#white dragon appears but only in dragon form so far.....

[kirbyddd]

one thing that's just one of my weird little personal wishes, i really wish gandalf used more of his Hobbit style alchemical "magic" in LoTR, he really only uses it for fireworks at the very beginning then he mainly just uses his ring and divine authority

[talesofesther]

𝔈𝔠𝔥𝔬𝔢𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔞 𝔉𝔩𝔞𝔪𝔢

↳ 𝐂𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞: 𝐕𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬

Aemond Targaryen x Reader/fem!OC

Series Summary: You made a promise to Aemond once, when you were young and naive, and the only friend he'd ever known; yet you abandoned him before you could fulfill it. Between broken bonds, a betrothal, and flames that still burn deep within you; this is the story of how you fell apart and found each other again.

A/N: Some big revelations coming on this one, buckle up. Daemon and Alicent are good parents in my book, okay? Okay. ;)

Word count: 4,6k

Masterlist | Previous chapter

The perfume of wildflowers overwhelmed your senses, they bloomed in several colors around you; white, pink, blue, yellow—a field of untouched beauty, tucked away on the outskirts of the forests that surrounded King's Landing.

You sat in the middle of the field, soaking up the late afternoon sunlight as you gently plucked a few of the flowers to form a unique bouquet. It was only your third day in the capital and you already felt the need to sneak away and breathe some fresh air.

A loud huff of air came from beside you then, and a chuckle escaped you when you looked at your dragon. She lay peacefully just a few feet away from you, her ash blue scales being caressed by flower petals as the wind made them flow; one, in particular, tickling her nose and making her huff without opening her eyes. Her massive frame dwarfed the trees of the forest behind you and her tail disrupted the few bugs hidden between the grass as it swished from time to time.

The small smile you had slowly vanished, however, once your mind drifted back to thoughts of Aemond, for the umpteenth time today. Your talk with him from last night replayed in your mind over and over, while you were trying to sleep and first thing in the morning. It had felt wrong and unfair, and it left a cold feeling inside your chest. And yet a feeling that you thought—hoped—you saw mirrored in Aemond's own expression last night.

It was a fragile thing, but maybe, just maybe, what you once had could still be repaired.

Even from this far away, the Red Keep could still be easily spotted in the distance. You watched as a flock of birds flew by, as nothing but dark silhouettes against the golden sunlight.

You eventually pushed yourself up from the grass, brushing away any remaining dirt from your clothes. You walked up to your dragon, laying a hand on the warm scales of her muzzle.

Her fiery blue eyes lazily blinked open at your touch, and she leaned the slightest bit into your hand. "Istiti kostilus bartos arlī, riña." ('We should probably head back, girl.')

A low and deep groan came from the back of her throat, her large mouth prying open just enough to reveal a glimpse of her sharp teeth in complaint. Yet she slowly raised her head from the ground, the motion of her tall and heavy frame sending hidden fireflies flying away from between the flowers.

"Nyke gīmigon, ziry iksos lyks kesīr, yn se jēda kessa aderī mazverdagon zōbrie. Kosti māzigon arlī hemtubis," you promised with a smile as you looked up at her, walking beside so you could mount up. ('I know, it's peaceful here, but the hour will soon grow late. We can return tomorrow.')

She lay her chest and left wing down to allow you to mount easily, only raising to full height once you were settled in the saddle. Her steps on the ground were almost booming in the quiet field, with a small roar coming from her as she awaited your command.

You gripped tightly onto the saddle, heart tuning in with the powerful beat of the one belonging to the dragon carrying you. With a grin, you spoke; "Sōvēs, Khamira."

─── ⋄✧⋄ ───

Aemond's sword cut through the air, on unsteady feet he narrowly avoided Ser Criston's attack. His boots skid over the gravel of the training yard, panting heavily as he rolled his shoulders to keep up appearances and not attract a crowd of onlookers.

Sweat ran down Aemond's temple, getting caught on the leather of his eyepatch. Today was not a good day for him.

Cole seemed to catch on, dropping his shield to the ground and suggesting a break in their sparring session.

Aemond huffed, walking to the side to lay down his sword while he tugged at the collar of his vest that felt like it had been cutting his intake of air by half. His muscles ached from the exertion, yet as he let go of the hilt of his sword, his mind was already elsewhere. Trapped back in a moonlight haze that outlined the features of the one who'd taken residence in his mind and heart.

"You seem distracted today, my Prince," Cole spoke, slowly walking closer to Aemond as he caught his own breath. "Is something troubling you?"

A pair of young squires sparred to his left, two ladies and a guard stood together by his right, and Aegon made his way down the stairs that led to the grounds of the training yard—Aemond was acutely aware of every single person around him, and each one, he knew, was salivating for some royal gossip. He kept his back turned to Ser Criston, fidgeting slightly with the cuff of his sleeve; "No trouble. Simply not a good day for me, it seems."

"Oh, brother."

Both Aemond and Cole turned towards Aegon's obnoxious voice as he wandered towards them, both hands stretched before him as the first Prince gestured between his brother and Ser Criston, "Could this finally be the day that this poor man has bested you in combat?" He sported a wide and amused smile on his lips.

Aemond hummed, holding onto his composure. "We aren't finished yet."

"Well, by what I've just watched, the result seems pretty obvious," Aegon chuckled, leaning back against the weapon's table, "You were nearly getting your ass kicked."

"Watch your tongue," Aemond warned dryly, fists closed tight.

"Were you daydreaming about your childhood sweetheart, then?" Aegon ignored him, teasing further in a quieter tone, his smirk provocative. "Don't think I didn't notice you two eye-fucking each other at supper last night." He laughed at his own words.

Aemond clenched his jaw, nostrils flaring. "I mean it, you drunk, mind your tongue." He leaned closer, only for his brother to hear; "Lest I pick up a sword and do it for you."

Aegon raised his hands in mock surrender, fighting a smile and losing. "Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, eh?" The older brother picked up a small dagger from the table, twirling it between his fingers, the sharp tip slightly digging into his skin. "And here I thought you would be overjoyed with the news."

A small, barely there frown made itself known in Aemond's features. He took half a step back, "What do you mean?" Coming from Aegon, it could hardly be anything good.

"Oh you know, brother," Aegon shrugged, hesitating only for a moment as he took a glance at Cole who stood behind Aemond with the same confused expression, "Mother's agreement with Daemon, the one... involving his dear eldest daughter."

Aemond's blood pumped faster at the mention of you, his breath stumbled and he grew more impatient, "What do you speak of?"

A beat of awkward silence passed as they held each other's gazes.

"Oh seven hells, you do not know yet," Aegon deadpanned, before a small, surprised giggle escaped him.

"Aegon..." The Prince's name out of Aemond's lips came as a warning and he narrowed his one good eye.

"Oh no, no." Aegon shook his head, dropping the dagger in his hands to take slow steps back to the same path he came from. "I'm sure mother will be the one wanting to break the news for you then, beats me wanting to be on the receiving end of her ire if I do it." He reached the stairs, one foot already on the first step when he looked at Aemond with one final grin; "But I'll say, you need not worry about your darling leaving your side ever again." Aegon winked and skipped up the stairs.

The feeling of being left in the dark was all-consuming as Aemond's eye skimmed over the training yard, the sound of steel against steel becoming muffled to his ears as he tried to find a sense of direction for his running thoughts.

He left Ser Criston without another word, quick steps taking him inside the Keep in search of his mother.

─── ⋄✧⋄ ───

You flew over the cloudy sky with no hurry, your dragon's wings stretched and steady while she danced in between clouds. You'd taken the scenic route, as you liked to call it, the longer path to the dragonpit so you could linger a few minutes more on dragonback.

The flap of her wings was slow, yet not less powerful for it, her size creating shadows over the capital. Without you needing to say a word, your loyal dragon knew not to hurry today.

You kept on for a while longer, and just as you were close to reaching your destiny, you heard a familiar sharp screeching coming from behind you.

A roar came from your own dragon as she felt the presence before even seeing it. You turned your head around, looking over your shoulder. Caraxes' slithering frame suddenly emerged from between the clouds, his long and red body a stark contrast to the pale sky.

He flew beside and then overhead from you, and you could barely make out the grinning face of your father as he passed you.

"Aderī," you spoke the command and leaned forward on your saddle, holding tight. With a single movement of her wings, your dragon propelled herself forward, her lean body shooting through the skies as she caught up with Caraxes with an excited roar.

You came from under the Blood Wyrm, rising in flight just short of hitting them as a giggle went past your lips and heavy wind kissed your cheeks.

Khamira flew ahead, her ash-blue scales shining under the fading sunlight. You had yet to meet a dragon that could match her in speed. Caraxes' screeching could be heard from afar as he tried to keep up.

You were undeniably the first one to reach the dragonpit, your dragon raising dust as her large body landed on the ground. The keepers tried to approach her slowly to guide her inside the caves, but as instant as a wild lioness she was quick to greet them with a deafening roar and a show of her sharp teeth, taking a single haste step forward as a warning.

"It's alright," you called from above her, gesturing to the keepers, "I'll see her inside."

Khamira had been a temperamental wild beast ever since you claimed her; she disliked most people and had a tendency for ferocity if anyone dared to cross her boundaries, or worse yet, dared to threaten you. The dragoness bowed her head to you, and you only.

You jumped down from the saddle, feet hitting the ground as you bit back a smile. Your hand traced the warm scales along her neck as you walked, "Emi ȳdragotan nūmāzma bisa, ao jorrāelagon naejot gaomagon aōha vēdros, riña." You reached her face, caressing the shape of her muzzle while she cooed quietly at your words. ('We've spoken about this, you need to mind your temper, girl.')

Soon after, Caraxes also reached the ground, grumbling loudly as if annoyed for losing the race. "Sȳrkta biarves hembar jēda, rōva vala." You approached your father and the red dragon, watching as he climbed down from his saddle as well. ('Better luck next time, big guy.')

"Kesi iēdrosa pyghagon ao lanta." Daemon walked up to you, steps lazy as he pointed a finger at you with an amused smile. ('We will still beat you two.')

You laughed, meeting him in the middle of the otherwise empty grounds of the dragonpit. "Gaomagon ao jaelagon." ('Keep dreaming.')

A few feet away from you, Khamira and Caraxes met up as well, circling each other and exchanging low grunts, roars, and harmless bites. Two formidable beasts who had become friends over time.

You watched the two dragons with fondness for a beat, before turning your attention back to your father; who, you noticed, looked at you with a strange and unreadable gaze.

Daemon had both hands resting on the hilt of his sword, there was a small frown on his features, as if hesitating with the words he was about to say.

He sighed, glancing down. "I've been looking for you."

"Oh, we just went out for a flight." You explained easily, gesturing to your dragon, "I took her outside King's Landing for a few hours, you know how she gets if she's cooped up for too long."

Daemon chuckled, no stranger to the deep bond between you and the once-wild dragon. "Of course." Yet his small smile seemed strained, almost uncomfortable.

You frowned, shifting on your feet for a moment, "Is… something wrong, father?"

"We need to talk, about a rather urgent matter," Daemon spoke slowly, minding his words. And you don't think you've ever seen him this hesitant; this is not a conversation he's overly happy to be having.

You hesitated, his nervousness seeping into you. "Okay... what is it?"

What looked like a grimace passed over his features, as if searching for other ways to say what he needed to say. Eventually, he simply cleared his throat, "After last night's supper, Rhaenyra and I have talked." Daemon held your gaze for a beat, before quickly adding; "It was mainly her idea, so don't come for my neck." He tried jesting.

It did nothing to help the growing confusion inside your stomach, and you leaned your head to the side with a deeper frown on your brows.

"We all know our family has been drifting apart more and more as the years go by." He further explained, taking half a step closer to you so as to better hold your gaze, "And with the King solidifying Rhaenyra's claim to the throne, the greens won't be happy to… be left out. So we've decided, that it would be in everyone's best interest," His words seemed to get caught in his tongue, "To unite our families again, once and for all."

You kept quiet, yet distantly you could feel your heart pick up its pace. Your fingers tingled and you grasped at your overcoat with a bruising grip. "And what… does this have to do with me?"

Daemon chose to ignore the question. "Rhaenyra has already spoken to Alicent and my brother, the King; and after some reasoning, both have, surprisingly, dare I say eagerly, agreed to it… as well."

You blinked once, twice, shaking your head; "Father, what in the seven hells are you on about?"

He breathed in deeply, holding the silence as he regarded you with something akin to sympathy. "We've decided to unite this family again, by offering a betrothal."

Your blood ran cold. You held onto the air in your lungs until he spoke again.

"Between you, and Alicent's second son, Aemond."

It felt as if your heart ceased its beating entirely. His words left you disarmed, and you were suddenly drowning in the waters of the Narrow Sea; sinking deeper, deeper, deeper into cold and dark waters that suffocated you from the inside out.

"What?" It fell as nothing but a breath past your lips.

Daemon could clearly see the sudden panic in your wide eyes, he reached both hands up, taking hold of your arms and rubbing his thumbs on the thick fabric of your overcoat. "I know it came suddenly, daughter. I… tried speaking against it, but believe me, even I know this is the right choice."

You tried finding your voice again, all choked up and tight; "I- No, I can't- Father, there must be something, anything else that can be done to repair this-" You stammered, "This rift between our families. Anything other than trading my life for it."

"I've been in your shoes before, I know how you feel, but it's not the end of the world-"

"Not the end-" You gulped back a sob, groaning in frustration, "How can you say that? It is to me. And then what? What would be expected of me? To bring gods know how many children to this world?"

Daemon huffed out a small laugh, avoiding your eyes, "No, worry not, we don't expect you to have children, you're not in direct line to the throne so there's no need for heirs. We only need a powerful alliance, a direct connection between both our families strong enough to keep our squabbles at bay, and that," He shook your shoulders, gaze intent, "You can provide."

Slowly, drop by drop, reality downed on you. The time had finally come for your betrothal, a day you had wished would never come at all. "You're asking me to be a means to an end," you whispered, "Why me?"

"I have… noticed how close you seem to be with The One-Eyed Prince," Daemon spoke with poorly concealed disdain, "We believe it would be in your best interest-"

Tears welled up in your eyes. Aemond. Of all people, his was the hand you'd be taking in marriage, being forced together for the sake of uniting your families.

How tragically ironic, for you to be promised to one another with broken bonds and stained hearts. Just as you had found each other again, just as you hoped to make up for all the lost years. Soon, the overly fragile bond you had only started to get the hang of again, will become public knowledge. It won’t be your secret anymore but rather an over-discussed gossip.

Aemond would resent you for it, surely. You knew he would, and you wouldn't blame him. Because right now, you feel something similar, angry and bitter, as it took away your choice of falling for him all over again on your own terms, in your own time. Instead, you were being forced into a closeness none of you were ready for.

Staggerly, your watery eyes rose up again, "It is in my best interest not to be married off against my own will, father." You pleaded, taking hold of Daemon's wrist from his hand on your shoulder, "Please."

"You are also closer to being Rhaenyra's child than Baela or Rhaena could ever be." Daemon continued his reasoning, "Besides, they are already betrothed, as is Alicent's firstborn. You and the second Prince will be the final piece, so to speak."

You shook your head weakly, "I love Rhaenyra but she's not my mother, not by blood, we both know it."

Daemon raised his brows, placating you. "You're not her blood but you are mine. And Rhaenyra took you as her ward, raised you as her own since she first met you. Our… differences with Queen Alicent lay heavier on her shoulders, as you know."

His words left you lost and uneasy. You bit into the inside of your cheek until nearly tasting blood, avoiding your father's stare. He made a good point, deep down you knew he did. Tensions were high between your family, and a strong union was necessary for a chance of peace. And heavens know Aemond is most dear to you, oh he is; but no girl wants her freedom taken away like this. "Please father, don't. Don't take away my choice on this." You tried one last time.

There was a beat of silence, and then Daemon's hands came to your cheeks, thumbs smoothing the skin of your cheekbones; just a little rough yet holding nothing but affection. "My first daughter, my zaldrītsos." He spoke low and soft, a voice he most used to you during the nights you were young and afraid of storms. "Ever since I took you from the hands of your drunk of a mother, what do I tell you? Do you remember?"

A sob climbed to your throat and you failed to bite it back. There were tears in your eyes one blink away from spilling. "That as long as you lived... I'd- I'd be alright."

A small, proud smile came to your father's features. He nodded once. "That's right. I would never do wrong by you, I wouldn't ask this of you if it wasn't our only playing card. Marriages are political agreements. It's a contract for a chance of peace between our families. Once it is done you can pursue happiness wherever you'd like."

And yet you didn't know how to tell him, that this political agreement might destroy your last hope of rebuilding what you once had with your now betrothed. You knew what would be expected of you and Aemond now, at every court and royal gathering you'd have to be side by side, it would be your duty to hold the appearances of a united Prince and Princess of the realm.

How will you do it? How will you hold his hand knowing it was neither yours nor his choice to do it?

How will you pretend to be in love, knowing nothing will be real, when deep down in your heart you wished it was?

"I wish it could be different," Daemon spoke again when you kept quiet, gaze miles away, "But a war is brewing." He dropped his hands from you, glancing up at the darkening sky. "And this union may help us avoid it, the one between our families, at least."

You closed your eyes and emptied your lungs. All your fight left your body, and a feeling of numbness settled in. You opened your eyes. "Does- does Aemond already know about this?"

─── ⋄✧⋄ ───

There were two knocks on the doors that led to Queen Alicent's chambers, a moment later, the doors were pushed open.

"Prince Aemond, Your Grace." The guard stationed outside the doors announced. Aemond slowly walked in, and the doors were closed behind him again.

Alicent sat on the couch in the middle of her room, a cup of tea in hand as she looked out the open windows. Her attention shifted once the doors opened.

"Mother," Aemond called, halting his steps by the edge of the couch. His hair partially disheveled from the speed with which he traversed the long hallways of the Keep until reaching his mother's chambers, anxiety and apprehension spurring him on.

"Aemond," Alicent placed her cup of tea on the small table, getting up to take a few steps closer to her son, "I was just about to send for you."

Aemond gulped back, striving to keep his voice from sounding as nervous as he felt, "I've just met with Aegon in the training yard." He frowned, recalling the confusing words of his brother. "He speaks of… some news regarding me, I believe, that I do not yet know."

His words made Alicent groan, closing her eyes momentarily, "He must have overheard my conversation with Rhaenyra and her husband." She sighed, regarding Aemond with a look he couldn't decipher. "I am glad he held his tongue, I wished to tell you this myself."

Aemond took a step closer, his voice softening in the slightest. "What is it, mother? Did something happen?"

"No," Alicent spoke even softer, extending her hands and taking hold of Aemond's forearms who promptly held her the same. Her thumbs moved up and down on the fabric of his sleeves. "But, my son, your father and I have made a decision, one which I hope you can understand."

A frown then came to Aemond's features. He held onto his breath until his lungs ached, tightening the hold he had on his mother's arms; fearing the worst, even if he had no idea of what 'the worst' could be. And in the midst of it all, the headache came back. It always began with a heaviness in the back of his skull, but it would soon spread to his temples, forehead, and down the harsh scar.

Aemond blinked a few times, trying to chase the pain away even if he knew it was to no avail.

Alicent inhaled deeply, giving Aemond what looked to be a bittersweet smile. "Rhaenyra and Daemon have made an offer," she hesitated, "A betrothal between you… and Daemon's eldest daughter."

Many times in his life Aemond has felt lost, helpless, unable to move his body while his heart thundered inside his chest. Yet he wondered if any at all could compare to how he's feeling now.

The One-Eyed Prince tried to keep his face impassive, almost painfully so; but he knew his wide eye reflected his surprise, he knew his tight grip on his mother's arms reflected his desperation, he knew the wobbling of his lower lip reflected his fears.

You. He was to be betrothed. To you.

The one person he wished to have back for so many years. The one person who he has missed for so many years. The one person who he'd convinced himself that, for better or worse, did not care about him anymore. The pounding pain in his head grew stronger, following suit with his spiking emotions, and he gritted his teeth.

"My son," Alicent reached one hand up to Aemond's cheek when the helpless look in his eye tugged at her heart. "I believe it can be a good idea. Your father wishes for peace between our houses, between our families, and… perhaps we should honor his wish." She held a pause, minding her next words. "He's not doing well, your father, as you know. And Rhaenyra is to take the throne, maybe sooner than we thought."

Aemond took in her words one by one, trying to find his voice but with no luck. All he did was look at his mother. He knew, of course, that she was right. If anything he'd made tensions even higher between their family after what happened at supper last night, and part of him didn't want to bring more sorrow to his mother's life by going against this betrothal.

"With this marriage, our families would be united once again." Alicent squeezed Aemond's arms, willing him to understand, "I refused an offer such as this in the past… and I don't think I should make the same mistake now." She gulped down any pride, yet still raised her chin, "For the sake of our lives. Yours, your brother's. A union with the hope of peace during Rhaenyra's rule."

Aemond averted his eye, his hand still sore from holding his sword during the sparring session with Cole, his scarred eye socket stinging persistently. He dropped his arms to his side, flexing his fingers. "I am- I am to marry…" He hesitated on your name and closed his eye in frustration.

Alicent understood anyway, and her son's hesitation brought sympathy to her. Features softening, one of her hands rubbed Aemond's arm in an attempt to comfort him, "Yes. But I remember how the two of you used to be the best of friends, always together. I am sure your marriage will be a happy one, my son." She spoke with a note of empathy, gently; "It is a privilege, to marry someone you like."

Aemond exhaled shakily. Few and far in between as they were, the moments when he could lean into a mother's embrace were always cherished by the One-Eyed Prince. Yet there was a poorly concealed lump in his throat, a restlessness making his fingers tap his thigh.

Aemond refrained from telling his mother how he feared you didn't like him as you once used to anymore. He refrained from telling his mother how he would never wish for a woman like you to be stuck with a man like him.

With a tightness in his chest, deep down Aemond knew you deserved better. Better than he could ever be.

But alas, he opened his eye, looking down at the hopeful look on his mother's face even if his headache almost got her blending with the faded sunlight seeping through the windows.

Aemond managed a small, pained smile, and nodded.

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Next chapter

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[ihavemanyhusbands]

High Risk

PART ONE: STAR PATIENT

Mini-series masterlist

Also on AO3

Pairing: Hannibal Lecter x Nurse!Fem!Reader

WC: 3.5k words

Series Summary: You, a nurse at Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, are assigned to the newest inmate -- none other than the Chesapeake Ripper, otherwise known as Hannibal Lecter. He is nothing short of charming, but the dangerous mysteries that lurk beneath are equally alluring. So much so that you can barely resist the urge to uncover them all.

Warnings: MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY, canon typical violence (mentions and some descriptions), slight canon divergence (here frederick is still director of the hospital), corruption, manipulation all around, eventual smut, secret affair(ish?), sort of power imbalance, ongoing murder investigation (the red dragon), cursing, not-so-slow burn, hannibal being hannibal pretty much, aaand that’s all I can think of but lmk if something should be added!

—————

“A woman being never at a loss…. The devil always sticks by them.” — Lord Byron

———-

Much like the Minotaur’s labyrinth, Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane was designed never to let one escape. At least, that’s how you viewed it, even if you were a worker and not a prisoner there. 

Still, you weren’t sure that was any better.

The place’s immaculate cleanliness was almost unnerving, but it was fitting. The walls were a glaring white, and the floors were always polished until they shone. The hallways were meant to confuse those who hadn’t actively tried to memorize them, every corner seeming the same.

Your uniform had to be impeccable too, lest you made the place look bad. It was absurd how much laundry you had to do, and how much time you had to spend on your appearance. All for it to go to waste whenever things got messy with rowdier inmates. 

But despite it all, there was a certain allure to the place that made you want to return each day. Something morbid, almost sinister, like a secret waiting to be uncovered. It was irresistible, and it would be until you found it out.

Doctor Chilton had just given you the rundown about the new inmate, stressing the importance of following protocol when dealing with him. He’d handed you his file to look over and on the very first page, there was a picture of the man they called the Chesapeake Ripper — Hannibal Lecter. 

You were taken aback for a moment, not expecting him to look like that. Luckily, the Doctor did not seem to notice your reaction, and you quickly made sure your expression was neutral once more.

Despite having worked there for a few years, witnessing all sorts of things, you were a little rattled by the way he spoke about him. Especially after mentioning he didn’t want to lose any more nurses, alluding to the incident with a former inmate, Doctor Gideon.

As it turned out, Hannibal was also a doctor, and you couldn’t help but shudder at the prospect of some macabre pattern forming. 

Of course, none of the other nurses wanted to be assigned to him, but Doctor Chilton trusted you to handle things well. You did what was asked of you and never caused any trouble. Truthfully, it wasn’t because you were particularly driven, but you wanted to fly under the radar and take it day by day.

And yet, it had still led you there, despite your efforts. 

You took the elevator down from the top floor, reading the file as you went. It was noted that the risk of him being violent was quite high, but he had thus far been cooperative with the staff. In fact, he had even turned himself in to the police, which was a detail that stood out to you. 

Considering his numerous horrific crimes, along with Doctor Chilton’s psychological assessment of him, he did not seem like a man who would let himself be apprehended so easily. It would gnaw at you, but you weren’t sure if you’d get the answers you suddenly seeked.

You left the file at your station to finish reading later, trying your best to ignore the looks of fear and pity some of the other nurses shot your way. Hopefully none of them would try to give you shallow words of affirmation, knowing you’d be the subject of gossip for the next week or so.

The maximum security cells were on the basement floor, but you stopped by the kitchen first to get his meal tray. You steeled your nerves as you passed through the extensive clearance, continuing down the hallway until you reached the very last cell, which was behind a set of double doors.

Was the light dimmer there, or were you imagining things? You could see shadows lurking in the corners of the room, an ominous feeling curling in your stomach. A cool gust from one of the AC vents made you shiver, but otherwise, you willed yourself to stay composed.

Finally, you dared to look into the actual cell. It was much nicer than most of the other cells, equipped with two bookshelves, a large mahogany desk, and some elaborate sketches that were taped on the walls. Perhaps part of a bargain struck with Doctor Chilton based on his cooperation with the authorities. 

Then again, he was the new star patient, so that probably earned him a few more privileges. Despite those small luxuries though, you knew it’d be hard for him to forget that he was incarcerated.

Hannibal himself was lying down on his cot, reading, but he sat up as soon as you entered. He was even more handsome in person, almost rakish, and you allowed yourself the smallest pause to continue looking at him. 

He had a fine nose, dark eyes, and an aristocratic air to him. Not to mention, a full, obscene mouth that was surely meant to cast impure thoughts. 

Somehow, you had to admit that even his slate gray jumpsuit fit him quite well. If he truly was the Devil, then word of his burning, unholy beauty was not a lie.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted with a smile that you were sure had charmed many in the past.

“Good afternoon. Stay where you are, please,” you said firmly but politely, returning the smile just slightly. “I’ve brought lunch.”

He obeyed, hands resting on his knees. Slowly, tentatively, you made your way to the slot in the glass where you could deposit the tray. 

“Please don’t retrieve it until I’m gone, and let a guard know when you’re done so they can collect it.”

He nodded, smile still in place. “Thank you.”

You began to retreat, feeling his gaze fixed on your back. It wasn’t until your hand was on the door knob that you realized your heart was racing. Adrenaline was dancing beneath your skin like little bolts of electricity, but at least your breathing was even. 

What was it that had affected you so deeply? Was it the thrill of looking into the eyes of pure evil? 

No, that was far too simple, and therefore what you had expected… but that wasn’t all you’d been able to see. It was hard to decipher just at first glance, but you hadn’t been brave enough to hold eye contact for long. And you certainly weren’t any braver when you returned to deliver his supper later that evening.

He was still all smiles and charming obedience, but you noticed his eyes wandered a lot more. It might have been a little amusing, if you weren’t so nervous. If anything, to have his attention was both intimidating and bewitching.

It made you want to say something more, but you weren’t sure what. Still, you knew better than to engage too much outside of protocol.

Or at least you thought you did. 

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

Moonlight slipping through the foliage, anointing the darkened world in silver. A deer silently drank from a stream, unaware the hunter had spotted it. Head bent, throat long. It would be an easy shot, arrow cleanly piercing the jugular. 

It ran, but it did not get very far.  Its wide, ink-black eyes were looking up at the beautiful face of the moon, silhouetting the hunter. Its weakening heart leapt at the sight.

The last thing it saw was his knife.

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

You woke up with a start, panting and confused. Sleep slid off you slowly, like a veil uncovering your eyes. Your hand unconsciously went to your throat, but unsurprisingly, you found no arrow’s fletching.

Two weeks had passed with nothing especially of note. You had read the entirety of Hannibal’s file, the details of his brutality leaking out into your life beyond Baltimore State Hospital.

It was hard to peel off all the misery embedded in its walls, especially being exposed to it daily. It was easier to compartmentalize instead, letting your mind go blank at the end of the day. But the dreams were an inevitable torment, nonsensical and intensely vivid.

You sat up in bed, rubbing your eyes and sighing into the silence of your small bedroom. You stared into the middle distance for a few minutes, mentally preparing to start your day. 

In the time that had passed, you had exchanged a few more words with Hannibal that were not part of protocol. He had asked your name, his tone kept carefully casual, and you thought it only fair to tell him. 

After that, he had ventured to ask more innocuous questions about yourself, perhaps trying to test the limits of your interactions. You had answered most of them truthfully but vaguely, worried about him psychoanalyzing you.

Something told you he'd also know if you were lying, so you figured it’d be mostly useless to try. But you were entitled to your secrets, too, and you preferred keeping your cards close to your chest.

Yet you were also aware that it would not deter him, but unbeknownst to him, you were just as headstrong. 

Later, after having slipped on your mask of cool indifference and clocking into work, you brought down his breakfast. You found him at his desk, sketching. He glanced up without moving his head, pencil still moving.

“Good morning,” he greeted. “Is it nice out today?”

“Depends on what you consider ‘nice’,” you said mildly, making slow work of depositing his meal tray. “It’s been intermittently raining since last night, and I don’t think it will stop any time soon.”

“Not bad at all,” he said, his tone ever so slightly wistful. “I do quite enjoy rain. I hope you didn’t forget your umbrella.” 

Strangely, you couldn’t help but feel a little sympathy for him. The sudden loss of freedom was an unbearable thought to you, and you didn’t really wish it on anyone. But that wasn’t to say he didn’t deserve to be in the position he was in.

He noticed you hovering but not saying anything. Finally, his pencil halted and he looked up at you, leaning forward slightly. His assessing gaze pinned you in place, but your body was tense and ready to flee.

“You sound tired. Did you sleep poorly?” He asked.

You blinked in surprise, the question snapping you back to the present. Lowering your gaze, you inclined your head.

“I’m fine, thank you for asking,” you said politely. “I should get going, I’ll be back in an hour.”

He pursed his lips in what seemed like irritation, but he didn’t press you. Instead, he stopped you once more by changing the subject. 

“Before I try to talk to Frederick about it, there’s something I’d like to ask you,” Hannibal said.

You looked at him with apprehensive curiosity. “I cannot promise you anything, but you may ask me.”

“I would like to draw you, if you’d model for me,” he said. “Simple stuff, all of it appropriate. I promise. I’m just in dire need of a muse.”

“What makes you think he will say yes to such a request?” You asked, not yet processing everything in your state of shock. 

He smirked. “He needs my help with certain things, so it’s only fair I get something in return.”

You crossed your arms over your chest. “And… Why the interest in me, specifically?”

“It would be a sin not to immortalize features like yours.”

Heat crawled up to your face and your arms tightened against your torso, but you kept a mostly neutral expression on your face. You weren’t sure if he was being serious or just toying with you to unnerve you, but you had a feeling it was a mixture of both.

You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of a bigger reaction, but it was likely he could still tell he’d rattled you. The worst part was that deep inside, you also took his interest as a compliment, but there was no way you would let that show.

“I’ll give it some thought,” you said slowly, unsure why you were even considering it. “Pending Doctor Chilton’s approval, of course.”

“Of course,” he said with a nod. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be here.”

With that, you left, floating down the corridor as if detached from your body. The whole situation had a feeling of unreality to it, and you kept expecting to wake up once again.

As you got to the nurse’s station, another nurse told you that Doctor Chilton had summoned you to his office. You blinked at her in surprise. Impossible… Had Hannibal really been so fast?

Next thing you knew, you were knocking on the door to his office, turning the knob when you heard him grant you access.

“There you are,” Doctor Chilton said, one hand resting on his cane. “Close the door behind you and take a seat, will you?”

You dipped your chin in compliance and mechanically followed instructions. For what seemed like an eternity, he said nothing, studying you instead. You shifted slightly in your seat, instinctively returning the favor if only because you didn’t want to be the one to look away.

He himself had been a victim of Hannibal’s more than once, and his body bore all of the evidence. Still, the Doctor had an undeniable obsession, using any and every opportunity to brag about Hannibal’s capture.

Clearly, the impact had been more than skin deep. No one ever dared to outwardly gossip about it, but it was well-known regardless.

It wasn’t often that you dealt with him directly, and you were being painfully reminded of why you preferred it that way. 

“Did…” you began, but he interrupted.

“I watched it all through the cameras. He knew I would be when he asked you that.” He leaned forward on the desk, hands clasped. “Wise choice not to give in just yet.”

You couldn’t help but balk at this. “I beg your pardon?”

He raised an eyebrow. “It must have been a tempting offer, to be the Devil’s muse. I would not blame you if you were at least a little flattered.”

Your eyes, just like your resolve, were like steel. “Why have you called me here, if I may ask?”

His smug, easy grin faded as he let out a long sigh, his patience wavering for a moment. 

“Hannibal is right about my needing him, though I am not the only one who does. The reason why is classified, as you can imagine, so I cannot tell you much,” he said, keeping his tone bored as if he couldn’t be bothered to explain it to you. “What I’m trying to understand now is why he wants you in return.”

“I’m just as confused, trust me.”

“From what I have observed, you don’t speak much, even if he has tried. I wonder if the challenge interests him…” he drifted off thoughtfully for a moment. “Though I suppose he’s always liked to surround himself with pretty things, too.” 

You stiffened, taken aback by the strange compliment. “And so you are expecting me to say yes?”

“I’m not expecting, no, but I’m sure you’ve gathered that this goes beyond Baltimore State. Of course, should you choose to assist us, you would not only be generously compensated, but I would be immensely grateful, as well.”

You thought about it for a moment. The additional income would definitely be helpful, but you had to admit you were also growing more and more curious about the whole thing. What else did you have going on, otherwise? 

Still, you had to try and cover all your bases first. You couldn’t make it too easy for him, after all.

You slightly tilted your head to the side.“Grateful… so you could call it a favor, then?”

He raised both eyebrows. “A favor?”

“Yes, Doctor. He’s a highly dangerous patient and you are asking me to spend longer periods of time – I’m presuming alone – with him. The safety of all staff should be your top priority, right?” you said pointedly, crossing your arms over your chest. “What use is money if no one’s alive to collect it?”

His green eyes narrowed as he seemed to weigh his options. Your face remained implacable, though there was also a challenging shade in your features that he did not miss. Otherwise, he could not get a very good read on you, and that suddenly intrigued him. Perhaps you’d be more useful than he’d originally thought.

“Right… You make a good point,” he finally conceded. “Well, I am a man of honor, after all. Anything you might need, you can always ask.” 

You smiled as genially as you could. “How gracious of you, Doctor Chilton. Thank you.”

His false smile was more like a sneer. “Of course. You don’t have to give your final answer now, but…”

“I accept,” you said, cutting him off. “I am honored by the opportunity.”

—-----------------------------------------------------

“How close are you able to get to the glass?”

“Up to ten paces away,” you said, taking your cardigan off and draping it over the back of the chair you’d brought. “Should be close enough, no?”

“Not nearly,” Hannibal said with a small, flirtatious smile that you did not return. 

Still, he could see a flicker of amusement cross your face, softening you infinitesimally. It only made him ache all the more to see you up close. He felt a sudden thrill that warmed his extremities — a feeling he recognized but had not felt for some time.

“Doctor Chilton has given us two hours, so I’d advise you to use the time wisely,” you said, slightly lifting an eyebrow and setting your hands on your hips. “How would you like to start?” 

“Just as you are, at your most natural,” he said, picking up his pencil. “Let’s see…”

It was strange at first, to have him stare so intently at you. You, who were seldom cowed by anything, could still barely keep eye contact with him. As an excuse, you offered your profile, turning your body to face the wall. 

He complimented the elegant swoop of your neck and you rewarded him with a demure glance and soft words of gratitude. His grip on the pencil tightened, his heartbeat spiking. You caught the way he shifted slightly in his chair, swallowing hard. 

Despite your icy exterior, you felt a thrill at the effect you seemed to have on him. 

You hadn’t been instructed to do anything but show up, but you knew instinctively that it would take more than that to keep Doctor Chilton’s favor… and Hannibal’s interest. Luckily, you were well versed in the art of slow seduction – giving just enough, but then withdrawing in equal measure.

Not to mention, it felt safer to do so on the other side of the glass.

Once or twice, he gave you brief instructions on how to pose your arms or which way to angle your head. You fell into a sort of meditative state, the reality of the whole situation slipping away from you, as well as the passage of time. 

When your watch’s timer went off, he seemed to snap back into focus at the same time as you. You looked up, startled at the sight of all the sheets of paper strewn about the desk. You noticed his hands were stained with graphite as he set his pencil down.

Curiosity got the best of you, and you took a step closer if only to try to get a glimpse. There was an almost frantic quality to the sketches, as if he was worried he might not be able to trace all the lines he wanted to in time. You weren’t able to gather many details from that angle, but you did not doubt his talent. Something about those hands…

“Productive first day,” you said, lightly teasing him to distract yourself from other thoughts passing through your mind.

A smile and the faintest dip of his chin. “I have not been so inspired in a while.”

“You flatter me too much. I’m sure it wasn’t just due to me,” you said, looking behind him at his bookshelf. “What are you currently reading?”

He seemed momentarily surprised at your interest, glancing over his shoulder and slightly raising his eyebrows. 

“Byron, actually.” He chuckled as he saw your reaction to the poet’s name. “The irony of it is not lost on me, trust me.”

You looked away. “You’re finding beauty where you can. I understand.”

“I always have, in my own way,” he said. “I have a feeling you might relate.”

“In places like this, there is no other choice,” you said, noncommittal. “Not if you want to survive it.”

“The great object of life is sensation,” he quoted. “To feel that we exist, even though in pain.”

You let out a short exhale as you slipped your cardigan back on. How curious that he would be a romantic, but you supposed, in a way, it made sense. 

Free of being a so called muse for the day, you withdrew back into yourself. He’d gotten the barest glimpse of another side of you — softer, more open — and that had to be enough for the time being. 

Had to leave him wanting more, after all.

“I will see you bright and early tomorrow, Hannibal. Get some rest.”

------

[kaiser-author-san-iii]

What if creator reader is separated from their nephew and nugget is crying, sobbing - just wanting to be with [Y/n] when all of a sudden they see some dilf/grandpa looking dude (Pierro) and then it all clicks to him and decides to adopt them for now all while helping Nugget find their guardian/relative who happens to be the all ruling deity that created the world.

---

He felt it's been hours as his feet attempted to carry him to safety where that was. He had never been here as his parents not his favorite guardian ever took him to a place like this. It all seemed too strange and also scary as he heard sounds of things that he has never heard of before.

He would have been brave if they were here since when they were, everything seemed to be afraid of them. That's why he loved them so much - they were his protector.

But they weren't here.

What if the monster that's out there gets him? He's small. He can't outrun many things.

"Where are you? Mami... Papa...! Tita! I'm scared!" The voice of the child cared through the winds but no one heard.

Or at least that is what the child thought as it clutched onto the one thing that he brought with him - a stuffed animal plushie that was gifted to him by his guardian when he was five. It was some sort of raccoon animal but didn't look like a raccoon with it's cute tail and fluffed up red and white fur.

Beneath the very ground, the land started to sing and cry as they had no way to comfort the boy personally, except maybe to send a sort of message to anyone that was in the area of the forest nearest to him. There were a few but they were too far away and of course, the animals and fungi would only frighten the child.

There was one.

One that had been shunned, one that has been in hiding in far away lands but had come to the great Dendro forests once again in hopes of new methods. He had heard the cries of the child and decided to follow the sounds, a few of his subordinates following the foreboding man of a nation now destroyed by time and gods.

His lone icy colored eye watched the path ahead to a clearing where the cries were coming from. He could have easily ignored it as lost children were quite common in the Sumeru forests as told to him by Dottore and from what he remembered. But this cry, there was nothing to explain other his heart shattered from hearing the pain, to hear an innocent be so distressed.

As if is body was moving on his own.

"Titi! W-where are you?!" The young child huddled into what looked like a small burrow possibly made by a small fox or even the whopperflowers that decided to stay close but were eliminated quickly by his subordinates. Guarding the entrance of the burrow where he easily hid were two dendro slimes though one was big. The Child seemed to be scared but the slimes seemed to make flowers appear on top of its head as a way to comfort the crying child.

A crying child was worrisome enough.

But if the crying child had sparkling silver streaming down his cheeks?

'Teyvat had started with a simple speck floating endlessly. A great force soon took possession of it. Day and night, it worked endlessly until the speck grew and grew. The great earth overgrew with the power of fire spewing, forming mountains and land together, storms brewed with the help of a simple blow from the Force themselves, creating the winds, the storms - lightning, and rain were created from the frustrations and determination of Them. Over time, thanks to the rain, the oceans, lakes, and rivers, the land had become to freeze, and in others, forests had become bountiful. From the bountiful lands of green, soon great beasts of each domain rose from a slumber they had no recollection of. Awaiting them in front of them was a being of pure golden and silver light, a wave of their hand, and the great beasts, "dragons" as they were bestowed by the light, bowed before the Light. Before them stood the Divine Creator. The ruler of Teyvat. They had breathed life into their world and what else could they do other than what they asked, which was to live well and prosper. It's unknown what happened as it all went so quick. Many events occurred at the same time but what everyone remembered was the favoritism the Creator showed to the nation of Khaenri'ah.

Oh, how the creator loved Khaenri'ah. How they were so willing to do more, happy to learn more and had treated Them like one of them.

They were a nation closest to the Creator and the first to know that the Creator had a family and one of them was with child and their Creator loved the said child. The child was said to be who will inherit Teyvat.

The Heir.

The Little Prince.

"One day, I shall bring him here to show him all that I love and hope he will love as well. One day, I want him to walk and talk among you all so he appreciates you all. He will be dearly loved and he shall be friend to all - my future benevolent prince."

He was one of the lucky few who have read the scripts of when the creator was still among them. How they adored the idea of Gods and humans living in harmony and the future friends he might have.

Of course, They always appreciated free will. Something that the Anemo Archon was inspired by. They never really placed harsh judgement. They always treated everyone fairly.

But seeing the child in person like this must be a dream. Did this mean that the benevolent Creator has returned? If so, where are They? And why is the Heir crying?

Pierro carefully approached the child and though the slimes should have been dispatched and before he could give the order, the slimes stopped as if they knew the Harbinger would help. The child still crying and sparkling silver streamed down his cheeks and hiccuping.

Everyone surrounding the area took pity. They had to ensure the Heirs happiness.

"Little one, where is your Guardian?" He asked gently and was happy to see that he stopped, wiping his tears for a moment before replying. The child was unsure to say anything but his instincts were telling him that the man was a good man.

"I... I don't know. We were in [Guardians name] ride home when.. when there was a big crash...! I was so scared I c-closed my eyes! I open them and they were gone..! I don't know where I am! I miss Tita! I want my Tita! I wanna go home! I must ask mama and papa to punish the fool who hurt Titia's ride! Ah! Tita! I hope they're not hurt!"

Anger soon filled their bodies.

Someone brought harm to the Heir and the Creator?!

Divine retribution is indeed in the makings for whom dared to bring harm to their Creator and the Heir.

But first...

"What is your name, Little Prince?"

The child looked up, wiping more of the tears from his face and tried to put on a brave face. He has to be strong until he finds his Guardian again!

"I'm [Nephew's Name]! But... Tita calls me Nugget! Or Little Prince like you did, Mister."

Nugget was happy that the man smiled and even patted his head. Though he looked "stern" and "emotionless" like those people his Tita mentioned, the man was very kind. And he was the one he stuck to when he decided to go with them. And Mister Pierro promised to help him find his Tita. If they're in danger, then he'll be able to come and rescue them like the hero he is!

"Mister Pierro, do you have friends?"

"Friends? Something like that." Pierro will indulge in the Little Prince. Who cannot?

"Then we have an army! We have lots of people to look for Tita and it'll be easy! Oh, you'll like them mister. They're really nice and though clumsy, are the best!"

He couldn't wait to see the Creator in person. To see the benevolent being that his predecessors practically worshiped. The man who formed the Fatui will assure that he will leave no rock unturned till their Grace is safe in the lands of Snezhnaya

---

That's all I got. Thanks folks :3

[give-some-lemons]

Just imagine: Sylus is a dragon king who has a village that pays him tribute in the form of jewels, money, etc, but one day instead of this he demands to give him young maidens, one of which is you. It turns out that his goal is the birth of an heir, but so far no woman has been able to bear a child for some reason. You, despite the king's promises to shower that one woman with luxuries, just want to return home, to your family, and when you try to escape, you are caught and taken directly to the king's chambers, where you meet him for the first time

***

The man towered over the girl with all his menacing presence, studying every little detail of her appearance, facial expressions and movements, which were, or at least seemed too calm for a person in such a situation. Her eyes were lowered to the floor and only the way she placed her fingers and sometimes ran her tongue over her parched lips betrayed her excitation. A large hand on her throat forced the girl to draw air through her teeth, finally meeting the eyes with the owner of these lands. The black horns that were placed on his head added to the already tall creature more height, making his presence even more oppressive, the long snow-white hair that reached his waist, and the sharp claws that dug into the delicate girl's skin as if trying to tear it to pieces. And even despite this, his face seemed to have been created by the best artists of this world, as if the gods themselves had created a beautiful angel who inevitably plunged everyone into sin, tempting mortals to make their own way to hell. His sharp nose, which somewhat resembled a crow's beak, thin lips, which were currently curved into a smile, high cheekbones and a jaw line that seemed to cut you if you touched them, and those predatory, crimson eyes that looked into the very soul of the young lady. Well, now she understood all those women in the palace who were almost singing odes to him, their hearts were forever captured by the terrible, but so beautiful dragon king.

— I knew that there was no use for in education for village girls, but I expected at least some sort of manners. — the man said, leaning towards the face of the young lady, almost touching her forehead with his own. — Didn't your mother teach you that it's rude to stare?

This voice that flowed through her veins like an aphrodisiac was the last particle that kept the girl from succumbing to the charms of this devil, who, as she knew for sure, would destroy her soul and body. But she didn't care anymore. A dark chuckle left the girl's lips before her hand rested on lord’s neck, trailing it down his massive chest and stomach, the muscles of which tensed under the sensual touch.

— I'm just returning the favor.

Shortening the distance between them, the girl fell to the man’s lips, capturing them in a passionate kiss. Slender fingers tangled in the snow-white locks, raking and painfully pulling it, while with the other hand she ran sharp nails across his exposed chest and torso, leaving red streaks. Feeling his own blood on his tongue, the lord smiled through the kiss, tightening his grip on the girl's neck, feeling his heartbeat quicken under the pads of his fingers.

— Well, if you are that brave, you cannot count on my mercy, sweetheart. — the king said as he lifted the young lady up with ease and touched her skin in a chaste kiss before placing her body down onto the soft surface of the bed.

P.S. Saw these precious, wonderful, AMAZING artworks and was wondering why nobody wrote anything in that concept before

[danikamariewrites]

Hey! I love your Acotar and Fourth wing works! I swear they are what get me through the day! Can I request for Xaden, when he, Tarin and Sgayel arrive at the flight field to see reader scared and hurt by her strict family member, who's an instructor, because reader wouldn't let them study her or something. Bonus points for if Tarin and Sgayel turn just as protective of both reader and Andarna. Thank you!

Not an Experiment

Xaden x reader

A/n: thank you anon❤️ I’m so happy you like them

Warnings: canon violence, abuse, angst

Sgaeyl was screaming in Xaden’s head. “Get up! Get up now!” The Wing Leader jolted up in bed. The black sheets pooling at his waist, chest heaving as Sgaeyl continued to yell.

He throws himself out of bed quickly dressing and bolting out of his room. Xaden knew something was wrong.

As he hustled his way down to the flight field Sgaeyl finally came back with answers. “It’s y/n! Her father has her and Andarna somewhere. Tarin and I are coming, are you ready?”

Xaden felt a rush of anger. Your father shouldn’t be anywhere near you. All your life he had treated you like an experiment. He wasn’t even supposed to be near you! You were supposed to be safe from him in the riders quadrant until.

Your father is a Colonel under General Sorrengail, this is clearly his way of getting into her good graces. A powerful weapon controlled by the Empyrean at her disposal would move your father up a few ranks. He was there when your signet made itself known. When you bonded to Tarin and Andarna Xaden didn’t like the look in his eye. The gears in his brain were churning, a plot forming with every passing second.

Before Sgaeyl can properly land Xaden vaulted himself on to her back. The blue dragon took off faster than she ever had before. As she rose Tarin’s menacing figure appeared before them. He looked angry. Rage swimming in his yellow eyes.

Tarin lead the way to you and Andarna. “He’s trying to open your bond so you can speak to her again.” Xaden couldn’t even think straight never mind speak. They flew for what felt like hours before he spotted you, your father, and Andarna on a hill.

Tarin landed behind your father as Sgaeyl landed behind you. Xaden threw himself from her back rushing over to you. You were sobbing, clinging to Andarna who was clearly drained. The little gold dragons eyes were half closed. Her breathing slow and heavy.

Your father roared in anger at Xaden pulling you into his arms. “This has nothing to do with you!” “It has everything to do with me! Y/n is your daughter! How can you do this?”

“She is my child, I decided what happens to her!” Your head snapped toward your father. Your eyes wild and face splotchy with tears. “No you don’t! You don’t get to treat me like an experiment anymore. And for what? Glory and a new title?”

Your father was getting angrier and angrier. His hand twitching for his sword, fist clenching and knuckles turning white. “Tarin you need to get Andarna out of her.” “I am not leaving you here.”

Pulling his sword your father stomped at the three of you. You and Xaden drew your own, ready to protect the small dragon behind you. Tarin didn’t let him get that far. He grabbed your father by his shirt, throwing him into the closest tree. He bounced off the trunk rolling far from you.

Tarin steps between your father and the four of you. He gets low, practically eye level with your father. Gods that must be terrifying. Tarin let’s out a roar and fire follows. You drop to your knees in shock. You knew this would happen. He was protecting his rider, his mate, and little Andarna.

This had to happen. This was the only way you would be safe again. Xaden could only protect you so much. And no one would question the dragons.

[r0-boat]

May I request Zhongli X fem-reader ?

Because last one you did with Zhongli was fricking amazing!

Hi! Thank you so much I liked doing that one as well I did a lot of experimenting with that one so I thought I would do it again for this post as well

Morax's Wife

'the Dreaded Dragon of Geo and his mate'

Cw: hurt/comfort

Dragon Sovereign!Zhongli x Reader

You gazed down upon the village of Liyue, a small town, a far cry from what it will be in the future. And a place you once called your home, looking out from the mountain where you reside now—a temple-like castle carved from the very rock of the mountains. Eyes red and stinging, lost in your thoughts, your mind repeating the words of the same people you had known just days before, their friendly smiles warming your day as they would greet you with enthusiasm now those same faces twisted with hate, disgust, slinging hurtful words; those people were your friends, people you had known all your life looking at you with such disdain as if i had forgotten how you were.

And all because you had fallen in love with The Sovereign of Geo, a known rival of Celestia.

Having been out there for so long you had momentarily forgotten that time had passed.

"Mate, are you ok?" A deep, rumbling voice Like an earthquake trembled behind you as your husband concerned for how how long you had sat there watching the carts going in and out of the city walls. The Dragon came to join you by your side, changing its form to its human appearance, the wind tosling his hair and white robes as he sat beside you.

" You have been out here for quite a while beloved."

When Morax followed your gaze, his eyes narrowed as he looked down at the tiny Kingdom, his brows furrowing with worry, for he had known how its people betrayed you. Watching them draw their swords that the woman he loves still remembers, your pleads and cries for your loved ones to see reason; all the while, he attempts to protect his mate; his wife grabs your arm to pull you behind him.

The crowd grew as onlookers heard what was happening from a distance. Grabbing on to the robes of your mate, your eyes dart frantically, feeling your chest become tighter and tighter as it becomes harder to breathe. Looking among the crowd your heart practically stops in the very back was the familiar faces of your own family looking at you with worry but they didn't do anything they just stayed there silently refusing when they saw that you've noticed they just turned away their eyes shifting to the floor looking anywhere else but you...

Why?

And that moment your family had to sound you and you knew that, and it hurt clenching your teeth trying to stop the tears not now... not in front of Morax...

But he had already sensed your sadness. Your husband having live with you for a while and being attentive and taking pride in knowing every little piece of you including the little hair on your head noticed those tells immediately to the slight quiver of your lip to the way you would refuse to look at him refuse to look at your husband with those big beautiful eyes of yours. His eyes growing soft and see gently caress your cheek tilting your head to look up at him.

Those amber eyes gaze into your red puffy ones. "Oh, my sweet mate, are you thinking of that day again?"

Your eyes had widened feeling your paper thin facade already tearing in two. Your voice breaks when only his name Falls from your lips. His heart breaks along with it, scooping you up into his arms before getting up onto his feet with you tucked protectively gently against his chest. Morax was as gentle as he was feared, but that gentleness was only reserved for you, his mate. Morax kissed you on the forehead before whispering, "That day they have failed you my beloved you need not think of them anymore. They are nothing but vile creatures worth far less than the dirt on the very ground they stand on. You are nothing like them."

He nuzzled into your neck bringing you back home in his cave as he continued.

" you are far more than that, my sweet beloved, gentle, and beautiful Wife. You are a precious gem sticking out from the rest of the rubble." The dragon knew, but you felt it was something he could not fix, but he could be there to make you smile, that same smile he fell in love with. He couldn't make that whole town disappear, for it would sadden you even more, but he could tell you that you are worth far more to him than the rest of your kin were stupid and vile creatures to do what they've done. He could spoil you like a husband should.

The dragon gently lays you back in his nest with the finest silk sheets and mattresses, along with stuffed toys and anything else he had gotten for you over the years that he had been with you. And Morax not wanting to part from you for a single moment snakes his arm underneath you to pull you closer laying right beside you where he belonged his brown and gold draconic tail wrapping around your leg wanting to be as close to you as possible. His eyes only had a room for one as they were trained and focused taking in every little thing you do even now as you cry and whimper he only saw the beautiful bride he had taken still as beautiful as you were when he had married you. That beautiful white and gold glittering dress to match his robes he made sure to pick out the finest treasures and gems from his horde decking you out in glittering gold and other delicacies from the earth please his little dragon mind greatly. Your family couldn't be there but the other sovereigns were the dragons of the other six elements congratulating him. Despite him marrying a human, they lovingly accepted you as one of them, far more than They could have ever done.

Your smile will shine like gold in his memories just as brightly as the gold and glittering ring he had made for the both of you. He had carved it himself with the raw Elemental energy of Geo. He had even so much as carved the innards of the band with each other's names as if it was a signature on parchment.

Marriage was a human tradition, and he cared little for humans except for, well, you, but the idea of a contract of love and binding two mates as one intrigued him. Now, he was obsessed with the titles that came with husband and wife. He was happy to call himself your husband and was eager to call you his wife.

As he reminisced on the contract ceremony 'Wedding' all the while playing with your delicate human hand, his eyes trained on that glittering band signifying your title as his wife and forever mate, his clawed hand threading through your head of hair, practically purring in delight at the warmth sharing with you, hoping this would have calmed you down from your sadness. Oh, how your husband wished to ease you of your pain forever, but he knows he could not wipe your precious memories as much as he regrets. As much as your memory hurts you, human memory is fragile and precious. Even the moments of hurt will be tied to moments of happiness, and he never wants for you to lose those.

His heart squeezed feeling your hand clench his robes your fingers grazing against his bare chest. He whispered your name only to be met with quiet snoozing. He couldn't help but chuckle you were so cute.

"Good night, my dear. Have good dreams, only for you to wake in my arms again; I love you, my wife."

[yuesya]

The barrier breaks.

It’s too soon. The thought flashes across her mind like lightning. Swift and sudden, without any time to dwell on it; for there is an overwhelming surge of sheer destruction wreaking havoc everywhere –with her standing in the very epicenter of it.

Balor stumbles, as her barrier falls. As it breaks. Far too soon, releasing all the mindless rage and malevolent energies of the god she’d just killed into the world around her. A veritable flood of darkness, with roiling shadows that twist themselves into bestial forms. Simulacrums of the thralls that the Mistress of Dreams had commanded in life, that turn on her and lunge forward viciously.

Exhaustion tugs at her limbs, from both the high expenditure of energy and the backlash from her barrier being forcibly broken. The two factors only serve to compound the lethargy and numbness in her body. It’s been so long since she’d been drained like this, but Balor knows that this is not the time to be showing any weakness. Not now, and not ever–

Her powers have yet to recover–

She cleaves the shadow-beast in front of her in two; but there are claws aimed at her back and three more beasts plunging down from above–

Something crashes into her, bodily knocking her aside. Briefly, the breath is knocked from her lungs.

Balor looks up, only to see a wind spirit crouched above her like a protective guard. The avian spirit’s chest heaves visibly, clearly from its own exhaustion, but sharp gold eyes remain locked on the shadowy enemies circling them. These beasts born from the Mistress of Dreams’ lingering malice are focused on Balor –and yet this wind spirit does not move to escape.

He’s bleeding. Blood drips down from open wounds, and the heat and miasma of it scorch her skin.

Wordlessly, Balor pushes herself upright from the ground. The wind spirit obligingly moves to crouch at her side instead, lowering its head in a deferential bow.

Why?

… She shelves aside the question for now. For all that the wind spirit had formerly been one of the Mistress of Dreams’ thralls, it no longer appeared to be actively hostile, and there were currently far more pressing matters for her to deal with.

Eyeing the prowling shadow-beasts for a moment, Balor takes stock of her surroundings –so many dead humans; so many corpses– and then turns to look up towards the skies instead.

Almost as if on cue, a massive tremor shakes the air. Golden swirls of Geo energy surround the half-dragon entity clashing against a five-headed Hydro serpent, each head hissing with laughter. The half-dragon’s Geo spire is blocked by a twisting pillar of water; shattered pieces of stone go flying everywhere, followed by a deluge of water spilling down from the heavens.

No wonder her barrier broke.

Still, she’s not exactly pleased that apparently two gods decided it was a good idea to start a fight right above her barrier before she’s had a chance to tidy everything up properly. Decarabian had impressed upon her the potential dangers that could occur when a god was slain in combat, so this was…

Balor clicks her tongue.

She lets go of her sword, allowing it to dissipate in a shower of brilliant sparks. A new weapon materializes in her hands instead, a curved bow. Accented with gold and traced with an almost feather-like pattern upon its head, white and indigo hues entwined in harmony. Unlike her sword that is only a simple weapon of mortal steel, the bow radiates power, and even just holding it is enough cause for Anemo energy to begin gathering around her.

As it should.

Balor pulls back the bowstring. A glowing green arrow of pure Anemo condenses beneath her fingertips in the empty space where an arrow should be, and the wind picks up in her surroundings.

She calmly points Decarabian’s bow towards the two gods battling high above, and loosens the arrow; a thousand howling winds instantly fill the skies.

[howtofightwrite]

I know DnD is not about realism but how accurate is having, say, your heavy armor wearing paladin have 10 dex or even negative dex? Where medieval knights built like The Rock or like The mountain? I’ve seen youtubers saying that you needed a lot of strength to be able to fight like a knight so women and smaller people couldn’t do it.

I think I know which YouTuber you're talking about, and you can pretty safely ignore them. Their personal misogyny takes priority over their (alleged) expertise when they're forming their arguments.

There's two logistical problems with the idea that you need someone like Hafþór Júlíus Björnsson to make up the bulk of your elite forces. The first problem is that they need to consume a frightening amount of food. This isn't as much of a problem in the modern era, when we have the capacity for truly staggering amounts of agricultural production. But, in a medieval society, with serfs responsible for most of the agriculture, the prospect of feeding each of your elite troops 10,000 calories a day would economically destroy most kingdoms. (And, yes, that is what Björnsson reports to consume on a daily basis. Other estimates place his dietary intake somewhere between 3600 and 8000.) And, to be clear, that is an absolutely absurd amount of food. But, if you want to build that kind of mass, you need a lot of energy, which means, a lot of food.

The second logistical problem is, there's only one of him. Okay, that's not literally true, The Mountain was portrayed by three separate actors, Conan Stevens, a professional wrestler, and Ian Whyte, a stunt actor who had previous appeared as a White Walker in the first season. But, Hafthor Bjornsson took over the role in the fourth season, and is probably who you're thinking of when you name drop the character.

Bjornsson is a member of the 2000 pound club, which include power lifters who can lift over 2000lbs combined between bench press, dead lift, and squats. Not many people ever get that far, and Bjornsson is one of the few individuals who can get into the 1000 pound club from a single lift.

Here's a fun name to know, Becca Swanson is also in the 2000 pound club. She credibly claims that she is the first woman to have achieved that, and I'm not sure if there are any other women in the 2000lb club, but it is achievable.

Now, here's the fun thing about all of this, because you're asking about D&D, and D&D players need to know exactly how much their character can lift. The calculation is (STR*30)lbs. (In the Player's handbook p174.) This also means if you have a real person, and you know how much they can lift in the real world, you can reverse engineer what their strength score would be in D&D.

It's 37.

If you wanted to convert Hafthor Bjornsson into D&D, his strength score would be 37.

Dude can fucking arm wrestle the Terrasque and easily win.

Putting that in perspective, it's a little ludicrous to say that if you want a viable martial character (fighters, paladins, barbarians, etc.), they need a Strength score of 37, when it's not normally possible for player characters to exceed 20 base strength. (If you're wondering, Becca would work out to have ~29 Strength. So, on par with most ancient dragons, and a few gods.)

So, there you have a man and woman who are both superhumanly strong according to D&D.

D&D and math have always had issues like this, and it pops up in a few different places here.

The basic concept that your ability to hit, and the amount of damage you deal is based on strength comes from a very, “schoolyard,” understanding of violence. It's okay to step back and abstract it out, where “strength,” is some amalgam of melee combat aptitude in addition to actual strength, but the idea that being stronger means you can hit harder with a sword or dagger doesn't make a lot of sense. It doesn't even make much sense with axes and maces (the force applied has more to do with the mass and velocity of the weapon, rather than the strength of its wielder.)

A paladin with negative DEX is dead. I don't mean that figuratively, and I do understand what you meant to say, but this rule is a little obscure in 5e. If any of a character's physical attributes (STR, DEX, CON) are reduced to zero, the character immediately dies. Ability draining effects used to be far more common, so the rule existed by itself, though, now it mostly shows up when you're looking at a monster with a physical ability draining attack.

What you probably meant was a negative DEX modifier, meaning your paladin is unusually clumsy. Outside the context of D&D, that would be an incredibly bad thing for a front line combatant. In the specific context of D&D, if they're in heavy armor, it doesn't really matter, if they're in medium, then it reverts to being “a bad thing. Specifically, the rules is that light and medium armor add your DEX modifier to your armor class. Medium armor caps this at +2, but it can go negative with either armor type. However, heavy armor in 5e ignores your DEX modifier entirely.

Now, here's the thing about D&D, its concept of armor is spectacularly weird. Unlike RPGs where armor reduces damage taken, either by subtracting a fixed amount from incoming damage or by reducing damage via a percentage, D&D's system is that your armor class grants you a chance to avoid being hit at all. (5% chance per point of AC, if you're wondering.) Narratively, this is often framed as taking a hit, but your armor turned the blade or something similar. This is because sometimes the enemy attack straight up misses, and that's (usually) determined by your dexterity. This is important, because the game is trying to balance two different power fantasies against each other.

On one side you have the players who want to roll in heavy plate armor, and soak all the hits, and on the other you have players who want to go with light armor, and dodge around enemy attacks. Realistically, that's not an option, but D&D permits it, and again, that's fine. The fantasy of lightly armored fighters makes a lot of sense. I'd even go so far as to say that the barbarian's unarmed defense bonus (where they add CON modifier to their DEX modifier while unarmored) is a really good change in 5e even if it does make no sense objectively. It contributes to the fantasy of this brutal fighter who runs around without armor slapping people silly with their weapons, and shrugging off damage because they're too stubborn to die. In (nearly all cases) the ability to deliver the player fantasy of a class is more important than a strict adherence to reality, and that's fine, that's the point, but the realism of D&D doesn't translate off the page in any meaningful way.

If you wanted a more, “realistic,” (and, yeah, that's incredibly loaded in this context), approach to armor for D&D, I'd say gate access based on your Constitution (or Constitution modifier). Sort of like how your equip load in Dark Souls is based on your Endurance attribute. Give armor and weapons a burden value, and if the combined burden on a character exceeds their CON, the character risks taking levels of Fatigue when they're fighting in heavier gear than they're conditioned to deal with. Maybe add a Conditioning feat or skill if you want to add some other attribute modifiers to the mix should you end up with your heavy armor fighters being underequipped. (Then again, I am one of those psychopaths who really liked the D20 Star Wars' vitality system.) So, ultimately, tinker with the balance until you find something you, and the people at your table, are happy with. Roleplayers who have more meaningful build choices tend to be happier, so long as they don't feel like they're being punished for having a character fantasy.

One of the more amusing descriptions I've read of medieval knights is that they were built like methheads. I can't fully vouch for that, because I'm not an expert on the physical appearance of medieval knights, but it's certainly credible. These guys were eating pretty well for the era, and engaged in a lot of physical activity. Depending on what they were doing, that could easily result in some fairly bulky guys, but it could also result in some wiry looking guys who hide their muscles. Just, knowing what I do about the human body, the answer was probably both, depending on their metabolism and diet. But the image of Sir Methhead, Knight of the Realm, and his implausibly clean teeth, still amuses me.

It's worth remembering that a lot of the times I've seen someone say, “they were built like athletes,” they'll drop an image of a bodybuilder. No. That's not what you would get. Bodybuilding is designed to create its own physique, one that doesn't occur unless you're abusing your body in some very specific (and unhealthy) ways. It's probably better to think of someone like a high-school football player. Bulky, but without the carved physiques of a Boris Vallejo painting. (If you don't know who that is, look up his art. It is a bit dated, but it's gorgeous.)

Alternately, if you do want your characters to look like those paintings, it is your fantasy, have fun.

-Starke

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[onlycosmere]

Isles of the Emberdark (or Emberdark) Preview Chapters

Prologue

Fifty-Seven Years Ago

Starling held open the drapes to her quarters and hopped from one foot to the other, staring at the dark horizon.

She didn’t dare blink. She didn’t dare miss it.

First light. When would first light appear?

She’d barely slept, despite trying. At least, she’d tried for a good . . . fifteen minutes or so. The rest of the night she’d been too excited. She’d declared slumber a lost cause, and had spent the time reading, waiting, distracted.

In the distance, across the rolling forests of Yolen, the darkness weakened. Was that first light? Did it count? It wasn’t light. It was just . . . less dark.

She went running anyway, unable to contain herself. Wearing her nightgown still, she pushed into the hallway of her rooms in her uncle’s mansion, then scrambled past attendants who smiled as she passed. Starling genuinely liked most of them. She pretended to like the rest. That was what her uncle taught her: always look for the best in both people and situations.

Today, that wasn’t difficult. Today was the day.

First light.

The day she transformed.

She burst onto the balcony above the grand entryway in a tizzy of white hair and fluttering nightgown, startling her uncle’s priests in their formal robes and wide hats. They were up early, of course, because her uncle got up early to take the prayers of those who worshipped him.

Starling flitted around the corner, heading for the next hallway over, which led to his reflectory. Priests belatedly bowed to her from the sides. She might look like she was an eight-year-old girl, but dragons grew slowly, and she was older than some of the priests.

She didn’t feel it. She still felt like a child, which her uncle explained was the way of things. Her mental age was like that of a human child her size. She just got to experience that age far longer than they did, which she figured would have been wonderful, except for one thing. It had forced her to wait long decades for her transformation.

She burst into the reflectory, where her uncle sat upon his fain-wood throne. He wore his human form, which had pale skin and a sharp silver beard just on his chin. He took the appearance of an older man, maybe in his sixties, though that could be deceptive with her kind.

Starling scurried up but didn’t touch him. With his eyes closed, wearing his brilliant white and silver robes, he was taking a prayer from some distant follower. She couldn’t interrupt that. Not even for first light. So she waited, balancing on one foot, then the other, back and forth, trying to keep from erupting from excitement.

Finally, he opened his eyes. “Oh?” he said. “Starling. It’s early for a young dragonet like you. Why are you up?”

“It’s today, Uncle!” she exclaimed. “It’s today!”

“Is today special?”

“Uncle!”

“Oh, your birthday,” he said. “Thirty years old, you are. Unless . . . Could I have mistaken the day? A lot was happening during your birth, child. Maybe we will need to wait until tomorrow.”

“UNCLE!” she shouted.

Frost smiled, then held out his hands for her to embrace him. “I was just speaking with Vambrakastram—and she will take my prayers for the day. I am free, all day, for you.”

“Just for me?” she whispered.

“Just for you. Are you ready?”

“I’ve been so, so ready,” she said. “For so, so long.” She pulled back. “Will my scales really be white when I am a dragon?”

“You are always a dragon,” he said, raising his finger. “Whether or not you have the shape of one. As for the coloring of your scales, there’s no way to know until the transformation.” He smiled, then tapped her arm—which was a powder white. Accompanied by her pink eyes and pure white hair. “Dragons come in all colors, and each is beautiful and unique. But I will say, every dragon I’ve known who was albino as a human—granted, there’s only ever been two others—had white scales to match. A metallic, shimmering white, with a sheen of mother-of-pearl. It’s breathtaking, and they are the only times I’ve seen that shade in one of our kind.”

“Only ever two,” she whispered.

“Only ever two,” he said, then placed his hand on her shoulder. “Plus one, Starling.”

“Letsgoletsgoletsgo!” she shouted, running back out into the hallway. He followed, and—with her urging him on—they continued down the corridor passed more smiling priests. All human, of mixed genders. Starling had been to other dragon palaces, and the priests there were stiff and stuffy. Not so here. Frost saw the best in people, and people became their best because of it. That’s what he’d always said.

“Now,” he said from behind, walking too slowly for her taste, “I’m supposed to speak to you of the ritual importance of the first transformation.”

“I know the importance!” She spun to walk backward. “I will be able to fly.”

“We live dual lives,” he said. “There is a reason we live thirty years as a human before reaching the age of transformation. This is Adonalsium’s wisdom.”

“Yes, yes.” She faced forward again as they reached the end of the hallway—and the grand balcony doors. “We live half our lives as humans so we know what it is like to be small. We live the lives of mortals before we gain the life of a dragon. That way, we’ll understand.”

“Do you?” he asked. He rested his hand on her shoulder as she stood before the closed grand balcony doors, which were made of yellow stained glass. She thought . . . she could see light on the other side, from the horizon.

She was so eager, but he’d taught her to be honest, always.

“No,” she admitted. “I try, but I don’t understand the mortals completely. They live such hurried lives, and they are so fragile, but they don’t seem to care. I try, but I don’t understand.”

“Ah, you are wise to see this,” he said. “With our powers, even as dragonets, empathy is difficult.”

“Will that ruin me?” she asked softly. “Because I don’t understand? Will it stop me from flying?”

“No, you can never be ruined, child.” There was a smile in his voice. “Never, ever. You can learn better, and you will, as you grow. Knowing that is how it happens! And this will not hold back the transformation.” He leaned back. “Sometimes, contrast is important to help us to learn.”

He shoved the doors open, and they swung outward, revealing a horizon that had begun to blaze with predawn. The grand balcony was large enough to hold them in their larger, draconic forms. It was one of the launchpads to the upper palace, which was built on a different scale—not for people the size of humans, but for ones the size of buildings.

She stepped out onto it, suddenly worried. What if it didn’t happen? What if she were broken? She knew some, unlike her uncle, saw her albinism as a flaw. A sign of misfortune, proven by what happened to her parents . . .

“You are,” Frost said, “so wonderful, Starling. I am honored to be here, with you, on this most important of days.”

He left unsaid that he wished her parents had been the ones. That was not to be. She took a deep breath, and held out her hands to the sides.

First dawn struck her, and she absorbed the light. It became part of her. And as it did, the self that had been hidden within Starling these thirty years emerged, glorious and radiant. With wings, and Dragonsteel of pure silver, and scales a glittering white—faintly iridescent.

With that, Starling at last—finally—felt that she belonged.

Chapter Three

Dusk arrived late to the meeting with the Ones Above. He climbed out of the car in front of the government offices, and was met by Second of the Soil, one of Vathi’s more trusted advisors, and a fairly high member in the government himself. He was an important man, even if he did let his Aviar ride on his head.

“You again,” he said. “We’re having important talks with the Ones Above . . . and she sends me out to fetch you?”

Dusk approached him, glanced at his bird, then continued on.

Soil caught up on lanky legs. “Tell me really. Why does she invite you to meetings like this? I thought after that last incident, it was through. Yet here you are again?”

“She hopes,” he said, “I will offer a different perspective.”

“What kind of perspective would you possibly have?”

“The kind,” Dusk said, “of one who looks in from yesterday. Where are they?”

“The talks are mostly finished,” Soil said, pointing Dusk the right direction. “The observation room, which looks out on their ship, is over here. We should be able to catch them leaving.” He paused. “They’ve said they’ll remove their helmets and greet Vathi face-to-face for the first time before they go.”

Well. That should be interesting. Dusk imagined them as strange and terrible creatures with faces full of fangs. Artist renditions from the broadsheets tended to err on the side of mystery, showing beings with dark pits where faces should be—as if representing the darkness of space itself confined to their helmets.

Dusk hastened his step, and Soil reluctantly gave him something Vathi had sent. Some transcriptions of the talks that day, as typed by the stenographer. He really was forgiven.

Her handwritten note at the bottom said, I’m sorry.

He read quickly as they reached the observation room. Inside, a waiting group of generals, kingmakers, and senators uniformly cast him nasty glares.

He didn’t care. He read the notes and realized what was happening. Vathi and the others were close to giving in. The Ones Above were finally winning.

He read that with a sinking sense of loss. However, he didn’t have time to consider further as the doors to another portion of the government offices opened and people walked out, including Vathi and two alien figures in strange clothing and helmets that covered their entire faces. They crossed the courtyard toward a small silvery ship, which was in the shape of a triangle with its point toward the clouds.

Not the main ship, which was high in the sky, but one that ferried people between that and the ground. Like . . . a very fancy canoe.

Dusk pressed against the glass, and heard grumbles as he obscured the view. This chamber was supposed to be secret, with reflective glass on the outside, but he didn’t trust that. The Ones Above had machines that could sense life. He suspected they could see him—or at least his Aviar—regardless the barrier.

He considered demanding that he be allowed to stand on the landing platform with Vathi and the diplomats, but he supposed he should avoid making trouble so soon after being invited back. So he waited, watching as the aliens pushed buttons and their helmets retracted, revealing their faces.

The gathered officials in the room with him gasped. The Ones Above were human.

One male, one female, with pale skin that looked like it had never seen the sun. Perhaps it hadn’t, considering that they lived in the emptiness between planets. From the look of the delicate metal—ribbed, like rippling waves—the remaining portions of the helmets were less like armor, more like ornament.

Sak squawked softly. Dusk glanced at the jet-black bird, then around the room, seeking signs of his corpse. She squawked again, and it took him a moment to spot the death—out on the launchpad. One of the Ones Above now stood with her foot on Dusk’s skull, the face smoldering as if burned by some terrible alien weapon.

What did it mean?

Sak chirped, and he felt something. This . . . was a different kind of vision, was it? Not an immediate danger—but something more abstract. The Ones Above were unlikely to kill him today, no matter what he did. That did not mean they were safe or trustworthy.

He nodded, in thanks, to her warning.

“Toward a new era of prosperity,” one of the Ones Above said on the launchpad, extending a hand to Vathi, who stood at the head of the diplomats. “We show you ourselves now, because it is time for the masks to be down. We look forward to many fruitful exchanges between our peoples and yours, President.”

She took the hand, though personally Dusk would rather have handled a deadly asp. It seemed worse to him, somehow, to know that the Ones Above were human. An alien monster, with features like something that had emerged from the deepest part of the ocean, was more understandable than these smiling humans.

Familiar features should not cover such alien motives and ideas. It was as wrong as an Aviar that could not fly.

“To Prosperity,” Vathi said. Her voice was as audible to him as if she were standing beside them. It emerged from the speakers on the walls--devices developed using alien technology.

“It is good,” the second alien said, speaking the language of the Eelakin as easily as if she had been born to it, “you are finally listening to reason. Our masters do not have infinite patience.”

“We are accustomed to impatient masters.” Vathi’s voice was smooth and confident. “We have survived their tests for millennia.”

The male laughed. “Your masters, the gods who are islands?”

“Just be ready to accept our installation when we return, yes?” the female said. “No masks. No deception.” She tapped the side of her head, and her helmet extended again, obscuring her features. The male did the same, and together they left, climbing aboard their sleek flying machine.

It soon took off, streaking through the air without a sound. Its ability to fly baffled explanation; the only thing Dusk’s people knew about the process was that the Ones Above had requested the launchpad be made entirely out of steel.

That smaller ship would ferry them to the larger one—bigger than even the greatest of the steam-powered behemoths that Dusk’s people used. Dusk had only just been getting used to those creations, but now he had to accustom himself to something new. The even, calm light of electric lights. The hum of a fan powered by alien energy. The Ones Above had technology so advanced, so incredible, that the Eelakin might as well have been traveling by canoe like their ancestors. They were far closer to those days than they were to sailing the stars like these aliens.

As soon as the alien ship disappeared into the sky, the generals, senators, and First Company officials began chatting in animated ways. It was their favorite thing, talking. Like Aviar come home to roost by light of the evening sun, eager to tell others about the worms they had eaten.

Sak pulled in close to his head and pecked at the band that kept his now-graying hair in a tail. She wanted to hide—though she was no chick, capable of snuggling in his hair as she once had. Sak was as big as his head, though he was accustomed to her weight, and he wore a shoulder pad her claws could grip without hurting him.

He lifted his hand and crooked his index finger, inviting her to stretch out her neck for a scratching. She did so, but he made a wrong move and she squawked at him, then nipped his finger in annoyance.

She got like this when she saw Vathi. Not because Sak disliked the woman, but because Kokerlii had liked her so much, and seeing her reminded them of him.

“I can’t bring him back,” Dusk whispered. “I’m sorry.”

It had been two years the disease that had claimed so many Aviar. He worried that without that colorful buffoon around to chatter and stick his beak into trouble, the two of them had grown old and surly.

Sak had nearly died to the same disease. And then alien medicine from the Ones Above had arrived. The terrible Aviar plague—same as those that had occasionally ravaged the population in the past—had been smothered in weeks. Gone, wiped out. Easy as tying a double hitch.

Dusk ignored the human prattle, eventually coaxing Sak into a head scratch as they waited. He very carefully did not punch anyone, though he did watch them. Father . . . Everything about his new life—in the modern city, full of machines and people with clothing as vibrant as any plumage—was so . . . sanitized.

Not clean. Steam machines weren’t clean. Even the new gas machines felt dirty. So no, not clean, but fabricated, deliberate, confined. This room, with its smooth woods and steel beams, was an example. Here, nature was restricted to an armrest, where even the grain of the wood was oriented to be aesthetically pleasing.

She agreed. It’s over. No more negotiating.

That was it, then. With the full arrival of Ones Above and their ways, he doubted there would be any wilderness left on the planet. Parks, perhaps. Preserves like the one he’d suggested. But in helping with it, he’d learned a sorry truth. You couldn’t put wilderness in a box, no more than you could capture the wind. You could enclose the air, but it just wasn’t the same thing.

The door opened, and Vathi herself entered, her Aviar on her shoulder. President of the First Company—the most powerful politician in the city. She wore a striped skirt of an old Eelakin pattern, and a businesslike blouse and jacket. As always, she tried to embrace a meeting of old ways and new. He wasn’t sure you could capture tradition by putting its trappings on a skirt, no more than you could box the wind, but he . . . appreciated the effort. She was one of the few in the First Company who did try.

“Well?” Vathi said to the group of officials. “We’ve got three months.”

Three months? Dusk quickly reread what she’d given him, and there found a nugget. She’d agreed provisionally to trade them Aviar. Nothing was signed yet. The Ones Above would return in three months to collect the chicks.

There was time yet to do something. Maybe that was why she’d invited him.

“They’re not going to stand any further delays,” she said. “Thoughts?”

“We should prepare,” said one general, “for the inevitable. We’ve insisted they give us weapons as part of the deal. It is the best we can do.”

Others nodded, though they shied from Dusk as they did so. He had punched the senator who’d insisted it was time to give in to the Ones Above. In his absence, others had begun to agree.

“Let’s say we wanted to stall further,” Vathi said. “Any ideas?”

There were a few. One suggested they feign ignorance of the deadline, or plausibly pretend that something had gone wrong with the Aviar delivery. Silly little plans. The Ones Above would not be delayed this time, and they would not simply trade for birds. The aliens intended to put a production plant on one of the outer isles, and begin raising and shipping their own Aviar. It was right here in the negotiations—and agreeing to the first step began the others.

“Maybe we could resist somehow,” said Tuli, Company Strategist who had an Aviar of Kokerlii’s same breed. “We could fake a coup and overthrow the government. Force the Ones Above to deal with a new organization. Reset the talks?”

A bold idea. Far more radical than others.

“And if they decide simply to take us over?” General Second of Saplings rapped his knuckles on a stack of papers he held in his other hand. “You should see these projections. We can’t fight them. If the mathematicians are right, the orbital ships could reduce our grandest cities to rubble with a casual shot or two. Or shoot into the ocean so the waves would wash away our infrastructure. If the Ones Above are feeling bored, they could wipe us out in a dozen interesting ways.”

“They won’t attack,” Vathi said. “Eight years, and they’ve suffered our delays with nothing more than threats. There are rules out there, in space, that prevent them from conquering us.”

“They’ve already conquered us,” Dusk said softly.

Strange, how quickly the others quieted when he spoke. They complained about his presence in these meetings. They thought him a wildman, lacking social graces. They claimed to hate how he’d watch them, refusing to engage in conversation.

But when he spoke, they listened. Words had their own economics, as sure as gold did. The ones in short supply were the ones that everyone secretly wanted.

“Dusk?” Vathi said. “What did you say?”

“We are conquered,” he said, turning from the window to regard her. He cared not for the others, but she didn’t just grow quiet when he spoke. She listened. “The plague that took Kokerlii. How long did they sit in their ship up there, watching as our Aviar died?”

“They didn’t have the medicine on hand,” said Third of Waves, the Company Medical Vice President—a squat man with a bright red Aviar that let him see colors invisible to everyone else. “They had to wait to fetch it.”

Dusk remained quiet.

“You imply,” Vathi said, “that they deliberately delayed giving us the medicine until Aviar had died. What proof do you have?”

“The dark-out last month,” Dusk said.

The Ones Above were quick to share their more common technologies. Lights that burned cold and true, fans to circulate air in the muggy homeisle summers, ships that could move at several times the speed of steam-powered ones. But all of these ran on power sources supplied from above—and those power sources deactivated if opened.

“Their fish farms are a boon to our oceans,” said the Company Vice President of Supply. “But without the nutrients sold by those above, we can’t keep the farms running.”

“The medicine is invaluable,” said Third of Waves. “Infant mortality has plummeted. Literally thousands of our people live because of what the Ones Above have traded us.”

“When they were late with the power shipment last month,” Dusk said, “the city slowed to a crawl. And we know that was intentional from the accidentally leaked comments. They wanted to reinforce to us their control. They will do it again.”

Everyone fell silent, thinking, as he wished they’d do more often. Sak squawked again, and Dusk glanced at the launchpad. His corpse was still out there, lying where the Ones Above had left. Burned and withered.

“Show in the other alien,” Vathi said to the guards.

Other alien.

What?

The two men at the door, with security Aviar on their shoulders and wearing feathers on their military caps, stepped out of the room. They returned shortly with an incredibly strange figure. The Ones Above had worn uniforms and helmets—unfamiliar clothing, but still recognizable.

This creature stood seven feet tall, and was encased entirely in steel. Armor of a futuristic cast, smooth and bright, with soft violet-blue light at the joints. The helmet glowed at the front from a slit-like visor and from an arcane symbol—reminding Dusk vaguely of a bird in flight—etched the front of the breastplate.

The ground shook beneath this being’s steps as it entered the room. That armor . . . was surreal, like interlocking plates that somehow produced no visible seam. Just layered pieces of metal, covering everything from fingers to neck. Obviously airtight, with a rounded cast, the outfit had stiff iron hoses connecting helmet and armor.

The other aliens might have looked human, but Dusk was certain this alien was something frightful. It was too tall, too imposing, to be human. Perhaps he was not facing a man at all—but instead a machine that spoke as one.

“You did not tell those you call Ones Above that you have met me?” the alien said, projecting a male voice from speakers at the front of the helmet. The deep voice had an unnatural timbre to it. Not an accent, like someone from a backwater isle, but still an . . . uncanny air.

“No,” Vathi said. “But you were right. They ignored each of my proposals, and acted as if the deal were already done. They intend to set up their own facility here.”

“They intend far more than you know,” the stranger said. “Tell me. Is there a place on your planet where people vanish unexpectedly? A place, perhaps, where an odd pool collects something that is not quite water?”

Dusk felt a chill. He did his best not to show how much those words disturbed him.

“You have only one gem with which to bargain, people of the isles,” the alien said, “and that is your loyalty. You cannot withhold it; you can merely determine to whom you offer it. If you do not accept my protection, you will become a vassal of these Ones Above. Your planet will become a farming station, like many others, intended to feed their expansion efforts. Your birds will be stripped from you the moment it becomes possible to do so.”

“And you offer something better?” Vathi asked.

“My people will give you back one out of a hundred birds born,” the armored alien said, “and will allow you to fight alongside us, if you wish, to gain status and elevation.”

“One in a hundred?” Second of Saplings said, the outburst unsettling his grey and brown Aviar. “Robbery!”

“Choose,” the alien said. “Cooperation, slavery, or death.”

“And if I choose not to be bullied?” Saplings snapped, reaching to his side for the repeating pistol he carried in a holster.

The alien thrust out his armored hand, and smoke—or mist—coalesced there out of nowhere. It formed into a gun, longer than a pistol, shorter than a rifle. Wicked in shape, with flowing metal along the sides like wings, it was to Saplings’s pistol what a shadowy beast of the deep might be to a minnow. The alien raised his other hand, snapping a small box—perhaps a power supply—to the side of the rifle, causing it to glow ominously.

“Tell me, President,” the alien said to Vathi. “What are your local laws regarding challenges to my life? Do I have legal justification to shoot this man?”

“No,” Vathi said, firm—though her voice was audibly shaken. “You do not.”

“I do not play games,” the alien said. “I will not dance with words, like those Scadrians. You will accept my offer or you will not. If you do not, you join them, and I will have legal right to consider you enemies.”

The room remained still, Saplings carefully edging his hand away from his sidearm.

“I do not envy your decision,” the armored alien said. “You have been thrust into a conflict you do not understand. But like a child who has found himself in the middle of a war zone, you will have to decide which direction to run. I will return in one month, local time.”

The colored portions of the creature’s armor glowed more brightly, a blue far too inviting to come from this strange being. He lifted into the air a few inches, then pulled the power pack from his gun. The weapon vanished in a puff of mist.

He left without further word, gliding past the guards—who stepped away and didn’t impede him.

“What was that?” Dusk demanded.

“He arrived early this morning,” Vathi said, “with a simple offer. No negotiating.” She hesitated. “He arrived without ship, and doesn’t appear to need one to travel the stars. He . . . flew down out of the sky under his own power.”

“Or that of his armor,” one of the kingmakers said—he didn’t know her name. “Perhaps that armor . . .”

The guards took up their positions at the door again, sheepishly holding their rifles. They knew, as everyone in the room knew, that no guard would stop a creature like that one if he decided to kill.

Vathi pulled a chair over to the room’s small table, then sat down in a slumping posture, her Aviar, Mirris, crawling anxiously across her back from one shoulder to the other. “This is it,” she whispered. “This is our fate. Caught between the ocean wave and the breaking stone.”

This job had weathered her. Dusk missed the woman who had been so full of life and optimism for the advances of the future. Unfortunately she was right, so there was no sense in offering meaningless aphorisms.

Besides, she had not asked a question. So he did not respond.

Sak chirped, and a body appeared on the table in front of Vathi. Dusk frowned. Then that frown deepened.

Because the corpse was not his.

Never in all his time bonded to Sak had she shown him anything other than his own corpse. Even during that dangerous time, years ago, when her abilities had grown erratic—even then, she’d shown Dusk only his own body.

He stepped across the room, and Vathi looked up at him, relieved—as if she expected him to comfort her. She furrowed her brows when he ignored her to study the body on the table. It was female, very old, with long hair having gone white. The corpse wore an unfamiliar uniform after the cut of the Ones Above. Commendations on the breast pocket, but in another language.

It’s her, he thought, recognizing the aged face. Vathi, some forty years in the future. Dead, dressed for a funeral.

“Dusk?” the living Vathi said. “What do you see?”

“Corpse,” Dusk said, causing some others in the room to murmur. They were uncomfortable with Sak’s power, which was unique among Aviar. He knew some disbelieved it existed.

“That’s wonderfully descriptive, Dusk,” Vathi said. “One might think that after five years you might learn to answer with more than one word when someone talks to you.”

He grunted, walking around the vision of the corpse. The dead woman held something in her hands. What was it?

“Corpse,” he said, then met the living Vathi’s eyes. “Yours.”

Chapter Eleven

Starling crawled down the ladder in a metal tube, far from her homeworld—and even farther, at least emotionally, from that glorious day when she’d first transformed.

Over fifty years had passed. She was basically an adult. But she had replaced grand palaces with dimly lit corridors on a half-functional starship. She reached the bottom and turned toward engineering, wearing her human shape.

A shape she’d not been allowed to leave for twelve years now.

She forced a spring to her step and told herself to keep positive. There was at least one blessing about being exiled: it turned out there were a whole lot of places that weren’t home—and many of them were vibrant, magnificent, amazing. She’d never have visited them if she hadn’t been forced out into the cosmere against her will.

For that, she had decided to be grateful for what had been done to her. Her master said she worked too hard to find sunlight in dark places, but what else was she to do? Darkness was too easy to find, and she preferred a challenge. Besides, the cosmere really was a wondrous place.

Not that her current location was anything spectacular. A metallic corridor with flickering florescent lights. Pipes for decor and barely enough space to walk upright. It took a lot of energy to keep a ship like the Dynamic flying, and designers learned to be economical.

She paused by one of the portholes, gazing out at the bleak darkness of Shadesmar—an endless black plane with no curvature or true horizon. Darkness. Really, wasn’t it the darkness that reminded one how wonderful the light was? Traveling through Shadesmar was dreary at times, but at least she could to it in a ship, rather than walking in a caravan like people had done in the olden days.

She tried to imagine them out there on the obsidian ground below, walking across the lonely expanse. Or, worse, straying out into regions where the ground went incorporeal and turned into the misty nothing they called the unsea. Or . . . the emberdark, they sometimes called that vast emptiness: the unexplored parts of Shadesmar.

Here, on the more frequented pathways, the ground solidified—and had been that way for millennia. You often encountered other travelers on these patrolled lanes between planets. For Shadesmar, such places were conventional, understood, and safe.

But her ship had strayed close to the edges of one such corridor. And out there . . . Well, anything could be out there in the emberdark. Starling found that both exciting and terrifying, all at once.

A figure stepped out of the wall behind her. Transparent, with a faint glow to him, Nazh had pale skin and wore a black formal suit—the kind with a fancy cravat that normal people wore to only the most exclusive of gatherings. He didn’t have much choice as to do so all the time, though, seeing as that was what he’d died in.

“Star?” he asked her. “Is everything all right?”

“It’s strikingly beautiful,” she said, studying along the hallway, running her fingers along the metal. “This corridor.”

Moving let the sleeve of her jacket slip back, exposing one of her manacles. Silver against her powder-white skin, the thick pieces of metal—more like bracers, really—were the symbols of her exile, binding her into human form, locking away her abilities. Until she “learned.”

She still didn’t know, years later, how much the exile was to punish her and how much to teach her. Her people’s leaders could be . . . obscure about such matters.

“Strikingly beautiful?” Nazh asked. “The . . . corridor? Star, are you having one of your moments?”

“No,” she said. “Maybe. Look, I was thinking that this ship is almost starting to feel like home to me.”

“The dragon,” he said with a smile, “who flies a starship.”

“I don’t do much of the flying. That’s Leonore’s job. I just get flown around.”

Twelve years now, trapped in her human form by these manacles. Twelve years since she’d stretched her wings and taken to the sky under her own power.

Shards. She would not let that break her.

She would not let them win.

She continued on her way, Nazh joining her. He didn’t walk, and he didn’t really float. He glided, feet on the ground, as if standing still—but moving when she walked. Hands clasped behind his back.

“I shouldn’t complain,” she said. “I mean, there are advantages to letting someone else do the flying. Easier on the muscles this way. Plus, I can sleep while we travel! Try doing that when flying with your own wings.”

“Star, dear, if I still had a stomach, I believe I’d find your optimism nauseating.”

“Oh, come on,” she said. “You have to admit. Things could be worse. I could be dead—”

“One gets over such trivialities.”

“—wearing a formal suit for eternity—”

“I’ll never be underdressed.”

“—and have a face that is . . . well, you know.”

Nazh stopped in place. “I know what?”

“Never mind,” she said, reaching the ladder to the bottom deck. She climbed down it, while he floated alongside her.

“Never mind what?” he said.

“It wouldn’t be polite to say.”

“You were trained by one of the most obtuse, crass men in all of the cosmere, Star. You don’t know the meaning of the word ‘polite.’”

“Sure I do,” she said, hopping off the ladder. “It’s just that I’m a kindly young woman—”

“You’re eighty-seven. And you’re not a woman.”

“I’m a kindly young—for the relative age of her species—person with a humanoid female appearance. And being kindly means that you don’t tell your friend about the unfortunate nature of his sideburns. You merely imply they are ugly so you can maintain plausible deniability.”

He followed, eyes forward as she reached the door to engineering. “They were quite fashionable when I died.”

“Among whom? Warthogs?”

He almost broke composure—that stern look of near-disapproval cracked, and a smile itched the corners of his mouth. It always felt like a gift when she managed to make Nazh smile. Also, the sideburns weren’t actually that bad—they had a stately, classic air. It was just that he was overly fond of them.

“Hey,” a commanding female voice said in Star’s earpiece. “Are you wasting time again?”

“No, Captain.”

“Then why isn’t my engine working yet?”

“Had to stop at my rooms to fetch something, Captain,” Starling said. “I’m almost to engineering.”

“Did Nazrilof find you?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“I explicitly told him not to.”

“Tell her,” Nazh said, “she can order me a hundred lashings. I’m fond of them. They tickle.”

“Sorry, Captain,” Starling said instead. “I’m entering engineering now.”

“Warn that engineer,” the captain said, “that if there is another problem, I will come down and deal with her personally. I am not known for my patience with crew who slack off.” She cut the line.

“Do you suppose,” Nazh said, “we could pitch her overboard and claim she jumped? I’d swear under oath she was driven mad.”

“By what?”

“My ravishingly attractive sideburns.” He hesitated. “I mean, there has to be some warthog in the captain’s heritage. Have you seen the woman?”

Starling grinned, then pushed in through the door. The engine room of the Dynamic was even more cramped than the hallway—though it had a higher ceiling, the round chamber was clogged with machinery. Starling had to squeeze between engine protrusions and the wall at several points, making her way to the back where a hammock hung from a rivet on the wall and a stack of large barrels, marked with symbols of various aethers.

A young woman sat up from within the hammock and hurriedly hid some items in the pocket of her blue jumpsuit. Aditil had brown skin and wore her dark hair in a braid. As she moved, Starling caught the distinctive pale blue, glass-like portion of her left hand. The center of the palm replaced—bones and all—with a transparent aether the color of the sky.

The glass was cracked, an indication that the symbiote she’d bonded was dead. Starling had never asked for the story behind that.

“LT!” the girl exclaimed. “Oh hells. Captain sent you? Did I let the pressure lapse again?” She scrambled, grabbing her earpiece from the pouch in her hammock, fumbling to put it in. “Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry!”

Aditil fumbled further as she slid out of the hammock, almost falling over. She hopped over a large pipe and began to monitor the engines—as she was supposed to have been doing. The old machinery needed constant attention; the Dynamic—as fond as Starling was of it—wasn’t exactly the most cutting edge of ships. Indeed, it was something of a mongrel. Rosharan antigrav technology, Dhatrian aethers for providing thrust and engine power, a Scadrian composite metal hull. Never mind that all three technological strains had produced their own viable starships without the others.

The Dynamic, like her crew, had picked up a little here and a little there. Really, all it was missing was an Awakened metalmind, but those were expensive—and Starling had never trusted them anyway.

Aditil fiddled with machinery, checking gauges and aether levels until she got the engine up to full power. Starling leaned against the wall, noting that Nazh had chosen to remain outside. Aditil was new, and he had learned—from painful experience—to ration his time with new crewmembers. Not everyone was comfortable with shades. Indeed, there were some who’d say that bringing one on board your ship was tantamount to suicide.

“So,” Starling said, “this is the . . . third time this week that Captain hasn’t been able to get ahold of you?”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” Aditil kept her head low as she worked.

“Want to talk about it?”

“I’ll do better! I need this job, LT. Please. I . . . need to be able to save up enough . . .”

Starling folded her arms, leaning against the metal wall, the cuffs of her manacles peeking out from beneath her jacket.

Aditil worked for a moment longer, but then slumped as she knelt on the floor beside her equipment. She leaned forward, forehead against the engine. A low humming sound came from within the machinery as it used zephyr aether to generate gas, which created pressure and was the basis for powering the ship. The fact that they could also use the zephyr as propellant and for breathable air meant that the Dynamic was spaceworthy. They rarely needed that, as Xisis—the ship’s owner—usually had them do merchant runs through Shadesmar.

“They’re pictures of your family, aren’t they?” Starling said. “The things you hide whenever I walk past?”

Aditil glanced at her, surprised.

“Can I see them?” Starling asked.

Sheepishly, the young woman fished them out of her pocket and handed them over. Only four photos, depicting a crowded family with . . . seven children? Aditil appeared to be the oldest. Her parents were smiling in every one, wearing the colorful clothing common to people of her planet.

“They didn’t want me to go,” Aditil said. “Said I was too young, even if I’d done the apprenticing. But after . . .” She looked at her hand, pressed flat on the ground, and the cracked aether bud in the left palm. “I couldn’t stay. I took the deal to work for passage offworld, but do you have any idea how much it costs to get back to Dhatri? I didn’t. Stupidly, I left my family. And with them, the one place where anyone has ever wanted me . . .”

“Hey,” Starling said, kneeling. “You’re wanted here.”

“I shouldn’t be,” Aditil said. “I’ve screwed up every duty I’ve ever been given. You deserve a real engineer, with real experience, and a functional aether.”

“Aditil, you think we can afford a full aetherbound? On this old piece of junk?”

“She’s not a piece of junk.” Aditil put a hand on the engine. “She’s a good ship, LT.”

Now, that was good to see. You always wanted an engineer who cared about the ship.

“Either way,” Starling said, “you’re a blessing to us here. A fully trained aetherbound?”

“Without a functioning aether.”

“Either way. We get your knowledge, your skill. You always get the aether working again, when you try.”

“I talk to it,” she said softly. “You can only afford older spores, the kind that tend to be drowsy. I wake it up, that’s all.” She turned away. “I’m broken, LT. Ruined.”

“You can never be ruined,” Starling said, taking her by the hand. “Hey, look at me. Never, ever, Aditil. It’s impossible.” Then she shrugged. “But here, we’re all a little off, eh? We’re family regardless.” Starling had let her jacket sleeves retreat, and Aditil saw the manacles, thought a moment, then nodded.

“Thanks for the pep talk, LT,” Aditil said, pulling away to work at her post. “I’ll stay on it. Won’t let you own.”

“Well, good,” Starling said. “That’s what Captain wants.” She handed back the pictures, then slipped something out of her own inner jacket pocket: an envelope fetched from her room earlier.

Aditil took it with a frown, looked to Starling, then opened it. It took a moment for her to register what was inside. When she did, her eyes widened, and her hand went to her lips, covering a quiet gasp.

One ticket to Dhatri, Aditil’s homeworld.

“But how?” Aditil asked. “Why would you . . .”

“Nobody,” Starling said softly, “on my ship is trapped here. Everybody on my ship has the right to go home. You’re a great engineer, Aditil, and I love having you on this crew. But if there’s another place you feel you need to be, well . . .” She nodded toward the ticket.

“But what does Captain think?”

“Captain doesn’t need to know,” Starling said. “You’re not our slave, Aditil. You’re our friend and colleague.”

She stared at the ticket, tearing up. “How . . . How long have you known how homesick I was?”

“I made a good guess. I did buy a refundable ticket, in case I was wrong.” She gave Aditil a squeeze on the shoulder. “When we get to Silverlight, I’ll sign your release papers. You can return home, until you’re ready to leave again—if ever.”

“I . . .” Aditil closed her eyes, tears leaking down her cheeks.

Starling smiled. “For now, though, please just keep the ship moving. Captain keeps threatening to come down here herself, and I think she might actually do it next time.”

“Thank you, LT,” she whispered. “Starling . . . thank you.”

Starling left Aditil working with renewed vigor, then stepped out of engineering, to where Nazh was waiting, one eyebrow cocked.

“What?” she asked him.

“How did you afford that?”

It was expensive to travel to Dhatri. The law of commerce was this: if you could get to a location through Shadesmar, it was cheap. If not, then you had to pay. A lot.

Most cities were in the Physical Realm, not in Shadesmar, but you could transfer between the two dimensions with ease—if you had a special kind of portal. They were called perpendicularities, and most major planets had them. So traveling was simple. Pop into Shadesmar at one planet, travel easily through to your destination, pop back out.

Unfortunately Dhatri didn’t have a perpendicularity anymore. Which meant you couldn’t travel there using conventional ships like the Dynamic—or, well, you could travel through Shadesmar to the location of the planet, but you couldn’t hop out to visit it. To get to Dhatri you needed an expensive, faster-than-light-capable ship that could travel through space in the physical dimension.

Those were expensive. And mostly controlled by one military or another. Hence why Aditil could catch a ride on one leaving: a ship had needed a post filled, and had recruited her. But to get back, your only reliable way was to buy an overpriced ticket, as every ship traveling there knew how valuable their seats were.

“Well?” Nazh asked as they started walking. And floating. “How did you afford it?”

“I had a little bit of savings,” she said.

“You realize,” he said, “this is only going to convince them further you have a hoard of gold somewhere.”

Shards. She hadn’t thought of that. Their crew was small—only eight people—but the myth about Starling’s kind and their caverns of gold had persisted among them no matter how she tried to stamp it out. At least they’d believed her when she’d insisted that dragons didn’t eat people.

She climbed the ladder to the middle deck. Truth was, she felt good, having guessed accurately what Aditil needed. She was finally starting to feel like she understood this crew, and how to be a leader, like Master Hoid had been trying to teach her. Before he’d vanished, of course. It was his way.

He’d be back. Until then, she had to do her best to guide the crew and protect them from the interim captain. She reached middle deck, and walked through the hallway toward the stern, where she could climb up to the bridge. As she did, though, she spotted someone standing outside of the medical bay, peering in.

ZeetZi was a Lawnark, a kind of being that was basically a human—except instead of hair, he had feathers. A mostly bald head, with dark brown skin, and a crest of yellow and white feathers on the very top. Tiny feathers along his arms, almost invisible against his dark skin. Arcanists said the Lawnark hadn’t evolved from birds or anything like that—more, they were humans who had been isolated, and whose hair had evolved to something akin to feathers.

ZeetZi was supposed to be checking on the life support systems. While Aditil handled the aethers and the engine itself, ZeetZi was their technician for the rest of the ship. He was a genius at this sort of thing . . . when he wasn’t getting distracted by the ship’s doctor.

He spotted Starling and Nazh as they approached, and his crest perked up in alarm. Then he stepped forward to meet her.

“Yes,” he said before she could ask. “Yes, I was checking on the doctor again. Yes. I know you said I shouldn’t be so worried. I can’t help it, LT. We shouldn’t have one of those on our ship.”

“Zee,” she said, taking his arm. “Have you listened to yourself when you talk like that?”

“I know, I know,” he said, crest smoothing back down. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . LT, you know what they did. To my people. To my world.”

She nodded, and she did. She’d never been to his homeworld—amazing though it sounded—but she knew what the hordes had done to other planets. It was a familiar story.

“Master Hoid,” Starling said, “trusts Chrysalis. He invited her on board.”

ZeetZi shivered at the name, and even Nazh looked away. It said something that there was a dragon and a shade on board this ship, but the one the crew were frightened of was the ship’s doctor.

“I found one of her spies,” ZeetZi whispered, “in my room again.”

Well, that was a problem. Chrysalis did have difficulties with privacy. “I’ll speak to her,” Starling said. She’d made a breakthrough, finally, with Aditil earlier. Could she manage another?

“Star,” Nazh said softly, “you need to stop worrying about that one. The horde will be gone from this ship as soon as Xisis finds us a proper ship’s doctor.”

“Master Hoid told me to watch over the crew.”

“That’s not a member of the crew,” ZeetZi said. “It’s . . . LT, just trust me. It isn’t here to help us. It doesn’t care about us. Except how it can use us to further some mysterious goal.”

“We’ll see,” Starling said. “You two head up to the bridge. I’ll meet you in a bit.”

Both reluctantly withdrew. Starling stepped up to the medical bay, peering in at a figure who wore a tight, formal uniform from a military Starling hadn’t ever been able to identify. The individual worked at a cabinet, cataloging their medicines, as Captain had asked.

As the figure heard Starling enter, it turned. Revealing a face with the skin pulled back, and a network of insects beneath.

[pluvialpoet]

delicate edges // chapter 1

summary: beneath disdain, there is admiration. beyond betrayal, there is devotion. underneath loathing, there is adoration. even the coldest- most closed-off hearts- are protected by delicate edges of temptation, forgiveness, and absolution. an exiled heart longs for embrace, but desire threatens ruination. will true love become your savior or your greatest sin?

pairing: aemond targaryen x fem!reader

warnings: graphic depictions of an infected wound (blood, seepage, pain) nerve damage, period-typical misogynism and gender roles

word count: 10,316

series masterlist

Judgments are insufferable. Yet, they are felt by all and tolerated by most. No class, nor title, is immune to shrewd whispers of appearance or character, just as no man nor woman- no lord nor lady- can evade pointed glares or upturned noses in passing. Judgments are inevitable. Even so, very few truly suffer under the weight of such scrutiny.  Few drown beneath crushing waves of snide remarks, and even fewer find themselves trapped in an undertow of impertinent stares with no hope for a way out. Some have next to nothing to their names- no title nor land to boast about, and only the clothes on their backs to show for their wealthiest of possessions- but they have the luxury of obliviousness. To be unaware, even if only for moments at a time, of the fact that they are being ridiculed is a freedom granted to those with far more opulence than the richest men in the realm- for they are truly free from scorn, and the insufferable pain of judgment.

The moss is both soft and cold beneath your toes- a green cloud, of sorts, that cushions each step. Eclipsed by the sounds of drunken laughter and conversation, the gentle hum of strings is faint, but audible enough to follow along as you step in time with the melody. A sweet summer child- no more than six years of age- knows little of judgment. Beyond tales of humiliation and suffering, you have no experience to grasp onto or fear other than fables and hearsay. Despite this, there’s solace in the gardens. Surrounded by petals of dragon’s breath and poppies- amongst the vines of smokeberries and under the branches of a large oak tree- you’ve found refuge from various lords and ladies of the court. You may be a stranger to such casual cruelty, but you’ve learned to dread it all the same.

Whilst others seek to elude the pain of judgment, you’ve grown to fear the act itself. In a way that only a child would, you fear what you do not know- lacking the courage to discover and basking in the ignorance of what is unknown. Rather than confront judgment- before you even really know what it is- you’ve chosen to prolong the inevitable.

It is a choice that was stolen from him, along with the luxury of obliviousness- along with his eye.

Through a blur of tears, Aemond Targaryen winces. Each drop that falls past his lashes irritates the angry gash below, inflaming the marred skin that is still oozing with purulence. Another scab has formed over his wound, but just as the previous few have failed to seal and protect his injury, this one starts to crack and split, too- revealing more suppuration, blood, and white-hot agony. It’s torture. It’s as though his body refuses to heal, rejecting the idea altogether as he’s forced to brave unbearable agony each time his body betrays him. The maesters assure him that he is brave. They commend his vigor and praise his resilience. One even urged whilst redressing his injury that he was a “strong boy”. The innocent implication had stung like venom- like poison tainting his pure blood- and, perhaps, the words of a withering man had caused more damage than a blade in the hands of a child had.

Alas, his wound stretches and pulls whilst severed nerves pulse and tick against his will and he wonders if this inexplicable pain is penance from the seven above- a punishment for not seeking repentance for his actions. He claws at the scrap of leather that rests atop mangled skin, trying to untie the too-tight bindings that keep the patch secured. It was a gift from his mother in the days that followed the incident on Driftmark, and his father offered more words of warning about wearing the covering in the presence of others than he did when it came time to hold his bastard grandson responsible for the injury. Mayhaps, that is where the root of his suffering truly stems from- betrayal.

Nevertheless, Aemond is nearly blinded- completely- by pain. He stumbles past a few servants who keep their heads low and their gazes down, and though he can not see it, he can feel their judgment. Perhaps, it is because he’s a child- or, the fact that he’s disfigured- that the help doesn’t hold him in the same regard they once did. None harbor the desire to care for him. None seek to ease his painfully obvious suffering. Eyes that do not pierce with discernment, are forced away blindly- finding interest and amusement anywhere other than the boy in desperate need of aid. Whilst they refuse to look at him- depriving him of ridicule by finding sudden interest in stone chasms or the flickering flame of a nearby torch whenever he passes- they aren’t as gracious when it comes to holding their tongues. The fools forget that he is visually impaired, not deaf, and allow cruelness to pass in whispers that he is never able to evade- for they seep into the stone and haunt him in solitary, the same way shadows used to.

Aemond sinks his teeth into his tongue, biting down just hard enough to stop his lip from quivering. He won’t allow them the satisfaction of seeing him cry. With all the strength he can muster, he wanders past the gushing servants and into the gardens. Relying on the thick trunk of oak to keep him upright, he braces himself against the wood and yanks at the patch over his eye, over and over again until it unfastens. A brief moment of comfort is eclipsed by the searing pain that follows. He almost howls like a wounded animal- a cry out to anyone willing to listen- but even simple sounds are hard to make when the muscles in his face begin to pulsate involuntarily. It burns and it stings. It’s humiliating and degrading. Beyond anything else, it hurts. 

Soft, panting breaths cause your footing to falter. Another step is left incomplete- another turn is stumbled through- and perhaps if you were performing in the stuffy hall you chose to abandoned, with a partner who would’ve only asked to dance to fulfill a duty, you might’ve been embarrassed about your missteps, but with only the stars for company- soft flickers of light that shine regardless of how many times you make a mistake- you’re greeted with solace, rather than affliction. The sound that comes from the other side of the oak is miserable- guttural and wretched and utterly broken. If you were any further, you wouldn’t have been able to hear it. Lively strings would’ve muted the croaked cries of desperation with a tune much more jovial. Alas, you’re neither devoted to your dance or the music, but tempted by what’s caught your ear, instead.

A child knows little about judgment, and even less about fear. Still malleable, and unshaped by the cruelties of life, you find yourself apprehensive of what you do not know- but not enough to let feelings of worry dampen your curiosity. With a cautious step forward, you peer around the thick trunk. A glimpse of silver shines bright beneath the moonlight, and another step closer reveals that the second son of King Viserys Targaryen and Queen Alicent Hightower is sobbing beneath the same branches you’ve sought comfort under. 

His name is Aemond. 

You’ve heard many whispers about him traveling through the walls of the Red Keep- and the most recent ones reference his tragedy. Rumors have oft been traded as a form of currency. Regardless of merit, tales of outrageous fantasy are passed amongst friends and foes until one is able to profit off of its value. You pay them no mind. He is nothing more to you than a name- a flicker of argent light lurking about the shadows, and often keeping to himself. In the few years that your father has occupied a seat upon his father’s council, you have never crossed paths with him. When he returned from Driftmark only a few months prior, it was without his eye, and whilst most account that the maimed boy is truly terrifying, you find it difficult to believe such lore when his muffled cries fill your ears and his shoulders shake forcefully. The boy before you is not frightful- he is scared.

“Forgive me, my prince,” Aemond startles when a timid voice interrupts his suffering. Through a blur of tears, he watches as you drop down to a pitiful curtsy- the gesture more a sign of respect than a display of coordination. He quickly brings a palm over his eye, concealing the infected socket from your view, and hisses when his flesh makes contact with the gaping wound. The legion is warm beneath his hand- another reminder of his body’s resistance to heal- and wet with pus and other seepage. He doesn’t remember the slice of the blade that took his eye, nor the pain of steel meeting flesh. It all happened too quickly for him to truly remember. But he has grown familiar with the pain of healing and longs for fresh blood to stain his pale skin- anything other than viscid, yellow discharge. Trembling fingertips graze the back of his leather patch, flipping it over to reveal that it has caused him more harm than good to don the disguise for the evening. A crusty layer of skin, blood, and drainage from his wound has already started to coagulate. Regardless, Aemond attempts to fasten the veil over his wound once more. He would rather torture himself than disobey his father’s wishes. With the way his fingers shake, it’s hard for him to attach the patch, so he opts to hold it in place- and with one hand over what remains of his eye, and the other wiping away his tears, he rises to his full height. 

He has half a mind to order you away- confident, in nothing else beyond the fact that you would have to comply. To flex what little power he still has over a child, who wouldn’t dare defy him, won’t fill the void left within him- nor will being impolite compensate for the empty socket of torment. He will find retribution, elsewhere. Ire tastes sour on his tongue. Wrath burns his throat. Vexation is acidic. Beyond crooked teeth, he forces all that he’s feeling behind the quivering press of his lips, hoping that the foul words he’s attempting to shield you from won’t slip past the gaps where he’s missing teeth that haven’t yet grown back. You are not his foe- but you are not his friend, either.

“I thought I was alone.” Something about the confession stills his breath. It’s odd- something unexplainable and untellable- the sorrow he experiences upon your revelation of honesty. To feel like a stranger amongst servants and guards was one thing, to be ostracized and disregarded by his family was another thing completely, but to feel like he doesn’t belong- like he’s unworthy and unwanted amongst the company of a stranger, who doesn’t know anything about him beyond the fact that he is marred- is foreign. It’s accompanied by the taste of bile. “Though, it appears we both prefer the gardens in favor of the ballroom.” The sentiment you offer is warm- friendly, even- but Aemond has grown accustomed to frigidness. Numb to the heat of amiability, he doesn’t recognize the tenderness of your approach until you ask, “Would you like to dance with me?” The only indication that he’s heard you is the way he clenches his teeth, gritting them against one another whilst the muscle of his jaw tightens. “I’m not very good, and I would benefit greatly from a partner,”

Aemond awaits the sound of laughter. His skin prickles with the anticipation of it. Surely, you’re jesting with him. You do not wish to dance. With only one eye, angry tears streaking scarlet cheeks, and a wound that weeps beneath a thin scrap of leather and the palm of his shaking hand, he is not an ideal dancing partner. Even if he were the best dancer in the seven kingdoms, he would not be an ideal dance partner- not when he is missing pieces of himself, and feeling less than half of a whole. He is maimed. He is disfigured. He is ugly. No amount of talent nor charm will ever change the simple fact that he now knows is true- he is not worthy of anything other than pain and misery, condemned to a life of suffering. Laughter does not puncture the surrounding silence. He waits and waits, and waits, for a devious grin of crooked teeth that gnash with glee- like the same dagger that stole his eye- and howling hysterics, but you merely await his answer, silently and patiently- as if your sentiment had been genuine. Both eyes search violet for an answer, and he cowers away under such a daunting gaze. He is exposed. Forcing his pride, his ego, and stare elsewhere, he shuts his only good eye, forcing himself into complete and total darkness- somewhere safer, and much more welcoming than the warmth of your eyes as they bear into his sole. Socket, and remaining eye.

Only a few years younger than he is, he doubts you intend to take pity on him. You are a child, but so is he. He can not recall feeling the urge to ridicule when he was your age, but he remembers the relentless mockery from his elder brother and his nephews- a wound that has been ripped apart and left without sutures to bleed out until the day he meets his demise- and he’s reminded of the brutality of youth. Perhaps, you are a wolf clothed in lamb skin, proposing viciousness under the guise of innocence. In the nothingness that surrounds you, he wonders what’s more laughable- being asked to dance by a child, or being pitied by one?

When he opens his eye, you still stand before him- though, now you do not attempt to hold his gaze. Aemond is granted a brief relief, that’s shadowed by dread the moment he considers that his physical appearance may have simply been too much for you to bear, thus you’ve opted to avoid his plaguing stare at all costs. His chest tightens. When he opens his mouth, the words are stolen by a throbbing in the empty socket that matches the frenzied beat of his heart in his chest. The center of your forehead pinches with concern, but he does not notice, and when he finally finds his voice, it’s gruff.

“You will find one,” He assures, curtly. Despite his tone, you appear hopeful, and he grimaces whilst he elaborates, “Indoors.” At the mention of finding a participant in the ballroom you’ve deliberately evaded, you gulp- fearful that he might order you back to the very place you’ve tempted to escape. “Perhaps a cupbearer or squire could aid in the technique you lack.” Aemond offers without sentiment.

It is a mask- his cruelness- meant to shield his anguish. At least, you wish to believe it to be. The rumors of a wicked boy are not true. Whispers of a horrifying beast are not, in fact, certain. Though it is hard to deny the angry, inflamed skin beneath his palm, you are not afraid of him. His injury is not something to fear- not when it is responsible for causing him so much pain. You have not seen the extent of his trauma, but it does not frighten you. He may be maimed, but he is suffering a unique torment- one that very few living know the true agony of. He should not be shunned for feeling. With both eyes, or only one, he is still a prince, and you will treat him with the respect and kindness he deserves. Even if he held no title, you would offer the same gentleness- for it is not in your nature to be unkind.

“I have little interest in dancing with a cupbearer or a squire, my prince.” With a timid step towards him, he startles a step back, nearly tripping over a large root before regaining his footing. If possible, his cheeks flush deeper. 

“Then why ask for a partner?” Aemond bites back, keeping his tongue cruel to deflect his embarrassment- and his pain.

“Some day, I will be forced to dance with lords and knights because it is what is expected of me.” He is vulnerable before you, laid bare whilst hiding behind a veil. Though his wound is covered, he is still before you, aching, in a way that is exposed and defenseless. If he wanted to, he could have turned you away or turned away himself. Yet, he stands before you, despite the pain he is in. If you can not offer him aid, you will offer him the truth- no matter how daunting it might be. “They will complain that I’ve stepped on their toes- or make mention of the fact that no matter how hard I try, I’m always a beat behind,” You shudder, at the thought of dishonoring your family and your house over something so trivial, but it is, perhaps, your most unnerving fear. “Until then, I much prefer the company of someone who won’t laugh at me because I misstep, but if you wish to be alone-“

He regards you carefully. For the sake of being sullen, he considers demanding evidence that he won’t laugh at you for the very same reasons you’ve shared, but he is not bitter. He is not rotten to his core. He is not a monster. He is simply grieving the loss of his boyhood and sight. Regardless, his resentment is not meant for you. The sharpness of his tongue is not meant to cause you pain. Unfortunately, for the both of you, you are the only one around to suffer his wrath. Still, his mother raised him to abide by manners and propriety- even whilst he aches with a numbness that is equal parts blazing and frigid. His jaw clenches tightly- muscles shifting to alleviate his pain- and he huffs a sigh.

“I wish to retire to my chambers.” 

“Very well,” A timid smile disguises the humiliation of his rejection, and you bow before him once more. “Good evening, Prince Aemond.”

He does not say anything as he scurries past you, down the same path he came, and when you are left alone in the solidarity of the gardens where you once found peace, you find yourself whispering to the stars. With your hands clasped together, you beg the stars to carry your message to The Seven, and you urge The Seven to end Aemond Targaryen’s suffering.

10 years later 

“The King grows weaker and weaker with each day,” Grand Maester Mellos’ voice wavers as he delivers the devastating news to those seated along the long slab of stone that acts as a table. Few show no emotion, whilst others struggle to contain theirs- a quivering lip, eyes wide in disbelief, fists clenched so tightly that knuckles turn white- and it pains him to further divulge, “It is only a matter of time before…”

The silence that fills the chamber is haunting. Not even the steady sound of breath rivals that of the bone-chilling nothingness that hangs in the air with words left unspoken. Fearful eyes flit back and forth, searching for answers- desperate for direction, and guidance- but never voicing their concern aloud. To speak their dread would make it real, and no one is prepared to confront what has always been inevitable. Demise has finally caught up to their King, who is now too weak to outrun it any further than he already has.

“Is there no hope for his recovery?” Tyland Lannister, Master of Ships, is the first to find his voice- albeit shaken, and unsure. He fidgets with his hands, clasping them together tightly to stop them from shaking, but it’s no use. His nerves are too rampant to quell. 

“I’m afraid not, Lord Lannister“ Mellos huffs a heavy sigh. Somberness paints him ghostly. Grim with the knowledge he possesses- a curse and a burden more than it is esteemed- he delivers an eerie verdict. “He will not live to see the next sun cycle.” It is not a prediction- it is fact. “The gods are gracious, but they do not waste miracles upon men.” A pedestal has been shared between Gods of the Faith and Targaryens for years, with very little distinction between the two. To watch a once mighty man fall- a man so revered by all, he was oft mistaken for a deity- is harrowing. Even in the warmth of sunlight, the grand maester appears grey and cold. Both sullen and stoney. The day he has long dreaded has finally arrived. Regretfully, he advises, “It is time that we begin to prepare for…”

“I will do no such thing.” Outraged by such a suggestion, Lyman Beesbury- Mast of Coin- scoffs aloud. Overwhelmed by the sudden shift in demeanor, it’s difficult to tell if he is enraged, flustered, or deeply woeful. His face blotches red with color, his stare narrows and his brow lowers. The faint scrape of his chair against stone threatens to shriek, but he remains seated- albeit agitated. “He may not be well, but our king is alive.” He makes an argument plagued with denial. A glance around the table, one where no one meets his eye, confirms what he knows deep down to be true. Still, he revolts- challenging both mortality and veracity. “I will not consider the possibility of a reign without him at the helm until he has taken his last breath.”

There’s a finality in his tone that does not go unnoticed by the other members of the small council. Try as he might, Lord Beesbury’s chest heaves with each breath, despite his efforts to calm himself. He’s been shaken to his core, they’ve all been- except for Otto Hightower, Hand of the King, who remains calm and collected whilst the most wrenching threat looms overhead.

“With the utmost respect, Lord Beesbury, the dawn is nearly upon us.” Otto’s voice does not waver. His tone does not depict anything other than neutrality. His volume does not rise.“Time is of the essence,” He warns, “If we do not attempt to prepare for the inevitable, then we run the greater risk of being blindsided by not only the death of our king but the death of our nation.” 

Mayhaps the only thoughts more ominous than the passing of their ruler are figments of the days after. Some see fire, others hear screeching, but all gathered around the table know that regardless of what happens next, there will be blood.

“I know I do not have to warn of the consequences the realm would face if it fell into Rhaenyra’s hands,” Pursed lips deliver the foreboding caveat, dripping with bitter honesty and evidence to back such a bold claim. “With Daemon as consort, exercising both tyrannical and licentious behaviors to a Queen who is not equipped to rule, our nation would crumble.” Insults fly freely against defenseless subjects, provoking those in attendance to consider how much truth is behind what’s been presented as an opinion. Slowly, looks of sorrow harden into something much more determined. One by one, realization dawns on each member of the small council, and Lord Hightower takes the lull in both silence and contemplation to sink his claws of persuasion deeper and deeper into the flesh of his victims- until he grazes bone. “We would be transported back to the days before the conquest when any man could declare himself king and execute a power that has not been earned, I am sure of it.”

There is no proof beyond his word. Present evidence does not suggest the demise of their kingdom following the king’s passing, but Otto has planted a seed of doubt within the heads of his former council members and nurtured it with poetic of doom and ruination. With a chance to fester, no one can think clearly. Though he knows the answer, Lord Larys Strong- Master of Whispers- plays coy. His exterior is grim, matching those seated around him, and proceeds to inquire about matters he’s already privy to. 

“What do you suggest we do, Lord Hightower?” 

In a rare display of contemplation, Otto allows himself a moment to gather his thoughts before he speaks. “When our great King Viserys takes his last breath, I believe that Prince Aegon, his firstborn son, should succeed him.”

“Whilst I agree that a male heir should occupy the throne after the king passes, the king has named Rhaenyra as his heir.” Lord Lannister argues, “If he wished for Aegon to rule, he would have declared so, twenty-three years ago.”

Alicent Hightower sits at the head of the table, the only woman amongst a chamber full of men- only allowed to listen in and contribute on behalf of her ailing husband. Whilst she occupies his seat, a throne within its own right, she knows she is not welcomed. The lords in her company have grown so familiar in with her presence, that they oft forget that she is a woman herself- and they’ve made no attempt to conceal their true feelings about woman and power. Nevertheless, they’re respectful towards her when it counts. Even after years of power, she does not understand the extent of it. Perhaps, it’s because she realized early on in her marriage that it was never hers to begin with. She spares her father a glance and her stomach churns. The desire to be as distant from the conversation taking place as possible fills her, but instead she is captive. Besides her, the vein in Otto’s forehead pulsates. It fills her with a fear reminiscent of her youth, despite being well into womanhood, and she seizes the silence as an opportunity to finally speak. The tip of her tongue wets her lips. She licks the cracks, softening the dry skin before she takes a breath and clasps her hands above the table- hiding bloody nail beds behind her palm.

“My lords,” She commands the attention of her audience with a graciousness that many of them are unaccustomed to. With a polite press of her lips, she proposes, “Is this a matter of upholding orders given lifetimes ago, or protecting our people?” The question visibly divides the room, and she can hardly believe that she’s found the courage within herself to utter her true thoughts aloud. “You have been assembled to guide our king back to the light when he finds himself astray.” She reminds them carefully. “He is lost, and if,” A breath, and then a pause. A sigh, and then hesitation. Many remember when Alicent was just a girl- soft, quiet, naive- and it’s difficult to acknowledge that the same woman commands them now- rough, reserved, aged by duty. Still, they await their Queen. “Perhaps, if he could be suaded to name Aegon as his heir-“

“The realm would be better for it.” Otto interrupts his daughter, supplying his own words and thoughts in place of her own. With a gentle nod, she agrees, bowing her head and surrendering her voice to him once more.

“How do we proceed?” 

“Beyond that, would betrothing his eldest strengthen his claim to the throne?” Tyland interjects, demanding an answer of his own.

“How so?”

“If Aegon were betrothed to a noble house, perhaps even one the King has silently made an enemy of, then it would prove his ability to unite kingdoms divided by difference.” It makes sense. Perhaps, if they had more time, it would be something to consider, but they are pressed.

“If it were Prince Aemond, perhaps, but Prince Aegon is not…” Otto bites back the truth, refraining from speaking ill of the man he’s trying to convince his counterparts to support. “It is a more difficult task in practice than it is in theory.”

“If not for the sake of political advancement, then we should consider a match for the sake of convenience.” Larys offers, his eyes grazing those around the table until they meet your father’s. “You have a daughter, do you not, Lord Piper?

“I do,” The man sitting next to Lord Beesbury confirms suspicion with a nod of acknowledgment. “Though, I do not wish to bargain with her hand.”

Across the table, Otto scoffs. Perhaps, he is unfamiliar with honesty- enough so that he blanches in the presence of sincerity. The years have not been kind to him. Stress has caused him to wither away. Now, he’s not even the shell of the man he once was. In place of loyalty, he is self-seeking. Where he was once obedient, he is now rebellious. Under the guise of being dutiful, he is poisoned by greed. Always wanting more- bigger, better, bolder- he dreams of avarice for his generations to follow. Having taken hold of the reins their king was too frail to grasp, he’s appointed himself holier-than-thou actually is. Perhaps, he’s due for a humbling reminder that he is still a man that serves- not a man who commands men to serve- and who better to deliver it than the Master of Laws?

“You would deny a proposal from a prince of the realm, and deny your child the privilege and security of joining a monarch?” Equal parts anger and offense seep into his tone, drenching each word with resentment and outrage. It is not your father’s intention to slight the Hand, but the spitfire has always been prone to encouraging tempers to flare. Sullen eyes of stormy blue darken with something meant to provoke. Hungry for a fight- or, at least the chance to inflict defeat- he taunts.

“A proposal has not yet been made, Lord Hightower,” With an elegance that Otto is incapable of, your father replies. “And until a legitimate proposal is made, I will not entertain possibilities of figment.” The finality within which he delivers the statement does not go unnoticed by anyone in the room, and for the time being, the topic is put aside.

“Very well,” Otto yields- though, rather dismissively.

“Your Grace, might I suggest urging Aegon to consider any and all proposals for his hand?” Lord Lannister proposes. For a moment, he seems unsure of his own suggestion- brows pinching together as he contemplates a solution to their problem- but then the tension eases, and a look of clarity washes over his features. “If we are truly running out of time, then desperate times call for desperate measures.” He urges, more confident in his speech than he was not a minute prior. “I do not believe that we possess the luxury of scrutiny any longer.”

“How much time do we have, Mellos?” Your father inquires, going straight to the source and cutting out the need for a meddling middleman. Otto’s expression remains stoic, but the master of laws and the hand have been silently butting heads for long enough for your father to recognize even the most subtle shift in his glare. He’s practically seething.

“No more than a few moons, I’m afraid.” Another blow takes the air from the room.

“In seven weeks time, Aegon will find a wife.” Alicent declares, allowing a week for each of her gods to guide her son towards the right match- hoping that it would be enough time to allow him to secure a partnership of his choosing, whilst gifting him what was stolen from her- a choice.

“And what of the others?” Tyland’s brow raises, and Otto’s stare narrows.

“The others?”

“The other princes and the princess,” He elaborates, speaking of the King’s other children that still reside in the castle, and tucked away in Oldtown.“What of them?”

“That is a bridge we shall cross once the waters rise and force us to,” The Hand dismisses, sparring very little thought towards the idea. “Until then, let us not waste our time pondering over it.”

“Of course, Lord Hightower.” Lord Lannister yields.

Silence fills the chamber once more- though, it is somehow less and more daunting than it was before. Something ominous and foreboding lingers.

“If any word of what we have discussed here leaves these chambers…” Otto threatens, but the lords bow their heads respectfully- a silent display of surrender and submission to the man that’s always found a way to manipulate them as if they were puppets brought to life by his touch. “Good.”

The clashing of swords serves as a beacon, coaxing you towards distraction with tiny sparks of light and the promise of forgetting what’s troubling you- even if only briefly. As you inch closer, the wrinkle between your brows softens- and it’s only once the crease has been smoothed over that you realize how truly upset you had been. Perturbance is a fleeting feeling, however. The sun is warm on your skin, and each step closer and closer towards the training yard stains the bottom of your skirts with evidence of your escape. Through rubble and mud, you march on. 

A spectacle has taken place near the center of the yard, drawing a small crowd of onlookers from the outskirts surrounding the field where the art of battle is studied and perfected through practice. Wood splinters against the impact of a weapon, sending shards of the Targaryen sigil into the mire- pieces of a whole that the servant’s children will dig through the murk for once the training grounds are unoccupied. The dance continues. Murmurs and gasps of awe are accompanied by polite applause, and when pointed steel meets flesh, all encouragement ceases in favor of silence and concern. Between a break in the crowd, you spot him, instantly. For only a moment his eye meets yours. It’s by chance that he’s able to find your face amongst the growing swarm of strangers- something familiar in a wave of unknown- and the distraction causes him to lose his footing, allowing his opponent a chance to lunge at him. Aemond dodges the attack, moving swiftly before the point of the blade has a chance to draw blood. His jaw hardens. With renewed vigor, he strikes. Back and forth, back and forth, both men dodge and attack one another until the prince’s weapon grazes armor. Stumbling back, the knight nearly topples over, and before he can steady himself back on his feet, Aemond threatens the tip of his sword against his rival’s throat, earning another round of applause from the meddlesome crowd, as he is deemed the winner.

His opponent- a seasoned knight and valiant protector- wipes the sheen from his brow whilst he struggles to catch his breath. In, and out- in, and out, again- defeat fills his lungs in labored breaths, but loss does not linger. The prince’s victory is not his failure, in the same way that his strengths are not the prince’s weaknesses, but a challenge- meant to provoke. There is a role he plays, a title he dons, and a weight- heavier than that of his blade and armor- that will crucify him if he does not honor the oaths he vowed himself to uphold. Copper spills from the split in his lip, and he welcomes the warm metallic into his mouth with the tip of his tongue. It tastes of progress- for his opponent grows stronger, and stronger, each time they draw their blades. 

Ser Criston Cole sheathes his weapon, and prepares to praise his opposer- though, he doubts it will mean anything to the boy who’s bested him more times than he can count. Still, he is courteous.  He turns to greet the prince, prepared to meet the sharp edges and flared nostrils of a victorious man trying to catch his breath after triumph, but such a sight is nowhere to be found. Where the line of his jaw should be tense, it is laxed. Where a violet fire should blaze, there are only embers of calm. Even the permanent crease between his brows seems smoother, creating the illusion of a boy, not a conqueror. He searches for the cause of the sudden shift in his demeanor. Following the prince’s line of sight, he finds his answer in the form of a maiden. 

“My lady, I believe you are not meant to-“ He approaches with warning, but isn’t allowed the chance to finish.

“Perhaps it is time for a brief respite, Ser?” Aemond suggests, but Criston knows that it is not a suggestion- it is a command. He is the prince, after all. However thinly veiled, he understands what’s being asked of him, and he respectfully bows his head prior to fulfilling the unspoken order.

“Of course, my prince,” His tongue swipes along his bottom lip, savoring another tang of metallic punishment before he presses his lips together firmly- smearing the blood that oozes from the small wound unintentionally whilst he turns to bid you a proper farewell. “My lady,”

“Ser Cole,” You return with a polite smile. He mirrors the gesture, though it lacks any sincerity. Sparing Aemond one last glance, he huffs a breath and takes his leave. Gravel crunches under the weight of his boot, and once the sound becomes distant enough- and the mass of supporters has started to disperse- Aemond turns to face you.

“And where are you supposed to be?” He taunts, mischievously inquiring as to why you’ve found yourself in the training yards during his lessons. The corner of his lip threatens to curl into a grin when a beat of silence passes and you roll your eyes at his questioning. It’s hard to believe that the man before you grew from the boy you met so many moons ago. He has grown considerably since the night your paths crossed in the godswood. Older, taller, wiser- leaner, stronger, more striking - and yet somehow, still the same boy that wept beneath the branches of an oak under the cover of nightfall. His fingers flex around the hilt of his sword as he sheathes the weapon back into its holster, and you swallow thickly when you realize that you still haven’t answered him.

“Lessons with my septa,” You cast your glance downwards, toeing a piece of gravel to avoid his gaze. Nerves twist in the pit of your stomach when a brief glimpse of a moment you’re trying to forget flashes before your eyes- an accusation, a threat, a scowl, and a suffocating certainty- and you quickly shake it away. “But I can recite our histories in my sleep, and I have little interest in learning to be the perfect wife for some lord, so I’ve decided to come watch your lessons, instead.” Whatever vexation taints your tone disappears completely when you offer a coy simper, “Besides, I find them much more captivating than mine.”

There's a wall of weapons that you find yourself gravitating towards. They glow and gleam in the sunlight. Silver, iron, and bronze twinkle and shine, and you can’t help but reach out. Perhaps, you’re able to find beauty in weaponry because you’ve been sheltered from its devastation. Either way, you reckon that you’d sacrifice your virtue to wield anything on display- even a sad, rotted excuse for a wooden sword.

“Is that so?” He muses, watching as your fingertips ghost over the hilt of a throwing knife. You barely graze the handle, yet you trace the carved pattern delicately. He watches with a hint of amusement. The training yard is no place for a lady. It is where war is perfected- battle practiced and strategized- and though it is oft less tragic than combat against actual enemies, it is not exempt from peril. Axes, blades, and spears sharp enough to cause much more than injury are handled daily, by men and boys with little to no experience. Regardless, the training grounds are a place of savagery, and you look out of place amongst the weapons you admire. Aemond imagines that a blade could never appear deadly in your hands. Not when you handle instruments of torture with such care.

“Perhaps,” You agree- though, it’s only halfheartedly. When you turn to meet Aemond’s stare, you finally feel the warmth of the sun upon your skin. It is inside of you, burning, flushing, and festering whenever you are near him. He is enchanting. With long silver hair, sharp angular features, and such cunning dexterity, he is bewitching. Mayhaps, it is not the sun that fills you with warmth. Mayhaps, it is him. “Or, perhaps it is because I Ionged for your company.” You hope that your exaggeration masks your shyness well enough to go undetected. Just to be sure, you flash a playful grin. “At the very least you tolerate mine- which is far more than I can say for others.”

“I should fetch a maester,” He replies, and the suggestion stills your step. Aemond halts alongside you, and you wonder if he’d been injured during his sparring lessons, or if he felt feverish. Worst of all, your heart plummets with worry when you consider that perhaps his eye is crippling him- as it tends to do every once in a moon- and the thought of pain you’ve never felt but witnessed vicariously through him, sends a dull throb straight through your right eye. With lips parted to question, you turn towards him, only to discover that the smallest semblance of a smirk upon his lips. “You seem to be riddled with delusions.”

When you sigh a breath of relief, he offers a thin smile. His teasing always teeters the line between jesting and sincerity, and even after so many years of companionship, you’re still never truly sure where his intentions lie. Though, he’s never once been vicious. Towards you, he’s never been spiteful nor callous. Perhaps there’s always been a gentleness reserved for your friendship. At times Aemond could oft appear distant, reserved, and withdrawn when he found himself in the company of others. Even when you were children, he never truly appeared interested in anything you had to say, but you’ve come to learn that even though he is distant, reserved, and sometimes withdrawn, his silence is not a flaw. Whilst he is a man of few words who prefers to listen rather than be the subject of attention, time has graced you with the knowledge that he is only distant to those who do not truly know him, only reserved in the company of those he has nothing insightful or genuine to offer, and withdrawn from those whom he does not care to consort with. 

By chance, you find yourself in the godswood. It’s reminiscent of a simpler time. Moss is neither soft, nor cold beneath your slipper, and petals of dragon’s breath and poppies remind you of your fleeting youth. It is not the same place it once was, but it is still a safe haven of sorts.

“The only person truly riddled with delusions is my septa,” You huff, agitated and overwhelmed at the mere mention of the woman who’s caused you such distress. 

When your back meets the thick trunk of oak, a strained exhale passes your lips.

“I am meant for more than this.” Breath betrays certainty, a somber huff diluting the sentiment of spoken word as the tips of your fingers retreat into the flesh of your palm. A wrinkle deepens across the expanse of your forehead, a crevice he is simultaneously unacquainted and familiar with, and he recognizes sorrow on the face of another- a strange sight when not his own. He needn’t ask what troubles you. Not when he knows you will reveal your despair to him- even if unprompted. He is silent as he listens. “More than a dutiful wife, more than just barring children,” Spite overpowers propriety. Too overwhelmed to hold your tongue and remember your manners, you speak freely- as you always have in Aemond’s company. With a finality that evaded your tone moments prior, you vow, “I am destined for more.”

His muscles begin to ache from overuse. Tendons have stretched past their limit to grant his lithe figure an advantage against an opponent much more experienced than he. The ache doesn’t register as pain. Not even close. If anything, he welcomes the soreness. It’s a reminder that he must become stronger, faster, and greater, than those that dare to brandish their weapons against his own. The strain of his muscles is uncomfortable- though, not entirely unpleasant. He revels in the feeling for as long as he can before he’s forced to confront the fact that he doesn’t know how to help you. As the only woman- beyond those of his blood- who has ever shown him any sort of amiability, he acknowledges your pain- though he can not make sense of it. He supposes if Helaena, his older sister, were condemned to the same punishment of breeding until she met her demise, he too would feel the same livid rage. But, as a prince who upholds duty and honor above all else, he struggles to bash the place in society you’ve fiercely scorned. Knowing not what to say, he remains silent, until you spare him a glance.

“Hm,” He hums thoughtfully, though it lacks the comfort you’re seeking.

“If I’m condemned to spend the rest of my life with only needlework to look forward to in times of solace, I swear I shall perish.” Your stomach churns at the thought of producing a babe. You would rather prick every single one of your fingertips twice over with an embroidery needle than be forced to care for a child you would always resent- because they would forced you into a role you have no desire to fulfill. “Do you think your creature would end my suffering if I asked nicely?” Aemond presses his lips into a thin line whilst his eye meets yours. Vhagar, his greatest victory was a beast- but you’ve never acknowledged her as anything more than a creature. She was more than flames and chaos. She was a heartbeat- a creature who felt grief, joy, and even weariness. She was more than wings, scales, and acidity. She was a living, breathing, soul- and perhaps Aemond’s only other companion. You’ve always held her in high regard. At the mention of her name, his interest piques. “What is it that you tell her?” You inquire playfully, attempting to banish feelings of fear and unease with a jest. “Dra-kar-es?” 

He tenses. There’s no hint of a smile upon his lips, no traces of amusement nor humor to be found in the aftermath of your childish gag. Both fermented and vexed at the sound of his mother tongue passing your lips, the strong slant of his jaw hardens as his brow drops into something much more irate- something much more perturbed- and any semblance of joy quickly fades once you realize that he does not find humor behind your words, but a taunt. 

“You would rather die than become a man’s wife?” The power of the dragon is not one that he underestimates. He would be a fool to, and he is not a fool. Still, he can’t comprehend what would drive you to such madness. Suggesting that the flames of his dragon would end a suffering you’ve not yet felt is cruel. To bargain with your life over the mere thought of what awaits you on the other side of marriage is lunacy. Try as he might, he can’t make sense of your sudden hysteria, and with a sudden tightness in his throat, he awaits an explanation. 

You ponder his remark, silently. He does not understand. If he thinks you spoiled or manic, he does not insult you by sharing his thoughts aloud. Instead, he waits for you to make sense of the absurdities you speak of- though, you struggle to find the right words to make him aware of your agony. The lack of an answer causes him to grow restless, and he parts his lips to speak, but you’re the first to find your voice.

“I imagine it would feel like dying, each day I’m forced to submit to a man who has not earned my love- a man who does not see me as an equal, but as a womb for his future sons,” It is much too crass of a reply to be given to a prince, but Aemond has been a companion for so long that you oft forget that he is of royal decent. Through the brashness of your words, his gaze softens. “And if I am to fail…” Your lip trembles, failing to reveal the consequences of actions that have not yet been attempted, and you swallow the rest of your fears down with the growing lump in your throat. “Yes, I would rather die than become the wife of someone chosen for me.” 

He says nothing. He does not know what to say. If there are words to quell the unease of your future, they escape him. So, he stays silent. Offering nothing more than a blank stare as you press your lips together tightly. His feet feel heavy- like he has sprouted roots from his toes and embedded himself in the soil below- and when he tries to force his limbs to move, to take a step closer towards you, he is frozen in place. With a quiet sigh, you bring the back of your hand to your eyes, wiping away the tears that you won’t allow yourself to shed, and take a breath. This time, when you meet Aemond’s eye, you attempt to offer him a smile. It’s then, that you notice the red that stains his skin.

“You’re bleeding,” Right below his cheekbone, on his left side, there’s a small scratch. The wound- if it can even be called such a thing compared to the more prominent, scarred gash on his right side- has already started to coagulate. It’s truly no deeper than the cuts and scrapes you used to get whilst playing in the gardens as a child, but the sight of blood upon the face of someone you care deeply about is still alarming, no matter how small. He has already suffered so much- lost, even more. He does not deserve to feel pain, no matter how slight. If you could somehow take it all away, you would. 

Hesitantly, you steal a quick glance behind you before taking a few steps forward- until the tips of your slippers touch the tips of his boots. His eye widens slightly as you hold up a hand, and when he makes no effort to evade your inevitable touch, you rest your palm against the sharp edge of his jaw. His breath hitches, but he doesn’t order you away. Gently, you trace the shallow cut with the tip of your thumb, and Aemond can’t remember the last time that someone treated him with such care- the last time someone handled him with such delicacy. The urge to lean into your touch is overwhelming. To seek the closest thing to comfort, to peace, he’s ever known is like being suaded by temptation. He nearly chases the feeling until the ruffling of leaves above- mistaken for footsteps of potential onlookers in search of gossip to destroy both your reputation, and his- causes him to release a heavy exhale through his nose, and pull away.

“It will heal.” He assures you, though the reminder brings little comfort. If the gods will not end his suffering, you will try your very best to.

In the silence that follows, serenity remains. There should be something daunting about the nothingness that hangs in the air. Doubt should fester, and insecurity should loom, but only peace is present in Aemond’s company. He is the thunder and lightning of a storm, and the dew left behind afterward. He is a wave crashing ashore, and the ripples left behind in its wake. He is the chaos, but with you, he is the calm. Bathed in soft, orange rays of the setting sun he is still the glimpse of silver from your childhood- though, now he is much more than a stranger. He is everything. To you, he is everything. You realize, then, that you would have him in any way- violent hurricane or dew, waves or ripples- as long as he could always be a part of your life, a part of you, you would have him.

“Aemond, I-“ You can’t fathom the words. They’re stuck in your throat and they’re sickeningly sweet with an intimacy that’s unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. Your pulse quickens, beating faster and faster as if to catapult the sentiment from the cavern in your chest to your lips, but to no avail does your voice find you. 

Aemond thinks you look terrified- with your mouth hung open, your eyes wide and brows pulled together- he’s concerned for you. He doesn’t want to interrupt, but you appear to be unwell. Sickly doesn’t suit you, and he wonders if you’ve overexerted yourself, somehow. Perhaps your corset is too tight, or perhaps you’ve had too much sun. Regardless, he notices a thin sheen of perspiration glimmering across your forehead and prepares to ask if you’re well, but his inquiry remains unspoken- along with the affection you couldn’t will yourself to express.

“Prince Aemond,” The sound of your father’s voice fills the garden with an authority that diminishes its tranquility- though it doesn’t present any harm or danger. Knowing that you’ve been caught in a rather compromising position, you immediately take a step back from Aemond- though the distance feels further than miles. Your father presses his lips into a thin line that reveals neither displeasure nor ridicule. Refusing shame and embarrassment, you bow your head low in humiliation- instead- and whilst you take the brunt of chagrin, Aemond remains unfazed.

“Lord Piper,” The prince returns, easily enough to convey nonchalance, but his stomach twists with uncertainty that his tongue does not divulge. All at once he’s burdened with realization. He’s forgotten duty and honor in favor of temptation. For a few uninterrupted moments of your company, he has dismissed propriety. It is equivalent to sin, to be caught alone with an unwed maiden, but you have been an acquaintance longer than you’ve been a maiden- or so it seems. He oft forgets that he is no longer a child, and neither are you. Guilt nearly swallows him whole, but his eye does not show remorse nor does his throat bob with repentance. He will suffer penance for his wrongdoings, but you should not be forced to answer for his crimes. A shrill voice silences the declaration that sits atop the tip of his tongue.

“Wretched child!” The round face of your septa blotches red with anger. Whilst you’re no stranger to her temper, her chastisement feels much crueler when it’s shared with company- opposed to in private. “I told you she’s rotten.” The old woman berates, directing the insult towards your father, who towers over her. She’s a petite woman, but her fury is equivalent to that of a large man- and nearly as intimidating. Her frown accentuates the deep lines around her mouth-making her appear years older than she actually is- and you wonder if she’s ever smiled, or if she was born with a frown. You can’t imagine that a smile on her face would be all that inviting, and the thought alone is one you can’t fathom. With a heaving chest, she demands an explanation from your father, “What girl leaves her lessons to sneak away with-“

“Forgive me, my prince.” Your father ignores the woman glaring daggers into the side of his head- rather, the side of his jaw, since her gaze only reaches so high- and addresses the man beside you. Aemond isn’t sure why he’s the one asking for forgiveness. He is not the one who has insulted you. When he looks at your septa, she turns away with a huff, refusing to meet his stare. He almost wishes that she would have finished her thought so that he had reason to reprimand her for such vile insults. Alas, his nostrils flare. “Might I have a word with my daughter?”

“Of course,” The line of his jaw is sharp whilst he grants permission. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he wonders what it might feel like to deny what is asked of him, but he refrains from flexing such power. Instead, he turns to you, only meeting your eye for a second before he bows his head politely.“My lady,”

“My prince,” You return the gesture, gripping the skirts of your gown between your fingertips and dropping down into a curtsy. It’s graceful, but the mire that stains the bottom of your dress reminds him of a time when it was not. With a final nod, he bids you farewell, and your chest aches with longing as you watch him leave. Alone, except for the presence of your father and septa, you feel like he’s taken a part of you with his departure. It’s an odd feeling, one that can not be explained. Yet, it lingers.

You miss the silent exchange between your septa and father, but you hear the scoff that leaves the unpleasant woman’s lips, and the sound of her angry footsteps as they depart. In her wake, she leaves a trail of crushed flowers. You look at the crumpled petals and leaves with apprehension- knowing what it feels like to be trampled over by such a neglectful woman- and wish to nurture them back to health. Perhaps, you’ve always felt inclined to heal what is thought to be broken.

Time passes. Following your father’s direction as he leads you through the castle grounds and down river row until you reach the river gate. Away from your septa, away from the small council, your father trades the overbearing horde for the gentle rippling of water as it trickles into the rush. Sailcloth ruffles in the distance, carrying ships to and from shore. Even with the shouting of merchants, ship captains, and the fish market vendors, it’s considerably more tranquil than the stuffy air of the palace.

“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” Your father prompts, and you offer a tight-lipped smile that does little to conceal what you’re truly feeling inside. “What troubles you, darling?” 

“It is my septa,” A heavy sigh follows the confession. Revealing your worries frees a weight that’s settled in your chest. For the first time since the one-sided dispute, you can breathe. Surrendering your banners, you’ve laid your sword at your father’s feet, ready to embrace whatever awaits on the other side of attack- knowing that it will bring you the peace of mind you seek. “Today’s lesson consisted of reminders of duty, and the prospect of shame if I do not bear my husband’s heir within the first year of our marriage.” Too overwhelmed by the memory you wish to forget, you don’t notice your father tense beside you. “She suggests that if such a thing were to happen, then I am likely barren- and it was then that I decided that I would much rather watch the swordsmen than be ridiculed for an act I have neither attempted nor committed.” 

Much to his dread, he understands why you’ve fled. He can not condemn you when he shares the same perspective. As much as it pains him to admit, the day he has long feared has finally arrived. His only daughter- once small and delicate- has become a woman grown. Forced to embrace a truth he wishes to deny, he dons a grim look of reluctance. He thinks about what he desperately wants to convey- pondering words of sentiment and merit, whilst mulling over the importance of fantasy and dreams- and struggles to exude the guidance he had hoped to. In every wrinkle, sunspot, and sunken crevice of his skin, he wishes to express his desire for you to embrace your youth. He wishes to preach about the importance of education and adventure, and happiness whenever and however you see fit, but nothing fills the silence that has settled during the lull in conversation- except for the sounds of water. A butchered version of all he wishes to say remains lodged in his throat. Nearly suffocating from the words he can not find the voice to amplify, his vision starts to blur.

“I am a woman, yes, but that does not condemn me to marriage or motherhood.” Unaware of the inner turmoil your father is silently suffering beside you, you continue to divulge your deepest, darkest secrets to the only man you know will truly understand.

“At least, it shouldn’t.” With a dejected breath, you huff. “I know that when the time comes I will have to make peace with the fact that I will never be more than some man’s property.” For a moment, you hold your head up higher- seemingly accepting the role you’re being forced into- and for just a second, your father catches a glimpse of your mother in the elegance you exude. “I hold no figment of love, no hope nor imagination for such a silly thing, but until I am sworn to wed, I would like to bask in my freedoms whilst I still can.” The confession pains him, especially when he wishes nothing more for you than to experience true happiness and love- if that is something you wish to seek. 

Propriety, duty, and honor be damned.

“Then bask away,” He urges with a severity you do not understand as he reaches for your hand and squeezes it tightly- fearful of letting you slip away. “And do not let anyone attempt to darken your light.” 

You would not heed his warning until it was too late.

a/n: massive thanks to both @em-writes-stuff-sometimes and @becauseicantdecide for easing my doubts about posting this, and for reassuring me that it wasn't absolute rubbish

tagging a few writers I admire: @mypoisonedvine @aemonds-sapphire @prince-aemond-targaryen @aemonds-war-crime @targbarbie @winterstellars @sapphire-writes @oneeyedvisenya @aemonds-fire @aemxnd @princeaemonds @ewanmitchellcrumbs

series taglist: @just-emmaaaa

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[trashybugs]

i rarely ramble here, but i want to talk a bit about Abyssal Insect/Abyssal Wrym

the identity and origin of Abyssal Insect have always fascinated me. what is it? is it the same kind of dragon as PHH Vorti's dragon, has it existence preceded Vortigern? is it really the white dragon of Britain when Albion is actually both red and white?

Abyssal Insect was a concept that got introduced in Lostbelt Britain. it is referred to as "the evil dragon Vortigern" in Oberon's profile, it seems to be a primordial creature, a concept of every hole in the world that had lived long ever since or before Britain was at its conception and is said to exist in PHH but being more tamer.

it makes me question the chicken and egg. was this primordial being that had exist since ancient times only got its name as Vortigern from the influence of PHH concepts that slipped into Lostbelt Britain during Morgan's reign, or was its identity had been Vortigern since the very beginning, making him also preceded the existence Vile King Vortigern in PHH.

see, the thing is, i think have been looking way too hard. i always thought the reason why both LB Vorti and PHH Vorti share the same concept and weakness (being a hole in the world, can absorb holy light but is also hurt by it, etc) is because of them sharing the same name and title. as Vortigerns, Britain's will, and device.

and Abyssal Insect was its own separate thing, an embodiment of the world's holes that reside in LB Britain, because its the only land that exist in that timeline, eventually becoming its will and legend, after all it seems to be different from the dragon PHH Vortigern was described in. he looks like a worm insect instead of a traditional western dragon you expect. so maybe it was a separate being than PHH Vortigern.

but i think Abyssal Insect IS Vortigern the dragon. and both LB Vorti and PHH Vorti are its human terminals. it was the white dragon but a far more older being than Merlin's red and white dragon prophecy.

there was a misconception in TM wiki for the longest time that Oberon was born from Albion, making him and Melusine technically siblings, but recently they changed it to Britain. proving while they're both white dragons, they're born from different origins

Vortigern the dragon (Abyssal Insect) is Britain.

in Melusine's dialogue upon seeing Abyssal Insect is that he is a dragon that shares the same white dragon name as her, not that they're the same.

it seems even in Lostbelt, it used to have a more traditional dragon look, as can be seen in the mural prophecy

it changing into a more insect-worm appearance might be because of Oberon's identity influence, or its capability to adapt after knowing Morgan's fear of insects.

LB Vortigern's terminal had been proven to be able to change and adapt to different strategies for the sake of destroying Britain, i wouldn't put it past it to change form into its enemy's literal nightmare lol

which makes the NA localization of Naraku no mushi (Insect of Abyss/hell) into Abyssal Wyrm, makes more sense since its possible that in Japan, no etymology could convey worm-like dragon as well as the word "wyrm" (I think its proven cause I saw a lot of JP fans praising the localization of it, and thinks its a more suitable word than Abyssal Insect). Abyssal Wyrm wasn't necessarily an insect, its a wyrm and the same dragon as PHH Vortigern's

its also the reason why i got stuck so much trying to make both connections, cause I was a fan translation reader so the Abyssal Insect word stuck with me more, and its very hard imagining that PHH Vortigern also have the same insect dragon form when he doesn't have any insect motifs

but how come PHH Vorti be an Abyssal Wyrm terminal too, when Nasu said that Abyssal Wyrm wasn't hostile in PHH and will never manifest

maybe this is a reach, but i think its because PHH Abyssal Wyrm/PHH Vortigern isn't on the same level of aggressiveness as LB Vortigern. his goal was essentially to preserve the mystics of Britain instead of destroying it similar to Morgan who wants to keep the land alive despite it all.

Obevort's reasoning in that PHH Vorti wants to destroy humanity but is unable to destroy the world itself. in his eyes it looks like PHH Vorti is a coward who won't go far, not realizing they are both functionally different as Britain's terminal.

so yeah, technically that vicious side of it will never manifest there, he still want to turn Britain into a living hell so humans won't be able to live there. but at its core its not as destructive as LB Vortigern's goal.

its also adds to my reasoning on how PHH Vorti must drunk a dragon's blood and become a dragon himself, because his true body unable to manifest. (a parallel to LB Abyssal Wyrm who's stuck under Cerny) when the way Abyssal Wyrm and LB Vortigern works is that both of them are separate bodies that can't control each other (they able to become one in NP which seems to happen only after he became summonable)

keep in mind it is not clear what dragon blood old man Vorti was drinking tho. is it just a random dragon or a white dragon? but which white dragon cause Albion wasn't killed by him. there's a lot of blank space in here...

but anyway, drinking a random dragon's blood is enough to turn him into a dragon. not necessarily his true Abyssal Wyrm body since it won't manifest. but its close enough to make him have a similar characteristic in being the size of the isle and having the black hole power to absorb Excalibur's light

Albion is said to be the last dragon so either the primordial dragon Abyssal Wyrm dies when his Vile King form is killed because Rhongo was that strong it kill him down to its core, or he doesn't get categorized as a true dragon since well, he's a wyrm

so my conclusion, is that Abyssal Wyrm was Britain's itself or one of the aspect of Britain's will. its original function in PHH was the will to preserve, and it manifested into Vile king Vortigern. but in LB, Britain had died and is essentially just a rotting corpse, its beyond saving, so his function transforms into the will of self destruction, manifesting multiple times as Mors king and then Oberon.

both PHH and LB Vorti were from the same dragon in different timeline with different functions that's why they're able to share similar weaknesses and hole powers

just a game theory tho, and i think its a theory that satisfies my curiosity on which Vortigern came first cause I just thinks its funny that you got this crazy concept of hole worm dragon in LB but in PHH, Vortigern seems to be a name of a person who turns into a dragon also LB6 is special in that the LB gains a lot of PHH influences

[running-with-the-feels]

I read your fic that talks about the cryomancer culture and I was so fascinated with them if you can I need to know more!!

ahhhh I'm so glad you liked it!!

So, my version of Cryomancer culture is still evolving, so stuff might change but basically

They called themselves Ischeti, which translates literally to Snow Singers, and they had their own realm called Iskari which translates to Sleeping Snow, or Snow's Sleep, which was a very hostile place for any who were not cryomancers. Music was deeply important to them and they prayed primarily through song.

Dragons, called Tika were native to the realm and formed close bonds with the Ischeti quite frequently, to the point that many Ischeti were dragon riders, which when coupled with their abilities, made them a formidable military force. To be called Tikavox, meaning Dragon Child, was a great honor bestowed only to those who had proven themselves resilient, formidable, and kind in great measure.

As Iskari had many natural resources that were desired by other realms, such as a metal that could nullify all forms of magic as well as make a cryomancer more powerful when properly forged by a priest, and gemstones that could store memories to be viewed at a later date, as well as plants with potent medicinal properties and so on, Edenia tried to engage in trade with Iskari

However, the metal was sacred as it was known as Dragon's blood, or Tikarezo, and could only be found in places where dragons were buried or had fallen, forming from their veins and hearts, and it was used in religious ceremonies. To give it to an outsider was unthinkable, though the Ischeti were willing to trade the gems. Unfortunately the gems were very rare and so they did not have as many to trade as Edenia wanted.

Eventually, under Queen Sindel's reign, Edenia tried to conquer Iskari without mortal kombat, seeking to occupy the realm rather than absorb it. But no matter how many soldiers Sindel devoted to the task, for every Ischeti they killed, ten more Edenians would die. This went on for a thousand years before the queen tired of it, declaring Mortal Kombat.

I've been working on hammering out a set of rules for Mortal Kombat, since canon does not provide any, and one of those rules is that in order for the tournament to end, either the aggressor or the defender realm must win ten consecutive tournaments, and the Ischeti lasted for 32 tournaments before they fell, despite living only 500 years to the Edenian's 50,000 year life span. By contrast, Edenia lasted 27 tournaments against Outworld.

After that, Sindel outlawed cryomancy and the act of bonding with dragons, as well as the vast majority of the Ischeti's religious ceremonies and rituals, leading to them eventually leaving and moving to Outworld where Shao Khan proved an even crueller ruler. Before long, the Ischeti left for Earthrealm with the few dragons they had left, settling in Northern China in a region that resembled their former realm which they called Arctika, or Home of Dragons. Edenia still has possession of most of the Ischeti's sacred objects and artifacts, many of them made from the gems that hold memories (I haven't thought of a name for them yet) which contained memories of their many ceremonies and important days, such as the Etlara realm, the crowning of monarchs, etc

There, they founded the Lin Kuei, which was not a clan of assassins at the time. Instead, it was a refuge for any who sought it, be they Earthrealmer, Ischeti, Outworlder, etc. The name Lin Kuei was given to them by outsiders, and literally translates to Forest Demons (as far as I can find), with many thinking their powers and strange appearances meant they must be demons.

The Ischeti were formidable warriors and defended their new home as needed, eventually providing aid to others for similar ends when it was requested, which gradually lead to their becoming assassins.

The Ischeti naturally have bright blue or white eyes, with white hair being very common. They also tend to have fangs and dragon like pupils and an extra set of vocal cords which allows them to make similar sounds to the dragons they bond with.

Over the years, these traits began to fade and cryomancy became less common for reasons they do not know for certain, though they suspected it was because they no longer had access to Tikarezo, which was deeply embedded within their religion and day to day life. The only scrap of it they had left was the Dragon Medallion, a symbol of the Royal house which was to be held by the reigning monarch. The medallion was eventually co-opted by the Lin Kuei grandmasters as a symbol of their leadership.

Due to their lack of immunity to Earthrealm illnesses and the weakness that came with a lack of Tikarezo, Cryomancers began dying off alarmingly quickly until only a few bloodlines were left, most of whom had lost the ability entirely. The royal line was the only one to maintain the gift of cryomancy.

Sub-Zero and Tundra are actually bastardizations of the Chet words (Chet is their name for their language, meaning song) for Ruler and Heir respectively. Sub-Zero was originally Sut-Sawel and Tundra was originally Tondira (I will take criticism on that if anyone has criticism to offer), with Sawel being the name of the god most important to the cryomancer pantheon.

The royal house did not rule with absolute power but as part of a council who were primarily made up of those elected by the people as well as the head priests of each god.

That's about what I've got so far, let me know if anyone has any thoughts!

[whatevergreen]

By Aude Konan (this is most of the article):

"Black punk communities seldom exist in France.

Many French black punks don't gather in groups as they don't feel the necessity to further ostracize themselves from a punk scene that's already not so welcoming of non-white faces. Throughout the years, though, a few black indie punks groups have emerged such as Mau Maus in the 1980s or the still active Zenzille.

One of the closest things France had to a black punk community was the Black Dragons, a group united by a will to fight back against racist skinheads and a strong sense of belonging to the Parisian suburbs.

The Black Dragons were an anti-fascist group formed in the 1980s in the northwestern Parisian suburbs. They were initially founded in the U.S. during the late '70s, largely influenced by the Black Panther Party.

Before the French branch was created in Paris, two black groups dominated the scene: the Del Vikings and the Black Panthers (named after the American party). These groups have been portrayed in Gilles Ellie Cohen's photography book Vikings & Panthers.

The Del Vikings were apolitical, focused on rockabilly music, the party scenes and a love of vintage American cars from the '50s. Many Del Vikings switched from flamboyant rockabilly to punk, like the young punk Petit Jean, who allegedly got killed by skinheads during a fight in Les Halles.

Indeed, racists and xenophobic attacks soared during the 1980s due to the rise of the far right party Le Front National and prominent fascists skinheads groups like the GUD and PNFE. They would patrol specific Parisian neighborhoods, especially Les Halles, a metro station and mall, attacking passersby.

They'd also attack people at punk gigs. In 1983, the skinheads launched one of their most horrific attacks: 'la chasse aux Beurs' or 'hunting Arabs.' The attack resulted in the deaths of 23 people.

Unable to get any type of protection from the police, groups of anti-fascist vigilantes appeared, like the Ducky Boys and, later, the Red Warriors. They chased down skinhead groups armed with baseball bats, knuckle-dusters and tear gas. The rise and fall of these groups is featured in Marc Aurèle Vecchione's documentary Antifa: chasseur de skins.

Following the 'chasse aux beur', a young man, Yves “Le Vent," created the French branch of the Black Dragons in 1983. At its height, the Black Dragons had between 600 to 1,000 members. Contrary to the other 'antifa' groups like the Red Dragons, the Black Dragons were mostly made-up of black members.

The Black Dragons' black and Arab French members were often working class, second generation children of migrants that came from the French banlieues. They considered themselves French, but were faced by racism in their streets and neighborhoods.

Invisible in a country that didn't seem to acknowledge them and lacking proper representation, these young people pledged allegiance to groups like the Black Dragons, which gave them a home and a purpose.

They were aware of the inherent institutional racism at play within the French establishment, but their main concern was the daily racist attacks Black and Arab people were victims of.

Hunting skinheads was, for them, more than a petty vengeance: it was a necessity.

The autobiography J'étais un Black Dragon (I was a Black Dragon) written by Patrick Lonoh, a former Black Dragon, describes the inner workings of the movement and the solidarity inside of that community."

"One branch of the Black Dragons called “Miss Black Dragons" was entirely dedicated to women members, as a way to boost their members. They would only fight other all-female skinhead groups. Music was also a component of the movement. Politically conscious French ska and punk bands like Les Beruriers Noirs, La Souris Déglinguée, and Laid Thénardier encouraged their fans to stand up against skinheads and hired 'antifa' groups to act as bouncers during their gigs."

A group of Black Dragons, Paris, 1980s

As for the 2020s, former Black Dragon Michael Patrick Lanoh has stated that:

"the extreme-right parties are no longer demonised and their leaders are invited to TV broadcasts, their racist ideologies have become commonplace,” ..., they have opted for a jacket and tie so they blend better into society and quietly exercise their baneful influence.”

Not so quietly lately.

[animestsstuff2]

A Dragon's beauty

barbarian Bakugou X Reader

master list part 6? content warning: cursing, threats, fire, this is kinda long! Sorry🤍

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

Bakugou stood tall with his arms crossed as he stared at your father. He had just left you with your elder sister.

“Please sit Bakugou, has Kya been giving you trouble?” Endeavor asked as he watched the blonde sit at his desk before him. Bakugou shook his head as he pulled out the letter and handed it to him.

“We received yesterday. They took Touya and want Kya” Bakugoy stated and Endeavor nodded, pulling the same letter from a drawer in his desk to show Bakugou.

“I assume they plan to use Touya as some barter, to force us into their hand” Bakugoy nodded, agreeing with Endeavor’s analysis.

"What about Kya?, want her too" he asked, wondering if Endeavor had an explanation for it.

"I am not sure why they want Kya, there is nothing special about her" Endeavor mumbled, breaking eye contact with Bakugou.

"magic, letter said about her magic" His voice was firmer as he leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at the man who just lied to him. Endeavor met Bakugou eyes again, sighing.

"I am not able to give you the information you want Bakugou. I know why they want Kya but I that is something I cannot share" he told the blonde boy who gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes.

"my wife!, should know why they want her, she have magic?" he growled, it was the only plausible explanation for Katsuki but you were so small and feeble barely even able to lift buckets of water or too many logs for the fire. Endeavor sighed, he never wanted to acknowledge what resided in you, the reason why his wife, your mother, died that day.

"Bakugou..Kya is not normal and not just because she may possess magic. You can see how weak she is, yes?" Bakugou nodded and Endeavor continued.

"when Rei fell pregnant with Kya she became extremely ill and grew weaker and weaker as the pregnancy continued. I got physicians, scholars, academics and even witches to her aid but not one could place the illness, until a letter appeared addressed for Rei and I. This letter addressed from no one knew all about Rei and her sickness, down to every last symptom and claimed to know why. Our family lineage has always had strong connections with fire magic, myself, Touya and Shoto all possess some form and strength of it. This letter, however, claimed that Kya would surpass us all with a power that would either save our kingdom or bring about its destruction" Endeavor paused, gauging Bakugou's reaction before continuing.

"I didn't believe it, believing it was some hoax as the writer asked to be invited for Kya's birth. I ignored the signs the letter told, the future symptoms it predicted, the weather it warned of and the omen that would be Kya's birth. Rei died almost immediately after Kya was born, it was like she had lost her life months ago and her body was just the vessel for Kya. Kya, when she was born.." he trailed off, eyes shutting as he remembered the chilling day.

"when she was born, she didn't cry like a normal babe, didn't make any noise or indiction she was alive. I held her in my arms but all I seen was two white eyes staring back, my child didn't feel like mine. I-I felt like I was in the presence of something else, something far stronger than me radiating from a babe"

"she doesn't seem powerful? more weak" Bakugou commented, confused as Endeavor had visibly shuddered when talking about your birth.

"Her power manifested when she turned two, I-I don't know what happened, it was so quick but Touya and Natsuo were in the courtyard with her in the grass and suddenly she was in the air, eyes white. a glow emitting from her small body. she fell back down moments later, Touya caught her. Her power continued to grow stronger, if she threw a tantrum the castle would shake. The courtyard split one day and lava bubbled up from the crack after Touya teased her too much. I had a witch come and seal her power away. A Todoroki has never had so much raw power, let alone a female, she is the first female in my lineage to have magic abilities" Bakugou's eyes widened, he heard some witches could null magic abilities for periods of time but to seal it away was unbeknownst to him.

"she does not know of this power?" Bakugou asked and Endeavor shook his head. Bakugou sighed, leaning back. what the fuck have I married?.

"tell her today" Bakugou mumbled as he got up from his seat. Endeavor shot up, shoulders squared and tensed.

"No! Kya can never know about her power. She will not be able to control it and will ruin the kingdom!' Endeavor snapped, Bakugou glared at the king feeling the tension thicken in the room as both men stood on edge.

"She need to know. I tell her, you cannot stop me" He growled as he turned on his heel, ready to march out. A fiery ball flew by Bakugou, heating his face and singeing part of his hair as it scorned the door he was about to grab. Bakugou looked over his shoulder, eyes narrowed as he rested his hand on the door handle.

"Do not challenge me old man. I will kill you" He stated, malice laced in his tone as he swung the door open and slammed it shut after him. Endeavor rushed out after the blonde who had already disappeared. Endeavor turned seeing Iida standing at the door.

"where did he go Iida?" he asked.

"he headed straight then left sir, would you like me to catch up with him?" Iida asked, turning to the king.

"No, find Fuyumi and Kya and bring them to the courtyard, find them before he does" Iida nodded and took off, as part of the elite royal guard he too had powers. His family had superspeed, nothing could compete with them.

Bakugou stomped down the hallway, grumbling to himself as he thought of what he was just told, of course you couldn't be normal, of course the Todoroki family had to have another dark secret hidden in the walls of this castle. He didn't know what to do, your involvement in this war made it all the more complicated. He never thought of you potentially being kidnapped nor wanted, sure you were his wife but that was just on paper. The care he felt for you was little.

Bakugou returned to the courtyard to find you there with your siblings, all sitting circled in the grass as you leaned against Shoto. A large smile on your face, giggling at a story your elder brother was telling. Bakugou stepped onto the grass, catching Shoto's eye.

"Kya, come we are leaving" He stated, Your eyes met his and you opened your mouth to protest, wanting to stay a little longer but the narrowed red eyes made you quickly shut it, not wanting to anger the blonde. You stood up moving to walk over to Bakugou when Fuyumi grabbed your arm.

"S-she can stay for dinner? there is more than enough for both of you" She stuttered, looking at Bakugou who only shook his head.

"No, we leave now. Kya, come" He ordered and Fuyumi pulled you into a tight hug. Her brothers standing up too, Natsuo narrowing his eyes at Bakugou's rudeness. You pulled away from Fuyumi and walked over to Katsuki, keeping your head down.

Bakugou grabbed your hand in his and began to walk away from the siblings when Iida rushed in, blocking his path.

"Im sorry Sir Bakugou! but king Endeavor has requested I not let you leave just yet" He informed, blocking the exit to the courtyard. Bakugou gritted his teeth, of course that tyrant would pull something like this.

"No, we leave now" Bakugou growled, palm heating as he tightened his hold on your arm making you wince.

"I-I cannot let you do that sir, King Endeavor explicitly ordered-"

"It is alright Iida. I can handle it from here, thank you for catching up with him" Endeavor's voice boomed from behind Iida. Bakugou's narrowed eyes immediately zoning in on the king

"father, what is going on?" Shoto asked, the tension between the two men before him was thick enough to cut with a knife.

"nothing to concern yourself with Shoto. Kya here is staying for a few days like we discussed, isn't that right Bakugou?" Endeavor hummed, stepping out into the courtyard. You looked up at Bakugou expectantly.

"No, we leaving now. Endeavor I already warned you" he growled as he pulled you to the side going to move around the king when fire was shot at the ground in front of you both, making Bakugou still and you gasp as you looked at your father. A small flame radiating in the palm of his hand.

"Bakugou if you leave with her I will wage attack on your tribe and you will lose, leave her here" Bakugou growled at the challenge and let you go. He removed his cape, cracking his knuckles as he stepped forward

"Dragon blood clan will never lose to you. You Endeavor are too old for threats, let Kya and I leave" He snapped. You watched fearfully from your sisters hold at the interaction. Your father literally had fire in his palm. He was controlling it. magic is real.

"Father what is the meaning of this?!" Shoto yelled, stepping between the tense men and facing his father.

“This does not concern you Shoto!” He yelled.

“If it involves Kya, it involves me!” He retorted, stepping towards his father. Bakugou looked between everyone angry at your fathers actions he seen your wide fear filled eyes.

“Kya has magic Shoto, Endeavor sealed it away” Bakugou stated, eyes meeting Endeavors wild ones. Your eyes widened at Bakugou’s admission and Shoto’s head flicked between you and his father.

“Kya can wield magic? I thought Touya and I were the only ones within our family!” He asked as he stared at his father. Endeavors lips pulled into a thin line as his eyes narrowed in at Bakugou.

“He is lying Shoto, dont believe him” he growled. The flame in his hand burning brighter. Shoto eyes were wide with confusion as he turned to Bakugou.

“Is it true? Can she truly wield magic” he asked and Bakugou nodded.

“A letter came from Shigaraki’s people. They want Kya for her magic, it is more powerful than any” Shoto was in disbelief as he turned to face you. You watched as your father began shouting, Shoto began shouting, Bakugou and Natsuo both joined in.

Fuyumi held you tighter, too tight as you breath quickened, shallow and short, voices blurred into one as they pierced your head. You hated this, hated this noise and it was all because of you. Your eyes looking over to your father whose flame burned brighter, magic was real? And you possessed some? And the enemies wanted you? Your entire world and way of life had been uprooted in the space of 7 days, 7 hard and exhausting days. You were thrown into an unknown territory with unknown people.

It was all too much.

“Stop! Stop it everyone, just be quiet!” You screamed, pulling your arms from Fuyumi as the ground below everyone shook, birds escaping the trees within the courtyard as small bushes trembled and rocks danced on the ground. Everyone fell quiet and all eyes were on you.

You stared back, eyes wide and wild. Your hair strewn over your face and shoulders messily as your chest caved with each heavy breath. You ran past your father. Iida reached out to grab you but you swatted your hand, making no contact yet he was forced back as you ran from everyone. They all stood quiet at the powerful magic you just produced. Bakugou looked to Endeavor for an answer

“You said her magic was sealed” he stated, pulling his cape back on and stepping towards your father whose skin had paled. The flame in his hand no more

“Iida, find Keigo. I need him here” Endeavor turned and walked off leaving the rest to stand confused.

Bakugou was next, going down the hallway the way you went. Shoto quickly followed and do did Natsuo and Fuyumi. They went everywhere, your room, the library all the small hideaways you used to use to hide from your fathers wrath but to no avail. You were not there.

You weren’t in the castle anymore having ran up to the stables and into the paddock with your horse, taking him with just his bridle and following the old path down into the small apple acre just behind the castle. A place even your siblings didn’t really know of.

[thedinanshiral]

Spoilers? Spoilers. Also, more dragons.

In the high-level combat showcase today an attempt at providing context for the combat scenes unfortunately included a spoiler. Right after the text on screen said they were avoiding major spoilers. And this "minor" spoiler isn't really minor at all!

They could have simply said the Grey Wardens were fighting off darkspawn at one of their fortresses, that was enough information that matched the combat scenes perfectly.

But no, they had to say

(posting a random picture first so it doesn't show the spoilers in previews when sharing the post on other socials)

Weisshaupt Fortress was under attack by Ghilan'nain and her archdemon, and that Ghilan'nain was controlling the darkspawn.

This is in no way minor.

For the last 15 years we've been led to believe archdemons were the blighted Old Gods of Tevinter, and that while they once awakened controlled the darkspawn armies it was the darkspawn pretty much on their own who searched and woke the Old Gods in the first place.

Now we're being told the Evanuris have their own Archdemons, that they're separate forms, and that at least Ghilan'nain can control darkspawn. The implications here are ...basically my Evanuris rebranding and dragon mount theory is suddenly very much possibly right there.

When the trailer came out and we saw the corrupted dragons, with Bellara's voice saying "our gods..OUR GODS" I was already getting excited that this game might confirm the Evanuris=Old Gods theory. Calling one of the dragons Ghila'nain's archdemon? Well, that's almost the same as putting it in stone.

I'm not celebrating yet because what is an archdemon? For Grey Wardens, any corrupted dragon could be an archdemon. Everyone certainly thought Corypheus' corrupted dragon was an archdemon too. It's a term that deserves a clear definition; is an archdemon simply any corrupted dragon, or do we reserve the title to specifically and exclusively Old Gods tainted by the darkspawn and released from their underground prisons? Because if it's the latter, this minor spoiler confirms the Evanuris are the same as the Old Gods, and the dragons being a different form (not the Evanuris shapeshifting) adds more solid ground to my dragon mounts theory.

This could also be one huge misdirection move because the dragon shown in the video this time is a new one. The horns don't match any of the dragons we've seen so far; it has some weird appendages under its neck, which does have Ghilan'nain's signature all over but the rest? Doesn't match the dragon with the blisters from the trailer, doesn't match the red and white corrupted dragons and certainly not Elgar'nan's giant dragon form. This one has ram-like horns, plus two smaller goat ones right on it's forehead that are easy to miss, it's a new one, and didn't look half as corrupted as the other two.

This is the "normal" dragon seen in the trailer that appears to be in the process of getting blighted as it's beginning to show some blisters

These are the fully corrupted dragons that I originally thought could be Elgar'nan's (red one) and Ghila'nain's (white/blue one)

Finally there's Elgar'nan himself, I'm pretty sure this is his final dragon form because it's so extra

It shows up again fighting the Dread Wolf

Back to the only one so far that's been referred to as an archdemon, the one with goat&ram horns..it doesn't really look like an archdemon, does it? Maybe Ghilan'nain has more than one pet/experiment? Anything is possible.

I'm just a bit anxious now, if BW think this doesn't count as a major spoiler, what does?