#where you die i will die and there i will be buried may the lord deal with me be it ever so severely if anything but death separates us

[michyeosseo]

I will find you once I clear my name.

Jeon So Nee and Pyo Ye Jin as MIN JAE-YI & JANG GA-RAM in Our Blooming Youth 1.01

[inmirova]

spending the small hours of the night thinking about how hdb views the mere act of caring for him as inhuman.

[blood-teeth]

E N T E R T H E L A B Y R I N T H

In the Labyrinth, they talk of gods.

They whisper between their fingers and sweeten their breath with the tales of titans of old who once stood so tall that a single breath would cause earth-tremors, their steps reshaping the ground trod beneath them. Their fingers were the tools that smoothed the mountains into points, shaped and carved the ridges and valleys in between. If you hike far enough, one woman claims, if you travel to a point where the oxygen is thin and your vision blacks, you can make out a partial print against the mountainside. You can run your own fingers along its length and still feel the titan’s warmth as if his palm were pressed right against yours.

The woman says, It is a thing of worship. It is a thing of devotion.

In the Labyrinth, they ask you to make you make your body anew before the King of the High Hills. They say that you are alive because you must suffer for the life and love of the Lord, that you must open your body and let him lick along your flesh so that he may taste the endlessness of his perpetual reign.

In the Labyrinth, there is no escape from his touch.

“You have a heavy burden upon you,” the headmaster was saying, teeth and eyes all a glitter under the amber cast candles. “I am not unsympathetic to the arduous path ahead of you—but please understand that this suffering must be experienced for the longevity of the king, for the beautiful life ahead of him. Only he is the one who can shed mortality and raise to the gods, because he is the only one strong enough, courageous enough, to count the cost of living forever. You must succeed where others have failed. You, this class, this is our last chance to mend what has been made broken. You must. You must.”

The Mouths of Elysium is a dark-academia fantasy created with Twine where your choices matter to the story. You live inside the Labyrinth, a maze that hates to become known with walls and paths that change every hour. The center of the Labyrinth sits a university that has been there since the beginning of time; its only purpose is to recruit students who can solve the puzzle of life, who can create an elixir that would allow the King of the High Hills to live past the length of forever. Failure means a fate worse than death.

You are one of those students.

Althea Callaghan - You know her in death. She has been the taste of rot against your tongue, the anger and hurt in your palms. You see the nice, beautiful lines of her teeth and become a creature of grief unfolding unto yourself. Debase yourself with the fervent want of her. Bend at your waist and beg for forgiveness.

You hate her. You want to watch her bleed. She feels the exact same about you, but what she doesn't know is that every waking moment of your life is dedicated to her.

The Princess/Prince - The forgotten child of the throne. The 405th child of His glorious reign. Divinity runs through their veins, the heir to so much power, but they will never see themselves rule the unforgiving landscape of the Labyrinth. Their fate is to die and be buried amongst the endless graves of their dead brothers and sisters. They must do this so the King may live forever.

A fully customizable MC including gender, appearance, and sexuality

A landscape of horror. A landscape that hates you and everyone who might try to understand it. Go beyond the walls and be witness to a reality worse than death

Key choices that will influence your game and experience. Will you succeed or fail?

Learn what it means to be forgiven. Learn what it means to suffer. Become devotion. Become loyalty. Make your body anew before the King of the High Hills

DEMO : TBA (coming soon)

[shanastoryteller]

Happy Christmas Shana! May I ask for some Merlin and Arthur? Maybe the time travel Ygraine one, or something else entirely 🎁🎄🎅🏻

Queen Ygraine is cursed to die during childbirth and the baby is stolen from his very crib that same night.

Uther rages. The grief and the fury of losing them both leave him a broken man and a broken king. The grounds of Camelot turn to mud with all the blood he's spilled and the air turns grey and harsh from the burnings. He sends knights to every corner of his kingdom, but his son remains missing, not even a body to be found.

Tristan and Agravaine de Bois send letters, blaming Uther for their sister and nephew's death and proclaiming they are subjects of Uther's no more. It's a blip in torrent of grief - Uther can't even pretend to mourn the loss of his brothers in law in the face of that of his wife and son.

"I still think we should have killed him," Tristan says, watching the servants pack up the contents of their manor with a scowl.

"He would have killed you and then I'd be stuck doing this alone," Agravaine replies, a blond, blue eyed infant in his arms. "So our revenge will have to wait."

"Alone?" Nimueh scoffs. "Thanks. Is this not revenge enough?"

Tristan softens, reaching out to brush the back of his index finger against Arthur's chubby cheek. "He's not revenge. He's our nephew."

Agravaine briefly tightens his hold on the babe before relaxing. "Where are we going? I suppose Mercia is the obvious choice."

"That old man won't be able to help gloating to Uther and we don't want him giving us a second glance," Tristan says. "Cendred's kingdom is a better choice, I think. That's our where our grandfather's castle is anyway."

The two of them plus a sorceress should be more than compelling enough additions to his court for Cendred to relinquish it back to them. Or at least turn a blind eye when they take it back themselves.

~

Merlin is fourteen and standing by his mother's side, keeping his head down and not moving or thinking or looking or anything as the lords come to collect taxes.

No matter what they say, no matter what they do, he's not to move.

There's cries of pain from the smith as one of the lords kicks him down, shouting at him for how little they have. He's the most educated man in the village, he's the one that keeps track. He's the one that warns them how short they are.

They are especially short this year.

There's the sound of sword being unsheathed and Merlin resists the urge to bury his head in his mother's shoulder. He's not suppsosed to move.

"Oh, for goddess's sake," a new, young voice says. He doesn't sound that much older than Merlin. "This is a waste of time. If you cut off his head, will gold coins fall out?"

"We're here to collect taxes!" he insists.

The young lord scoffs. "And if we were sent to squeeze blood from a stone, how long would you spend with your hands pressing into bedrock? Look at them!"

"We can't just let them get away with it," he argues. "If you're father hears about this-"

"He'll hear about it because I'll tell him myself," he says, annoyed. "We could take everything they have and we'll still lose money when they starve to death and we have to send people to bury the bodies or risk disease settling in. The wages for those soldiers will cost far more than everything this little village has to offer."

"They're on our land, they pay the tax!"

The young lord's voice goes hard. "I think you'll see that they're on my father's land and it's ultimately his responsibility to collect taxes for the king. Which means this is decision, not yours."

"Yes, and he decided that-"

"Well I'm deciding differently and he can yell at me about it then!" he snaps. "Put your sword away before I draw mine."

There's a tense, heavy silence. Then there's the sound of a sword going back in its sheathe and, "Yes, Lord de Bois."

Lord de Bois sighs and then raises his voice so his voice carries travels to everyone standing there, to the whole village standing there and waiting. "I'll return within the week. If there's any sort of bookkeeping you have, gather it for me."

"Y-yes, my lord," the blacksmith stutters.

There's the sound of footsteps then hooves.

He lifts his head and only sees the back of the young Lord de Bois's blond head.

Merlin wonders if when he returns, he'll be allowed to look.

[marvelsmylife]

Enchanted

Pairing: Cassian x reader

Plot: Cassian finds his mate during Starfall

A/n I was watching the Eras tour last night (yes I’m a die hard Swiftie) and was inspired to write this when she performed Enchanted. I decided to write it about Cassian because I feel like he needs more love on here.

Cassian really didn’t want to be here celebrating, not when a few months ago he nearly died during the battle with Hybern. He reluctantly agreed, only because he wanted to please his high lord and lady, but if it was up to him, he would be locked away in his room.

After only being at the celebration for a few hours, Cassian was ready to make an excuse to leave the party.

That’s when he spotted you in the middle of the dance floor, dancing alone, with no care in the world. Cassian couldn’t help but admire your free spirit and wondered if you came to the celebration with a significant other or if you came here with friends. He didn’t know why, but he started growing jealous at the thought of you possibly being here with another male.

“That’s y/n,” Rhysand commented, and scared Cassian because he didn’t realize his brother was standing next to him: “She’s good friends with Feyre,” Rhysand added when he realized Cassian was probably wondering how he knew what your name was: “You should go dance with her. From what Feyre has told me, she got out of a relationship not long ago and is trying to get out and have some fun.”

The old Cassian would jump at the chance to bed a beautiful female like yourself, but he couldn’t bring him to do it, at least not tonight: “I’m not like that anymore,” Cassian replied. 

Rhysand gave Cassian an amused look at his explanation and earned a punch from his brother: “I’m trying not to be like that anymore. I want what you and Feyre have. I want to find my mate but don’t know how I’ll find her. How did you know Feyre was your mate?”

Rhysand began explaining what he felt before finding out Feyre was his mate. Halfway through Rhysand’s explanation, Cassian couldn’t help but look over at you again and felt as if someone knocked the wind out of him. Rhysand seemed to notice and patted Cassian on the shoulder: “I’m going to repeat myself: go ask y/n, your mate to dance.”

Without giving himself a chance to second guess himself, Cassian walked up to you and lightly tapped your shoulder: “How can I-” You went silent when you made eye contact with Cassian: “General Cassian, how may I help you?”

“Dance with me?” Cassian asked, point blank: “Please?”

There were gasps from jealous females as they watched Cassian extend his hand to you: “I would be honored to dance with you,” you smiled at Cassian and took his hand.

Luck seemed to be on Cassian’s side that night because the second he pulled you up against his chest, a slow song started playing. “So general,” you spoke to break the tension between the two of you: “How are you enjoying Starfall?”

“Please, call me Cassian, and it’s better now that I’m dancing with the most beautiful female in all of Prythian,” Cassian replied; a warm smile appeared on his face: “What about you?”

You tried not to let Cassian’s words get to you, but a shy smile crept up on your face at his compliment: “I was doing ok until a handsome Illyrian man complimented me, and now I don’t know how to act.”

Cassian felt his ego boost at your comment and found himself holding you a little tighter. He was about to ask you when Rhysand announced the show was about to begin. Cassian leaned in and whispered into your ear: “Come with me. I know a better view.”

You were going to question him where because you already had a perfect view of the sky when Cassian decided to carry you bridal style out and into the skies. “Cassian, where are you taking me. We’re going to miss the stars,” you asked while burying your face into Cassian’s chest.

“Don’t worry, we’ll still see it,” Cassian reassured you.

You were starting to get worried about where Cassian was taking you until he finally landed on a mountaintop. “Did you bring me here to get murdered?”

Cassian tried not to laugh at your question: “No, I didn’t bring you here to get murdered. I brought you here so we could watch this,” Cassian pointed to the sky and noticed the stars passing by: “I brought you here so we can watch this without any background noise.”

You were in awe as you looked up at the sky and saw stars shooting across the sky. “No matter how many times I’ve seen this, I’ll never get tired of it,” you gushed: “Good call coming over here to watch it. While I love celebrating with others, it’s nice to watch this in silence.”

While your eyes were glued to the sky, Cassian stared down at you with nothing but love and adoration. He couldn’t believe that after so long, he was finally face to face with this mate. His only problem was that he didn't know if he should let you know right away that you mates or if he should wait until you get to know each other better.

Feeling Cassian’s stare, you looked up at him confused: “What’s wrong? Is there something on my face?” you started touching your cheeks.

Cassian found himself chuckling at your question and replied: “No. I’m just admiring your beauty,” causing your cheeks to turn warm.

“You Illyrian males are something else,” you smiled at the Illyrian male. 

Something inside Cassian finally snapped, and he found himself leaning in to kiss you. You were expecting the kiss to be rough and rushed, but it was the complete opposite. Cassian was kissing you so gently, like he was afraid you were going to break under his touch. His large, rough hands were resting at the small of your waist, pulling you closer to him.

You didn’t know how long you kissed Cassian, but you started craving more of him. He was all you could think of, and you started to feel a sense of dread at the mere thought of being away from him. As soon as Cassian pulls away, you hear the words you never thought you’d hear in your lifetime, especially from someone like Cassian: “I thought I’d never find you, my beautiful mate.”

“Mate?” you repeated in surprise: “We’re mates?”

Cassian simply nodded, worried sketched on his face. He was afraid you would reject him, even though you shared what he thought was an extraordinary kiss.

“Mates,” you repeated once again; this time, you smiled up at him: “You’re my mate.”

“I’m your mate,” Cassian leaned in again, but just as he was about to kiss you, he whispered: “Happy Starfall, my beautiful mate,” and kissed you again.

[jaimeslanisters]

the pawn in every lover’s game (part fourteen)

Aemond Targaryen x Lannister!Reader

When you’re ten, your father sends you to King’s Landing to befriend a princess and woo a prince. A lioness growing up amongst dragons is a dangerous thing indeed.

crossposted on ao3 masterlist word count: 16.1k notes: posting. so i can finally beat those death allegations... 🙏🏼 please take this extra long chapter as my apology if any of you are still around

The wedding of Aegon and Helaena Targaryen ends with as much fanfare as it had began with. Buried underneath the cheers and claps, you can still distinctly hear a choir singing a hymn, its lyrics completely muffled by the sound of revelry still reverberating within the Dragonpit. You’ve long since stopped clapping, having decided to at least save your palms some of the misery, but the rest of the room seemingly does not seem to mind the sting, the sounds of their claps shaking the room like thunder. From your vantage point, you can see how Helaena’s smile tightens and how Aegon’s eyes seem to grow increasingly more and more distressed. Their hands are squeezing each other so tight that even from your vantage point, you can see how their pale knuckles whiten even further from their tight grip on one another. They look beautiful, striking and unnatural, but all you can see when you look up at them are the ghosts of the children they used to be, dressed up and lovely but painfully unprepared.

Part of you wants to usher them off the altar, to save them just a little of the embarrassment, to shield them from the all too piercing gazes of the capitol.

A larger part of you, however, knows that this is only a taste of what they will have to face in the future. Sooner rather than later, the entirety of the realms would be looking to them for direction, for wisdom, and for strength, and they would all trace it all back to this singular moment in time. The historians, the maesters, the singers, and the storytellers would all look back to this one day, to this mere stretch of an hour, and say that this is where the tone of their reign was decided. It’s monumental. It’s historic.

It’s no wonder the Queen looks as stressed as she does. It’s a miracle you haven’t ripped your own hair out.

Just as the cheers begin to die down, you sense movement out of the corner of your eye and you turn your head in time to see Ser Criston nod to the Lord Hand, murmuring something quietly in response. In the next breath, Ser Criston moves up towards the altar, bowing his head to Aegon and Helaena as he does. Behind him, other kingsguards move up to follow behind, their white cloaks starched to perfection so they practically shine with a pale glow from the sunlight filtering in through the windows in the domed roof. They form a wall around the two Targaryens, leaving space for them to remain visible to the rest of the Dragonpit but close enough that no attackers would stand any chance of getting close enough to do damage. It’s a shockingly familiar picture, one that you’ve seen countless times before though not in recent memory.

It’s King Viserys and Queen Alicent, hand in not quite loving hand, their twin crowns perched delicately onto their heads as they stand proud before their people.

Almost.

Not quite but maybe just enough.

“The Lord Hand has an eye for the dramatics,” you murmur to Aemond, not taking your eyes away from the altar, from the show of extravagance.

Aemond hums, dropping his arm down to scoop your’s up. You hide a smile at his show of affection, however small it may be. “He was the one to insist on the coronet. Mother was the one to push for the wedding to be in the Dragonpit rather than the throne room. The throne room would be limited to only nobility and even then, only the highest echelon. Here - thousands can fit.”

You nod, glancing over your shoulder. In the very back, some people have started to move towards the wide open doors, sensing that the ceremony has ended and seeking a quick escape, but the vast majority of people stay, still clambering to catch a glimpse of the royals. The mass of the smallfolk are held at bay by a wall of City’s Watch, their cloaks forming a golden wall between the nobility and the rest of King’s Landing.

Like the curtains of a playhouse stage.

This was a performance. A beautiful lie where the actors would play their roles to perfection or fall to shambles in front of the world. Endless and endless roles and parts to play, endless scenes to perform. It would never end. It couldn’t.

Smallfolk didn’t care about who sat the Iron Throne. They didn’t care about which Lord ruled over them, didn’t care whose birthright was being taken, whose ruling right was being usurped. They cared about being fed. They cared about surviving the winter. They cared about their sons growing into old and grey men instead of dying young in a nameless field and their daughters marrying good, kind men.

They cared about their stories - their pretty little stories they could pass onto their children and their children’s children. They cared about Jonquil and her fool of a knight. They cared about Symeon Star-Eye, about Lann the Clever, about Brandon the Builder.

They would care about this - about the beautiful Targaryen maiden with emeralds in her hair and amethysts in her eyes marrying her equally beautiful brother, the yet uncrowned king. They would care about the dragon and his treasure.

They would care about the performance.

The performance was all that mattered.

“All the world’s a stage,” you murmur quietly and Aemond lets out a small noise, prompting you to tear your eyes away from the goldcloaks to peer up at him. Even as the guards begin to prompt all of the nobles to start to be ushered out of Dragonpit, to be guided through the tunnels, he looks down at you, focusing his attention solely on your words. It warms something up in you and you resist the urge to curl into him, tuck yourself into his side.

“It’s a quote,” you say, smiling slightly thinking about your little sister with her ink stained fingers. “Jeyne… She loves plays, you see. Always reading them, writing them. She used to make me and Tyshara act in them even. There’s a playwright she enjoys. It’s a quote from one of his works, I believe. She convinced me to go see it with her in Lannisport a few months ago.”

“You used to act in her plays?” He questions, gently pulling you along as the guards begin to grow a little more insistent. He walks slowly, keeping pace with you, and the two of you trail behind the rest of the wedding party, behind them but leading the rest of the nobility.

You mockingly frown at him. “What are you trying to imply, my prince? I was a once-in-a-generation talent. Joy still talks about my turn as a knight, a queen, and as a lady in a lake. In the same play.”

“Really?” Aemond says flatly, raising his eyebrow. “I remember a lady always finding my hiding spot in the library and somehow always being surprised to find me. You stopped being convincing after the first few times.”

You tilt your head up to hold your chin high even as your cheeks flare with embarrassed heat. “It worked, didn’t it? Seems like I was something of a leading star.”

“Your audience was a lonely ten-year-old boy and you were the prettiest girl I had ever seen, let alone the prettiest girl to ever talk to me. You could have convinced me that you were Balerion the Black Dread reborn if you had set your mind to it.”

A laugh bursts its way out of you, loud enough that Otto and Alicent turn around to peer curiously at the two of you, one smiling and the other frowning. Part of you wants to seize up at the scrutiny but a bigger part of you wants to stay in this moment and curl up in the warm glow in your chest.

Anything to distract you from the night ahead.

From all the nights ahead.

“Seems a shame I didn’t realize my skills,” you muse, pulling yourself away from the anxious thoughts that creep at the edges of your subconscious. “Then again, if ten-year-old me had known her own power, I’m afraid she might have grown drunk off of it. Who knows what she would have ended up doing?”

Aemond smiles, shaking his head slightly. “Perhaps she would have grown bold enough to woo a prince?”

You laugh again, gleefully, and this time Daeron stops in front of his mother to look back at you. You wave him off, smiling at him, but not before he grins at the two of you, so clearly pleased by the closeness you’re sharing with his brother.

The two of you settle into the silence and, once you step into tunnels leading deeper and deeper into the Dragonpit, you pull his arm closer to you as you follow the blend of goldcloaks and kingsguard. The tunnels are brighter than they were the last time you had entered these halls, when you had followed Helaena deep into the bowels of the pit itself. New lit sconces have been placed into the walls, carefully carved into the stone so they cast the light of the flames over the uneven ground. Even still, you’re careful to watch your step and keep your grip tight on Aemond’s arm, using him to balance yourself in case you misstep and stumble into a dip in the ground.

Somehow, it’s louder the deeper you go into the tunnels, the stone walls amplifying the footsteps of thousands above of you until it’s almost like there are waves crashing on the shore over your head, torrential and powerful. It reverbrates and shakes to the point that dust falls off the rocky ceiling, covering your dress with a thin layer, dulling the starched white into a yellowed shade. You’re not the only one suffering if the cries of the noblemen behind you are anything to go by and you can even feel it on your skin, feel little rocks falling into your hair.

The tunnels have never been so crowded, so full, before.

But there’s a strange emptiness in the air.

“Where did the dragons go?” You ask Aemond. As impossible as it would be, a part of you feels like you’ve snuck into the tunnels, even surrounded as you are by everyone in King’s Landing. It almost feels like you could turn a corner and run into the massive beasts that call this hill home, as if you’ll stumble onto them and have a dragon breathe flame onto you for the injury of trespassing.

Aemond tilts his head. “Dreamfyre and Sunfyre are waiting at another exit to take Helaena and Aegon to the Red Keep for a final procession in the sky. I believe Daeron has Tessarion housed somewhere near the Kingswood though she might have left if she grew bored of the cattle that they got her.”

“And Vhagar is at her roost, I assume?” You ask and Aemond spares you a small smirk.

“Why so inquisitive? Are you interested in meeting her, my lady?”

You miss your next step and only your hand curled around Aemond’s bicep keeps you upright. You right yourself fast enough but not so quick that you don’t hear his stifled laugh, a quick and quiet little thing.

Cheeks embarrassingly hot, you swallow thickly, holding back your immediate and empathetic ‘No’. It is a poorly kept secret that you aren’t fond of the Targaryens’ sigil and Aemond would love the chance to push and prod at this side of you. You weren’t hateful or even open about your aversion. You have just never once jumped at the chance to get close to any dragon, no matter the countless opportunities you’ve been given over the years, and you would shy away from offers to see them.

Helaena never failed to offer to bring you along with her to the Dragonpit and you would occasionally accompany her even if you would always beg off on actually going in with her. Aemond had only ever made one explicit offer, back when he was only weeks into having had claimed Vhagar, and you had been humiliatingly forceful in your denial. It was an embarrassing memory to look back on, one that you always cringed away from even thinking about. Even now, you can remember how you had stammered out a no, citing a recent newfound fear of heights and a mystery injury that had rendered you incapable of climbing up the tangled web of ropes that constituted Vhagar’s harness. You had been petrified to hurt his feelings, so soon after Driftmark, but Aemond had taken your rejection remarkably well even if he had looked insufferably amused by your poor excuses.

Yet another mark against you as an actress.

Aemond had never asked you again though he was remarkably transparent in his desire for you to meet Vhagar. He’d always announce when he was going to go see her, making sure that you were in earshot, and, once, when you were both years younger, he had made a grand show of having commissioned a large saddle of Vhagar - large enough to fit two.

His brothers, surprisingly, were less single-minded in their attempts to convince you to warm up to their sigil. Daeron, in the early years when Tessarion had been comparatively small and he would come to visit, would cheerfully invite you to come feed her with him, seemingly oblivious to the way you would grimace at the thought of seeing a dragon feast on a goat again as you had as a little girl. Aegon was, shockingly enough, the Targaryen least invested in your interest in dragons. While he was always prone to bragging about Sunfyre’s beauty, he hoarded moments with him to himself, zealously protecting his time with his dragon with such fervor that one would almost think that he was paranoid someone would steal Sunfyre out from under him.

No, your lack of fondness for the dragons the Targaryens rode was hardly a secret.

But it feels wrong to say that now.

Now, when all of your intentions had been laid bare at Aemond’s feet. Now, when you’re holding onto Aemond without nervous fear creeping up your throat, without the anxieties of wondering if he wanted you half as much as you wanted him.

No, you couldn’t say that.

“Perhaps,” you start slowly, the words dragging themselves out of you slowly, sluggishly as if your own body was rebelling against what you were about to say. “I would want to meet her. I… I imagine it’s time I see her.”

You feel a jerk on your arm and you stop short, turning to gape at Aemond. He’s completely stopped in the middle of the hallway, staring so intently at you that for a moment, you fear that your very skin will light on fire where his eyes trail on you. You’ve pulled away from him slightly, the most space between your bodies since you had stood in your place next to him during the ceremony, but your hand is still loosely gripping his arm, a tether between the two of you.

“Do you mean that, my lady?” He asks softly, as if he’s scared you’ll take it back, as if he’s nervous you’ll snatch your own words out of the air and push him away.

Around you, your guards slide to a stop behind the pair of you, a crimson wall between the two of you and the rest of the nobility approaching. There are only moments until they’ll be pressing down on your sacred space.

But you don’t look over at them. You look at him.

You feel like a ten-year-old again, sitting at your table in the library, eyes wide as you stare up at Aemond. If you try, you can almost erase the grown man in front of you and slot in a ten-year-old boy, his head wrapped in bandages, his mouth set in a determined line. He had been holding books in his arms, tight to his chest like a shield to protect himself with.

Had he been nervous? You can’t quite remember. Maybe he had been shaking. Maybe his teasing smile after had been hiding the hurt in his eyes. You can’t remember, can’t remember anything but the way it had felt as if your own stomach had dropped to the very ground at the mere idea of approaching the Queen of All Dragons.

You lick your lips, mouth dry. Despite the nerves creeping up your spine, the primal fear that threatens to settle in your bones, there’s only one answer you can give.

“Yes,” you say, voice soft and gentle, almost like a whispered promise down in these winding tunnels where dragons make their home. “Yes, I will meet her.”

Aemond Targaryen is all sharp edges and white knuckles, a dragon’s rage contained within one man. Just two days ago, he had plunged a sword through a man’s throat and stood victorious over him, had been hungry for more and for you. He was proud and lethal, fire and blood embodied.

There’s little trace of that man now.

Now, he stares at you as if this is the first time he’s ever seen you before. His gaze is almost unbearably soft, unbearably gentle. Even as children, he’s never been this open, this completely vulnerable.

Your heart clenches painfully in your chest.

A near decade since Driftmark. A near decade you’ve denied Aemond this.

You tug on his arm, beckoning Aemond to keep up, and this time, he’s dependent on you guiding him through the winding tunnels. His eyes stay on you, scanning you for any sign that you’re reluctant.

You’re not, however. More than your fear, more than your anxieties, you feel remorse creeping up your throat.

It’s an ugly, sickly feeling. You’re not used to guilt, not used to feeling sorry. You like moving people like chess pieces, the subtle art of manipulation, exercising your control and power.

But not with Aemond.

Never with Aemond.

And now, he’s caught you twice in a mere few days.

Your stomach still churns at the memory of when he had revealed that your intentions had always been plain. He had seemingly been okay with it, had seemingly appreciated that you had pursued him, but a part of you still wants to apologize for it.

Just not here.

You can feel the eyes of the nobility behind, peering through the wall of crimson cloaks that can’t quite shield you from their prying eyes. What you want to say deserves to just be his, your’s and his alone with no danger of someone stepping in and interrupting.

You already had to share him with the rest of the world. You didn’t want to have to share this too.

For just a moment’s breath, you allow yourself to lean into Aemond, pressing your side into his, resting your head on his arm. It’s only for a moment but you soak it in, trying your best to commit to memory the feel of his toned arm under your cheek, the way his body shifts to accommodate you, always aware of you as if you’re burned into his periphery, another part of him as he is to you.

You pull away, curling your hand around his arm. He doesn’t say anything but his other hand floats up, moving to cover your own, squeezing it tight.

You walk deeper into the tunnels, the crashing footsteps of King’s Landing all around you.

——————————–

The sunlight is almost unbearable after the tunnels. The sconces had done little to acclimate your eyes and when the narrow passageways open up to the bright blue cloudless sky, you reel back on instinct, turning your face away from the relentless sun. Blessedly, the ground is smoother out here, the rock having been worn down from decades of wagons and the heavy feet of dragons, and you move forward blindly before your eyes adjust.

You’re at the base of Rhaenys’ Hill, away from the grand entrance with its soaring arches and bronze doors. Here, the trees have receded, giving way to a few brick houses that line the bottom of the hill, houses that you know are large and luxurious but somehow seem so quaint in the shadow of the Dragonpit. In the distance, you can see the walls of King’s Landing, looming high over the city. From your vantage, you make out the Dragon Gate with its oversized dragon statues serving as sentinels, the golden bronze serving as a beacon to denote its location. If you turn your head west, you can just see the Old Gate though your sight of it is obscured by the massive mansions that surround it, populated by the richest merchants in the city.

Out here, in the barely fresh air, it almost feels like a world removed from the crowded Dragonpit or even the lined streets of the capital. There are no smallfolk jostling to catch a glimpse at the gilded few. There is no cheering, no screaming. There are just rows and rows of wheelhouses, servants standing at the ready next to them, such a familiar sight that it borders on the mundane. It feels, for the first time all day, normal.

It’s almost sickening.

It feels like you should have walked out to a world on fire. The buildings should have shifted, rearranged themselves to fit this new reality, but all of it is the same. It’s the King’s Landing you’ve grown up with. The King’s Landing you’ll die with.

You dig your thumbnail deep into your own palm, using the small jolt of pain to anchor yourself back into the moment, to quell your own mounting disappointment at this new bitter reality.

Aemond leads you down to the closest ring of wheelhouses, towards the gathered crowd of his family. You spare a glance over your shoulder. It’s a mass of people, all of them more finely dressed than the last, but Lannisters have always stood a head and shoulder above all the rest and that stays true even now. Jason and Tyland are tall and Tygett is even taller and, through seeing them, you can spot the smaller figures of your cousins and distant uncles surrounding them, even as deep as they are in the crowd of nobles.

“I imagine my father will come to fetch me soon enough,” you muse quietly to Aemond, eying the massive crowd that separates you from them.

Aemond spares you a look, his delicate mouth downturned. “You’re free to ride with us in our wheelhouse. There’s room to spare since I believe Princess Rhaenys will ride with her house and Grandfather has some matters to discuss with Lord Hightower in his wheelhouse.”

You hide a smile before shaking your head. “I’m a Lannister, my prince. I may live with dragons but I’m a lion and I go with the rest of the pride for now.”

“For now,” Aemond repeats and you don’t bother hiding your crooked smile now.

“For now,” you echo.

You rejoin his family by his wheelhouse and, the instant you arrive, Alicent descends upon the two of you, her hands fluttering up to brush off nonexistent dust off of Aemond’s tunic.

“You both did lovely,” Alicent praises, offering you both nervous smiles, and you instantly recognize the look in her eye, the energy that seems to pour out of her fingertips and fill the air with a cautious, staticky charge. She’s coming down from an impossible high - for all intents and purposes, she could still be riding that high, still drunk off the adrenaline.

You smile back at her, feeling a similar pulse of nervous energy coursing through your veins even as you bow your head in gratitude. “Thank you, Your Grace. I’d like to congratulate you on the beautiful ceremony - all of it, every single last detail, was an absolute marvel.”

Alicent’s smile softens, losing some of that manic quality and turning into something warmer. There’s a flicker of pride on her face, that age-old feeling of success and satisfaction. It makes her look that much younger, more overeager girl desperate for a pat on the head from her septa than a Queen carrying the burden of seven kingdoms on her back.

She is young if you think about it. If your math is correct, she’s over a decade younger than your own mother and Cerelle is not even a year older than Aegon. Your stomach twists at the thought, at the age she must have been during her first pregnancies. It had been a miracle that no harm had come to Alicent or to any of her babes.

Your mind flashes to Helaena, to the fact that now that she was wedded and soon to be bedded, her first child would come soon enough. That familiar, tell-tale nausea of anxiety begins to creep up your throat and you swallow it down thickly, trying desperately to bury it deep within you, alongside all the other anxieties that haunt your every move. Helaena is older than her mother had been. Helaena is stong - healthy.

You forcibly drag your focus back onto Alicent, just in time to see her bow her head in gratitude, pulling away from Aemond to give the two of you some space. As soon as she moves, however, Daeron takes her place, beaming brightly. His hair is slightly messier than it had been earlier, some of the delicate braids knocked askew as if he had run his hand through the tresses, but all of it only serves to give him a boyish charm. He’s still otherworldly, still more beautiful than anyone has any right to be, but he’s unmistakably human, unmistakably a boy.

It warms you right up and you smile more easily at him, part of you wishing you could reach out and muss up his curls even further. Boy that he is, and as close to adulthood as he is, something in his rosy cheeks and his bright eyes reminds you of Joy, of your little sister with her own rosy cheeks and bright eyes.

“I think you were right, Aemond,” Daeron says, grinning. “All of it went smoothly. Maybe the sun is a blessing for Valyrian weddings? Keep them warm and all of that.”

“As smoothly as it could,” Aemond drawls, seemingly unaffected by the warmth that his brother seems to exhibit like a little sun of his own. You suppose he’s rather used to it, having had him for years before little Daeron had been shipped off to Oldtown. You imagine he was even freer in his affection and kindness as a little boy but somehow, it’s impossible to imagine Daeron being any more sweet. “Helaena and Aegon will need every blessing the Gods see fit to give them.”

You snort, completely unladylike to the point you can feel the ghost pain of your childhood septa rapping you on the knuckles with her ruler. Neither prince seems to mind so you barrel forward. “If an entire day of prayers solely devoted to their union can’t conjure up some goodwill and luck, I pray the sun will do the trick.”

Daeron laughs. “I bet everyone else in the city is also praying for them too. They all want their future princes and princesses to be healthy - especially the heir. I’m sure they’re praying for them as they prayed for Mother and Father.”

You hide a smile but Aemond makes no such effort, looking supremely amused by his younger brother’s guileless treason. Daeron says it as if it’s a settled fact, a law of nature - not the most dangerous dispute to threaten House Targaryen since perhaps Maegor the Cruel. In a way, you suppose it is.

Aegon Targaryen is the true heir to the Iron Throne. He may not be a named heir but calling something by a different name did not change the facts, could not shift the foundations that all of Westeros was built upon.

It is not treason to see the truth.

No one has ever said it so plainly and with such clear language though. You wonder if Daeron even has it in him to be duplicitous, to weave lies in with the truth until it was interchangeable in the same way his grandfather could.

No, you think as you look him over. He’s far too gentle for it, far too chivalrous. He’s the son of Alicent Hightower or, at least, the son of the gentle girl she must have been before the throne turned her into the woman she had to be.

“If the Gods see to bless them, then they will be blessed,” you say in as sincere a voice you can muster. You sound so devout that even the High Septon could not find fault with you but, judging from the tremble of Aemond’s arm tucked into your’s from his suppressing his laughter, you’ve failed with at least one person.

Daeron smiles at you, smaller than his previous grins but all the more sincere. “You’re right, my lady.”

“She rarely isn’t,” Aemond says, sounding entirely too smug to be praising you. “With the exception of her evaluation of her own acting skills.”

You scowl, immediately losing whatever minimal glow you had earned through your holy act. “I was ten and it clearly worked.”

“You used to act?” Daeron asks, looking like a child who’s just been handed a new toy.

You flush. “I didn’t. He’s poking fun.”

At the same time, Aemond says, “She used to. She was terrible but she has improved.”

Daeron laughs gleefully, his amethyst eyes flashing with unbridled joy. “My lady, I had no idea you were a thespian.”

“My sister,” you say, rather than explaining your storied past with acting with regards to Aemond in particular. “She fancies herself a would-be playwright. She’s always scribbling away on any scrap piece of parchment she can find.”

The youngest Targaryen prince tilts his head in response. “Is she good? Have you read her plays?”

You smile slightly. “I tried my best to read them when I was home, my prince, but she guards them more zealously than some dragons guard their treasure.” Aemond snorts quietly next to you, clearly amused by your little barb, and Daeron’s gaze turns all that fonder at his older brother’s obvious satisfaction. “I’m afraid the only writing of Jeyne’s I’ve read in recent memory is her letters,” you finish, sighing slightly.

It certainly hadn’t been due to lack of effort. You had cajoled, attempted bribery, even tried to (unconvincingly) threaten her. Short of locking her in her room, you had no way of getting the opportunity to read Jeyne’s plays. When the two of you were younger, you could hardly go a day without her shoving sheets of parchment in your face, staining your dress sleeves with the ink on her fingers with the way she would tug on them to beg you to read them over. When you had returned home, you had been the one chasing her down, begging for even a morsel of her thoughts.

Just another way that your world has shifted in a way you’re never going to get back.

“I’m sure she’s a great talent,” Daeron says, cheerful and amiable. He’s so sincere that you imagine even the High Septon could find no fault with him though you are certain he would try.

“Like the rest of her sisters, my Jeyne is a rare talent,” your father’s voice cuts through the din and you start slightly, turning to the source. Behind your father, you can see your uncle speaking with Lord Otto and the Queen, Tygett and Tygett’s own father and uncles at his side.

You bow your head at your father in greeting and, next to you, Aemond and Daeron do the same, Aemond deeper than his brother. This doesn’t pass Jason’s keen eyes and his gaze turns sharper, more mischievous boy than a High Lord, and you fight the urge to bury your head in your hands.

Your father will always have his fun.

“Prince Aemond,” Jason says, his voice high and lofty, and Aemond straightens next to you, his normal rigid posture even stiffer. Your father’s eyes sharpen at the shift, looking distinctly leonine, and even Daeron looks absolutely delighted by the turn of events. “I didn’t get the chance to congratulate you directly but House Lannister would like to extend our thanks for honoring my daughter as you have.”

Aemond bows his head again. “She brings herself honor, my lord. I was only given the opportunity to bring the rest of the capital’s attention to it.”

Jason laughs, so clearly amused, and you bite your lip to stop yourself from saying something. Knowing your father, it would only make this game he’s playing all that more fun. “The rest of the capital? After the tourney, I’m afraid the rest of the kingdoms are all too aware of my daughter’s honor now. On my way to the Dragonpit, I could hear some songs being sung through the walls of my wheelhouse. My uncle’s granddaughters were enraptured - they’re already asking their fathers to bring some bards back to Lannisport so they can share the songs with the other members of House Lannister.”

A thrill crawls its way up your spine. You certainly haven’t heard any songs - not that you would have had the chance to hear them - and you had known that the bards would do as they always do and write their songs. The pretty little story that the tourney had provided them with had been too good, too perfect, for them to resist.

But it actually happening is something else entirely.

You don’t dare look up at Aemond now, not when you’re certain it’d be impossible to hide from his amethyst eye, and the sight of your father’s increasingly amused face makes you want to crawl into your own skin to hide so you stay quiet, praying that the conversation will end.

Daeron, however, has no such qualms.

“Really?” He exclaims, so audibly delighted that you look over at him without even thinking. He’s brightened up entirely, grinning so wide that one would think that the bards were writing their songs about him. “Are they any good?”

Jason laughs, similarly pleased to have found someone to play along with his charade. “I’m no great expert on songs, my prince. You’ll have to ask my cousins for an educated opinion.”

Daeron laughs. “Perhaps a bard or two will sing a song at the wedding feast.”

“Perhaps not,” you intervene, sniffing delicately, unable to hold back your tongue. Next to you, Aemond snorts quietly. “This is Helaena’s wedding. Not mine. The singers should stick to the classics rather than trying out any new material on everyone.”

“Give it time, sweetling,” Jason teases and his voice has taken a softer tone, his smile just that much warmer. “Soon you and your dragon prince’s songs will be the classics. You’ll be begging for them to play new songs then.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes, and, against your own better judgment, you glance up at Aemond in hopes of finding an ally in this battle with your father and his unexpected ally Daeron. Predictably, he looks horribly amused as if this was all a big game to him, a show being put on for him. But he’s not just amused. There’s a shine to his eye, a gleam of something that isn’t just barely concealed laughter.

It’s warming. It’s gentle. It’s intoxicating.

You quickly look away, suddenly all too aware of the consequences of looking at him here, in front of your own father.

The thought of providing Jason Lannister with that much ammunition is almost too much to bear.

“We’ll have time to continue this at the feast,” Jason finally says, shedding the skin of a teasing young boy and donning his high lord costume. “In fact… Your Queen Mother and I have planned a tea for tomorrow. Just a simple meeting. Nothing to be concerned about.”

Nothing to be concerned about? You could almost laugh out loud. There would be nothing simple about a tea with the Queen - not one following a declaration of intents. Your father and Alicent would sit down and discuss joining their two houses, probing politely at the bones of a bethoral contract without overplaying their hand. If they were even feeling particularly productive, they could likely even hammer out the larger details of one - questions about your dowry, bridal payments, properties to inherit and divide. Knowing your father, he would be sure to push trade contracts that would heavily favor House Lannister, maybe try to slide in a chance for another marriage contract for Jeyne or Joy.

Tomorrow would be a starting point. It would be the first move to lay down the foundation on which your and Aemond’s futures would be built on top of.

Your mouth dries in anticipation.

“Yes,” you echo, letting a small smile slip on your face. “We have a tea tomorrow. There will be much to discuss.”

Your father smiles, pleased by your easy obedience, and Daeron grins, delighted by another chance to tease and poke at his brother.

But Aemond…

When you tilt your head up to look at Aemond, that gentle warmth has fled from his sole eye. There’s a curve to his lips still but it isn’t amusement or laughter.

No.

This is him moving with you, him responding on sheer instinct alone to the gnawing ambition that lays claim to your peripheries, pushing and pushing inwards until you can see nothing else.

This is him seeing your hunger.

And this is his answering your call.

——————————–

Sometime after the wheelhouse’s easy travel on smooth dirt roads gives way to the familiar bumping and jostling of the cobblestone roads of King’s Landing, you hear the roar of a dragon.

It’s like a shot in the dark, so loud and invasive that it slices through your father and uncle’s easy conversation without remorse, and you freeze for a moment, primal urge overtaking any rational thought.

Don’t move. You can’t be seen if you don’t move.

The impulse leaves you quick enough and you’re left with just a fading sense of embarrassment as you turn to one of the many windows that line House Lannister’s grandest wheelhouse. Sliding one open, you peer up to the sky in time to see a golden shine break apart the endless blue.

Sunfyre. Beautiful and peerless.

You frown slightly as you look up at his shape gliding delicately through the air, more graceful than any beast of that size had any right to be. You couldn’t hear the telltale sound of Dreamfyre’s wings beating loud and clear or see her blue scales glinting in the sun. There was no sign of Helaena’s companion which meant that there was only place that the girl herself could be.

Helaena and Aegon were riding together.

The thought makes you slide the window shut and you slump back in your seat, worrying your bottom lip with your teeth. Aegon was notoriously possessive of his dragon - all of his rings were styled after Sunfyre, obnoxiously ostentatious things, and most of his clothes were embroidered with metallic thread in an attempt to capture even a sliver of his beauty. Since reaching adulthood, he had forced the Dragonpit keepers to swear off approaching Sunfyre even to feed the dragon, preferring to do the gruesome task himself. If you’re being honest, you doubt there’s even another relationship in his life that would come close to his uncomplicated and free passion towards his own personal sigil.

And now Helaena had invaded that sacred space.

Even just a week ago, you would have gambled everything on Aegon preferring to be bathed in fire rather than allowing any of his siblings to ride alongside him on his one treasure. He coveted Sunfyre something fierce, more possessive of him than he was of anything else.

Yet Helaena was with him.

You’re not sure what it means.

Aegon loves his sister - you know that as surely as you know that you love his sister - but he didn’t love his sister and that maybe mattered more now. Aegon and Helaena would be no Jaehaerys the Conciliator and Good Queen Alysanne whose love for each other only dimmed in comparison to their love for the realm.

But maybe they could be something better. Something more than their parents with their glacial relationship. Something more stable than their grandparents and their infamous Quarrels.

You sigh, pushing the thought out of your mind. There would be plenty of time in the future to worry and fuss about Helaena and Aegon’s relationship and how the realm would view it. There would be plenty of time to plan how you would twist Westeros into cherishing it. You had enough to worry about for today.

Namely the feast.

“I wonder how Queen Alicent will outdo herself tonight,” you muse out loud, drawing your father and uncle’s attention to yourself. “She’s guarded her plans rather zealously.”

Tyland snorts quietly. “It’s certainly been a grand expense. Lord Beesbury has not stopped fussing about the cost of this and that to anyone who will listen even though the Hightowers are paying for most of it from their own coffers. You’d think the expenses are coming straight from his own purse with the way he goes on about it.”

You hum, letting a mischievous smile slip on your face. “Lord Beesbury, may the Gods forgive me for saying so, much prefers the sound of his voice rather than putting forth any meaningful solutions. He’s never been fond of the Queen and he’s even less fond of her children. It’s a miracle that the Lord Hand managed to loosen his grip on the purse of the Targaryens to fund even the tourney.”

Your uncle nods in agreement, tapping his fingers against his thigh. “He’s Lord of Honeyholt. They’re always getting the castoffs of House Hightower and old Lyman is no exception to the animosity his House has nursed for centuries now. I sometimes wonder if he’s really so fond of Princess Rhaenyra as he likes to say he is or if he just hates the alternative. He himself has a daughter older than his heir and you don’t see him pushing her first in his line of succession.”

Jason shakes his head, looking genuinely annoyed. “They should have retired Lord Beesbury years ago. He’s senile in his old age. It’s a miracle he doesn’t crumble into dust whenever he bumps against something.”

You blink, somewhat caught off guard by your father’s frustration. “Is he really that old?” You prompt, eager to coax more of his true thoughts out of him.

“He was old when they placed him on the small council, sweetling,” Jason scoffs. “He’s even older now.”

Tyland grins at his brother, looking absolutely tickled by his twin’s simmering anger. “You’ve never gotten over the fact that King Viserys snubbed Uncle Stafford for him.”

“More that he snubbed you,” Jason shoots back. “Master of Coin should be yours. You’re a Lannister - who knows gold better than us?”

You nod slowly. “If King Viserys was smart, he’d offer you, Uncle Tyland, Master of Coin and offer Master of Ships to Corlys Velaryon if not his brother. Bring the Velaryons back to the fold. Everyone knows that they’ve split from Princess Rhaenyra.”

“If,” Tyland murmurs, raising an eyebrow, and you stifle a laugh. “Besides… The Queen and her father hold the throne now, truly, and they might be hard-pressed to convince the Velaryons to come to their side. I don’t doubt that the Sea Snake still harbors a grudge for King Viserys passing over Lady Laena for Alicent Hightower.”

“The Sea Snake,” you say without thinking. “Not Princess Rhaenys. She’s a Velaryon and, like Queen Alicent, she holds her House’s power while her husband fights an endless war in the Stepstones.”

Jason leans forward slightly, quirking up a brow. “Since when have you been so close to Princess Rhaenys?”

“I’m not,” you reply. “But I’m not a Hightower or a Targaryen and that seems to count for something in her eyes. She clearly wants to foster a connection where her husband did not if she accepted the role of the Crone. Moreover to the point, I believe she’s… Fond of me.”

“Fond?” Tyland now questions you.

You shrug, flashing a smile. “Fond. Like a lady and her pet. I imagine she’d be surprised to find anything in my head that wasn’t revolving around Aemond or Helaena.”

Jason hums, leaning back in his seat. He starts drumming his fingers against his thigh, eerily echoing his brother perfectly. “Princess Rhaenys always liked to think that she was cleverer than everyone around her by far. She never did quite live up to her own expectations.”

She is clever, you muse, keeping your thoughts to yourself. But she’s too stubborn to approach allies - not when she can wait for them to approach her. She harbors the same grudge that her husband does towards the Hightowers. She can’t move past what Rhaenyra and Daemon did to her children. She’s isolated herself in a war where she’ll need allies to survive.

She would need to pick a side eventually if only to keep herself and her granddaughters afloat.

The only question was which side would snap her up first.

“The key to the throne is through the Velaryons, through Princess Rhaenys,” you say quietly. Jason tilts his head at you but Tyland nods at you, immediately understanding. “Securing her means securing her husband’s fleet and bringing two dragons with her.”

“Two?” Jason asks.

You nod, thinking of bared teeth and sharp purple eyes narrowed in your direction. “Lady Baela,” you say slowly, mulling over your words before you say them. “I do not believe she’s… as dedicated to Princess Rhaenyra’s claim as people think. She resents her for the shame she brought upon her mother by marrying Prince Daemon so fast.”

“Prince Daemon is her father,” Tyland says, more out of prompting you to continue with your logic rather than truly reminding you.

You tilt your head, playing with your sleeves slightly as you ponder what to say. “She’s loyal to her sister before anything else. I think… she may be more loyal to House Velaryon than to House Targaryen. Surely, that would mean something to her father.”

Jason snorts. “Prince Daemon deflowered the Realm’s Delight. He took a second wife and shamed Rhea Royce before a fall saved her from that humiliation. There are even more stories about him that would make your ears bleed, sweetling. He covets the throne. Always has. I doubt even his daughter could sway him from a lifelong dream being so close to his grasp.”

“Perhaps he does not need to be swayed,” Tyland murmurs. “A mad dog is only dangerous if it’s off its leash.”

“He is not a dog,” you reply. “He’s a dragon and those are rather hard to leash. If his own brother could not do it, I doubt we’d have much luck even with his daughter.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Your uncle asks and the look in his eye gives you pause for the first time in this conversation. He’s searching you, looking into you. He knows what your answer would be but he wants to draw it out of you, wants you to admit it to him, to your father. He wants your resolve to be firm. “How would you manage Daemon Targaryen?”

Silence hangs in the wheelhouse. Outside, you can hear the constant hum of people, the sound of hooves hitting the cobblestones, the shouted orders of City’s Watch.

Inside, you stare down at your uncle.

“I wouldn’t manage him,” you finally say, your voice steady. “I would kill him.”

Tyland’s eyes glint with something and you don’t dare look away, not even with your father looking at you with the same inquisitive stare. “And Rhaenyra Targaryen?”

Your breath catches in your throat and Helaena flashes in your mind. Helaena who had nothing in common with her sister but everything in common with who she had once been to Alicent Hightower.

“If I must,” you finally respond. “If I need to.”

“You’ll be kin by the time this would be necessary,” Jason finally says and your eyes swing to look at him. “She’d be your sister by law. He’d be your uncle by law.”

“No one is as accursed as the kinslayer,” you say on instinct, the phrase coming to you as easily as breathing. This time, you see Aemond. You see Aemond and dusty books and can hear you whisper about Brandon the Breaker and the night’s king. “There are kinslayers in every line,” you finally say, echoing your childish self. “What’s one more?”

“There are septons who would demand your tongue for that, little one,” Tyland muses, smiling all the while.

You shrug. “They’re not in here, are they?”

“Even if there was,” Jason starts, still peering at you as if he’s never seen you before. “I can’t imagine they’d have much sway on you.”

“Septons can be useful,” you reply, thinking of the High Septon with his clear gray eyes, with his rainbow crown. “I believe in them, I do, but I value my family, mine, over any of their words.”

“Your family is a mite larger than just lions,” Jason says, no question in his voice.

You meet his green eyes head-on, straightening up. “You sent me here,” you remind him, feeling that years-long grudge, that childish anger you could never quite free yourself from, rear its ugly head. “You told me to find a space for myself in the royal family. I did. I have. You cannot fault me for its consequences. Lannisters protect their own - at all costs and damn the consequences. I just have more to protect now than I did at ten.”

Jason looks at you, his eyes looking all over you as if he’ll find the answer written somewhere on your body. Maybe he’s searching, you muse almost fancifully, for the little girl he had sent away, the little girl he had damned to the capitol with its endless hate and its even more endless schemes. Maybe he’s wondering who this stranger that took her place is, this stranger that sends her sister off to freeze in the North, who wears a crown of bloody flowers like a prize, who walks amongst dragons.

You can’t miss her now, you almost want to say out of sheer spite. Not now when you didn’t want her then. You bite the inside of your cheek, knowing that’s more than unfair. It would just be cruel. Vicious.

It doesn’t make the desire to say it go away, doesn’t stop the anger from bubbling underneath your skin.

Finally, Jason smiles. That same old friendly smile that always disarmed your resentment, took away its teeth to make it into something docile. It’s the same smile that had coaxed you into the Sunset Sea after him, the same one he would give you the few times he had allowed you to crawl onto his lap during the summer storms.

You wish it didn’t work just as well now as it had back then.

“Hear me roar,” he says, grinning at you like you’re sharing a funny joke.

You simply nod, not wanting to speak anymore.

——————————–

None of the chaos of the earlier week of feasting seems to compare to the maelstrom that has gripped the halls of the Red Keep now. It feels impossible to move without having to elbow at least five of your cousins out of the way and not even your father and uncle forming a small retinue around you seems to clear your path any.

Perhaps I should have taken Aemond up on his offer you grumble in your head, eying the crowded hall outside the throne room with disdain. At least with the royal family, you doubt you would have had to wade through what seems like every single noble family in Westeros.

Up ahead, towards the entrance of the throne room, you can see the poor servant in charge of informing Ser Harrold of the next family to enter so that the Lord Commander can announce it. He looks harried and stressed, seconds from pulling his own hair out with his bare hands and you feel a flash of pity for him. Aside from the major houses, sure to be announced first, the minor lords must be haranguing him to be bumped up the list, to inflate their own self-importance by calling their name closer to the high lords.

It’d be a pointless exercise - you doubt people listen to the names if they’re not a major house and even then, you doubt most would care if it’s not their high lord being called.

You watch the servant for a few beats longer, fighting the urge to laugh when he gets shoved back by a lord only for the lord to realize that that was the man in charge of the procession. You’re so engrossed in observing that you miss the first whisper of your name. It takes a few more times but you finally register it and you turn slightly to see Jocata standing next to you, her big green eyes peering up at you anxiously.

You furrow your brows slightly as you look at her, more baffled than annoyed. Aside from the final day of the tourney, when she had complimented your crown blood and all, she has practically hidden herself from your sight, trembling like a leaf when your gaze did fall on her. You had silently resigned yourself to having soured that relationship for good but now she’s here, standing in front of you looking as if she would rather be anywhere than there.

“My lady,” she starts, her voice trembling as she takes a deep inhale to steel herself.

“You’re my cousin,” you interject before she can say her next bit, frowning slightly. “There’s no need to stand on etiquette between the two of us.”

Her lip shakes and you distantly wonder if she’d have a better go of it if you looked away or closed your eyes. She says your name weakly, shyly, as if she’s trying it out for the first time in her life and not having had used it for the eternity of your relationship with her. “I just wanted to… I ran away last time and it wasn’t right and I… I wanted to congratulate you on your crown… and apologize again for my role in Ser Victor’s favor.”

It’s a credit to her that she doesn’t burst into tears but she does look dangerously close to it, her pale cheeks a brighter red than either of your two dresses. You smile at her, trying your very best to put her at ease. “Just see to it that men don’t take further advantage of your innocence, Jocasta,” you warn. “It’ll only get more and more difficult the older that you get.”

Jocasta sniffles, nodding her head, looking distinctly like a scolded puppy. “I understand. I won’t… I won’t fall for it again. But I wanted to offer you a true apology. Not… Not what I had tried to do.”

She’s too soft to be a Lannister you think without any malice or anger as you look at her. She’s kind, gentle, sweet - all the markings of a lady and none of the characteristics of the house she called her own. With any luck, her husband would be a knight, a true knight who could uphold his vows and honor and cherish his lady wife. You somehow doubt her father would prioritize that, likely more concerned with increasing his own wealth as the third son of a second son, far removed from the main line and its heir, but you hope for it regardless.

“Of course Jocasta,” you finally say, reaching out to squeeze her hand, and she blinks at you before a small hesitant smile lights up her face.

“I prayed for Prince Aemond in the melee,” she whispers as if it's a secret she’s confessing. “I went to the sept and I lit a candle for him at the Warrior statue. I lit one for you too in front of the Maiden. Not because I knew you were going to the Maiden in the wedding party b-but just because I thought she should bless you regardless.”

Your breath hitches, caught off guard, and, wildly, you remember your fervent prayers that day, remember perfectly how much you had wished you had been able to light a candle for Aemond at the Warrior’s feet. Sweet Jocasta had. She had lit one for him and you.

You squeeze her hand again. “Thank you,” you murmur, wishing you could say more without tripping over your own words.

Jocasta just gives you another smile before she pulls away, walking beyond you to seek refuge among her sisters and brothers and cousins. You stare at the spot she had been occupying, turning the feeling of gratitude over and over in your mind, trying your best to force it to solidify into something you can do. Something you could reward her with for her good nature, for her gentle soul.

A good marriage is the only thing you can think of. Perhaps even an offer to serve in the royal court as a lady in waiting for you and Helaena. She could better her odds here, away from Lannisport where only lions roamed, but it would be dangerous here. She was too soft for the cesspit that formed King’s Landing and the Red Keep. The snakes in the court would eat her alive, and would strive to take advantage of her at every turn. Her Lannister name would protect her - some - but she’d still be subject to the court politics that haunted everything around her.

You bite your lip, moving forward on instinct when your father and uncle step closer and closer to the entrance to the throne room. There wouldn’t be much time to debate this or any time at all. Your cousins were scheduled to leave in the next couple of days. They’d possibly be delayed a few days if your father formalized a betrothal contract with the Targaryens but he could hold that card close to his chest. Cerelle’s marriage with Cregan Stark was sure to break soon and the announcement of a royal engagement could prove loud enough to drown out the whispers around that.

You wouldn’t be surprised if Cerelle’s new role as Lady Stark would be talked about tonight. If she was riding out to gather her new husband’s bannermen for him, more than a few of those lords would let any allies in the South know about the shock of a Stark lord taking a Southern wife for the first time in their long history and that wife being a Lannister of all things. Her letter couldn’t have possibly beaten all that gossip and could have very possibly been delayed if everything had happened as fast as she had said it had.

A part of you that isn’t preoccupied with whirling plans and ideas childishly longs for the next raven to be carrying a letter for you; that with it Cerelle will either castigate you or soothe your guilt. Either way, you want to hear her voice, read her words. You miss your oldest sister with a fierceness you haven’t felt in years. It had been different all the times before - you had always been secure in knowing that she was safe in Casterly Rock with your other sisters and your mother. Now, she’s in the frozen North, married to a man no one in your family has ever met before, far from your grasp and she would be for the foreseeable future.

Suddenly it feels like there’s no time at all. No time with Jocasta. No time with Cerelle. No time for anything. Everything is speeding up more than it had ever before, threatening to leave you in the lurch.

That familiar tight ball of pain begins to bear down on your chest, crushing your lungs and your heart under its weight, and it’s only the gentle call of that poor, harried servant that knocks you out of it.

When you come back to it, you’re standing right by the door of the throne room, positioned to the right of your father while your uncle occupies his left. Ser Harrold looks over at you and, as is customary with him, he spares you that little smile that you know has always been meant more for your mother than it has ever been meant for you.

You smile back though, completely instinctual, reminding yourself that this is the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Who cares if he only likes you because you were the walking mirror image of Johanna Westerling, born looking more like your mother than any trueborn Lannister had any right to be? What mattered was that he liked you.

He looks over at your father and the warmth that he had held in his eyes for you slips away when he looks at Lord Lannister, replacing it with the stern face of one of the greatest knights in the realm.

He nods at Jason and your father nods and you take a deep, settling breath.

“House Lannister, with their lord, Jason Lannister. Lord Paramount of the West and Master of Casterly Rock.” Ser Harrold booms, loud and thunderous, and the endless chatter of the throne room, of all the lords and ladies of the regions that had gone before the Westerlands, ends and a silence settles across the room.

Your house moves as one.

The throne room is an impossible marvel, burning sconces of different colored flames illuminating the tables, mini suns lighting the room and making the banners and the tapestries glow with an otherworldly gleam.

Making House Lannister glow.

Underneath the flickering fires, the veins of gold within your dress glitter endlessly, the delicate rubies and emeralds woven within gleaming with a vengeance. Your bust and corset are covered with this, armorlike if not for the fact that it's molded perfectly to your body, tailored so perfectly that it clings like a second skin. The jewels stop at your waist, giving way to the crimson velvet that forms the skirt and train of your gown but the tendrils of gold continue, swirling and spinning in careful spirals down your body and skirt.

It is by far the most expensive thing you’ve ever worn, more expensive, you’d wager, than all the gowns and jewels some houses could bear to afford. It was the most extravagant show of wealth at this wedding - it would be obnoxious if it wasn’t so Lannister. Showing off your riches came as easy to you as breathing. Lann the Clever had won the Rock from the Casterlys and that made this your right.

Your father leads the procession to the royal table, somehow even more confidence in his step than ever before. He’s secured a grand prize, after all; a prince for his daughter. He walks like it too, smugness radiating from his every pore, as proud as he’s ever been. One would think that he was the one all but set to marry into the royal family.

When your family arrives at the foot of the Iron Throne, you all bow deep. When you rise, you look over in instinct at Aemond’s seat. Dimly, you recognize Daeron sitting in Helaena’s old seat, accommodating the shift to have Helaena and Aegon sitting together in the center, but he’s almost blurred in your periphery as you stare at Aemond.

He’s changed from his warrior outfit into a tunic more fit for a feast - fit for a prince. The black velvet is fitted to his chest perfectly, emphasizing his slender build to the point your mouth dries. Embossed on his chest, three dragons twist and curl around each other, each so distinct that you immediately recognize them as the dragons that conquered Westeros, and your lips tug up into a smile when you recognize the familiar shape of Vhagar front and center. Some of his long hair is braided up away from his face, the braids like a pattern against his scalp, but the majority falls like a sheet around his face. He’s so far removed from what he had been wearing earlier - a nobleman now rather than the living manifestation of a god. Even like this though, even without wearing the robes of the Warrior, he’s still undeniable, still holy and sanctified.

Your body lights up again, deep in your core and spreading out into your chest, and you feel the sudden desire to pray at his own altar, to prostrate yourself in front of him, to kneel and worship.

Your mouth runs even drier and you snap yourself back into focus, suddenly feeling too warm inside the throne room. You feel a hot desire for the cool air of the gardens or even the chill of the library and you bite your lip to pull yourself away from it, to settle in the now. It’s only then that you notice Aemond’s hot stare, the way he looks at you as if the entirety of his world has shrunk down to just you. That increasingly familiar heat is back in his eyes and he looks at you as he had when he had been covered in the blood of Victor Florent, when he had licked the sugar off a candied lemon.

He looks at you as if he wants nothing more than to devour you whole.

That gnawing hunger in your core, that burning flame, glows that much brighter, that much hotter, and you snap your eyes away from him, taking in a shaky deep breath.

You settle your gaze on Aegon and Helaena, sitting together directly in the shadow of the throne. They’ve changed as well, matching in velvet green and shining golden. You wouldn’t be surprised if the seamstresses had used the same bolts of fabric to make their clothes. It’s meant to present an image of unity, of harmony, but they look nauseatingly similar. Dressed like this, the scant year gap between the two of them vanishes entirely, leaving them as mirror images of each other, as alike as Jason and Tyland.

Your stomach twists but you force a smile anyways, meeting Helaena’s eyes. She’s plainly ignoring your father’s introduction of the gift House Lannister is presenting (three golden dragon statues with rubies for eyes), putting less of an effort than even blearily eyed Aegon, but she’s plastered a bland smile on her face to at least attempt the veneer of an interested party. The moment she registers that it’s you looking at her, however, her entire face brightens up and she sits up straighter in her seat, her fake smile melting away into something softer, more genuine.

  You smile at her almost girlish expression. She almost looks like her old self, the sweet girl who had let you read to her in the shade of old trees. She looks like that little girl wearing a costume, too big in certain places, too tight in others, but it’s undeniably her. Maybe your fears were unfounded. Maybe your anxieties didn’t need to ruin every waking moment. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

Your father finishes the presentation with a final vow to always be faithful to the crown and Alicent smiles gracefully, nodding and plainly deferring to Aegon to accept his oath. Aegon, for his part, doesn’t seem wholly aware of what’s happening, only jerking to attention when his mother leans closer to him, her smile placid as if she wasn’t driving the point of her elbow into his ribs. He jolts straight up, clearing his throat instinctually, eyes looking skyward as if he’s trying to remember a script he’s forgotten.

“As the first son of King Viserys, first of his name,” Aegon says slowly, trying the words out carefully like he’s learning them as he goes. “I am grateful… and appreciative of your loyalty to House Targaryen and… vow to return your faith. I- We look forward to only deepening and strengthening our bond and alliance.” He meanders his way through the sentence, clearly lost and struggling to remember, but when he finishes, there’s a quick flash of boyish pride on his face when he realizes he hasn’t messed up and he looks so much like the boy he must have been before even you had arrived to the capital and you feel an unfamiliar warm glow towards him.

You’re not used to feeling cozy towards Aegon - amused, yes. Annoyed, most definitely. But this is something new and your own confusion at your feelings must show on your face since Aemond looks supremely amused. You quickly move your sleeve up to cover your mouth, trying to play off your aborted laugh like a sneeze or a cough, but, judging from the way your uncle shoots you a reproachful look, you haven’t really succeeded.

Your father gives one final nod to Prince Aegon and, when he turns to face the rest of your house to be led to your seats, he meets your eyes. For a moment, in all the colors of light, he almost doesn’t look real with all the shades cutting across his sharp features. He doesn’t look like your father, doesn’t look like Jason Lannister. He looks like something else - almost like a painting with the colors smeared across it.

He looks proud, fierce. He’s won a windfall for House Lannister. You’ve won a windfall for House Lannister. He must already taste the iron in his mouth, must already dream of a daughter of your’s marrying into the house of the dragon, his blood sitting the throne itself.

And it’s all owed to you.

Your blood thrums with success, strong and vicious, and a part of you wants to hiss that truth to your father. Tell the Lord Paramount of the West that it was his daughter, his third daughter, the daughter he sent away, that brought this bounty to their house. Not him. You.

Jason nods at you, a smile flickering on his face, and you bow your head in response, only looking up once he’s passed you. You meet Aemond’s eye once more and he tilts his head at you, asking a question without words.

I’m fine.

He shifts in his seat, straightening up slightly, and you bite the inside of your cheek to hold back a grin when you realize if you made even the slight move to suggest it, he’d leave the royal table to follow you like a shadow to ensure your comfort and safety. You give him a small smile as assurance before taking your leave, following the rest of your house to be directed to your seats.

Unlike the feasts before, the seating isn’t strictly by houses. While your uncle is directed a few seats down from you, next to Lord Ormund, and your father settles into a seat next to Lord Celtigar, clapping the younger lord firmly on his shoulder, a maid directs you towards a seat nestled between Baela and Lady Floris Baratheon. You idly wonder how long it took the Queen to arrange this seating - who she must have consulted and what patterns she must have seen. You wonder if Aemond told her about your attempts to form some relationship with Baela Targaryen or if she had seen it for herself at the melee.

The moment you sit, eying the spread of food already laid out for you to enjoy, Lady Floris turns to you, a pretty smile on her face. “Lady Lannister,” she greets, leaning closer than she should, close enough that you can see the dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose and the kaleidoscope of colors in her eyes. “I just wanted to personally congratulate you on your crowns - oh, what an honor! I heard the songs the bards were playing near the Dragonpit - they were so, so lovely! I hope you’ll forgive me for saying this but I hadn’t known Prince Aemond was so handsome and he looked so beautiful crowning you.”

You smile awkwardly, slightly caught off guard by her overly effusive praise. She’s not all that much younger than you, closer in age to you than you were to Jocasta, but she’s so free in her manners that you wouldn’t be surprised if she was nearer in age to Jeyne. It seems half a miracle that such a sweet girl would come from the stormy house of Lord Borros, that such a frivolous girl could be the daughter of a high lord.

“I thank you, Lady Floris. I’m afraid I haven’t gotten to listen to the songs myself but it seems I will have to soon enough,” you reply, bowing your head in thanks, and she beams prettily. Everything she does is pretty - from the way she smiles to the way she reaches for her goblet of wine. Everyone around you seems to notice and you hold back a laugh at the way Floris seems to glow under everyone’s attention. You doubt there’s much of it to go around in Storm’s End - you can’t imagine a lovely girl like her thriving in the dark and dread of the tempests that haunt her home even if the Baratheons are nearly as prolifically virile as the Lannisters. It’s almost impossible to imagine it - even more impossible to imagine that she is one of the Four Storms, that her fights with her sister can and do grow to the point of infamy.

She giggles, her pale cheeks a bright red, and you drop your gaze slightly to the nearly empty goblet in her hand before looking back at her flushed face. You look slightly behind her, further down the table, to see her father laughing loudly as he snatches a carafe away from a servant to keep for himself.

As pretty as she is, it seems Lord Borros left his mark on his daughter after all.

She gives you one final big smile, slightly lopsided now that you look at her more carefully, before turning to talk to the enraptured son of House Reyne sitting at her side.

“She’s had two of them so far,” Baela murmurs, leaning slightly closer to you. Her white curls hang loose today and it tickles on the back of your hand when she moves closer and her hair sways over to you. “I’m afraid she might be a bit of a lightweight.”

You stifle your snort of laughter. “I’m sure she hasn’t had much to eat either - I only had some lemon cakes to make sure I didn’t keel over during the ceremony. I doubt she did much better.”

Baela snorts, reaching for her own goblet of wine in response. “I imagine it’s her first time being out in the court. Easy to get caught up in the splendor of it all.”

You tilt your head, reaching for a candied strawberry to pop in your mouth. “Royal weddings are usually the first time most ladies are brought to the court.”

“There hasn’t been one for years,” she responds immediately before pausing. Something darkens in her eyes, a flicker of old anger or regret, before she shakes her head, trying to clear it from her mind. “At least, none like this one.”

You bite down on the strawberry, enjoying the crunch of the crystalized sugar followed by the sweetness of the fruit. As you chew, you look over Baela carefully. She’s occupied herself with a tart, listlessly picking at it as she glares down at her plate.

The last royal wedding had been her father and Princess Rhaenyra. A rushed affair by all accounts - both in the time after her mother’s death and in the actual ceremony itself. There had been no traditional wedding - at least, no traditional wedding in the light of the Seven. No feasts. No tourney. If what you had heard when it had happened was true, they had had a Valyrian wedding on Dragonstone and that had been it.

You had little knowledge of what went into a Valyrian wedding - Aemond had briefly told you the details of it when the news had first broke but he had been uncharacteristically reticent to share information with you. He had explained there was meant to be a mixing of blood, to symbolize the different bloodlines coming together to become one, in the presence of fire to represent the strength that it would bring. He hadn’t given you much detail after that and you, admittedly, had not pressed him for it.

To be fair, he might have been sore over you debating out loud whether or not mixing the blood was necessary when the bloodlines were one and the same.

There hadn’t been tell of who had attended the wedding. Only that it had been attended by a maester who had confirmed its legitimacy to both the crown and the Citadel and a handful of guests.

You had never stopped to consider whether or not Baela had been there, if she had been there with her sister and with the Strong boys. You try to imagine what it must have been like to watch your father remarry, the tears not even dried from your mother’s funeral, and something in you trembles with rage and, alarmingly enough, sympathy.

Sympathy you didn’t care to feel, not when you can still remember the way Aemond had flinched when the maester had stitched his face back together, stitch by agonizing stitch.

Baela still harbors a grudge over it, bad enough that the memory of it would still send her into a dark mood years later. Another chink in the armor of House Targaryen, in the armor of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen.

Another place you can dig your fingers in and pull and pull and pull until it is an impossible gap to close.

“I doubt there will be more weddings like this for quite some time,” you muse, Baela looking up from her plate to meet your eyes. “No other prince is even betrothed.”

Baela snorts inelegantly. “Not as much time as you’re trying to pretend there will be. The Queen might be better off leaving these decorations up to save some time for the servants for the next one.”

You smile despite yourself. “I wouldn’t dare presume to tell the Queen what to do.”

“You might not but I would,” she responds with the typical brash confidence you’ve come to expect from her. Only her eyes twinkling tell you that she’s teasing. “Might as well tell the guests not to go home. Save us all some trouble.”

“My older sisters are yet to be married,” you remind her, thinking of Tyshara with her letters of love and Cerelle with her new wolf husband.

Baela’s eyes flash and she tilts her head, looking as if she’s caught you out on a lie, and you realize it half a second before she opens her mouth. “I’ve heard a rumor that’s come down from the North. Something about the first southern Lady of Winterfell.”

Something in you seizes for a moment and you can’t think about the fact that Baela is watching you for any reaction or that the intense focus on your house will only increase from here.

You can only think about the fact that Cerelle Lannister doesn’t exist anymore. She’s Cerelle Stark now - both in the eyes of the gods and the court.

You smile on instinct, forcing it easily. “I was wondering when that would spread.”

Baela cocks an eyebrow. “So it is true then?”

Your heart beats hard in your chest, so loud in your ears it’s a miracle she cannot hear, but you nod. You let your smile grow wider and force yourself to relax in your seat. “Lord Cregan Stark heard about my sister and grew curious about the girl who was set to be the Lady of Casterly Rock if there was no boy born to us. He sent her a letter, hoping to bond over their duties, and it grew from there. When Lord Bennard caught wind, he invited her North in hopes of swaying House Lannister to his claim but my father sent her with his blessing. I’m sure you can understand why they couldn’t have a large wedding with us there, not with Bennard Stark refusing to give Lord Cregan what is rightfully his. After the matter of succession is settled in the North, we plan to travel to Winterfell to pay our respects to the new and the rightful Lord and Lady.”

A lie. A very practiced lie. It’s one you’ve mulled over for weeks now, testing the weight of it. It had been Cerelle’s idea, back when the two of you had approached your father and uncle with your plan. A love story, Cerelle had said, would make the idea of a rushed wedding go down easily. Gossip loves a story and, above all, they loved a love story. Your uncle had helped hammer out the details and all of you had agreed on the finished version. Even back in Casterly Rock, your mother and Tyshara had been coached on what to say when questions undoubtedly drifted their way.

For weeks, you’ve stressed about whether or not this flimsy story would be believed, if people would honestly think that Cregan Stark had fallen for your sister through letters. You’ve stayed up wondering if you should have pushed for this certain detail to be added or rallied for that aspect to be changed.

You never once considered if some people simply wouldn’t care.

Baela shrugs after you finish your short speech, looking as if you’ve just commented on the strawberry you just ate or how Floris Baratheon seems to be leaning in closer and closer to you once she realizes you’re gossiping. “Interesting that House Lannister would be so invested in the matters of succession of other houses.”

Your smile grows sharp. “House Lannister just likes to ensure that the correct people receive what is theirs by law.”

She gets that now familiar glint in her eye, that vicious gleam that you’ve seen in Aemond’s. For all that she’s aligned herself with her mother’s Velaryon side, she’s still a Targaryen, still a dragon. You half expect her to lash out but instead, she visibly takes a deep breath, looking down at her plate again and taking another stubborn bite.

You eye her for a moment, taking in her stiff back and her tight grip on her fork, before you sigh slightly, turning back to focus on your own food.

You think you’ll be doomed to sit in silence through the rest of the introductions, through however many courses Alicent has arranged, up until you’re free to leave your seat and find Aemond and Helaena, but then Floris drags you into a conversation about Storm’s End, her goblet thankfully refilled with water from a watchful servant. She tells you about her sisters, the three she has, and she’s absolutely delighted when you tell her you have four.

“You have me beat, my lady,” she giggles, swaying into you. You shift slightly in your seat, accommodating her so she’s pressing more into your chest rather than your shoulder, and she slides closer, nearly leaning on you entirely. You glance over her head towards the royal table, just in time to see Daeron laughing uproariously at you while Aemond hides his smirk behind his own drink. You’re so busy making a face at them that you almost miss her next words entirely. “Maybe the gods will bless my family with another daughter soon. Maybe I’ll be lucky enough or another sister.”

You glance down at her, your eyes roaming over her reddened cheeks and her half-lidded eyes. She’s still smiling, just barely as if she’s not wholly aware that she is. “Not a boy, my lady?” You ask, unable to stop yourself from bringing your arm up to wrap around her shoulders. It’s a small show of comfort, a little affection, and it embarrasses you slightly to do so in public - especially to a girl you’ve only just met. A quick look around, however, reveals that Floris Baratheon is hardly the only drunk at the feast and that most likely she’s not even the drunkest. Her own father has only gotten louder and louder, singing bawdy songs over the hum of the crowd, and you can spot your father laughing at Lord Celtigar as the poor man spills wine all over himself. Tyland and Ormund are speaking to each other in low tones, their heads bowed together as if they’re sharing a secret for only the two of them. Everywhere you look, people are deep deep in their cups and this is still only the beginning of the night.

You shudder to think what it means for the rest of the night.

Floris doesn’t respond after a moment and you glance down at her, praying that she hasn’t fallen asleep on you, but instead, you just see her playing with her goblet, swirling it gently in her hand.

“My lady?” You prompt again and Floris heaves a sigh before dragging herself up in her seat, pulling away from you.

She frowns, the first time you’ve seen a smile drop from her face. “Maybe I’ll be lucky enough for another sister,” she repeats again, not meeting your eyes. You stare at her a little longer, trying to puzzle out her meaning.

House Baratheon didn’t have an heir - at least, no boy had been born to them as of yet. Only four daughters, nearly as precarious a place as House Lannister had been, but your house had had a key advantage. You had the blood of the Andals coursing through your veins. The lordship would have gone to Cerelle before it ever would have gone to your uncle. That rule had been what had allowed for Queen Leila to rule, protect her inheritance, and choose a husband of her picking. Joffrey Lydden had only earned the title of King of the Rock through her and, even then, he had had to change his name to hers. There was a precedent of strength through the maternal line in House Lannister.

Not so in House Baratheon though, to be fair, there wasn’t much of a precedent in anything for that house. It was scarcely over a century old, formed the same year that Aegon began his conquest. They had Andal blood, yes, but also Valyrian and First Men. It’d be much harder for them to force Cassandra Baratheon, their current heir as it all stands, through to the lordship without being able to use Andal law as a major precedent. This crisis would be the first true one yet. A boy was a necessity or else their house could very well crumble.

But Floris wants a sister.

You eye her for a moment longer, wishing you could probe her for more, but as soon as you open your mouth to ask her, Lord Otto Hightower calls the hall to attention.

You straighten up and even Floris next to you pulls herself up to her full height, the sound of the Lord Hand’s voice nearly enough to sober herself. On your other side, you can feel Baela shifting, settling her attention towards the throne.

Just like during the opening feast, Otto Hightower stands in the shadow of the Iron Throne but now, Aegon and Helaena stand on either side of them, mirrors of each other. You’ve never seen much of a resemblance between the Lord Hand and his grandchildren but now, with the three of them standing side by side, you can catch echoes of him in the pair of them. Aegon is purely Alicent, a perfect copy if not for his Targaryen coloring, but it’s Helaena who bears the greatest resemblance. She’s always been pretty, always been soft around the edges, but here, next to her maternal grandfather, she’s almost handsome in a certain way. In the same way that Otto Hightower demands respect, Helaena demands worship.

“The crown would like once more to thank all the great and noble lords of Westeros for coming to celebrate this union of King Viserys and Queen Alicent’s children,” he booms, his voice loud and strong. The room claps, a few of the drunker occupants cheering loudly, and Otto raises his hands, calling for quiet. “The crown’s strength comes from its people, from you, my lords, and from the power of House Targaryen itself, from its dragons, from its allies. As we look to the future, Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena will serve as leaders, as examples, as pillars to guide the crown to even greater heights. They will help to usher in a power not seen since the days of the Conqueror himself.”

The throne room cheers again, loud and raucous, and, even as you clap, you look around. Otto Hightower’s words are chosen carefully, vague enough that to take umbrage over them would be an extreme overreaction, but directed and pointed enough that his message is clear to those who care to listen. Most are applauding, completely buying into the words of the Lord Hand, but there are a few who look more thoughtful, more suspicious. Lyman Beesbury looks as if he’s sucked a lemon, his weathered face pinched and scornful, while Lord Grover Tully nods firmly in agreement.

Rhaenys Targaryen sits, surrounded by Baratheons and Tyrells and some of your Lannister cousins, looking to all the world as if she’s working out a puzzle, trying to make a piece fit where it ought not go. You can almost see her weighing her options, mentally calculating between the two claimants and what power they bring, calculating what Rhaenyra or Aegon would bring to the realm and, more importantly, what they would bring to her and her own.

Remember your children you want to whisper in her ear. Remember how Laena screamed in pain by herself, half a world away from you. Remember how Laenor must have fought in his final moments before they burned him in his childhood home.

You can hear Baela’s clapping slow next to you and, when you tear your stare away from Rhaenys, you meet her own blazing amethyst gaze. She doesn’t bother to hide the question in her eyes, doesn’t bother to disguise her naked curiosity. You know that there’s no answer you can give her - not one that would satisfy her by any means - so instead, you give her a smile.

Her gaze hardens like flint and you wonder if this will be where she snaps, where the Rogue Prince’s impulsive nature will take over, but her own common sense takes control and she simply looks away, back to the Iron Throne.

You eye her for a moment longer, brushing your gaze over her tense frame, before returning your own gaze back to the three figures standing at the royal table.

When the clapping slows and there’s a lull in the noise, Helaena claps her hands, the sound soft but still striking enough to call attention back to her before it can turn elsewhere. You straighten up even taller in your seat, focusing completely on her. She’s been worrying over this since she told you a few days ago and you bite your lip.

Helaena takes a deep breath, looking visibly anxious to your familiar eyes, before clasping her hands together to hold against her chest. “In thanks for all the warmth the people have provided, Aegon and I would like to gift the leftovers from this feast to the poorest in this city.”

Aegon nods beside her, waiting for the applause to die down again. “We’d also like to provide more funds to the poorhouses in Flea Bottom so they can share in some of the plenty.”

He stands there awkwardly for a second, clearly unaware of what to do once he finishes his part, but, when the crowd begins to clap and cheer for him too, he straightens up, a small smile creeping on his face. You release a breath in relief when their small speech is over and it’s clear that the room is pleased by their show of charity. It had been the Queen’s idea - both the gift itself and the actual presentation of it - but you had helped Helaena practice. She had rehearsed it over and over again until you’re sure you could say her part in your sleep.

But it had all gone according to plan. You can feel one of the countless knots of anxiety inside you loosen and vanish but it gives you no relief, not when there are countless other knots to unravel within you.

There’s a beat where Aegon and Helaena look at each other, both of them caught in the moment staring each other down. It would look romantic if you didn’t recognize it for what it was - reluctance.

Then Aegon, drawing on strength from who knows where, holds up his hand for his sister, bowing his head as he does. Helaena only waits a breath before taking it and, together, the two of them walk around the royal table, beginning the slow march down to the empty space that had been cleared for dance. When they pass Aemond, your stare lingers on him.

He’s watching his siblings go, stone-faced and looking to all the world as if he was sitting a normal dinner and not the wedding feasts for his siblings. His eye tracks Aegon and Helaena as they walk and when they reach the center of the room and turn to each other, a flicker of something flashes on his face. It vanishes quickly, as if it had never been there, but it had been there.

Regret? Pity?

For all his talk of doing what he must for his family, you imagine even he would chafe at this duty. Even he would resist. Talk is easy. A lifetime tied to his sister with more than just blood is not.

You watch him, greedily taking in every single minute twitch of his face. For once, he doesn’t seem to sense your gaze. He’s completely lost in watching his siblings, his eye solely focused on them, and you know without looking when the dance begins. More than the soft gasp from Floris, more than the songs of the bards growing louder and more pitched, you can tell from the way he shifts in his seat, pitching forward as if it’ll give him a better view. His hair falls over his shoulders, falling around his face as if a curtain to protect him, but it doesn’t hide his complete concentration.

He would pull them away if he could. He would try to save them from this pain.

If he could.

Your breath hitches and you look away, following his gaze to see Helaena and Aegon.

They’re closer than they had been at the opening feast, their chests pressed up against each other in a show of intimacy. They’re clinging to each other, their heads bowed together as if they’re whispering to one another. It looks romantic. It should work.

But it doesn’t. It almost can’t. It’s the closest Helaena has ever been to anyone else - closer than even you have been to her in years but it fits her all wrong. It’s like trying to fit into a dress made for someone years younger, trying to shove your foot into one meant for a child. She holds Aegon as if she’s never held him before - never held him so close to her, so intimately. You wonder if she’s ever held anyone like that and somehow you doubt it.

She’s never been allowed it, never been given the opportunity to desire it out of anyone but her brother.

Not even with you - never been allowed to, had maybe never even considered.

A hot flame of resentment and jealousy begins to burn through your chest, burning and painful and agonizing. Why Aegon? Why her?

None of it has ever been about fair, about what was just, but now more than ever, you want to break something. Somehow this dance, this close of a dance, feels more a finality than even the wedding had been. This is everything put into motion. This is the first show of the performance that the two of them will have to give every day for the rest of their lives. You had told yourself you could manage it. You had told yourself that you could swallow back the bile and work with the pieces they’ve given you.

And you can. You will. You’ll bear it and relish the weight of the burden because of the power it gives you.

But as you watch the two of them, spinning round and round on the dance floor, it’s hard to remember that horrible truth about yourself - not with the pain swirling inside your chest.

[lendmyboyfriendahand]

More in the AU where Elrond and Elros are 16 years old rather than 6 when Sirion is sacked. Tag is "older kidnap fam fic" for previous installments

Elrond wakes up draped over the rump of a horse.

Not, to be clear, his own warhorse. His faithful stallion is being ridden by one of the few remaining warriors of the Gap, the great cavalry of the Noldor, who will be able to keep her seat regardless of what the horse tries.

Elrond isn't initially sure who is riding the horse that he's been set over like a sack of baggage. His arms are stretched out past his head, tied wrists dangling toward the ground, and his ankles are tied as well, tighter than the hobble that he had while walking. He can't see anything but horse flank.

Elrond wriggles around to try and get a better view, and someone notices.

"Lord Maedhros, it seems your guest is awake."

Maedhros pushes down the middle of Elrond's lower back to pin him more surely to the horse. "Lie still. If you fall off while riding in formation you're liable to get stepped on by the next horse, even if the rider wished to avoid you."

"I know how to ride properly."

"Yes, I saw that you were quite skilled when you killed my soldiers, which is why you're staying right there."

"Could I at least sit upright, even if I have to ride behind someone else like an infant?"

"Maybe tomorrow, if you give your word not to escape."

"I'm not stupid enough to try and bargain with you again, after you broke your word about setting us free from the cellar."

"I never said I'd set you free, I said I'd leave the city and wouldn't kill you. Sirion crumbled in the first assault, but I did no more damage after taking you and your brother into custody. If they're smart enough to repair the castle first, everyone should be able to keep warm this winter."

"And if they focus instead on burying their dead, or rebuilding their houses, or rescuing their kidnapped princes?"

"Who knows? But I'm not king of even the Noldor anymore, and the people of Sirion are not my responsibility."

"You would just let them die?" Elrond wanted to glare at the Feanorian, and nearly slipped backwards off the horse as he tried to sit up.

Maedhros caught Elrond deftly by the bound wrists and pulled him back into place. "Next time you do that, I'll let you fall"

"So you don't actually intend to even spare my life."

"I agreed to spare you, not to save you . None here will harm you, but I won't rescue you from consequences of childish stupidity, no more than I will rescue Sirion from winter. If you would rather bash your head open rather than remain my captive, I am not so cruel as to deny you that escape."

Elrond had nothing to say to that topic, as his first retort about more palatable escapes seemed likely just to enrage his captor, as did any question about cutting off hands. "Where's Elros? Was he at least left back in Sirion?" Elrond wanted his brother to be safe, and his people to have a leader with his mother drowned. But he, selfishly, also did to want to be alone with the kinslayers.

"He's here as well, don't worry. Nornmalo has him, and I trust him not to torture a prisoner, despite what it may sound like."

"The moans of pain might be a headache, he drank rather a lot of beer while we were trapped."

Maedhros laughed. "Well, a hungover child soldier. He will at least bother Nornmalo less with questions."

"Could I give him something to soothe the headache? I know a bit of healing."

"No. A headache won't kill him, and he'll get water when we stop same as you."

They stopped only once that day, to water the horses at a stream. Elros was pulled down from the saddle - feet first, luckily, though he still landed in a heap - and his hands untied. Maedhros tossed him a canteen, and said "if you need to piss, now's the best time. You won't get piss all over the horse or your clothes, and we're downstream of the rest of the company."

"My legs are still tied."

"The ropes low enough you should be able to unfasten your belt."

"Are you going to watch me the whole time?"

"Until I find another guard, yes."

Elrond drinks little enough water to avoid the issue, for the moment.

When it's time to ride again, Elrond puts up a fight about having his arms tied again. That just gets Maedhros pinning his face in the dirt while a soldier ties the rope.

Elrond is slung back on the horse like a parcel.

They stop again just before sunset to make camp.

Elrond's hands are untied again for dinner.

The food is simple, waybread and water, and Elrond wonders if he should mention that Men need to eat more than once a day.

Far more exciting than the food though is the figure dropped on the grass next to him, clutching his own canteen and waybread.

"Elros!"

"Elrond! By Ulmo, you're alright!"

"I am, just a bit bruised from the horse. You?"

"Here's something for your healer's notes: do not put people with hangovers upside down for hours. I must have thrown up a dozen times."

"That's terrible! Maybe we can ask-"

At that point the guard tells them to hurry up, they'll be taken to where they're sleeping in ten minutes regardless of how much dinner they've had. Elrond and Elros focus on eating.

They are not, apparently, going to be sleeping near each other. "Too much chance to plot."

The Feanorian soldiers have tents. Some of them share, some of them have their own. A few soldiers have tents obviously designed for two or three that they go into alone.

The horses stolen from Sirion are tied to a picket line. It's loped through the reins, but one person untying the end would let all the horses scatter.

The horses the Feanorians rode into town on are not tied at all. They are loyal old warhorses, and will not flee from orcs in the distance. If wolves do sneak past the guards into the camp, better for the horses to run, and come back at their masters' call when the danger is passed.

Elrond, by contrast, is tied to a tree trunk. His hands are tied in front of him rather than behind, and his legs are unbound. Maedhros's brother - and Elrond learned from a careless remark that their is only the one left - even tossed a blanket over Elrond's legs, to guard against the chill of the night air.

It is the most freedom of movement Elrond has had all day, but that's saying little.

He is stuck sitting up, feeling every root and rock underneath him, unable to reach his hands back to where the rope is tied behind the tree.

Elrond sleeps poorly, stirring at every noise, whether it's a guard on their rounds or an owl hooting its warning.

In the morning, Elrond is given a breakfast of water and waybread again.

Maedhros says "You know it would be suicidal to flee, alone in the wilderness, yes?" and lets Elrond ride behind him sitting up.

Elrond's hands are still bound, and a rope leads passed Maedhros to the saddle horn. If he fell off, he better hope he can keep pace with a cantering horse, or else be dragged on the ground.

Elrond stays on the horse. He figures out his balance well enough to turn, and sees Elros riding similarly.

Thing continue like this for over a week, until they reach Amon Ereb.

[thewertsearch]

More confirmation that Vriska really did die - probably to Aradia - and is currently inhabiting her Dream Self. She's lucky she wasn't on Prospit when the Demon showed up, or she would have died for good.

ARADIA: its really weird that y0u keep antag0nizing me ARADIA: i c0uld snap y0ur neck with a twitch VRISKA: Yeah 8ut you won't!

You probably think that predestination will protect you, since Aradia won't violate it - but should you really trust your safety to the whims of the Alpha timeline?

I mean, it's already sanctioned the loss of your arm, your eye, and one of your lives. I don't think it likes you very much.

VRISKA: You saw the demon up close, right? You fought him! Or at least your doppelgangers did. [...] VRISKA: What was he like! [...] VRISKA: Primarily I'm interested in your take on his weaknesses, tactical disadvantages, stuff like that. [...] ARADIA: are y0u seri0usly intending t0 fight him

Throwing hands with a First Guardian is suicide.

They're not just powerful, they're also blindingly fast, and if the Demon fought intelligently, it could teleport Vriska into a black hole before she could blink. She simply has no answer for a technique like that - not unless she's been holding back this whole time, and that definitely isn't Vriska's style.

Vriska could always cheat, though.

She may be overconfident, but she's not stupid. I have no doubt that she's fully aware that in a traditional battle, she's screwed - so if she's actually serious about killing the Demon, she must have something up her sleeve.

For example, she could:

Cause him to use up his energy reserves, which might not actually be infinite.

Send him aeons back in time. We know they can live for billions of years, but how about quadrillions?

Trick or manipulate him into destroying himself.

Separate him from his First Guardian powers. Perhaps the MEOW code can be erased from his genes?

A superintelligent First Guardian like Doc Scratch would see through most of these plans - but a superintelligent First Guardian would have already located the trolls. The Demon is apparently on a rampage, and his attacks don't seem to be all that calculated - so I suspect he's a creature of instinct, like Bec.

It's also possible that the Demon isn't actually a First Guardian, and is just using their powers somehow. This could be a good thing, since he might be less dangerous than the entities he's mimicking.

But it might also mean he's Lord English, and I have a horrible feeling that English is significantly more powerful than a First Guardian.

Either way - good luck, Vriska. Make sure your corpse falls somewhere Kernelsprite-accessible.

She might only play Chaotic Evil, but I do appreciate that Vriska's willing to roleplay with Nepeta.

NEPETA: :33 < i changed my mind, why dont we just not do any roleplaying instead VRISKA: ::::(

Half of Vriska thinks she's better than everyone else, and the other half just wants to be included.

VRISKA: [...] I demand that you spend the next several hours mastering stairs. [...] VRISKA: [...] Now hop to it, and don't think twice a8out it, or I'll know. We don't want to have to do it the hard way now, do we?

Kanaya is ten feet away, and she's pissed off enough as it is.

Vriska had better be careful, or she'll be buried under a Load Gaper Pile to match the Horn Pile across the hall.

I love that Vriska's quarters are just, inexplicably full of spider webs.

Like, where did she get them? Did she alchemize them for the aesthetic?

Who knew that something so terrible was stalking the depths of this laboratory?

This poor chess mutant didn't, that's for sure.

Wait.

Literally?

God damn. Well, she clearly wasn't kidding about having all the luck.

Vriska, the Thief of Light, steals favorable outcomes from her opponents, leaving unfavorable outcomes in their wake. Light represents luck - or, perhaps, good fortune.

I'm not sure how well that gels with Rose, though, since Jaspers didn't allude to luck when he was explaining her Quest. I'll have to go back over his speech.

...wait. I just realized something.

This really was an impossibly lucky roll! I was suspicious of it at the time, but so much else was going on that I forgot about it.

The probability of this outcome was less than 0.00001%, and Vriska still forced it into being. The ramifications of her being able to do this are staggering. Vriska can make miracles happen, and she's now the most cracked character in the entire comic.

She might actually have a shot at the Demon. This changes everything.

[calisources]

GEORGE R.R MARTIN'S FIRE AND BLOOD QUOTES. all sentences here were taken from the book fire and blood which in part was adapted to hbo's house of the dragon. change pronouns, names and location as you see fit. warning for some foul language and mentions of inc*st.

“Then the storm broke, and the dragons danced.”

“A ruler needs a good head and a true heart, a cock is not essential.”

“Words are wind, but wind can fan a fire.”

 “My father and my uncle fought words with steel and flame. We shall fight words with words, and put out the fires before they start.”

“The seeds of war are oft planted during times of peace.”

“Only you could have won me away from the sea. I came back from the ends of the earth for you.”

“The Iron Throne will go to the man who has the strength to seize it.”

“I fed my last husband to my dragon. If you make me take another, I may eat him myself.”

“Let no man think that the fire of the Targaryens did not burn in his veins.”

“We are as the gods made us. Strong and weak, good and bad, cruel and kind, heroic and selfish. Know that if you would rule over the kingdom of men.”

“This is a night for song and sin and drink, for come the morrow, the virtuous and the vile burn together.”

“Thrones are won with swords, not quills. Spill blood, not ink.”

“Such a fierce little thing she is, she has no need of comfort. They are wrong in that, I fear. All men need comfort.”

“When the gods are silent, lords and kings will make themselves heard.”

“I do not have the time for tears.”

“Pride goes before a fall.”

“It is always winter now.”

“I will not fight you, nor will I kneel to you. Dorne has no king. Tell your brother that.”

“But we will come again, Princess, and the next time we shall come with fire and blood.”

“Surely the Mother Above loved my children more. She took so many of them away from me.”

“The tradition amongst the Targaryens had always been to marry kin to kin. Wedding brother to sister was thought to be ideal. Failing that, a girl might wed an uncle, a cousin, or a nephew, a boy a cousin, aunt, or niece.”

“ This practice went back to Old Valyria, where it was common amongst many of the ancient families, particularly those who bred and rode dragons.”

“The blood of the dragon must remain pure, the wisdom went. ”

“Familiarity is the father of acceptance.”

“Brother, you need never kneel to me again. We shall rule this realm together, you and I.”

“All men are sinners.”

“You rose up in rebellion against your lawful queen and helped drive her from this city to her death.”

“We came here to be free of Old Valyria, and your Targaryens are Valyrian to the bone.”

“They practiced blood magic and other dark arts as well, delving deep into the earth for secrets best left buried and twisting the flesh of beasts and men to fashion monstrous and unnatural chimeras. For there sins the gods in their wroth struck them down.”

“She has such a tender heart. Give me time, and I will find a lord to cherish her.”

“Not every Targaryen needs to wield a sword and ride a dragon.”

“I would sooner she wed a lord, but if she prefers a hedge knight or a merchant or Pate the Pig Boy, I am past the point of caring, so long as she picks someone.”

“If she wants I can find a hundred men and line them up before her naked, and she can pick the one she likes.”

“I'll have no songs about how brave you died, Kingmaker. There's tens o'thousands dead on your account.”

“Who can presume to know the heart of a dragon?”

“The Red Keep has its secrets, known only to the dead.”

“He bound the land together, and made of seven kingdoms, one.”

“Sixteen Targaryens followed Aegon the Dragon to the Iron Throne, before the dynasty was at last toppled in Robert’s Rebellion. “

“Dorne has danced with dragons before, I would sooner sleep with scorpions.”

“Winter’s here. Time for us to go. No better way to die than sword in hand.”

“The High Septon was the true king of Westeros, in all but name.”

“I will leave the making of law to you, brother, I would sooner make sons.”

“And with his death, the war of ravens and envoys and marriage pacts came to an end, and the war of fire and blood began in earnest.”

“Paying coin to the usurper is proof of naught but treason.”

“Poison was regarded as a coward’s weapon, and lacking in honor.”

“For both the blacks and the greens, blood called to blood for vengeance.”

“It was a good time, a golden autumn, a time of peace and plenty. But winter was coming.”

“The confidence of youth counts for little against the cunning of age.”

“Thankfully I proved too small for the wolf to notice.”

“Such stories make for charming songs, but poor history.”

“Why be a lord when you can be a king?”

“Only the gods truly know the hearts of men, and women are full as strange.”

“Whatever her powers, it would seem Daemon Targaryen was immune to them, for little is heard of this supposed sorceress whilst the prince held Harrenhal.”

“They called themselves the Winter Wolves.”

“We have come to die for the dragon queen.”

“Under the terms of the pact, the prince’s firstborn daughter would be sent north at the age of seven, to be fostered at Winterfell until such time as she was old enough to marry Lord Cregan’s heir.”

“For the rank and file of the City Watch still loved Daemon Targaryen, the Prince of the City who had commanded them of old.”

“We are done with writing letters.”

“The North was too remote to be of much import in the fight.”

“The Dance of the Dragons is the flowery name bestowed upon the savage internecine struggle for the Iron Throne of Westeros fought between two rival branches of House Targaryen during the years 129 to 131 AC.”

“His mount was blood-red Caraxes, fiercest of all the young dragons in the Dragonpit.”

“The bells began to ring on the tenth day of the third moon of 129 AC, tolling the end of a reign.”

“These happy bastards were said to have been “born of dragonseed,” and in time became known simply as “seeds.”

“House Tyrell would take no part in this struggle.”

“For all the vaunted strength of its walls, King’s Landing fell in less than a day.”

“This is a night for song and sin and drink, for come the morrow, the virtuous and the vile burn together.”

“How many came to see the crowning remains a matter of dispute.”

“This we do know: Cregan Stark and Jacaerys Velaryon reached an accord, and signed and sealed the agreement that Grand Maester Munkun calls “the Pact of Ice and Fire” in his True Telling.”

“Here I have you to myself, day and night,when we go back, I shall be fortunate to snatch an hour with you, for every man in Westeros will want a piece of you."

“I have the dragon’s bastard in me.”

[davi-doo]

Durgetash - RP snippet #1

Pairing: M/M, The Dark Urge (default Dragonborn) x Enver Gortash

Rating: Mature

Summary: At one point in their relationship, the Bhaalspawn's father given urge was revealed to Gortash.

Author's note: This writing came from a rp I shared with my friend. Consequently, it has no continuous narrative, as we took turn to write each character in our style. Durge's parts were written by me, and Gortash's by @mcfallen-god.

The Dark Urge:

As warm blood soaked his hand, and the body on his lap grows cold by the second, Durge watches as the human quakes, choking on his last breath. The Bhaalspawn hears himself whispers his father name, sowing the fear for the Lord of Murder in his victim's fading consciousness. Binding his soul to Bhaal's realm.

The kill must bring instant gratification to his dark urge, as it hums in his father's content silence. But sometimes is wrong. He heard the clang as his holy blade hit the cold ground, as he must have dropped it. And through his blurry vision, he recognized the face of the one in his arms.

Enver Gortash. His souless dark eyes was still staring at him in utter horror.

***

The dragonborn wakes up in cold sweat. His blood red eyes dash across the room in a familiar panic, as he tries to take in as much of his surrounds as quickly as possible.

This is not...his father's temple, with its high celling, ever echoing scream of the tortured souls. It's a regular bedroom, with creamy wall and embroidered curtains. The pale blue light from the large window tells him they still have a few hours before sunrise.

The ordinary only managed to calm his anxiety for so long. Turning aside and throwing away the cover, the Bhaalspawn discovered his bedmate buried beneath the heavy blanket. Enver Gortash. His warm skin radiates heat, snoring softly in his blissful slumber. Holding down an emotional choke, Durge shoots up from the bed and rushes to find his belongings. He must leave and seek penance. Lest their union, no, their grand design ends in the Banite's blood.

Enver Gortash:

He is delightful whenever he is lucky enough to fill his bed with the presence of his one and only.

To feel his sleep watched over like this, it allows the grand Lord of Baldur's Gate to abandon himself to the deepest and most restful slumber.

However, Enver Gortash remains a man with a light sleep, and the little changes of weight on the bed, of warmth under the blankets or from the slightest, unnatural sound in his surroundings, he would wake up.

Thus, as Durge sits up and starts to move around the room, may he be as silent as Death itself, Gortash just feels it. Growling, twitching, he moves to the side where the dragonborn was laying when they fell asleep. As he has the confirmation he is now alone between the expensive sheets, he sits up and looks with fully awake eyes at the pale silhouette.

The white scales glowing mystically under the gaze of the moon. If he was less concerned by the reason making the other man move so fast, so quietly, and so in the middle of the night… Gortash would have just admired him for a bit longer.

"What are you doing? Didn't we pass the 'leave before you wake up' stage?" He asks, teasy, his voice husky with sleep and his hair kind of messed up.

As he feels how serious the situation was - he never saw this expression on the Bhaalspawn's features - Goratsh stands up with a frown.

"Durge.. what is it? What happened?"

The Dark Urge:

The dragonborn only stops on his track for a second when he heard his lover's voice. Still determined to ignore him, Durge quickly went back to throwing on his coat. But as the same voice called his name, his sense of urgency rapidly turns into anger.

How could this ever cunning Banite allow himself to be so careless? How could he allow things between them escalated into this tangled mess? How could Durge let his touch be the rewards for defying his father's principles?

"Enver! Do you want to die?! Without accomplishing anything?!" The dragonborn lashed out "If you don't, we must end whatever this is. Right now!"

The Bhaalspawn visibly trembles with effort and labored breath after saying his bit. But despite his forceful words, he can't find the heart to hold the other's eyes. So he crooked his head and turned away, hoping Gortash will take offend with his notoriously terrible temper.

Enver Gortash:

Something is definitely off and this all looks bad.

With a firm, but still calm and careful move, the human stands and steps until he can put a hand and grabs on the other's arm.

"Hey. What happened." He asks again, less a question than a command now. "Is that … Your god?"

Gortash is far from being stupid. He knows their respective gods may appear in their dreams or whisper their commands through the night. He is also far from being naive enough and thinks that: one, Bhaal is unaware of his 'son's' situation, and two, the god is most certainly disapproving it.

No, what Gortash doesn't understand is that sudden anger, that needs to flee. Durge is not the type to flee. There is nothing that would make him run away…

A mission? He would have just said so.

Why acting like he wants to have Gortash mad?

The human mind goes full speed from one thought to another, trying to figure out.

If Bhaal had ordered to kill Gortash… Durge would have said it. He would not have run like this…

It is something bigger, scarier.

"…. Talk to me." Gortash frowns, with seriousness.

The Dark Urge:

Durge closes his eyes and grits his teeth. The voice in his head is intimidatingly silent. He can only imagine his father's watching eyes, waiting for him to define his faith.

So the Banite wants to talk. Durge let out an annoyed snicker. With the facade of pragmatism, he knows how the kind of them are always hunger for new knowledge. They will steal, bribe and kill for a piece of useful information; they must exploit all the resources to establish their control. All to gain power over their subject. Even Durge knows their alliance and partnership is no exception for The Black Hand's doctrines.

Brushing of those fingers off his arm, the dragonborn turns back and face those seeking eyes at last. Should he choose to gain the Banite knowledge of his innate condition, he must be ready to slay him to the change of the wind. But perhaps, that will be the end of his agony.

"I am my father's flesh. His bloody hand carved me from his carcass. My body is his to act on. I can't die unless it's his will." the dragonborn speaks with hushed voice but no less solemnly, looking down at the smaller human with a clear intention to intimidate.

"What do you think drives us killer's blade? Hatred? Anger? Pleasure? " He steps closer with each stabbing words, "No, it's will from the Murder Lord himself. We praise it, honor it. But we have no say over it...Not without facing His wrath anyways."

Somewhere in his grim expression, or the tension across his towering frame, Gortash can sense a faint stroke of remorse. But it passes as quickly as a breath, and the Bhaalspawn speaks again before he can protest:

"If my father wants you dead." The dragonborn put his claw over the human's beating heart, "There's no stopping me from killing you. Not my reason, nor your binding oath."

Enver Gortash:

He doesn't resist and lets go of the arm, stepping a step backward to let the dragonborn turn and look at him.

He lets him speak with the greatest and most serious interest.

Though, his expression soon shows how he starts to understand what it is all about.

His frown goes deeper and something in his body just goes steadier.

"…" He feels he has no turn to speak as Durge stressed his lineage, but it feels itchy to the human.

However, he frowns deeper, giving to his eyes - already dark in the dim light - the impression of a deep, gleaming black color.

He won't step back. He won't back off in front of Bhaal - because yes, he considers the one talking is more the god than the spawn. Though, his mind still gets ready to jump and grabs the dagger he keeps by his bedside table. Just in case.

Though, the proximity with that body he knows already way too well feels too familiar and that hand on bis chest, supposedly a thread, it feels more like a plea, an apology, and a confession.

Gortash looks with a tilted head into those eyes and beyond, then he sighs. Holding the dragonborn's hand over his chest, he speaks as much to the Bhaalspawn as to the god himself.

"I can figure out your god might feel threatened by an ally as I am, but standing under the command of another patron. However.." He stares straight through Durge now. "Your god might know I am way more useful alive than dead. As I know no one is able to do as I am. You need my influence and my power, for your goal, aren't you?" It sounds like Gortash is speaking to Bhaal, in case the god does listen.

"If a little filth and pleasure frighten Him so much.." He slides his fingers between Durge's. "He might have little faith in his own spawn and choices."

He kisses the palm.

"If he insists on having me dead, he will bring prejudice to himself first, I am just saying."

The Dark Urge:

Durges stares at his lover in disbelief. He can sense no hesitation, no fear for one's own survival. And the worst of all, no disappointment nor distrust.

And when those lips tickle his palm, he feels like there's a boulder crushing on his heart. This damned affliction that ever compels him to scratch open his chest - it only grows stronger by the days. For the longer he allows himself to gaze upon this mortal. And the more often the mortal smiles back.

"You're a cat, dancing on a too narrow fence. One day you will fall, and won't land on your feet. My blade will dive in your gut in the end, and you will curse all the days you have laid too close to death."

The dragonborn whispers, and Gortash can feel, and see his muscles relax. The hand that rejected him now seeks his face, gently caressing the scar on his chin in anticipation of a kiss.

Enver Gortash:

Gortash slides his own palm up to Durge's chest with that smile he ever only gave the dragonborn.

"I was made to dance on narrow fence, darling." He chuckles cheekily, indulging in the touch on his face.

"And even if in the end it's your blade that dives into my guts, I'll never curse the days that brought me so close to this Dark Urge." His hand move up, mirroring the Bhaalspawn's one, cupping the scaly jaw. After another moment looking into those glowing red eyes, he pulls and moves on to kiss the dragonborn. His gesture is gentle, soft, his palm caressing down Durge’s chin; yet those fingers are still holding on that jaw; demanding, possessive.

"You and I," he growls to the thin lips. "We are made to do great things." Ambition and arousal are sparkling in his eyes. Power always puts this look on his face, and they both know how Durge is the only one Gortash allows to stand beside him, rather than crushed beneath his feet.

"Now, what would you think, using that Dark Urge for something as good as killing, but far less definitive?" He whispers.

His both hands trace circles on the scaly chest, sliding up to lock the dragonborn in an embrace; he leans closer, to whisper into the other’s ear. “I could even let you be on top of me for once…” He nuzzles on the softest part of Durge’s skin; under his jaw, kissing it, biting it.

(To be continued)

[ilynpilled]

vows of knighthood:

“… do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children, to obey your captains, your liege lord, and your king, to fight bravely when needed and do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be?”

“In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women…”

“How can you still count yourself a knight, when you have forsaken every vow you ever swore?”

“So many vows… they make you swear and swear. Defend the king. Obey the king. Keep his secrets. Do his bidding. Your life for his. But obey your father. Love your sister. Protect the innocent. Defend the weak. Respect the gods. Obey the laws. It's too much. No matter what you do, you're forsaking one vow or the other.”

[…]

“They strangled Brandon while his father watched, and then killed Lord Rickard as well.” An ugly tale, and sixteen years old. Why was he asking about it now?

“Killed, yes, but how?” […] “No doubt Ned wished to spare you.” […] “There were trials. Of a sort. Lord Rickard demanded trial by combat, and the king granted the request. Stark armored himself as for battle, thinking to duel one of the Kingsguard. Me, perhaps. Instead they took him to the throne room and suspended him from the rafters while two of Aerys's pyromancers kindled a blaze beneath him. The king told him that fire was the champion of House Targaryen. So all Lord Rickard needed to do to prove himself innocent of treason was ... well, not burn.” […] “When the fire was blazing, Brandon was brought in. His hands were chained behind his back, and around his neck was a wet leather cord attached to a device the king had brought from Tyrosh. His legs were left free, though, and his longsword was set down just beyond his reach.”

“Gerold Hightower himself took me aside and said to me, “You swore a vow to guard the king, not to judge him.' That was the White Bull, loyal to the end and a better man than me, all agree.”

“Aerys was mad, the whole realm knew it, but if you would have me believe you slew him to avenge Brandon Stark …”

“I made no such claim.”

[…]

“I find nothing about you amusing, Kingslayer.”

“That name again.”

“A king hides no secrets from his Kingsguard. But whenever Aerys gave a man to the flames, Queen Rhaella would have a visitor in the night. The day he burned his mace-and-dagger Hand, Jaime and Jon Darry had stood at guard outside her bedchamber whilst the king took his pleasure. “You're hurting me,” they had heard Rhaella cry through the oaken door. “You're hurting me.” In some queer way, that had been worse than Lord Chelsted's screaming. “We are sworn to protect her as well,” Jaime had finally been driven to say. “We are,” Darry allowed, “but not from him.”

Ser Barristan looked up sharply. […] “I am a knight,” he told them. He opened the silver fastenings of his breastplate and let that fall as well. “I shall die a knight”

“I took Robert's pardon, aye. I served him in Kingsguard and council. Served with the Kingslayer and others near as bad, who soiled the white cloak I wore. Nothing will excuse that. I might be serving in King's Landing still if the vile boy upon the Iron Throne had not cast me aside, it shames me to admit.”

“Selmy had never approved of Jaime's presence in his precious Kingsguard. Before the rebellion, the old knight thought him too young and untried; afterward, he had been known to say that the Kingslayer should exchange that white cloak for a black one.”

“I want to know. I never knew my father. I want to know everything about him. The good and … the rest.” “As you command.” The white knight chose his words with care. “Prince Aerys … as a youth, he was taken with a certain lady of Casterly Rock, a cousin of Tywin Lannister. When she and Tywin wed, your father drank too much wine at the wedding feast and was heard to say that it was a great pity that the lord's right to the first night had been abolished. A drunken jape, no more, but Tywin Lannister was not a man to forget such words, or the … the liberties your father took during the bedding.” His face reddened. “I have said too much, Your Grace.”

“When King’s Landing fell, Ser Jaime slew your king with a golden sword, and I wondered where you were.” “Far away,” Ser Gerold said, “or Aerys would yet sit the Iron Throne, and our false brother would burn in seven hells.”

“The traitors want my city, I heard him tell Rossart, but I’ll give them naught but ashes. Let Robert be king over charred bones and cooked meat. The Targaryens never bury their dead, they burn them. Aerys meant to have the greatest funeral pyre of them all. Though if truth be told, I do not believe he truly expected to die.”

His sword helped taint the throne you sit on. Ned thought, but he did not permit the words to pass his lips. “He swore a vow to protect his king’s life with his own. Then he opened that king’s throat with a sword.”

“Seven hells, someone had to kill Aerys!” Robert said, reining his mount to a sudden halt beside an ancient barrow. “If Jaime hadn’t done it, it would have been left for you or me.”

“We are not Sworn Brothers of the Kingsguard.”

“I did not intend to give offense, Brienne. Forgive me.”

“Your crimes are past forgiving, Kingslayer”

“That name again.” “Why do I enrage you so? I've never done you harm that I know of.”

“You've harmed others. Those you were sworn to protect. The weak, the innocent...”

“…the king?” […] “You are not old enough to have known Aerys Targaryen…” She would not hear it.

“Aerys was mad and cruel, no one has ever denied that. He was still king, crowned and anointed. And you had sworn to protect him.”

"I know what I swore."

"And what you did." She loomed above him, six feet of freckled, frowning, horse-toothed disapproval.

“That was an apology. I am tired of fighting with you. What say we make a truce?”

“Truces are built on trust. Would you have me trust—”

“The Kingslayer, yes. The oathbreaker who murdered poor sad Aerys Targaryen.” Jaime snorted. “It’s not Aerys I rue, it’s Robert. ‘I hear they’ve named you Kingslayer,’ he said to me at his coronation feast. ‘Just don’t think to make it a habit.’ And he laughed. Why is it that no one names Robert oathbreaker? He tore the realm apart, yet I am the one with shit for honor”

“Has my tale turned you speechless? Come, curse me or kiss me or call me a liar. Something.”

“If this is true, how is it no one knows?”

“The knights of the Kingsguard are sworn to keep the king’s secrets. Would you have me break my oath?” Jaime laughed.

“He was going to burn the city,” Jaime said. “To leave Robert only ashes.”

“He was your king,” said Darry.

“You swore to keep him safe,” said Whent.

“And the children, them as well,” said Prince Lewyn.

Prince Rhaegar burned with a cold light, now white, now red, now dark. “I left my wife and children in your hands.”

“I never thought he'd hurt them.” Jaime's sword was burning less brightly now. “I was with the king.”

“Killing the king,” said Ser Arthur.

“Cutting his throat,"

“The king you had sworn to die for.”

everybody points out a bunch of reasons why jaime did not share why he did what he did (thinks the wildfire is better buried, it wouldn’t be in good hands and might not all be disposed of when revealed, we know he fears it happening to this day and he went out of his way to kill everyone who knew where it is, he admits to having recurring nightmares of the city in flames the moment he hears about tyrion using wildfire, he is not aware that it gets more volatile over time, jaime’s gordian knot perspective when it comes to problem solving) but I am gonna lay down the hot take that if I were him and I presented my argument that I had to save a whole city, also prioritizing another vow I swore and not just out of moral obligation, and they even believe me and take my motivation at face value, and there is even the slightest possibility that people respond with these inconsistent hypocritical and contradictory fallacies like they already do every single time I delineate that every single kingsguard had already broken vows they had sworn every single time they did not act against the king and stop what he was doing, and what they are judging me for regarding the ethics of “breaking a vow to kill my king [who apparently everybody knows is mad and horrible and did terrible things to innocent people. which is, again, another vow (defend the weak. protect those who cannot protect themselves. protect all women. be just. obey the laws etc.) that we all acknowledge that me and other kingsguard had sworn (and also rightfully condemn me for breaking later)] who is okay to be killed by anyone else because he deserves to die”, with the only argument now having to be that the kingsguard specifically can’t because they swore this vow, and breaking vows is not ethical/honorable, which actually doesn’t make much sense at all if you think about it for more than 4 seconds (unless the unspoken argument is that the kg vows by have to be prioritized in all circumstances by the kg so my justification is pointless), I would actually become the joker and set myself on fire.

[simlit]

Chosen of the Sun | | forest // fifty-nine

| @rollingsim | @thesimperiuscurse

next / previous / beginning

TAIYO: Must we really come here to do this? SARAYN: You knew what you were getting into when you made this choice. Negative magic is strictly forbidden in high elven society. Not to say there aren’t rulebreakers, but even they know they must do so in secrecy. Here we can be sure we shan’t be disturbed. TAIYO: mumbling Well, certainly plays into the stereotype, doesn’t it? SARAYN: And have you considered what they’ll say to you when you return to your temples in the mountains? TAYIO: I’ve rather been avoiding the thought, if I’m honest. SARAYN: laughs An interesting approach. Perhaps you would enjoy to travel a bit more? TAIYO: Where might I go? SARAYN: You’re welcome to return with me to Vrenfal. TAIYO: I’ll need more than a minute to think about that. SARAYN: Take your time. However, be wary you know not how much of it you have. That is, of course, unless you win the trials. Perhaps you could ask the gods to lengthen your mortal coil. Though, there are other ways. Less savory ways of achieving similar results. TAIYO: No. Blood magic may not be the most reputable, but that doesn’t mean I needn’t be. I’m not interested in your Get Immortality Quick Schemes. I made this deal fair and square and I’ll pay the price I must. But I’ll wield this magic honorably. And my pursuits will be just as honorable. SARAYN: How very profound. Can’t say I’ve met a hemomancer with your glowing optimism. Terribly fascinating, if not a bit boring. TAIYO: One would think to be another cliché would be more boring. SARAYN: laughs Suppose you are right, Master Hayashi. TAIYO: Incredible… Whoever was buried here must have been of some great import. SARAYN: Mm. I do not think you’re far from the mark. TAIYO: Here lies Castien Thallan, iv seir linn’is nenaria. Of silver blood and distant memory. Who was he? SARAYN: Hm. You’re quite informed of high elven culture. You can even read their language. TAIYO: Some. But books can only take you so far. SARAYN: Do you know what occurred in this country twenty years ago? TAIYO: I can’t say I do. SARAYN: Nothing abnormal, on the surface. Rather, entirely commonplace. Twenty years ago, the Eveydan king passed rule to his eldest son. More likely, his chosen eldest. TAIYO: What do you…? SARAYN: I believe his true heir lay here. TAIYO: An illegitimate son? SARAYN: Hidden away in darkness. In the crypts of commoners, never to join his forebearers in the halls of starlit lords. A secret to be kept. Buried deep away. TAIYO: But how did you come to know of this? SARAYN: Simple. I watched him die.

[vampyrsm]

'The Forbidden Flame.' Chapter V Prince Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

Synopsis: The winds are changing, and something is brewing in the dark veil of night.

Warnings: MDNI. Very light smut at the start, deceit, character deaths, finale of this series, dragons, lots of fire, descriptions of blood, violence, spiralling madness.

Word Count: 7469.

[Glossary] | [Masterlist] | [Previous]

The night is dark and filled with unspeakable nightmares, the shadows become home to those who seek chaos. The grounds of the Keep of Corvos are eerily quiet, guards seem to be sparse leaving the gates wide open for the one person who had travelled to Corvos with an agenda, a plan to change the rule once and for all.

A slice of a dagger against someone's throat, the clunk of metallic armour as it hits the floor. Scurrying feet, hushed whispers exchanged amongst those who are only here to serve their Lord. The castle is alive tonight but not in the way one may think, it is instead alive with the infestation of betrayers, usurpers and ultimately, crawling with Death who comes to claim those offered.

The Red Lion prowls deeper into the Dragon's den.

...A gasp is heard in the still of the night, lips parted whilst large hands guide hips up and down in a rhythmic pattern. Silk sheets slide off of smooth skin and bunch around thighs that are connected to one another from the intimacy of the new couple. Katsuki has his eyes solely locked onto yours, the fire behind you giving you an ethereal glow in the darkness of the room and the way it shines off of the sweat coating his and your own body makes the fire in his gut grow tenfold.

He thinks you're most beautiful when you're like this, eyes unfocused as you stare down at him. He had never in his life been put in a situation where he was on his back and vulnerable and enjoyed it as much as this. How could he not enjoy it with the way your hands are pressed against his pectoral muscles, softly stroking your fingers against battle scars, and the way you're sucking him into your warmth so easily? He thinks this is what heaven must feel like.

...A shlick sound fills the throneroom, followed by a groan of agony. Staggering footsteps allow the person to land safely in the comfort of their throne, wide brown eyes staring up at the person who had sought council, who had lied and betrayed their King in hopes of killing him. Masaru holds a hand to the blade buried deep into his side, the blood spilling from between aged fingers and yet he can't stop his eyes from departing from the usurper... Enji Todoroki.

"And I thought dragons weren't meant to die." Enji comments, eyes darting down towards the blade with a vicious grin, the scar on his face painting a picture of a man who is fit for the title of Kingslayer, Usurper, and future King of Corvos. "In truth, Masaru, I didn't want it to be you who had to be killed but you've been sitting on the throne for too long now. All of you have, it's time for a change."

"You believe yourself to be a good fit for the throne, Lord Enji?" Masaru grits through his teeth, leaning against the armrest of the throne to alleviate the pain as much as he could on his opposing side but he could feel it, the blade was serrated and most likely shredded his vital organs. "I'm afraid not even you have enough patience for the role of King, they'll eat you alive."

Enji's upper lip curls into a vicious snarl before he's snapping his attention to the guard who had come in with, "Find the Queen, leave the Prince to him." and Masaru's blood runs cold, his wife, he's sure by now that she must know something is up. Mitsuki was no fool, she was just as observant as he was, he doesn't doubt that she's already making moves to gather the remaining Kingsguard to escort her to the dragon pit. If she makes it there, then Masaru knows everything will be fine even after he dies.

"Rest easy, Masaru, it won't be long now until the poison kicks in." is all Enji offers before abruptly turning on his heel, his hulking frame growing blurry the longer Masaru stares at his back. The poison is like fire in his blood, prickling under his skin and bubbling in his stomach until he coughs, the blood pooling from his lips is thick and yet all Masaru can think about is his wife and his son, he prays the dragons are already communicating.

...

Katsuki holds you close to his chest, carding his fingers through your hair whilst the two of you huff out panting breaths. The sheets on your back are cool in comparison to the heat that is your blood, the air is comfortable and warm surrounding the two of you.

You had only hoped that you'd be allowed some more time like this with Katsuki.

The abrupt banging fist against the door has Katsuki sitting upright, sheets falling from his chest but covering you entirely as he stares at the door for a second before it's thrown open. His hackles rise instantly, poised to attack if it were an intruder but instead when he sees it's Kirishima he relaxes, just slightly, his body covering your own enough to ensure Eijirou sees nothing of you. "Eijirou, I swear to the fucking Gods if you don't tell me why the fuc—"

"The King, your Grace." Eijirou pants, and now Katsuki is finally taking in his full appearance. His face is painted in splatters of blood, the usual black of his metal armour looks slicker than usual and the copper in the air finally hits Katsuki's nose. "The King is dead. Someone has killed the King."

Katsuki freezes in place, usually boiling blood turning colder than the ice that caps the mountains in the Frozen Reach. He is immediately plummeted back into the mindset of the young boy who had received news of his uncle's passing, murdered. "Who?" the word is a nasty growl, even making Eijirou flinch from the shift in demeanour of the blonde prince.

"No one knows, he was found on his Throne. Almost half of the guards of the Keep are dead, someone is taking them out." Eijirou explains, his eyes finally meet yours from just over Katsuki's shoulder and he can see the wide-eyed worried expression on your face.

Katsuki flinches when you lay a hand on his back but doesn't react as much as that, he lets you console him with gentle touches until he speaks again. "My mother, where is she?"

"...No one has seen the Queen I'm afraid."

Immediately Katsuki is turning to you, startling you from how he grabs your shoulders and pulls you close enough to his eye level you can see the way his eyes are filled with the most ferocious of fires. "I need you to listen to me, please." you nod in response to his words, too scared to speak out in a situation you have no idea how to handle. "Do not leave this room under any circumstance, you hear me? Do not leave, do not answer that door for anyone."

He kisses your forehead hard when you nod again, tears clumped into your lashes when he finally slides off of the bed and makes quick work to move around the room to pick up his clothes and then his armour. Something you had never seen him in before, not up close anyway, you imagine he wore it the day he saved you in the field and perhaps every other time he was on dragon back but you can see how his muscles flex from the weight of it when he slips into the armoured chest piece, and how his footsteps grow naturally heavier once he picks up the blade you had never seen him wield before.

He told you one night whilst laid before the fire on the large bear fur rug that it was made of the strongest steel anyone had ever seen, that it was strong enough to slice through a man cleanly with just one stroke and that it was forged specifically in dragon fire. A true Bakugou sword. He mentions that it's not often he uses it, more when there are big wars and he'll be on the ground fighting, and if he is grabbing it now then you know he's going to be engaging in a fight that could result in his death if he were to be distracted.

"Eijirou, I need you to make sure this wing is kept clear. Do not let anyone pass, not even my own men. I only trust you right now, understood?" Kirishima nods, and he's turning abruptly to leave the room you assume to start his duty of being your guard. Katsuki is back in front of you now, leaning over the bed and cupping your face in his hands.

"I'll return for you, I promise you that. Please, for my sake, stay here. I don't know how I'd react if I lost you too." he lays a gentle kiss on your lips once he's finished, his forehead pressing against yours shortly after.

"I promise," you whisper back, and he applies a little bit more pressure to your forehead before he's pulling back quickly, you assume it's because he knows he'll stay longer if he were to kiss you and he worries that he'll lose the advantage of being in the know.

The room grows noticeably colder once Katsuki leaves, the door is loud as it slams shut and the crackling of the fire is the only noise keeping you from focusing on the spiralling thoughts in your mind what if he doesn't come back? What if he dies, you imagine you'll be dead not long after once you've been found in the Prince's chambers.

Just beyond the wooden doors, Katsuki curls his hands into tight fists as he fights this feeling in his chest like something is tugging him to take the steps backwards until he's barging back through that door to protect you but he can't. If his father is truly dead then his ascension to the crown has begun, he's the new King-to-be and he has to protect more than just you. So with long strides that feel like his feet are weighted down by the heaviest of rocks, he finally makes enough space between himself and you that his mind is slowly filled with a burning rage that he hadn't felt in weeks now, and he can tell that Xol is fairing no differently from the flare of an untamable fire that sets Katsuki's blood alight.

...You're unsure how much time has passed since Katsuki had left you but it's silent, you assume Eijirou is doing a good job at defending this part of the castle to ensure you're safe but there's something unnerving, something telling you that not even here you're safe. The fire has burnt itself down to simmering embers that spit and crackle when a gust of wind from the balcony blows by—the balcony?

You whip around just in time to see a figure slink on through the wide open windows, the sheer curtains shrouding them some as they continue to prowl along the back wall that's shrouded in the darkest of shadows. The tension in the air was palpable like it could be sliced through with a knife, you swallowed the lump in your throat, "Who are you?" it should've sounded firmer but instead it came out shaky, the nerves clear as the moon in the night sky just beyond the flimsy curtains that billowed with another gust of wind.

The man chuckles a little, and you finally catch the glint of his amber eyes in the darkness when he passes by a beam of moonlight. "I wasn't expecting you to be here," he avoids your question entirely as he comes to a standstill just on the fine line of the shadowed darkness, the tips of his bloodied boots on show. "I thought I'd be able to slip in here and slit the Prince's throat, but it seems I have something much more enjoyable at hand."

The room stills for a split second at his words before it explodes into chaos, the man dashes out from the shadows and the glint of the dagger in his hand is what catches your eye first before you're throwing yourself back to the other side of the room with a scream. You scramble to pick up anything, just something to throw at him to slow him down, your fingers brush along something cool and metal. The man lunges once again towards you, and you pull the thing forward that you had managed to grab to slam it directly against the side of his face.

He groans, stumbling backwards until he hits the post of the wooden bed and he clutches the side of his head. You finally get a good look at him in his dazed state, he has blonde hair but it's nothing like your Prince's, it's more windswept and roguish. He has narrow features, sharp and he must be beautiful, you think, when he isn't trying to murder someone innocent. His eyes open once again, instantly honing on you and you can't help but feel pinned to the spot like a bird of prey is watching you, hunting you.

The blood trickling down from his scalp is quickly forgotten in place of getting revenge on you it would seem as his hand slowly drops, the other tightening on the steel blade. He grins, but it's nothing quite like you had seen before, it's deranged and manic, and you realise this might just be the last thing you see before you die. Not your Prince, not even the wild lilies in the field but a man in the dark who had come to shed blood for no real reason. "Good hit, woulda liked yer if you weren't fuckin' some dragon bastard."

It happens too quickly this time, he launches himself across the room and slams your head harshly back against the brick wall forcing the fire poker in your hand to drop with a clang. Nausea that washes over you is instantaneous, and the edges of your vision blacken the next time you blink up to see the man standing over you, blood dripping from his slightly bearded chin and dropping directly onto the nightshirt Katsuki had given you.

"How about we give your King a show, huh? I'm sure he'd love that," he says before grabbing a hold of your hair in one big hand, the pain radiating through your scalp burns like nothing you had quite felt before. You were being dragged along the floor, your bare feet struggling to find purchase on the stone tiles whilst your hands grasped fruitlessly at the hand in your hair, digging and scratching in hopes you might hurt him enough to make him drop you.

Your mind is foggy, dipped in heavy thick mud that you're struggling to wade through to ensure you don't sink to the bottom. A momentary thought passes by, where is Kirishima? Hadn't he been told to protect you, to protect the room you were in? How was this man effortlessly dragging you down the halls, screaming and kicking as much as you can? But then you hear it, louder yells and the clashing of swords.

Your screams were minuscule compared to the battles being waged in the throneroom as you're practically thrown down the steps by your captor, the crack of your ankle making you shriek out in agony and the tears that roll down your cheeks are thick. But still, he gives no second to let you recoup, instantly grabbing a hold of your hair again to continue his march to his destination.

Something wet seeps through the bottom of the shirt that is still protecting you somewhat and you realise your feet are slipping just a little bit more against the polished tile, your eyes blink slowly to realise it wasn't water on your legs but rather you were being dragged through a pool of blood and other innards you refused to acknowledge. Bodies are strewn along the sides of the halls, some fully intact whilst others were cut in half you wondered if Katsuki had come through this way with his sword.

You recognise the large pillars and the beautiful mural painting on the ceiling to realise you're in the throneroom, this is where he had wanted to bring you, this is where you're going to die. You couldn't hear Katsuki despite straining your ears to hear that familiar yell, he wasn't even here and you'd die alone—

"Unhand her, or I'll remove your hands." the voice is dark, deep and downright scary so much so that you can't even recognise it. It wasn't Katsuki, you could tell that much but who else would defend you like that? "Do not make me repeat myself."

The man holding your hair raises an eyebrow at the man before him, the armoured guard was clearly twice his size yet he didn't stand down nor let you go. "Don't tell me, the Prince also has his guards fucking his common whore?"

Guards? You try to glance around but the hand in your hair tightens, another scream ripping through your throat. Suddenly that pressure on your scalp lessens and is replaced with what feels like a bucket of something warm had been dunked over your head. You gasp loudly when it reaches your eyes, coating your lips enough to taste the copper and you realise you've been doused in blood. Instead of worrying about what may have happened, you scramble to the side just in time to twist around to see the mountain of a man in what you recognise as the Princesguards armour raise up the biggest sword you might've ever seen as if it were just a stick and swing it fluidly at the man.

The man who had captured you is holding his blade in his hand still whilst the other is... dripping onto the floor, and you finally spot the offending hand that had been buried in your hair. "Ha, you weren't lyin'. She really means that much to you?" the windswept-haired man taunts, he has his back to you but you can see the way his body trembles slightly when the man in armour twists the sword in his hand in preparation.

"Anyone the King deems worthy of my protection means just as much to me as he does." and you finally catch a glimpse of red hair just peeking out from beneath the helmet he was wearing, furious red eyes you had once recognised only in Katsuki's reflected perfectly in Eijirou's as he rears his sword-wielding arm back with a guttural roar from the exertion it must take to carry such a thing, nevermind swinging it.

There's a wet sound that you now have the displeasure of recognising as flesh being sliced cleanly, then the squelching sound of innards hitting the floor before a heavy thump of the top half of the man's body falling just shy of your lap. The blood spray was wide, coating the once pristine walls in a pretty shade of crimson as well as yourself, if anyone didn't know any better then they might just assume you had been bathing in it.

Suddenly you're being crowded, clinking metal gloves reaching out to grab at your shoulders hastily to force you to look up into his eyes. "Can you stand for me?" Eijirou asks, and you nod despite the sudden surge of vomit that threatens to burst from your throat as a reminder of the concussion you most likely received in the room prior to being dragged out like some street rat. Eijirou helps you stand then, large hands supporting your frame and he's looking at you with the utmost worry, his eyebrows scrunched. "Did he hurt you?"

Your hand hesitantly reaches to the back of your head, feeling where the source of the pain is coming from and when you reveal your hand to Eijirou he curses, loudly, the blood coating your fingers is fresh and glossy. "You'll be fine, your Grace, just hold onto me." You don't have it in you to question his way of addressing you, allowing him to manhandle you up into his arms and against his bloodied metal armour, you let your head lay to rest on his shoulder as he bounds with large strides to somewhere. You're not quite sure where, you just hope to see your Katsuki at the end of it all.

...

The City of Corvos is plunged into mayhem, the streets are alight with fire from lit arrows and bodies of the innocent litter the streets. The smoke is thick, blowing up into the night sky to shroud the moon and its stars from the carnage that is exploding just beneath. The screams are loud, cries of terror and yells that come from deep in the gut when a man is about to take the life of another, it's hard to tell who is who.

Especially from up in the sky, as two dragons circle the city with large wings that span nearly more than the entirety of the Keep in all its glory. The first dragon dips down lower, slicing through the heavy smoke before its jaw opens to release a torrent of fire that blows back brick, buildings and people alike as if they were leaves caught up in a turbulent wind. No one quite knows which two dragons are in the sky until they catch the underbelly of the dragon with blue scales.

"The Queen!" someone yells at the top of their lungs, gathering the attention of the surrounding soldiers who all look in time to see the white and blue dragon disappear once again into the plume of smoke. "She's in the sky!"

That can only leave one other option for the remaining dragon in the sky.

Xol, and it's rider, Katsuki Bakugou.

Xol is different in its approach to destruction, Katsuki having released the reigns he had wrapped tightly around his fists as he tried to wrangle his burning rage. But once he was on his dragon, and in the air, it felt like the most natural thing was to just let loose. Xol was faster than Ova, like a shooting arrow through the dark as its mouth remained open to allow its glands filled with hydrogen to ignite the spark at the back of its throat to release a consistent powerful beam of pure fire that burned hotter than it ever had before.

Buildings were destroyed, regardless of who or what may have been living within them, and the streets that were once lined with Todoroki men were obliterated in a split second of Katsuki flying by before he peeled back up into the sky to recoup, he had caught his mother when she was already up in the air.

It's natural for him to fall into line with his mother once in the sky, he can see her from just across the large expanse of wings and even with the distance, he can see the anger in her features. She hadn't expected this, hadn't realised the man she had allowed into her home would be the same one to bury the knife into her husband. Katsuki knew the two of them could end this easily, they just had to coordinate this final attack.

"Mo—" he yells, watching Mitsuki look over him before something makes her body jolt. Katsuki blinks slowly, unsure if he had seen that correctly as his mother's body falls back against the saddle of the dragon, the flaming arrow in her chest burning brightly against the dense smoke screen around them. It's like his head is submerged entirely underwater, the roaring pained screech of Ova is lost on him as he just stares. Watches as his mother slips effortlessly from the saddle and disappears into the cloud of smoke, falling from this height he knows there's likely going to be nothing left of her but still, he can't break his eyes away from the spot she once was.

The blood pounding against his ears is deafening, he doesn't even hear the roar Xol lets out when the anguish of losing not just his father but his mother too hits their connection, the dragon peeling back further up into the sky once realising his rider is nonresponsive. Katsuki watches as the lighter white dragon vanishes into the smoke, the flames it releases from its mouth on its way down illuminating its silhouette before disappearing once again into the darkness.

Katsuki can feel something different in his chest, it's no longer as simple as rage and grief but something much more, something worse. His blood is boiling, his heart ramming itself against his ribcage and his eyes readjust on the sight in front of him. Xol had brought him high enough to see the entirety of the Corvos that was now his and all the land just beyond its large walls.

Something inside of him tells him to burn it all down.

...

Kirishima isn't quite sure what he's meant to do now, as he holds you against his chest pressed up to a pillar to shield the both of you from the fire that's falling from the sky in powerful bursts he wonders if Xol has a rider or not. Katsuki had always been good with aiming the fire, always knew who was his men and who wasn't but it was like he had forgotten about that entirely.

The large man has to consistently jostle you awake in his arms, ensuring your head was angled so you didn't choke on your own tongue and that he could keep an eye on you, your eyes were still responsive so he figures that must be a good enough sign that you weren't entirely laid out on deaths doorstep. He worries just how Katsuki might react if you were to die too. It would be a bloodbath.

"Kirishima!" comes the voice of someone from his side, Eijirou snaps his attention over to them with a hand threatening to grab at his sword but he instantly relaxes at the sight of Hanta jogging over to him who was just as doused in blood as the both of you. "We've got him." Sero pants and it takes a second for Kirishima to understand what that means.

They got him; Enji Todoroki has been captured.

"Signal for the dragons to land, he'll come if he knows it's safe to do so." Kirishima orders and Sero is disappearing once again into the smoky night, and he jostles you again in his arms. "Hey, still holdin' on?"

"Of course," you smile weakly and Kirishima decides to not comment on the blood on your lips, instead smiling back at you and holding you a little firmer in his arms. "Is Katsuki here?"

"He'll be here soon, just have to get him off that big beast of his first." Kirishima watches as you nod, relaxing once again into the cool embrace of his armour and he prays that Katsuki makes haste, if he ends this thing quicker then he'll be able to take you somewhere with living scholars to help you.

Kirishima steps out into the courtyard once he sees the fire signal lit for Katsuki, eyes darting around to see the destruction that has been laid waste to the once beautiful grounds. It was like a battlefield, bloody and fiery as any others he had been involved in. His steps are slow and methodical, stepping over body parts and bloodied swords that had been left in the wake of a dragon strike. All the whilst, you're slowly stirring in your place against his chest, bleary eyes blinking to take in the sting of the smoke in the air and the heavy smell of blood, and burning flesh.

Finally, you both come to a stop, and you turn just in time to see something dart through the cloud of smoke before there's a deafening roar that has you flinching away at the pain that radiates through your head like a bell has been struck directly in your brain. The whoosh of hot air follows after, large wings blowing away the surrounding smoke to reveal Xol in all his glory. He looks much different to how you had seen him in his pen just two days ago, this right here is a real dragon in its element. Fire breathing, growling and threatening stance as he looms over the courtyard.

Xol lowers down enough to let Katsuki slip free from his back, heavy boots dropping hard onto the sodden floor before he's marching directly towards the man who has been brought to his knees surrounded by his men in the middle of the courtyard. He wastes no time in grabbing Enji by his throat, forcing the bigger mans back to bend awkwardly backwards as he snarls down into his face.

"Where's that son of yours, hm? I want to rip his eyes out in front of you so you can watch what it's like to lose something dear to you."

"Shoto isn't here, I made sure he was so far North not even you could touch him," Enji growls back, choking a little on his words the more he speaks as Katsuki begins to crush his throat with his bare hands.

He gets impossibly closer, the fire burning in his eyes bright but the flames dripping from his jaws is just as vicious, "I swear this to you, Enji Todoroki, I will find your son if it is the last thing I do and I will tear him limb from limb. Then I'll do the same with your wife, and don't think I know you're harbouring the other bastard son in the North. He will suffer just as much as the others." Katsuki promises with a harsh shove to Enji, throwing him into the dirt before he backs off.

Katsuki finally turns, eyes darting between his men before they lock onto Kirishima, or more importantly you. His heart seizes up in his chest at the state of you, the blood that has dried to your skin and matted your hair looks like you were attacked viciously. But when he finally meets your eyes, he can see the relief in them and he feels the same feeling wash over him as he takes quick strides forward until he's practically ripping you out of Eijirou's arms and into his own.

His hand cups the back of your head, he can feel the wetness there but he holds you close despite that, whispering against your head. "'M so sorry, my love. I shouldn't have left you, I—" he chokes on the tears that have been waiting to bubble over all night, but you card your bloodied fingers through his sooty hair, holding him close.

"You did what you had to, my King." and Katsuki shudders at the word rolling from your lips, pressing his own against your temple multiple times before he's turning to look at the group of men who were slowly realising the predicament they were in with the looming beast and the sneering King of Dragons in their face.

It isn't long after when Katsuki flicks his eyes up to look at Xol, the dragon's jaw opening with a hiss as the hydrogen blows from its glands and the loud rush of flames building up in its throat. Then come the screams, the men around Enji begging for forgiveness, for their Gods to listen to their pleas and save them from what will be a painful yet quick death.

"Scream all you like," Katsuki yells over them, "your Gods can't hear you." and he turns just in time for the flames to be released, holding your head into the crook of his neck to protect you from the torrent of fire that blows up the dirt and turns the men into nothing but ashes. Their screams were silenced until the sound of sizzling and ash as it slowly crumbles and disappears into the blood and mud beneath is all that can be heard.

He doesn't wait after that, marching back into what is now his castle in search of the scholar he knows who is kept hidden in emergencies such as this, they were always ordered to run and hide in case something happens to one of the Bakugou's. The entire time he holds you close to his chest, cradling you against him as you breathe wet yet heavy breaths against his blood-soaked skin, he knows in his heart that he cannot lose you so he won't. That's a promise.

...

The morning air is dewy, and the fog that settles over the sea is thick but no one can focus on anything but the great pyre before them with the bodies that had been wrapped in special cloth and laid to rest on their bed of wood. Katsuki glares at it, the crown on his head feels heavy but the weight of everyone's eyes is heavier as they wait for him to give the signal. His throat feels tight, and the sting of his eyes is telling of the tears that want to break through.

In the distance, he can see both Ova and Karranth side-by-side, smaller than Xol who was circling in the sky endlessly with shrieks of grief each time a pang of it hit Katsuki in the heart. It had taken some time for him to come to terms with everything that had happened, from his father and mother passing, to the fact the traitor's son had been spotted so far North that he was walking the border where the tribes live.

It was all too much.

But when a delicate hand wrapped around his forearm, squeezing gently before sliding down to intertwine their fingers, he felt that immediate relief washes over him. He had at least saved you, it was very touch and go for days when you struggled to stay awake and coherent but you pulled you. Katsuki knew you would, you had to, not just for his sake but because he knew the entire realm needed a Queen just as much as they needed a King.

"They're waiting for you, my love," you whisper, and his eyes drift down to your own. You looked just as tired as he was but it was no fault of your own, it was all him. He struggled to sleep most nights after what happened, but you were always there to quickly soothe him and guide him back to bed.

Katsuki gives a solemn nod, the crown glinting in the morning sun before his eyes look back out across the pyre and directly with the two sibling dragons who seem to wordlessly take his command when he whistles loudly with the use of two fingers in his mouth. The large dragons raise up slightly, large jaws opening up to release unstopping beams of fire that engulf the entirety of the pyre in one go until they finally relent, the roars just as loud as the fire they had released.

You duck behind the King's arm when the two dragons turn, large wings spanning outwards before they beat once, twice and the third they're up into the air. The blast from the wind has the flames blowing in your direction, the heat prickling at your skin before it returns to normal. When you look back towards them, you half expected them to be turning towards the Dragon pit to sleep but instead, they're flying out towards the Fading Sea.

"Are they leaving?" you ask finally to Katsuki who squeezes your hand gently, bringing it up to lay a gentle kiss on your knuckles.

"They're returning back to the Elder Valley," he explains, smiling gently at the confusion on your face. "It's the birthplace of the first dragons, but also the place they go when they have no rider. It's a place they can be free until they die. I doubt I'll ever see them again unless I venture out there."

A part of you aches at that admission, the two dragons were the final part of his mother and father, yet they were flying away and most likely never returning back to Ilgnis, and Katsuki just had to accept that fact. "I'm sorry," you whisper, unsure how to console the grief he must be feeling. But Katsuki just shakes his head, pulling you into his chest gently to hold you close to him.

"No need to say sorry, it's just how life is. Maybe one-day Xol will return there, and be reunited with both Ova and Karranth. Perhaps he'll even get that fight with Ova he has always wanted." he says with a gentle laugh, you know he's just trying to find a way through the pain so you laugh with him, arms squeezing around his midsection.

You're unsure of what will come next, as there is you with no experience in any court and yet you're being placed onto a seat next to the throne. Katsuki is no different to you, having never really spoken with his father about what would happen when his ascension comes around, he figured he had more time than this but still, he is certain he'll be completely fine with you by his side guiding him when he needs it.

The gathering crowd had slowly dispersed as the two of you stood in front of the pyre, only the Kingsguard remain. Finally one of them steps forward, Kirishima is quick to bow his head to both of you when he clears his throat to catch your attention. You share a smile with the red-haired man whilst Katsuki picks up back the mask of annoyance at being interrupted with something that'll take up the rest of his evening.

"Your Grace," he greets you, "Your Majesty." he turns slightly to greet Katsuki. Kirishima had been very helpful the past few weeks, especially with you being on the precipice of something disastrous. He had been around to aid the new King in his endeavours, he had formed a new army, ordered the North to pledge allegiance to the new King or else it'll be seen as an act of treason; siding with the traitor who attempted to usurp the previous King.

"What is it, Eijirou?" Katsuki glares, an arm around your waist to keep you close to him as your arms remained looped around his own beneath the heavy black cloak he was wearing, letting you greedily submerge yourself entirely into his warmth. "It couldn't wait until after my mother and father's funeral?"

Eijirou sighs, shaking his head lightly with a look of guilt on his face. "Afraid not, your Majesty. It seems that there have been sightings of the Todoroki son in the North." and Katsuki's frown somehow deepens, he already knew that, he'd been scouring over maps and trying to make connections with some of the northern families in an attempt to make them out the bastard but they were all tight-lipped.

"But he isn't alone," Eijirou is quick to continue seeing the tell-tale sign of the King's wrath bubbling. "Apparently he had been seen with another man, someone who had been on the run for years and is trying to get him access into the tribal lands where we have no control."

You glance up at Katsuki, his eyebrows are furrowed deep and his jaw is tensed, the muscle jumping each second that passes by as Eijirou omits the name of the apparent traitor who is willing to help someone such as Shoto Todoroki. You smooth a hand over his chest, it had been a little difficult as of late to try and keep his anger sated, Katsuki had told you one night that it was partially because of his connection with Xol. The dragon had its own method of mourning, and that was to be as angry as it possibly could be.

You had both lost five dragon handlers in the past week.

"Spit it the fuck out Ei, before you choke on it," Katsuki growls, arm tensing around your waist.

Eijirou glances down at you, and then back towards the King before straightening his shoulders and seeming to ready himself before he spoke the name. "It would seem that Shoto had been sighted with another white-haired male."

"According to the taverns in the North, that person is rumoured to be no one other than the first heir of Blacksummit. Touya Todoroki."

Katsuki freezes in place, and you glance between the two tall men to try and understand what that meant. You had never heard of a Touya Todoroki but clearly, Katsuki had, and it was a bad thing for Shoto to be in talks with his eldest brother? And just as you're about to speak, a smile breaks out on the King's face but it's not something that could be described as kind.

Malicious, perhaps.

"Eijirou, gather the bulk of our forces, we're heading North." is all Katsuki says before he turns to you, pressing a long hard kiss to your forehead whilst you're just in bewilderment. What does he mean he's going North? Surely now is not the time, he has many things to attend to in court—

"And you, my love," his hands slide down to grip your own, the leather of his gloves brushing against your own before he squeezes gently. "You are going to rule in my stead whilst I'm away."

"What," you blink, not fully comprehending his words but you're certain you can hear Denki snickering just beyond the both of you amongst the rest of the Kingsguard. "Katsuki, I don't think so. I haven't even got the slightest idea how I'm meant to talk to one highborn citizen, never mind listen to their demands and attempt to make amends!" you all but hiss at him, squeezing his hands a little harsher to try and get your anger across.

Katsuki's smile doesn't falter but you can see the glint in his eye when you pinch a little too hard at his skin through his glove making the man hiss out in pain. "Ouch! Listen! You'll do fine, you'll have Mina with you and she was my mother's handmaiden, she knows everything."

You can't argue with that, so you just frown and unknowingly jut your bottom lip out in a pout. How dare he spring things onto you like this, you had hoped he would at least stay for a while to settle in, to see how the crown fits but of course. Men will be men when they have the chance to hop onto a dragon and wreak havoc. A hand cups your face, a thumb brushing over your bottom lip slowly until you look up to meet his gaze.

"Don't look at me like that my love, I promise it won't be for too long." he lays a gentle kiss on your lips, leaning back just enough to continue. "Just a few weeks, a month at most."

You can't help but kiss him back, letting him pull you back into his chest slowly. "Fine, but you must promise me that you'll come back. I cannot do this alone."

Katsuki smiles, this time the genuine smile that he reserves for just you in the privacy of your shared room before he nods once. "I will always find my way back to you, no matter what."

It's not much longer after that he's departing from you, now standing in front of the Keep as he mounts the horse that will take him up to the Pandemonium so he can take Xol up north too. It's bittersweet to watch the man you've fallen in love with so quickly depart on what will be longer than a months expedition, he was a determined man and if he knew he was getting close to wiping the Todoroki name off of the map then he wouldn't retreat back home just because he had told you so.

As you watch him disappear up the road to the dragon pit, you can't help but feel like you've been plunged into your own dragon pit as all eyes suddenly shift to the new vicarious Queen. All you can do is turn on your heel, and keep your back straight and head high to ensure no one noticed the slight tremble in your hands as you picked up the bottom of your dress to make sure you didn't step on it.

You may not be the King of Dragons nor a Bakugou by anything but name but you are just as strongwilled as Katsuki, and you were going to show them all that even a commoner such as yourself can rise to the top.

[Glossary] | [Masterlist] | [Previous]

credit for the background image/banner: @vampyrsm please do not plagiarise, or recommend my work to places such as TikTok.

[breathalyzerfail]

LOL Not to be Catholic on main, but may I just say --

In this entire campaign about unpacking the place of the gods in Exandria, nothing has really reminded me of how I understand my religion as much as the talk between Imogen and Laudna sounding kinda like that big speech from the Book of Ruth in the Old Testament.

"Do not press me to leave you

or to turn back from following you!

Where you go, I will go;

where you lodge, I will lodge;

your people shall be my people,

and your God my God.

Where you die, I will die --

there will I be buried.

May the LORD do thus and so to me,

and more as well,

if even death parts me from you!"

(Ruth 1: 16-17, New Revised Standard Version)

I dunno, in this time of Lent and the upcoming holidays, I'm just reminded that the stuff that really gets to me aren't stories or lessons about Big Ideas, or Right or Wrong, or The Higher Spirit Behind It All; but about people and just how we navigate our various ups and downs together.

It's all a rather fascinating puzzle of Faith in gods and parents and lovers and friends and ourselves; and I cannot wait to see what happens next.

[maxispaxis]

“Do not urge me to leave you or turn back from you, for wherever you go I will go and wherever you lodge, I will lodge. Your people shall be my people and your god my god. Where you die, I will die and there will I be buried. Thus and more may the lord do to me if anything but death parts me from you.”

[garden-variety-jumo]

Lord of the Rings Culinary Culture Headcannons bc I'm bored.

This isn't based off of any source from the books this is just vibes. I love food anthropology though so.

Elves: They don't seem huge in agriculture to me, kind of because it seems tedious for them to do every year, forever, till they die. So instead I think they'd embrace a more hunter-gatherer approach, with certain areas cultivated so the plants pretty much take care of themselves. I also think they favour food that can be preserved like dried meat and jams so they don't have to worry about the food spoiling as fast. I've heard lembas bread can be made regardless of location, so I dont think it's a patiular grain, but more of a special process in preparing the grain or smth that's kept secret (a little like nixtamalisation). Additionally: their most elaborate meals tend to have a very long process to make- it's not unusual for preparation for a feast to begin months in advance.

Dwarves: I think they would have an emphasis on group meals, as more work can be achieved if everyone shares one big meal rather than going off to make individual ones. Spending the majority of their time underground, I feel like they eat a lot of tubers. I think they would at least originate from somewhere with geothermal pools, and to reflect this have a lot of boiled and steamed foods, as well as burying food in pots near the pools so the natural heat can cook it (I can't remember what culture but there's evidence of this being done with bread). Additionally, I think they'd be fans of pit ovens, rather than pots or cauldrons- using the heat from their forges to heat up rocks for them. [I think there's less roasting on a spit over a fire because the hear from theor forges would burn the food too quickly.] I feel they'd also be very good at fermenting, with halls dedicated to maturing cheeses or aging meat. Additionally, if they eat meat, it will likely be a large land animal like a boar or deer- not so much birds or fish because they aren't really adapted to hunting them.

Humans: they're honestly pretty standard. They were probably behind a lot of advancements, like preserves, but the majority of the time, it's either porridge or stew. I feel like they have the most diversity from establishment to establishment, for example if you went by the sea, a lot of communities use the salt to preserve their food, but more inland other communities may not have heard even of the method. Obviously the bigger the kitchen, the grander the meals can be and the more equipment they can afford, but villages usually have a community oven they can use for bread and pies. While the food itself is pretty standard, they're also the most adventurous in foraging, inadvertently making a lot of once-poisonous plants edible through natural selection, humans are usually thr first to try out a new food, as well as the first to find ways to make it edible.

Hobbits: as expected from a culture who values meals and food to that extent, hobbits are the culinary geniuses of Middle-Earth. In Ancient Rome, they had advanced cooking utensils, that after the fall of Rome, weren't reinvented till the 18th(?) century: Hobbits are like that. They have utensils for every food in every variety you can think of, and while it's unnecessary to actually have, and perhaps inconvenient to use, it's a point of pride and great social status. Not only do they keep incredibly well-stocked pantries, but they've very keen to experiment with new flavours and have a decent trade route for these reasons. Recipes are also a point of pride, and it's considered unspeakable rude to attempt to recreate someone else's recipe. While there are recipe books of all kinds in every house, family recipe books are often handed down in wills, and kept secret from others. Cooking equipment is also passed down in wills. While they also partake in standard agriculture, hobbits also often have their own vegetable gardens, where they grow their proffered ingredients to work with. In the perspectives of other races, they can be a bit snooty about food, however they're simply very well-educated about the matter. Certain cultures can identify more shades of colour, because in their languages they give each shade a different name- it's sort of like that, but with taste. ((Many hobbits are able to identify the type of salt used in a recipe.)) Additionally, they have several festivals a year where they partake in food competitions. They're big fans of using edible flowers in their flavouring