but i imagine it feels like this!

43. "Matchstick" - American Royalty thank you to @ravendruid for the suggestion! sometimes self-care is setting the man who murdered your parents and helped kidnap your daughter on fire.

44. "Chords" - The Amazing Devil parents play such a big part in the story of mfl. the absence of keyleth's mother, the fact that her father is also a king, korrin being a father to percy, the twins confronting the father they fled, and of course, vaxleth and perc'ahlia becoming parents themselves. if there's anything they can take away from all of the heartbreak, it's wanting the best for their children, at the cost of everything else.

45. "Everywhere, Everything" - Noah Kahan had to end on some noah kahan in order to keep @crispysnake from gnawing at the bars of their enclosure. again, just the absolute vaxleth melodrama of "wanna love you til we're food for the worms to eat, til our fingers decompose." disgusting. i love them so much.

#my fair lady #critical role #mfl 1yr

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hawkinshighdropout · 2 years

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Painting Flowers.

Pairing: Eddie Munson x (female) Reader *Platonic Only*

Summary: Hellfire have been invading your art space for a year now, causing you to behind on deadlines. Will hiding their prized possession get them to behave?

Warnings: No warnings, this is purely platonic/PG content. Unless you count a couple of curse words as needing a warning? Idk, I haven’t written fanfics in like 8 years so I’m a little rusty…

Note/Request: Requested by anonymous. “I had an idea about a character who's part of the drama club and always annoyed at Eddie for running Hellfire while she's trying to do set building and one time he forgets his miniatures so she holds them ransom to help her finish a set piece that's been delayed because of him”

Word Count: 2.2k

Send me prompts to write about!

“The curse of Vecna!” you hear over the song playing in your headphones, glancing up towards the group of students the other side of the room, the room erupting in cheers and noise as the kids react to Eddie’s words.

You were currently behind on a project, you were working on creating the remaining set pieces for the Hawkins High production of Alice in Wonderland, customising some of the cups and plates for the Tea Party scene. You used to have piece and quiet when working on things like this, but in the last year or so this group had cohabited your space for their little Dungeons and Dragons club, Hellfire. Taking your headphones off of your head and pausing your Walkman to glare over at the misfits as they celebrate.

“Do you mind?!” you cry out, drowning out their noises in an instant.

They snapped their heads to look across at you, half of the boys having even forgotten that you were there as you were so quiet, so peaceful. One of the sweet younger guys, you think his name was Dustin, shot you a look to silently apologise for their outburst. The rest of them? They seemed annoyed that you had been the one to disturb them, the leader of the pack rising to his feet as he looked you up and down.

“What was that sweetheart?” his voice cocky and face smug as he questioned you.

“I said ‘do you mind’?!” you repeat, growing more frustrated as the moments pass.

Eddie rose from his seat, the chair legs scraping against the cold floor as he stepped closer to you with an annoyed look on his face, sinking to his knees as he folded his arms across his chest whilst he spoke.

“What’s gotten you so worked up, hm? What’s so important that you’ve gotta interrupt our heroic quest to defeat Vecna? Surely this little art project can wait?” his voice oozing with sarcasm as you lock eyes.

“Art project?! I’m doing the set and props for the performance, this isn’t for fun.” You grumble, less than amused at his attitude.

“Now that’s real cute sweetheart but keep it down would ya?” he pats you on the shoulder before raising to his feet with a crack of his knees in the process.

“You were the one bothering me!” you cry in protest, throwing your hands up in frustration before cursing and tugging your headphones back on to drown them out once again.

Turning away from them to continue painting the cup that you once had in your hand, trying to replicate a design that you thought would be appropriate for the scene. Of course they disrupted you many more times after this, to which you just threw visual daggers in their direction. Each time you were returned a smug grin or a wink from the Hellfire leader, much to your dismay.

About another hour or so had passed and you were setting out the crockery to dry on the bench nearby overnight, watching as the group of guys would spend a little time packing away the folders and documents needed for the game.

They filed out of the room in pairs, leaving you only with their leader and Dustin, who was excitedly talking about the campaign they had just completed. You glance up just in time to see Dustin smiling in your direction and waving goodbye to you as he left, just Eddie left now, you thought.

“Hey, Picasso?” he called, snapping his fingers to get your attention.

“Hm?” you took off your headphones once again, raising a brow in his direction.

“What’s the performance about?” he sounded… interested? Catching you off guard.

“Uh? The performance?” you repeat, he nods. “Alice in Wonderland.”

“Never heard of it,” he shrugs, “Gimme the rundown.”

You sigh, going back to tidying away some of your supplies as you run through the vague plot of the performance that you were preparing for, unsure on why he even cared when it seemed far too mainstream for his interests.

“Young girl, Alice. Follows this white rabbit through her back yard, he’s always crying about being late and needing to hurry up, she follows him until he disappears down a hole. She somehow falls into the same hole even though he’s a tiny rabbit and she’s a fully grown child, yeah. Ends up in some sorta parallel dimension where there’s a Mad Hatter and talking animals, you can eat cake to grow huge and drink this potion to shrink.. There’s some psycho evil queen that plays croquet with birds and all her guards are playing cards and she beheads anyone she doesn’t like.”

Eddie stared at you with wide eyes as he actually seemed to be paying attention to you, “metal” he mumbled, which caused you to giggle.

“I mean, I guess? It’s pretty trippy…” you shrug.

Nodding his head as it did in fact sound trippy. You finished tidying everything away, the artwork drying around the room as you zipped up your backpack, Eddie doing the same with his mini figurines. He finished first, patting you on the shoulder as he sauntered over to the door to leave.

“See you later, kid.” He called out whilst the door swung shut behind him.

You scooped up your bag, taking one last glance around the room to make sure that you hadn’t forgotten anything. A small metal figure catches your eye, on its side at the head of the table, wandering closer you furrow your brows whilst picking it up, trying to workout how he could have forgotten it.

After a short-lived internal battle on whether you should leave it there or run after Eddie and return it, a third far more interesting thought entered your mind. If you kept it, and didn’t give it back right away? You had the upper hand. You knew they couldn’t play their game unless they found it, and if they couldn’t play their game, they couldn’t bother you, and if they couldn’t bother you? You could catch up on the backlog of work that was caused by their weekly distraction.

Hmm… interesting…

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

“Where the fuck is Vecna?” you hear that familiar voice a few feet away from you, cussing under his breath as chairs were displaced and things were strown about the tables.

“Missing something?” you grin his way, unable to even feign concern.

“Yeah, I’ve somehow lost the mini figure for Vecna, he’s the main character of our quest so I’m fucked if I can’t find it…” he groans in annoyance, not even looking over at you whilst he continued his search.

“About two inches tall and badly hand painted?” you ask, his head snaps up and he looks across at you, immediately pacing up towards you with an annoyed look on his face.

“Yup. That’s the one. Have you seen it?” his voice more of an accusatory tone as opposed to a genuine question, his gaze searching your expression for an explanation as to why this small artsy human knew about his toys.

“I might have…” you shrug innocently, playing coy as you turn your back to him and continue the painting you were doing for the white plastic roses that you were colouring red to follow the script.

You gasp in pure shock as the paintbrush is snatched from your hand, reaching out for it but it’s held above his head to block you being able to just get it back.

“Hey…” you whine, trying to reach out for it still.

“Give me Vecna, and I’ll give you the brush back” he threatened.

“No! I’m behind enough as it is because of you assholes and your distractions, I have important deadlines to meet, stop being such an ass!” you groan as he laughs.

“Not my fault you can’t focus, kiddo!” he shrugs.

For a moment you see red, huffing out in pure anger as he wasn’t taking anything seriously, throwing your arms up in dismay as you cry out “It’s the god damn art room, I am supposed to be in here, you arent’!”

Eddie was a little taken aback by your yelling, not expecting such a loud outburst from someone so small, passing you the brush back as a compromise. You mumble a weak “thank you…” before snatching it back and continuing to paint as you just were.

“Listen… I don’t mean to take up your space, we just… We don’t really have anywhere else to go, you know? We’re not exactly welcomed anywhere in Hawkins, especially not to play our game. Everyone thinks its some satanic shit, it’s just a fantasy game…” he sighs, “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. Everyone is welcome here, okay? We just have to share the space. You respect my boundaries and I’ll respect yours. All you gotta do is dial it down a bit, I really am behind here.” You sigh, glancing up at him to show your stress.

“Deal!” he paused, “So… Vecna?” he asks again, causing your eyes to roll back in your head and a groan to tumble from your lips.

“Oh. My. GOD. Enough about the God damn toy, Munson!” you cry out, running a hand through your hair as you grunt. “You left it here last week, I swiped it up to make sure the cleaners didn’t throw it away, it’s safe, okay?!”

“Oh.. Thanks, uh. When can I get it back? Its real important to the game.” He pestered, expression conveying that he’s clearly scared of pushing your buttons as you are definitely prone to loud outbursts.

“If you help me catch up with the backlog of shit I need to paint for the drama department, then and only then will I give him back to you, deal?” you grunt.

“You’re holding my things hostage?!” it was his turn to get angry.

“You want your stupid thing back in one piece?” an eyebrow raised challengingly.

He took a couple seconds to weigh up his options before cursing under his breath, shaking himself out of his jacket and grabbing the spare paintbrush as he plopped down beside you. A very unimpressed look on his face as he glared at you.

“What am I supposed to be painting…?”

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

“Eddie, there you are! Where have you--- what are you doing?!” Dustin cries.

You look up from where you were adding some of the details for the playing card’s costumes, Eddie in a trance like state, tongue poking out of his mouth as he concentrated on painting the Cheshire Cat cardboard cut-out, not even hearing his friend calling to him.

“He’s working, Dustin.” You shrug, glancing between both boys.

“But why?! We’re supposed to be watching a movie with the guys!” he whines.

Eddie eventually glances up from what he was doing, a bright smile appearing on his face as he recognised Dustin a few feet away. Turning the Cheshire cat towards Dustin so the younger kid could appreciate his hard work.

“Hey, man! Look! I think it looks fucking awesome, right?!” voice full of glee.

“Yeah, bitchin’.” Dustin mumbled sarcastically, “Now pack it up, we gotta go!”

“I can’t man, sorry… I gotta finish this. That little butthead is holding Vecna hostage, won’t give him back until we’re caught up” he explained, to which Dustin threw his hands up in outrage.

“Are you shitting me?! You’re missing out on a movie premiere for some damn arts and crafts?! You’ve changed!” Dustin groans, storming out of the room with a pouty look on his face.

The both of you laugh a little, getting back to the task at hand. A few hours pass and you take a slow spin around the room, filling your body with relief once you realised you had managed to catch up. Many hands make light work as they say.

You clean up in almost silence, putting all the supplies away once you had made sure that every set piece had a “Wet Paint” sign beside it, tugging your backpack over your shoulder as Eddie slipped his jacket on himself and adjusted his hair.

“So… I’m scared to ask, but… Can I have Vecna back?” he mumbled nervously, scratching the back of his neck whilst looking down at you.

You let out a soft sigh, hand reaching into the pocket of your jacket to display the completely unharmed mini figure, stretching out your hand and letting him take it as he requested.

“Shit…” Eddie cussed, bringing the item up to his face and inspecting it further with a soft smile on his face, “You fixed him up?” he asked.

Nodding softly, once you had taken it home you realised just how terrible the paint job truly was. So after more time spent researching than you’d like to admit, you found references for Vecna and repainted him to improve his appearance.

“You didn’t have to do that…” looking over at you, puppy dog eyes on full display.

“I wanted to! For one, that first paint job was abysmal. For two? I kinda felt bad for yelling at you and making you feel like you weren’t welcome.. Truce?” you ask, putting out your hand for him to shake.

“Truce.” He agreed, shaking your hand enthusiastically.

#eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson smut #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x female reader #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fluff #stranger things oneshot #stranger things smut #joseph quinn #eddie munson #eddie munson edit #eddie fluff #Eddie munson imagine

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dustedmagazine · 3 months

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Maurda — Cultus Brachypter (Sentient Ruin Laboratories)

In spite of the band’s name sounding something like a resident of Delco, PA, attempting to say “murder,” Maurda comes to us from Germany — and beyond that, not much can be discovered about the players involved in this buzzing, thundering project. Cultus Brachypter was initially self-released in November of 2022, and now Sentient Ruin Laboratories is giving the EP a vinyl edition (any of you kvlty kidz needing a cassette copy should seek assistance from the miscreants at Cirsium Kollektivet, and good luck with that). That’s a good thing. Maurda’s volatile blend of black/death, punk and spiky crust deserves a lot more attention. Are you listening, underground?

Maybe that should be: “Are you listening underground?” Among damp tunnels of fetid earth, scuttling alongside the bugs and vermin — that sounds like the appropriate context for these unhappy but industriously headlong noises. Several layers of grime have accumulated on top of the riffs, which still manage to cut grooves into your skull. Percussion largely asserts itself through the tinny clash of a much-abused high-hat, the presence of drums mostly relegated to a low-grade roil rolling along underneath all the clamor. There are moments of something more akin to nasty sonic clarity: see the tasty breakdown just after the two-minute mark of opening track “Liderpeitsche.” But mostly Maurda wants to fill the world with violent caterwauls and thick passages of cacophony.

It works. For a certain variety of listener, attracted to minimal musicality and the interest that can attach to the sheer force of ugliness, Cultus Brachypter is exactly what’s needed. To be sure, it’s atavistic stuff. “Brachyptery” is an entomological term, naming the condition of a group of insects with vestigial, mostly useless wings. They are flightless, grounded. Maurda seems to be celebrating a reversal of evolutionary engineering, an impulse toward negation that has woven its way into the creatures’ DNA. Most of the songs complement those weirdo sentiments: “Totheit” and “In Kotze Getauft” are hideous enough to roll back any number of narratives of progress.

But the band can also surprise. The last song on the EP is “Sporensonne,” featuring a hugely compelling set of black metal riffs and a more legible melodic form. Maurda emerges from its subterranean enclave to reveal another side of itself, if only briefly: a band that can conjure more complex atmospherics. Perversely, this reviewer prefers the nastier songs, but he’s still grateful for the gulps of air — however polluted — “Sporensonne” provides. You can just about break through the sod. But once you get up there, take a good look around. Life in the daylight can be overrated.

Jonathan Shaw

#maurda #cultus brachypter #sentient ruin laboratories #jonathan shaw #albumreview #dusted magazine #black metal #death metal #crust #germany

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windslar · 9 months

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People You'd Like to Get to Know Better

i was tagged by @druidberries. Thank you!!

Tag under the cut because I went on a whole spiel about a popular novel that catches a lot of flak online and I don't know how to shut up (spoiler: it features 20-something-year-olds who open up brick-and-mortar businesses in downtown Boston like it's nothing, and trash in the form of a man named Kyle with an R).

Last Song: From the Start - Laufey

Favorite Color: Sage Tint by Benjamin Moore

Currently Watching: Only Murders in the Building and Modern Family (I watched the first couple seasons but never finished it. It's such a good background show).

Last Movie: Last one I watched in the theatres was Oppenheimer, but the last one I watched on streaming was Disenchanted (lol). I need more James Marsden in my life, especially after his performance in Jury Duty.

Currently Reading: It Ends with Us by Colleen Hoover. Before you get the pitchforks, I'm only reading it because of the ~discourse~. Besides, I had it downloaded in my Kobo long before it really blew up on tiktok and my curiosity was reignited after I saw the uproar about the casting. I have a lot of problems with this book: (1) it's not well-written and I should've put the book down the moment she started writing letters to Ellen Degeneres and thought she was a good celebrity for being charitable, (2) it doesn't delve into the systemic issues that play a role in why women stay with their ab*ser, (3) the marketing for this book ain't shit for categorizing it a romance novel. BUT, all my problems aside, I don't think the story itself romanticizes domestic ab*se and I think most readers recognize this (see this Slate article that talks about it better than I could). Here's an excerpt:

It seems like this part of the novel’s plot could be read in two very different ways: one, which the Mary Sue seems to pursue, is that Lily doesn’t react to ab*se in the appropriate way, and the book endorses all of her choices, and therefore both deserve condemnation. The other is an exercise in empathy: Hoover wrote an imperfect book on domestic violence, but if we require all of these narratives to be morally unimpeachable, there’s no room to acknowledge that there is no such thing as a perfect victim.

I haven't finished the book, but I read Kyle with an R doesn't get a satisfying comeuppance proportional to his actions. And while it would be nice to see the trash taken out, isn't this ending plausible and representative of a common experience among families with a history of ab*se?

I think my big criticism with the backlash surrounding this book and others like it is the assumption that their readers are "impressionable young girls". Not every work of fiction needs to portray the protagonist as a hero in every sense of the word. Not every positive quality assigned to a villain is "making the character redeemable". Not every work of fiction is meant to be didactic and scrutinized as if it were instructions on how to live a perfect life. Maybe I'm giving more credit where it's due, but I really think most readers are able to think critically. People love reading about complicated characters in messy situations. And while I think the characters in Hoover's book could be written better and fleshed out a lot more, that is neither here nor there. My point is: stop assuming women are stupid and incapable of forming their own opinion. Enjoyment of fiction is not endorsement of the actions exhibited by deeply flawed characters.

Sweet/Spicy/Savory: Savory. But after writing all that and posting it here on tumblr, maybe SPICY.

Last Thing I Googled: That Slate article so I could link it and before that I googled Blake Lively and learned that she has 4! children.

Current Obsession: Rowing! But only if I have an episode of Modern Family playing.

Currently Working On: TJOLC posts, Lightflower is kind of on the back burner right now on account of I-hate-posing-sims and the next few scenes require a lot of it. I just wish there was AI that would pose my sims for me based on dialogue I've written. I would betray my principles, climb up the paywall if I have to.

I'm tagging anyone who sees this and

(ETA: look at me getting cut off by my own self. Sorry I was distracted and heating up some food while typing this, but yeah, I tag anyone who sees this.)

#text post #get to know me #tag

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librosamarillos · 1 year

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passed down like folk songs

chapter 24: what could've been

Maegor Targaryen x OC

Also on Ao3

chapter index

Tags: hurt/comfort, friends to lovers, angst, mature themes, targaryen incest, violence, Maegor is a red flag himself, characters are ooc probably, MINORS DNI

Sitting atop of Balerion, Maegor felt like he was spiralling. He was supposed to be in Harrenhal about three hours ago, but he knew it would be unwise to see anyone with the temper he had at that moment, so he was flying around under the guise of patrolling from the skies. The celebration in his name had gone well, so well that many lords had made comments about their own trust being in him, implying that they trusted him to get the job done and not the King. The number of allies he was gaining was increasing by the day, that should make him happy, shouldn’t it?

But no, instead, his mind was on Rowan. She looked radiant in her purple gown, he could barely keep his eyes off of her. Amongst the crowd, he could immediately spot her, like he could find her with his eyes closed. She had been sat next to her father, near the Tyrells, whose daughter she was friends with. She was always around Ceryse and Lana, it was like the gods did not allow him any time alone with her anymore. As people began to dance, he wanted to smirk, seeing as the Lannister boy could barely move from his seat to make a move on his love or rather have his hands all over her under the excuse of dancing. She did end up dancing with a few men, some lowly lords, no one important but it still made his blood boil that it wasn’t him.

They all got to dance with her, little, insignificant lords of nothing, and they got to dance with her, to hold her hands, to see her eyes light up as the music picked up, to twirl her around and hear her laugh, but not him. No, he had to remain seated on the head table, for it would be a ruinous scandal if he only were to dance with her and not his own wife. Ceryse, at least, was having a blast. Despite being sat next to each other, they were on different planets and perhaps it was a good thing. She was beaming from seeing her brothers again and to some extent, that made him glad, knowing what he planned on doing a few days later, she would at least be with her family.

And then his eyes caught something that made him grip his goblet so tightly he was sure it was going to shatter in his hand. The youngest of the Hightower siblings, Morgan, took an interest in Rowan, an interest that made Maegor want to leap across the hall and bash his head into the wall. Even worse, Rowan herself was enjoying his company. Her smiles were more genuine than any interaction she had with that stupid Tybolt, and Morgan, despite standing the appropriate amount of distance away, asked her to dance more than four times. It wasn’t something inappropriate, but it definitely caught the attention of those around them. He even heard Ceryse chuckle with Martyn about it. Maegor was trying to not lose his mind, trying to keep himself sane, but it seemed Aenys had noticed.

His brother was never supposed to get this close. Maegor had been content with Aenys just fearing him, as long as he let him do what he wished to, but his need to get closer to him and his mother was proving to be… troublesome. He didn’t hate it. In fact, getting some things off his chest sounded fucking amazing at this moment where he didn’t know what to do, flying circles on Balerion for hours. Having Aenys understand even a tiny bit felt a bit comforting. But he shook his head. Talking to him about feelings was useless, it would only complicate things and mess with his head. Was he foolish to even entertain a conversation with him about Rowan, his Rowan? Maybe, but there was no changing that now. But perhaps it wasn’t so terrible, to have his brother understand him, maybe Maegor was just being paranoid because of what he was on his way to do.

Yes, things were about to take a turn after today. He had left the keep right before dawn, before anyone could see him, before he could bump into Rowan by chance. He knew that just one look from her would make him crumble and admit it all to her, dragging her into his plans, something that could put her in so much danger. No, he couldn’t do that to her. He couldn’t think of her too much, the thought of hurting made him want to drop everything and fly back to the red keep, forgetting all about the crown and throne.

He had to push his feelings aside to think clearly. The kingdoms would collapse under Aenys. Maegor was the conqueror’s son with his first wife and he was the more capable choice of the two. He had a solid claim, but he needed heirs. Ceryse would make a good Queen, but she was unable to provide him said heirs. He could not be with Rowan in a way that would not disrespect her and her faith. Sooner or later, she’d be married off to that Lannister, or even maybe Ceryse’s brother, and as much as it made his blood boil, he could do nothing about it. Would it not be cruel to hold her back from having the family she wished for? He wanted that with her, he wanted Rowan to himself, to marry her and have a family with her, but they could not have that. For all this to work, he needed someone else. He needed Alys.

He landed outside of Harrenhal some time before noon. Following the guards inside, Lucas Harroway greeted him with a bow, leading him to a room where they could freely speak alone. The man seemed eager, happy even. It didn’t surprise Maegor at all. Lucas had read between the lines.

“My daughter is beyond honoured to be given such an offer. She is looking most forward to your union, as do I, my Prince.” Lucas spoke, looking extra chirper as he did. Maegor didn’t doubt it, Alys seemed quite eager to leave her family and town behind, eager to live a life of excitement. Maegor wasn’t sure if she’d find such a life in the half-built Red Keep, but he did not pretend to understand the minds of women. Perhaps a life in court, with all its feasts and gossips, that could maybe be what she was looking for. As long as she gave him an heir, she could do as she pleases.

“Good. I will take us both to Dragonstone to see it done.” he replied plainly. He still hadn’t spoken to his mother about this, which made him feel uneasy. They were a team. They had been a team since he was born, and they often spoke of the suitable steps to put him in the best position possible. He never spoke of this to her, but he would, as soon as he returned to Dragonstone. She’d understand. She knew how important it was.

“If I may ask, my Prince, may I not be present at the wedding? She is my eldest daughter.” Lucas asked, but his eyes did not betray much love for her. Not in the way Duncan spoke of Rowan. Maegor frowned. It would be impractical to have him there. It would take too long for him to travel there, and if he were to take him with them on Balerion, Maegor still didn’t want him there on the island as he spoke to his mother.

“No. The wedding must happen soon. As soon as the protests settle, you will join your daughter in court. Know that if you keep up your support, you could even join the council.” Maegor thought back to his youth. He often complained to Rowan about having to deal with these scheming, social climbing lords. She would always say that sometimes, a little honey could do the trick, where you must do something disagreeable, give something in return. He didn’t think this would be what she meant, but when he saw the satisfied smile on Lord Harroway’s face, he knew it worked. That was what his father did, was it not? He was ruthless to his enemies and generous with his supporters.

“You are most generous, my Prince. Know that I will never forget the generosity you have shown to my family. Whatever you may need, I am your most devoted servant.” Gods, his voice was getting annoying. Maegor only nodded, getting up to get this over with. It would only take him a few hours to get to Dragonstone, so he wanted to get there right away. He had left a small letter with a trusted servant to give to his mother at noon, a letter calling her to come to the ancestral seat of their house, alone. He was eager to get this over with.

Alys was waiting for him outside, the servants handling two large suitcases of her belongings. Maegor nodded at her, taking them, as the servants could not secure them on the dragon. As he was securing the ties of the cases to make sure they wouldn’t slip off, he felt the young woman’s eyes on him. Balerion stirred, as if feeling his wariness. He sighed. It was necessary, he had to remind himself. This was important. He motioned to her to come closer to the ropes to climb up to the saddle. She was hesitant for a moment, before taking the rope in her hand. Balerion was getting annoyed, but Maegor patted his scales to calm him. The last thing he needed was for him to eat her.

“Stay still. The belts will secure you so you won’t fall off.” he said, or moreso commanded. Alys was not looking at him, rather preferring to look around, making note of how high up they were, even as the dragon was sat on the ground. She had the wonder of a child in her brown eyes, looking down at Balerion in awe.

“I can’t believe I’m actually on a dragon, about to fly!” she said with a smile, finally looking at Maegor, who was now strapping himself on the saddle in front of her. He made note of her family, her father and siblings, gathered right at the entrance of the castle, maybe too afraid to come closer. Maegor made eye contact with Lucas Harroway, who looked very pleased, unlike his daughters, who looked confused and concerned. So he hadn’t told them. Good.

“Have you said your goodbyes? It may be a very long time until you see your family again.” he warned, glancing back at her. She spared them no glances, and had he been in a better mood, he would’ve asked her about it. Alys nodded absentmindedly as Balerion grew more restless by the minute. They’d have to depart soon. His mother would be on her way to Dragonstone soon, they didn’t have much time to spare.

“Yes, I have. I wouldn’t mind it if it’s years, if I’m perfectly honest.” she replied, her voice lacking any worry over it. For most it would be heartbreaking to say goodbye to their family- for Rowan, he knew she’d be crying had she been in this situation, but then again, the Evergreens were a family that was so close to one another in a way that was rare in Westeros. Duncan would never allow Maegor to even think of pulling such a stunt with her, her uncle, aunt and cousins would run to her defence. Even if they all agreed, Maegor knew that they’d be embracing her so tightly before they took their leave. But Alys wasn’t Rowan, and the Harroways were not the Evergreens.

He frowned. He supposed his own family wasn’t perfect, but this was the woman who would raise his children. If her view of her family was so insignificant, what would that teach their future children? He wasn’t looking for a perfect mother, in his eyes there was only one, but he supposed she wouldn’t be seeing much of the children anyway. Alys was restless and eager to explore, not one to be weighed down by a commitment as heavy as motherhood, and that could be in his favour, the more he thought of it. He’d entrust their children with the best wetnurses he could find, and his own mother to teach them of their histories and culture of their Valyrian heritage, Alys would only need to be there for the sake of appearances. Then again, how could he be so sure of that now? Motherhood was something so monumental in a woman’s life, was it not? It could change someone entirely, maybe Alys would want to be involved in the raising of the children after all. It made him ponder.

He never wanted to be like his father, that was certain. He’d never push one child aside for the sake of the other. He wouldn’t spoil one rotten and keep the other away, out of sight and mind. Even if somehow Ceryse managed to give him a child, he’d love them both the same. It wasn’t something he spoke to anyone about, no one but Rowan, of course, but fatherhood was something he yearned for, not just to cement his rightful claim, but as something from deep within him. The few times he was around Rowan’s two youngest cousins, Lewis and Archie, he loved it. He imagined having two little sons of his own, taking them to the skies with him, teaching them the ways of the sword just as his mother did for him, speaking to them in their ancestral tongue. Even the more exhausting parts of parenthood he yearned for, the sleepless nights, teaching them to walk, helping them learn how to use cutlery.

All of this he wanted to do by Rowan’s side. Ever since they were young, he knew. Something inside him, a selfish, horrible part of him, wanted to keep her on Dragonstone once he became King. Even if she married and had children of her own, he wanted her there, by his side, by his children’s side. It was messed up in so many ways, he knew, he’d never allow it to be anything more than a selfish thought, but it soothed him in a way. He could keep Alys and Ceryse busy in court in King’s Landing, while Rowan would reside in Dragonstone. Maegor would find a way to send whomever she married away, but he’d never send away any children she had. Never. If anything, he hoped they’d look just like her. Maybe he could ask her to nurse his own children alongside her own, and in the confines of Dragonstone, they could live the fantasy of being a family.

It would be so cruel to do that to her. He knew his actions would hurt her, and he was depending on her brilliant mind to understand that he had ulterior motives in taking a second wife in such a manner. Once he was King, once everything was safe for her to know, he’d explain it all, begging for her forgiveness. He’d grant her family with gold and wealth, positions in court, anything. He frowned. How pathetic was this whole situation, truly?

Alys clung to him from behind as Balerion moved, his giant form moving slowly, before taking flight. She squealed, her fear turning into laughter as the dragon took to the skies. Soon, he felt her let go of him, holding onto the sides of the saddle instead, looking down at the land becoming smaller and smaller. He wondered if Ceryse would like to fly at any point. After all of this, he’d indulge her if she wished for it. It was only fair.

“Does your wife know?” she asked, taking Maegor by surprise. He did not expect her to be in a chatty mood, let alone bring up what was on his mind. He held onto the reins, guiding Balerion through the familiar path in the clear skies. He had hoped the ride there would be silent, but he supposed she had the right to know what she was getting into.

“She will know after it happens.” he replied. He focused most of his thoughts on how Rowan would react, how hurt she would be, but he barely gave any thought to Ceryse’s feelings. She was his wife, as much as it felt so unnatural to call her that. She held no love for him and he held no love for her. This would be an inconvenience for her, perhaps an annoyance, but she’d get over it soon. It was a cruel way to go about things, but it was necessary. Ceryse would be his Queen one day, she’d come to realise that him taking a second wife was nothing but a necessary evil in her pious eyes. She’d make a much better Queen than Alys, that was for sure. Alys was far too carefree and was about to taste freedom for the first time, she wouldn’t be able to handle the true responsibilities of being a Queen. It was a good thing that he only needed her for an heir. He’d then station her somewhere else, Ceryse would hold court in King’s Landing and he’d finally take house Targaryen to its deserved glory.

“I don’t think she will take kindly to our marriage.” Alys stated, but her voice wasn’t really concerned at all. If anything, she sounded happy about the drama that was about to unfold. Was she truly that bored in her town and home? He sighed. She’d fall in line once she realised how things are run in the capital. Once she gave him one or two children, he’d give her leave to go where she wanted. Things would be easier that way at first, until everyone got used to each other.

“She won’t. But she’ll see with time, she’ll understand.” he responded, his eyes betraying an anxiety he was happy she could not see from behind him. She did not respond, he felt her shift around on the saddle to get a better view from above. The difficult part was coming as they neared Dragonstone. His heart was pounding as the island came into distant view. He couldn’t see Vhagar there yet, but that only meant he didn’t have much time to calm his nerves before having to talk with his mother. He could only hope the speech he rehearsed in his head convinced her. He could only hope that Rowan would come to forgive him.

Visneya rushed through the halls of Dragonstone, trying to mask her worry with a cool and collected mask of indifference. Her heart was pounding as soon as she read Maegor’s note. The worst came to mind. Had he been hurt? In her fits of grief over Aegon, had she missed a potential attack that put her son in harm’s way? His note had been brief and revealed nothing, which made her anxieties worse. She knew she raised him to be capable and strong, a warrior since he could walk, but she was his mother, he was her babe. The thought that he could be hurt was enough to send her spiralling. After the death of her sister, she took to wearing chainmail under her clothes, paranoid that assassins would try to take her life. It was with time that she had stopped, finally relaxing when peace was reached, but just the thought that someone could have harmed her son, was enough to make her consider the chainmail again, for him especially.

She barged in the room with the painted table in a less than graceful manner, after being directed there by the servants. Maegor didn’t even have time to say anything before Visenya began inspecting his face and arms for any hidden wound, sighing in relief when she confirmed he was safe. She eyed him carefully, noting that he looked uneasy, very unlike his normal, confident self. Her guard was down and her eyes betrayed confusion. She noticed the servants whispering, sharing looks and gossip in hushed voices, but in her hurry, she had not stopped to ask them.

“Maegor, what has happened? You nearly gave me a heart attack.” she said, crossing her arms. Her son looked like he was building up the courage to say something, but Visenya winced at her own words. They were in the very room Aegon’s heart gave out. How many moons had it been? It felt insensitive to even utter such words, but she decided to forgive herself, as it was out of worry for their son, her only son.

“Forgive me, mother, I did not intend to cause you any worry. I just wished to get you here as soon as possible, there is something of great importance I wish to discuss with you.” he spoke in an apologetic tone, a rare thing. Visneya nodded, walking to pour herself some water, to calm her nerves. She noticed Balerion flying freely outside, but he looked… uneasy. Which only meant that Maegor himself felt like so.

“Go on then. You have me here now, tell me. I suppose it has something to do with certain plans that could not be discussed in front of Aenys?” she asked, drinking from the cup, sighing in relief of the cool water. She had been parched in her hurry to get to Dragonstone. Maegor nodded, his hand tracing over the painted table lightly.

“It was in this very room where you taught me the most important lessons you ever did. Our histories, our language, our culture. It was here where we both knew what is rightfully mine, it was here where we discussed everything for the first time, just as it was here where you planned to conquer the very Kingdoms we now rule over." His voice held a nostalgic feeling, a fondness and longing for those times. Visenya remembered holding him in her arms, teaching him to speak, helping him walk, and now here he stood before her, a King without the crown.

“And it is here you will reveal something big.” she added, folding her arms. Maegor nodded once more, his eyes trailing over the carved details. If only he knew how many memories a single room could hold. This was where Visenya grew up, this was where she raised Maegor, this space held all of that, the pleasant and the heartbreaking. Maybe one day she’d tell him of it. Rowan was the only one who knew. She was the only one she had opened up to. She wasn’t entirely sure why not Maegor.

“I have everything I need to take the throne. If we bring things to Aenys in such a way, he will accept to step aside, he knows he stands no chance should he choose to fight. We must do this in such a way where our house appears united, thus making the transfer smooth and with no room for questioning. But for that, there’s still something I need. An heir.” he took slow, steady steps toward her, his eyes meeting hers as he stood tall in front of her, as Visenya nodded along. “Ceryse cannot provide that for me. At least, not in the time I need her to. Therefore, I’ve decided to take a second wife.” he said, after taking a deep breath.

Visenya stood still, as if she had somehow misheard him. She set the cup down, slowly taking in what he had just said to her. A second wife.

“Who?” she asked him bluntly, almost harshly, as she set her cup down. She looked into his eyes and he almost looked down in shame, but decided against it.

“Alys Harroway.” he replied. Ah, there it was. The reason he had been flying out to Harrenhal. The daughter of the new Lord of Harrenhal. She frowned. He must’ve brought her here, for why else would all the servants of the castle be whispering. How many people already knew? Even more importantly, why in the seven hells had he not told her before he brought the girl here?

“I see.” she began, but stopped herself from speaking further, to collect her thoughts. It was shocking for her, that he had made a choice so drastic without talking to her about it or even mentioning it at all. Visneya felt conflicted.

Her raw, emotional response was to refuse this, the wounds Aegon and Rhaenys’ union left her with had barely begun healing before Aegon died. She wanted so badly to yell at him that she did not want him to inherit his father’s worst qualities, that she wanted him to take only the good and become even better than he ever was. But maybe Maegor shared more than just a spitting resemblance to Aegon, to her dismay. It was in this very room that Aegon argued with their father to set their betrothal aside for Rhaenys’ sake, to set Visenya aside.

Then, her mind ignored her wounded heart for a moment, gently telling her that although the situation felt familiar, it couldn’t be the same, and it was not. Ceryse was not in love with him the way Visenya was with Aegon. This girl, Alys, was not someone Maegor had fallen in love with. It was logical, the way he was thinking. Ceryse hadn’t given him a child.

“I know the Hightowers will protest this, but once I take over and crown Ceryse a Queen, Oldtown will stand behind her, and by extension, the faith, once they see one of their own in power next to me.” he explained, turning his eyes to the map of Oldtown. Visenya crossed her arms and slowly let out a sigh.

“I see you’ve thought this through.” she said, eyeing him. Part of her was frustrated, and part of her was proud. She raised him to be a King, and he knew better than to act with no thought on possible rebellions. Maegor nodded once more, turning to face her. He knew she had a million things to ask him, and he waited patiently for her to do so.

“And if Ceryse gives you an heir after this Alys girl does? What then?” Visenya asked, turning back to take another sip of her water. Such a situation was a possibility. Perhaps Ceryse was not barren at all, and simply needed some more time. Visenya had Maegor after Rhaenys had Aenys. She looked at her son carefully.

“As she is my first wife, her sons will take priority in line to the throne after me, over those that Alys will have. Is that not the very reason I am taking the throne, mother? Because as the son of the first wife, it should be my birthright?” he asked her, stepping closer to her. He turned his eyes to the map once more. “Of course then, we’d have a problem of loyalties. Both houses will support their own. But Oldtown is a far stronger and more important ally than the Harroways are. Should Ceryse give me a son, he will be my heir. Should she give me a daughter, she will marry my heir and they shall rule together. Any rivalries between my sons, I will prevent. I refuse to raise my children the way father raised Aenys and I.'' he almost spat out the word father. Despite her undying love for Aegon, she knew Maegor was right in his anger. She was angry too.

“How do you suppose Ceryse and Alys will see this? Ceryse doesn’t even know, does she?” she asked, not expecting an answer. Of course he wouldn't have told her.

“Ceryse is far more suited to be Queen than ALys will ever be. Alys will give me an heir or two and she will have my leave to do as she pleases. She is not a person I can see committed to the life of court, I think she’d be more content to travel and be spoiled. My children will not be under her care, for she lacks the ability to raise true dragons. I shall have my children with me at all times, and Ceryse will be the one in charge in the capital. They’ll be raised together, in our language and traditions, not divided between mothers. If pregnancy changes Alys’ mind about this… she won’t have much choice in their upbringing anyway. You will have final say in that, mother.”

Visenya took in everything her son was saying. She nodded along, her hands still crossed. She understood his thought process. It was as solid as a plan like that could get. If raised together, under her own eye, Visenya could ensure that no other succession crisis would arise. She’d make sure no rivalries arose between the children, and lay things down clearly for them. It tugged at her heart, the topic. She did not want her line to end with Maegor. She did not put in all that work, the blood, sweat and tears that went into the conquest, only for Rhaenys to be laughing at her beyond the grave.

“You cannot marry without the King’s leave and blessing.” she stated, as her mind travelled to Aenys. He had looked like the stress of ruling had aged him, his crown weighing him down, the organisation of the feast being the only time she saw him carefree and joyful. What a poor excuse of a King he truly was. But he was still the King.

“I’m his brother, and his hand. He’ll come around. He’ll never give me leave to take a second wife, not with all those lords whispering in his ears. But once the deed is done, he’ll have no choice but to understand.” her son spoke. It was clear to Visenya that Maegor was beginning to get closer to Aenys. He only used to refer to him as his half-brother, correcting anyone who dared call them brothers at all, and now, his voice almost held a fondness for him. It was a good thing. The closer they were, the clearer it would be for Aenys to step aside and see who the true King was.

“The girl, you brought her here?” she asked, walking around the table, her arms still crossed and her mind trying to find holes in this plan. Her eyes stopped at a familiar location on the map. The Evergreen forest in the Starfall mountains. Rowan; what of Rowan? Her sweet girl, who had been her daughter in all but name and title, the one she had trusted with her deepest thoughts and worries, the one who stood by her side holding her hand throughout her tumultuous marriage to Aegon. It saddened her to think how this would affect her. Visenya could’ve never imagined that an innocent childhood crush would develop into something this intense.

She found herself wanting to ask him, why not Rowan, why not the one he loved, but she knew the answer. Rowan was a woman of faith and virtue, her faith saw polygamy as a disgusting sin, it would be an insult to her if he had asked her. Not to mention, any woman Maegor would marry, would face vitriol for accepting the position of a second wife. Maegor would never let that happen to Rowan- Visenya wouldn’t let that happen to her. Another reason was the close bond between the Hightowers and the Evergreens. The bond of the two houses was a deep one. Should Maegor take her as a second wife, the rift between the houses would be horrid, especially since, unlike Alys, Maegor would clearly prefer Rowan. Such favouritism would not calm the Hightowers nor Oldtown. Not to mention the friendship Ceryse and Rowan had would be ruined.

Despite being hurt over the news, Rowan was a brilliant mind, she’d understand why he did such a thing. But it was a cruel thing, was it not? To simply expect her to be understanding without explaining anything to her. It was a double edged sword. Not even Duncan knew. If Rowan knew, she would be in danger. Should anything in the plan go wrong, she could be punished as an accomplice in treason. She would never put her in such a risk, no. Things would be revealed when Maegor took his rightful crown. Then she’d explain it all to her.

“She’s here. She’s waiting to be introduced to you.” he said, his voice going soft for a split second. “Are you on board with this, mother?” he asked her, and in that moment, it was like she was staring at her little boy of eight once more. She knew he strived for her approval, it warmed her heart.

“Are you asking me for my permission?” she asked, the sarcasm not lost on her son. She took another sip of water, pinching the bridge of her nose. She felt a headache coming in. Maegor walked to where she stood, his voice now much more candid and soft, as he poured himself some water.

“Yes. Do you think I’m making a mistake?” he asked her, his eyes searching for the answer in hers. He had his father’s eyes, but the colour was Visenya’s. He felt vulnerable, his mind travelling to the person he truly longed for. He cared not for what the Kingdoms thought, he was asking her if she thought he was making a mistake with Rowan. She was who he was truly worried about.

“...no.” she spoke up after a moment of silence. She had to set aside her feelings to see things as they were. Maegor needed an heir to get his birthright. He found a woman willing to give him that. That was all this was. Rowan, as much as she loved and adored her, was never going to be able to marry him, not with how things were now. To sit and dwell on their doomed love would be foolish for both of them. Maegor had Kingdoms to rule, a dynasty to raise, he needed to act and he needed to act now.

“Yet you seem hesitant, mother.” he said, looking into his cup. Visenya had made up her mind. And so did Maegor. She didn’t fault him for his heart holding him back, he could not help it. It was a safe place to speak such hesitations, in the safety of the privacy Dragonstone provided.

“Things are happening too fast.” she said, rubbing his shoulder as he stood close. It was a reassurance, a soothing word in its own strange way. An acknowledgment of how everything felt like it was moving so quickly. It was like yesterday that her Aegon died and Aenys was crowned in Oldtown, and now the Kingdoms she had given it her all to conquer, were in danger of falling apart with Aenys in charge.

“The sooner I get an heir, the sooner I get the crown.” he sighed, welcoming his mother’s soothing touch, closing his eyes for a moment. It didn’t sound like the first time he had said this. She wondered if that is how he was reassuring himself to do all of this. To go through the wedding with Ceryse, to go through another wedding, to go through hurting Rowan. It was a cruel reality, to have to choose his birthright over the one he loved.

“Bring her in. Let me see this girl.” Visenya concluded. It would lead them nowhere if they stayed like that, reminiscing on what could’ve been, what should’ve been. It would only hold them both back and plunge them into misery.

A servant escorted this Alys girl into the room. It was clear as day that she was nowhere near as highborn as the ladies of the court. Her eyes were eager to take everything in, not a single serious thought behind them, as if this was some fun adventure she’s going on. Her curtsy was clumsy, one that betrayed that she knew little of the world she wanted to get into. She became uneasy under Visenya’s harsh stare, looking to Maegor for any kind of reassurance, which she would not receive. Visenya observed the girl carefully. If she were as harsh as some perceived her to be, she’d make a comment that he chose someone who could resemble the one he longed for, if the room was dark enough. But she was not, and so she kept silent.

The tension in the room could be cut through with a knife. Maegor stood next to his mother dutifully, like he always did, as if he were presenting his mother with some kind of project he needed reviewed. Alys Harroway held her breath, as Visenya’s harsh eyes studied her.

“Very well.” she said, stepping back. At her words of approval, Alys visibly relaxed her shoulders. Maegor nodded at her in gratitude and awaited her next words. “Let us go find a septon and get this over with.” she said, walking out of the room, Maegor’s footsteps closely behind hers, and Alys running to catch up. Although surprised, she didn’t seem to hesitate, nor care. It was of no concern to Visenya, as long as she did what they needed her to do.

As she had expected, the septon of Dragonstone refused to perform the ceremony. He held his more scathing comments to himself, knowing the threat of dragonfire was close and ready to find him with a mere word. She knew what he would say. This was an abomination, a ridicule of the meaning of marriage, that only two belonged in a union, all things she had heard before. But who were these little men to tell the Valyrians, who were closer to the gods than they were to mere men, of what was right and wrong? They would not wait for any septon to make up his mind, no.

By the evening, Visenya Targaryen performed the ceremony herself. The smallfolk of the island, as well as the servants and cooks of the castle were called to be witnesses. Balerion and Vhagar were sat together, watching them as well. Visenya was the only one in ceremonial clothing, as Maegor insisted that he and Alys would wear normal clothing. She understood why. He wanted this to be done as quickly as possible, with as little fuss.

And there, as the sun was setting on Dragonstone, Maegor Targaryen took Alys Harroway as his second wife, in a ceremony of Old Valyria, in front of a hesitant crowd.

Now, it was only a matter of time for things to fall into place.

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