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lizzyiii · 1 month

Note

just read “his lady love” and i’m completely obsessed with your writing, i definitely need a part 2 for that please 😭😭😭

His Lady Love (2)

pairing | aemond targaryen x vampire!mikaelson!reader

word count | 3.8k words

summary | you return to westeros, to find that the young prince has become a man and his burning infatuation with you has not died out and you reconnect with helaena

tags | no warnings? usual mention of targaryen incest (but let's be real, everyone who reads hotd fanfic has now normalised targcest), and child marriage (my poor bby Helaena), filler

note | oh my god, y'all 😭. idk what I was thinking with that dramatic ass mikaelson reveal. as we all know the reader is never described, but as we all also know the mikaelsons are white af. so I'm making it clear that the reader is NOT mikael's daughter, leaving the reader's description and race unknown, esther was busy getting her freak on and her real father will never be disclosed. because in my mind the reader or y/n is and will always be a curly-haired, brown-skinned baddie....so each to their own. AND I'm pretty sure this is going to be a series cause for the life of me I am unable to make a oneshot without further exploring a story.

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated ✨

𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 — 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 — 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

Five long years had stretched into nearly two thousand sunrises since Aemond Targaryen last laid eyes upon you. Each passing day weighed heavily on his soul, a slow burn of a thousand bitter memories. Some days, the tempest of his emotions roiled within him, bidding him to hate you—for your departure, for the way you had vanished from court like a wisp of smoke, leaving only echoes and shadows in your wake.

But the flames of that hate flickered and faded, giving rise to a deeper yearning, a gaping void where love had once flourished. Even now, after all this time, your spirit held his heart captive, stolen under the very nose of fate when you chose to forsake the realm.

In the wake of your absence, thirteen year old Aemond had become a specter haunting the hallowed halls of the library, pouring over tomes and scrolls in a frantic quest for knowledge of House Mikaelson—a house that seemed to dissolve into the mists of myth with each turn of the page. The histories were silent, and when he turned to his elders, the lords and ladies of the court, their ignorance stung deeper than any sword. Your name was but a whisper lost amongst the louder clamor of dragons and destinies.

Desperation guided his steps toward the Queen’s solar, where his mother resided. He pressed forth, demanding answers of her, yet it was peculiar; though he sought her wisdom and guidance, she seemed to have forgotten the very reason of why she had made you one of her ladies-in-waiting. Her brows knitted with confusion as he spoke your name, her big brown eyes clouded with a nostalgia she could not place.

Yet Aemond could see it in the gentle curve of her lips, in the way her gaze drifted past him, as if searching for a phantom. She missed you, that was clear. Her heart held a chamber of memories crafted from your offered comfort amidst the whispers of court intrigue, from the grace of your presence that had brightened the darker days.

The weight of five relentless years bore heavily upon Aemond Targaryen. Through trials of fire and blood, he had forged himself anew, emerging both mentally and physically formidable. He was now the most skilled swordsman within the keep’s sturdy walls, a warrior of such caliber that even the esteemed Ser Criston Cole would struggle to match his prowess. Secluded in the dim light of solitary training grounds, he immersed himself in the ancient tomes of philosophy and the illustrious history of House Targaryen, dedicated to honing his mind as keenly as his sword.

Yet in this relentless pursuit of strength and mastery, the warmth of his heart had withered, leaving behind only the chill of calculated ambition. His facade, meticulously crafted, rendered him cold and unyielding — a visage so fierce that even the bravest souls flinched at the thought of meeting his gaze directly.

Thus, it was with a jarring dissonance that Aemond entered his sister, Helaena's solar that day. It was a ritual he had come to cherish against the backdrop of his darkening spirit, visiting her and the twins for a fleeting moment of respite. However, as he stepped across the threshold, the air thickened and his breath caught in his throat.

Helaena sat with delicate artistry upon a chaise, embroidering threads of vibrant colors while keeping a watchful eye on her children. But it was not the familiar sight of his sister that seized him. No, there, in the heart of the chamber, stood his mother, Queen Alicent, holding the hands of a woman whose features were obscured from his view. However, even with your back turned, he recognized you and your unmistakable figure.

Alicent’s large, expressive eyes caught his, shimmering with an emotion he had not anticipated. “Aemond,” she uttered softly, the sound piercing through the tension-laden silence.

With the calling of his name, you turned, and the breath in his lungs faltered. The years stretched out like an endless tapestry between the two of you, but as he beheld you standing there after all this time, it felt as if no time had passed at all.

Five long years had passed, and in that span, Aemond had transformed. His once-boyish frame had hardened, each line of muscle now finely chiseled, his stature soaring to a height that eclipsed yours. He had shed the skin of youth and emerged a man forged by the fires of ambition and vengeance, yet he could feel a familiar tug at his heart as he stared at you.

But you… you had remained untouched by time’s relentless march. Your face, flawless and luminous, bore no marks of age; not a wrinkle nor blemish dared mar your smooth skin. Your form he remembered was preserved in perfection, your hair framing your figure in the same glorious waves that had enchanted him years ago.

You were the embodiment of memories he cherished, the same as ever.

For a fleeting heartbeat, Aemond dared to believe you were but a haunting mirage conjured by his yearning heart. If not for the watchful eyes of his mother and sister resting upon you, he would have thought himself lost to despair, ensnared by the fantasies of his own making.

An eternity seemed to stretch in the daunting silence that enveloped the two of you, the world around forgotten as each of you engaged in a quiet, yet profound examination. Your eyes sparkled like the night sky in the light of the day, and when you smiled—the same saccharine smile that had once filled his heart with joy during the innocence of his childhood—it left him breathless. “My prince,” you spoke softly, your voice dancing in the air, “how you’ve grown.”

In that moment, something within him shifted—a profound balm against the bitterness he had nurtured like a dark plant within his chest. All the resentment, the stinging remembrance of your abandonment, and the shadows of sadness that once clouded his thoughts dissipated at the mere sight of your smile. His throat was dry as a winter's night, thoughts scattered like ash on the wind, and yet, the corners of his mouth began to lift involuntarily, mirroring the warmth radiating from you.

Mikaelson.

A name that struck terror into the hearts of countless souls. Yet, here, in this strange realm of Westeros, where dragons soared and the icy dread of White Walkers loomed behind the walls, such fear was but a whisper lost to the winds. No, this land, though foreign and fierce, offered you sanctuary—not the kind woven from solace and warmth, but the kind fortified by distance and the absence of your cursed siblings.

Here, there were no vampires lurking in the cloaks of night, nor were there werewolves howling beneath the pale moonlight. Instead, there were dragons, fierce and resplendent, and direwolves, proud and wild. Most crucially, there was no Mikael—a freedom that tasted of hope amidst you heart's turmoil.

True, you thought often on whether you should have brought your siblings along, for Mikael would never find this place. Yet, a heavy foreboding gripped you; you understood all too well that the Mikaelsons (Niklaus) very presence would shatter the fragile peace you sought. Westeros was far from a land of plenty, riddled with poverty and further burdened by the cruel fate of women, yet in its chaos lay distance.

So, you fled, slipping away into the shrouded embrace of night, abandoning the only family you had known—or, more accurately, what was left of it. It was the sixteenth century, a time when hope flickered dimly in the eyes of men and women alike. You had not laid eyes upon Finn since Niklaus, in his relentless wrath, had condemned him to a tormented existence, and staked a dagger in his heart. Kol fared no better; his defiance had earned him Niklaus' ire, leaving him to face the very same fate that had befallen their eldest brother.

Months had slipped by as you braved the tempestuous seas, each wave an echo of your desperation, each gust of wind whispering promises of a new beginning. You had set sail toward the edge of the earth, guided by an insatiable yearning for freedom—until at last, you had discovered Westeros.

You had arrived in Westeros with an unyielding ambition, your ethereal beauty concealing a fierce determination that allowed you to easily compel your way into the court of Queen Alicent Hightower as one of her ladies-in-waiting. The smell of dragonfire and the whispers of civil war clung to the air, a distinct reminder of the foreign heritage of the Targaryens.

The first time you had seen one of the great beasts aloft, its shadow sweeping across the land, leaving you breathless and in awe. Dragons were an embodiment of the Targaryen power, but alongside that power lurked a shocking underbelly of normalized incestuous unions and the festering decay of traditional familial bonds. For a girl raised among the Mikaelsons, who had danced among the vices of immortality, this was both familiar and grotesque.

Your new world was laced with intrigue—rumors skittered through the halls like restless spirits. The whispers spoke of Princess Rhaenyra and the seed of doubt surrounding her claim to the Iron Throne, the barbs of scandal raised even higher by her many alleged bastards. These complexities intrigued you, compelling you to observe from the outside, where the machinations of power were far more amusing than any political play you had encountered in your old life.

Queen Alicent, though esteemed and regal, bore the weight of her flaws almost indiscernibly, like a cloak of gold marred by rust. From what you could tell, the Queen wielded herself like a pawn—her father being Otto Hightower, an unseen puppeteer, tugging at the strings of her choices. Maternal instinct flickered in Alicent like the candle flames that lit the chamber at night; she faltered and stumbled but made an earnest effort to nurture her children as best she could, though in your opinion she had failed miserably with Aegon. And yet, her fund of effort, a raw and poignant endeavor, resonated with you. The Queen was imperfect, yet within that human frailty lay a semblance of motherhood that Esther Mikaelson had failed to give you.

Thus, in your role as one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, you discovered a sanctuary of sorts. The court became a twisted labyrinth of alliances and betrayals, yet amidst the swirling intrigue, you found comfort in Alicent’s earnest attempts at kindness towards you.

In the two years you had spent in Westeros, you had found solace in the delicate friendship you created with Princess Helaena—a rare gem among the Targaryens, whose sweet and gentle spirit seemed devoid of the cunning that defined her kin. Helaena's quiet understanding struck a chord deep within you, reminiscent of a time before death had twisted your mind. Once, you too had lived in a world that felt like a dream, until Niklaus tore down the veil of your innocence with his ruthless reality check. He had carved fear into your heart, reminding you of the darkness that lurked within the world.

But as you observed Helaena, an overwhelming sorrow enveloped you. The Queen's decree to betroth the princess to Prince Aegon sank like a stone in her gut. Aegon—a broken soul, defined by indulgence and ambition—was a force of chaos that echoed the wickedness of their own familial bond. In many ways, he reminded you of Kol, with his infectious charm and volatile spirit, yet where Kol harbored a flicker of love beneath layers of darkness, Aegon radiated a depravity that sent shivers down your spine.

Your heart ached at the thought of Helaena being shackled to a boy so unworthy of her light. The specter of Aegon’s reckless nature loomed large, and you feared for the princess's fate. You could see it clearly: with every passing day of their union, Helaena’s spirit would wither under the weight of neglect and cruelty, her gentle soul extinguished in the fires of a loveless bond.

And then there was Prince Aemond, the second youngest son of Alicent's brood—a striking boy marked by a fierce determination to embrace his responsibilities as a prince. You often felt a pang of sympathy when you witnessed the relentless taunts from Aegon and the scornful jeers of his nephews, sorrow swelling in your chest at the knowledge that he was the only Targaryen without a dragon to call his own. And it was hard to ignore the tender glances he cast your way, his violet eyes lingering on you whenever you graced a room.

However, nothing could have prepared you for the sight of Aemond standing at your door during the elusive hour of the wolf, his ethereal silver hair, tousled and framing a face streaked with tears, the light of hope dimmed in his now singular violet eye. Fury ignited in your core when he confided the harrowing tale of how Aegon had dragged him to the Street of Silk, that dark sanctuary of vice—your heart shattered for the innocence that had been ripped from him, for the heavy shame that now clung to him, marked by his brother who should have looked out and protected him. By now, Aegon was six-and-ten, he should have gleaned wisdom from his years, yet he chose the path of cruelty instead.

In an effort to soothe the wounded prince, you opened your heart and your arms to him. You conceded to his requests, bathing him with tender care, allowing him the sanctuary of your presence as he lay beside you. Your intentions were pure, untainted by anything but the desire to comfort a boy you had come to deeply care for.

And yet, with a heavy heart, you turned your back on Westeros, your mind haunted by the echoes of family. In that fleeting moment of vulnerability, you found yourself yearning for the bonds that had once defined you. The Targaryens, ensnared in their web of resentment and betrayal, made it clear that true loyalty and love were rare treasures. Their familial discord stood in stark contrast to the fierce devotion of your own bloodline. For all the chaos wrought by the Mikaelsons, love remained their unyielding anchor.

Niklaus, with his volatile nature, was both feared and revered by you; yet, beneath that fierce exterior lay a soul tormented by the shadows of his past, perpetually haunted by the specter of abandonment. Finn and Kol, locked in eternal slumber by Niklaus’s cruel whim, lay undisputed in their coffins, yet your brother stood sentinel over them, unwavering and steadfast. The thought of returning to him was chilling; the mere sight of you would surely earn a dagger in your own heart.

You resolved to escape, to steal away before Queen Alicent could impose a husband upon you like a gilded cage. It was meant to be a brief respite, a momentary retreat from your burdens. You had once believed that seamlessly integrating into the intricate tapestry of Westerosi society would be a simple endeavor. Yet, the relentless weight of expectations proved stifling. Each encounter demanded a dance of delicate grace, a façade meticulously curated to meet the desires of those around you, and in turn, it drained your very spirit.

Thus, you sought solace in the sun-drenched lands of Essos, a realm that defied the rigid conventions you had grown weary of. Essos was a land of vibrant colors and broken norms, where the sun shone unabated and the very air seemed to sing of possibility. Gone were the burdens of being gracious and demure, replacing those restraints with the intoxicating freedom to explore the wild tapestry of cultures sprawled before you. In a realm filled with mercenaries and traders, where the scent of spice mingled with the salty sea air, you couldn’t help but feel invigorated.

Shame washed over you like a cold wave, a sharp pang of regret settling in your chest as you sat in Princess Helaena's solar, surrounded by the laughter of her twins, Jahaerys and Jahaera. The children, mere five summers old, served as a vivid reminder of your absence; Helaena had brought them into the world at the tender age of fourteen, while you had been lost in the allure of Essos. Your own selfish pursuits had drawn you away from Westeros, leaving your dear friend to navigate the tides of motherhood without your companionship.

But now, fate had drawn you back to Westeros, though the reason for your return eluded you—perhaps it was mere curiosity, or a desire to witness the Targaryens as they embarked on a path toward their own ruin. Perhaps it was simply the lingering comfort of a maternal embrace that Queen Alicent had once offered you. One thing remained certain: you were back, unchanged yet bound by the curse that clung to the Mikaelsons. You still appeared as you had, forever encased at the tender age of six and ten, the same age at which you had died nearly six centuries ago.

The twins were a study in contrast. Jaehaerys, the young prince, was somber and introspective, casting shy glances your way from beneath the curtain of his silver hair. In contrast, Jaehaera exuded a lively spirit, her laughter as bright as the morning sun. She was a sweet girl, eager for your attention, her small hands clutching her beloved dolls as she beckoned you to join her in playful realms of castles and grand adventures. Every so often, Jaehaerys would join in, indulging his sister’s imagination by taking on the role of a fierce dragon, albeit with a reluctance that made his quiet demeanor all the more endearing.

“I have missed you,” Helaena said softly from her place on the chaise, delicate fingers working through the intricate patterns of her embroidery, her gaze never leaving the fabric.

You met her gaze, a frown momentarily shadowing your features, your heart tightening at the sight of her. A small, bittersweet smile tugged at your lips as you replied, "As I have missed you, princess. I offer my sincerest apologies for my prolonged absence."

“But you have returned, and that is what matters,” she replied with a tranquil certainty, her expression unwavering.

With a nod, you maintained your tight-lipped smile, the corners of your mouth struggling to lift fully. “Indeed, I have, and I hope to stay here for as long as fate allows.”

As you resumed your playful moments with the twins — Helaena’s voice broke through the lighthearted chaos as she called your name. “Pray tell, how old were you when you came to court?”

Your lips pursed gently as you recounted, your tone tense but soft, “I was but six and ten years, my dear princess.”

An oblivious smile spread across Helaena's face, illuminating her features. “And yet you appear unchanged, as if untouched by time’s passage. Like a Lepidoptera,” she remarked, her imagination weaving images as vivid as the embroidered fabrics around her.

Your brows knitted in puzzlement. "A what, my princess?"

"A Lepidoptera," she patiently repeated, her eyes shimmering with youthful curiosity. "It is a classification that encompasses butterflies, which remain breathtakingly lovely until the end of their days."

A bittersweet pang echoed within you at her words, for you were destined for a far different fate, cursed to wander the shadows as a creature of the night. Yet, you offered a slight nod, managing a soft, "Thank you, my princess," as you absorbed the weight of her innocent compliment.

“And yet, I cannot claim to have missed you as intensely as Aemond has,” Helaena mused, her gaze distant as you idly threaded your fingers through Jaehaera's shimmering locks of silver.

“I’m afraid I don’t quite grasp what you mean,” you replied softly, masking your understanding with a facade of innocence.

“I believe you are quite aware,” Helaena said softly, a melodic note in her voice, her smile lingering with a teasing warmth, “Aemond has loved you since he was a mere boy.”

You cast her a sidelong glance before adopting an air of nonchalance. “Love is a weighty term for one so young, Princess. Surely, it was nothing more than a fleeting fancy.”

Helaena shook her head, her needlework a steady rhythm in her hands. “No, I do not believe so.”

Deep down, you didn't believe so either. Ever since your return to the depressive halls of King's Landing, a sensation had accompanied your every step—a watchful gaze lingering upon you. Aemond had worked to keep it hidden, but your heightened senses revealed the quiet intensity of his interest, as vivid as the summer sun.

There had been numerous revelations awaiting you upon your return to the Red Keep—the prideful births of young Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, the scandal of Rhaenyra and her uncle Daemon's elopement, and the grim decline of King Viserys's health, shadows stained upon the Iron Throne. Yet, the most haunting transformation was that of Prince Aemond.

Aegon had blossomed into the drunken sleaze you had always anticipated, a replica of the whims that dictated his every choice, but Aemond—oh, how he was the exact opposite of what you had envisioned. The youthful boy, once soft and unassuming, had unfurled into a striking figure, sharpened like the blade of a Targaryen sword, each line of his form etched with the harshness of time and expectation. His stature now towered over you, his presence immense, a tempest contained within the boundaries of a man’s body.

He seemed to carry within him a quiet fury, a storm beneath the surface, and it stirred something deep within you, a memory of that boy who had once been desperate for approval and had hope for a dragon. His boyish softness had been replaced by the resolute presence of a true dragon, a stark reminder of the power and peril that resided within his bloodline.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #hotd aemond #house of the dragon #hotd #hotd fanfic #ewan mitchell #the originals #mikaelson #vampire!reader

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demitsorou · 1 year

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Hi have some warframe OCs. Artworks from 2019 to 2021.

My lovely necraladies, Keres (bonewidow) and Nemesis (voidrig). They also have warframe counterparts in Trinity for Keres and Wisp for Nemesis.

My general wf sona/self-insert, Endeavour - a collective of multiple Cephalons congregated in one body of modified Mag Pneuma.

Riven (Nova, she works for Samodeus);

Darius (Excalibur Prime with Exalted Squadron ability where he can summon other Excalibur specters to the battlefield) (thinking about changing his name since I have an oc named Darius already lol);

Jokull and Demeter (Frost Harka he/him and Frost Umbra they/them);

Fate (Nyx Nemesis, they work for Simaris);

Koschei (Nekros, lady with a big scythe and a bionicle counterpart)

#warframe #biomech #biomechanical #necramech #voidrig #bonewidow #cephalon endeavour #warframe oc #wf excalibur #wf nyx #wf frost #wf nekros #wf nova #riven #warframe fanart #biomecha #demitsorou-art #demi-warframe-art #demi-oc-art

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gothsuguru · 7 months

Note

Hello! You can totally ignore if this isn’t up your alley but you could write something about suguru watching reader from afar while they grieve him for leaving? Either it’s super sad or twisted cause he feels happy that you love him enough to grieve him

I also could send in nsfw requests if you want those too

the choiceless grief that drove him underground

contents: f!reader, mentions of guilt, stalking, & mass murder. both characters express grief in different ways. bit of callous/twisted suguru, a nod to his dacryphilia as well. mainly angsty but i guess at the core of it… it’s sweet? w.c: ~ 1.4k

a/n: rem, i owe you my life & then some! :’) thank you SO much for the concept idea! <3 i love delving into the twisted/not-so pretty parts of suguru so i hope you enjoy! :D

the premise of the situation is quite… haunting.

to mourn a friend, (‘a lover’ — his voice gently admonishes from the back of your mind), who isn’t dead.

he still roams around the aether — akin to a ghost. and here you are, grieving a corporeal phantom of your past.

both you and suguru have a penchant for nostalgia, him moreso than you. it’s why he’s here now at the foothills of mount mushiro, camouflaging himself into the shadows of the night, depleting his own cursed energy so there’s not a single trace of him left. he stands there in a vantage point hidden behind massive japanese oak trees, a lonely specter peering wistfully at his dearly beloved.

ex-beloved, rather, he should say.

it was of his own volition anyways.

your lack of cursed energy leaves a bitter taste in his mouth when he remembers why he despises you so. the healed x-shaped scar on his chest burns and he wants to give you a matching one on your heart, as a reminder. you’re worse than a curse, he forces himself to seethe. heavenly restriction, huh? nothing heavenly about you…

a sick part of suguru wants to finally see you shatter — to watch someone as powerful as you break down and wail with such unbridled anguish, to hear your sorrowful screams pierce through the night sky like a gunshot wound to the head. something about imagining the way your tears would stick to your lashes makes his heart beat unbearably fast from within his ribcage. from sadness or intrigue, he doesn’t quite know…

he just selfishly craves to be the cause of it. to have you drown in tears of melancholy & be sundered by it like a tsunami of eerie desolation — to be plagued with devotion and corruption. just like him.

he wants you to get on your hands and knees and prostrate yourself to him — to lower yourself at his feet.

beneath him.

where you should be.

to apologize for being you. to apologize for coming into his life. to apologize for making him fall in love. to apologize for being his greatest curse. his greatest regret.

(regret for loving you or regret for leaving you… he’s not sure, yet. he’ll decide when he’s of more sound mind.)

yet all he gets is… just you… sitting there. expressionless.

suguru huffs quietly, his low-lidded gaze is heavy with fatigue and slight boredom. his soft exhales turn into smoky vapor in front of him, evaporating within seconds. he tediously redirects his amber irises back at you, observing you like a science experiment, scrutinizing your every move… only if you had done something, of course.

he notes that your stony face betrays no emotions, your body is rigid as if in living rigor-mortis. he surmises that the only thing that differentiates you from the zen statues around you is the gentle wisps of your hair across your face courtesy of the cold wind, crisp due to the night air.

before he realizes it, suguru’s fingers involuntarily twitch.

muscle memory.

(the same fingers have brushed against the plush of your cheek, caressed your hair & gently moved the strands away from your face. soft finger-pads outlined your lips gently, the shape of your cupid’s bow committed to memory. suguru figured the name was quite apt… he found himself wholly enraptured & in love.

hit by eros’ arrow the very moment he laid eyes on you — his lighthouse. his demise.)

a slight sniffle breaks suguru out of his reverie. he snaps his head back up at you, pierced brows furrowed and bright ochre eyes wide. he ignores the pang in his chest, his shock overtaking his senses leaving him paralyzed.

are you…?

your reddened eyes flit towards the foliage where suguru hides behind, and you softly rasp out a tired sigh. your lack of words are far more frigid than the midnight air, causing an ice cold shiver to run through suguru’s spine.

forcing the constriction in his throat back down, he exhales shakily, in a state of utter shock.

right.

heightened senses. superhuman physical capabilities. you always knew where suguru was before he ever knew where you were. a relationship of mutual indulgence — you pretend you don’t see him, and he pretends that you don’t know where he is at all times. as if you haven’t memorized his scent, his mannerisms, his soul. as if you couldn’t recognize him through physical vibrations alone.

just pretend you don’t see me now… indulge me one last time… please.

muscle memory.

you look away.

you focus your gaze towards the skyline of bountiful forest green trees, impeccable eyesight zeroing in on a tree with a heart carved around both his and your initials upon the espresso bark. the same tree where you had rested your head on suguru’s lap while he read his favorite books to you. the same tree where you had both shared your first kiss. the same tree where you had found out from a dear friend that suguru had murdered a whole village — some bullshit about him wanting to create a world with no curses. no non-sorcerers. no you.

you once playfully joked to suguru that you loved him more than he loved you. you remember the way his fists clenched at his sides, the furrow in his brow coupled with the immediate narrowing of his eyes, along with the slight snarl in his lip and voice pierced your soul as he resolutely scolded you — no one could ever love as deeply, as passionately, as genuinely as he loves you.

loved, rather, you should say.

what a fuckin’ liar.

…

in a blink of an eye, you disappear.

like a ghost.

you leave suguru alone to his own futile devices. he figures it’s fair, to indulge you one last time too, allowing you the ‘last laugh’, though he knows there’s no victors in this sick game that’s being played. he’s walked away from you before, it’s only fitting you do the same to him now.

his feet drag him to where you were hunched over before, his brain unable to catch up to what his body is doing. something glints in the moonlight, there in your stead, atop the plush green grass.

he crouches down, picking up the small photograph. the faded polaroid feels far heavier in his hand than he would think. a delicious shiver runs down suguru’s spine when he realizes his fingertips are touching where yours have touched. the bitterness that found its way in his mouth in the beginning washes away, leaving only a sickly sweet flavor that surrounds his mouth like pillowy cotton candy.

it’s one he hasn’t seen. you must’ve kept this with you all this time, he muses.

a photo, a candid, of him.

the pink sakura petals offered up a beautiful backdrop after a mission you two took in kyoto. back then, his smile was genuine & unbelievably wide — pearly whites on display, his pierced cherry red lips matched the camellia red blush that painted his cheeks — no doubt from your flirtatious comments about his beauty. his eyes were squinted, a photo you took of him while mid-laugh. he pushed his bangs aside while speaking to you, wanting to give you his full attention. the promise ring on his finger glinted in the sunlight along with the silver hairpin you gifted him moments before you took the photo, its amethyst gem dangling above his bun. a beacon of light.

a sign of devotion, of unending love. a promise.

suguru’s heart feels a bit heavier than he would like it to, yet the soft smile that graces his features is the most genuine form of adoration he’s exhibited since his defection. inundated with grief, you still held on to him.

an anchor of your past. a plague of your present. a welcoming calamity of your future.

“you still love me too, huh?” he softly whispers into the night, a sad smile on his face.

he gazes up at the moon. it looks quite beautiful tonight. he silently hopes you’re staring at it too.

thinking of him the same way he’s thinking of you.

#geto suguru x reader #getou suguru x reader #geto x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #if it’s in a jjk au TRUST my readers will ALWAYS have heavenly restriction… it’s just so delicious coupled w suguru’s character arc #my writing #personal

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lilyway · 7 months

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Killer After My Own Heart {Alastor x Reader} Prologue

Warnings: Blood, Gore, Death and canon-typical violence. Please be aware of these warnings going forward. This is a very dark fic that touches a lot of sensitive subjects. Please keep that in mind. Prologue | Chapter 1 |

Prologue: I’ll Find You

The day unfolded with pristine perfection, the sun casting its radiant glow over the vibrant streets of New Orleans, unmarred by even the slightest wisp of cloud. In every corner of the city, life pulsed with energy as its inhabitants prepared to embrace the challenges awaiting them. Yet, amidst the bustling activity, a chilling undercurrent of fear lingered, fueled by the persistent reports of a shadowy figure haunting the night—an enigmatic specter who stalked the streets, a relentless arbiter of justice for those whose misdeeds dared to defy the darkness.

Within this dichotomy of light and shadow, there existed a tension—a delicate balance between the vivacity of the day and the foreboding presence of the city's personal boogeyman. For the denizens of New Orleans, each step taken was accompanied by an awareness, however subtle, of the lurking threat that loomed beneath the surface—a constant reminder of the fragility of innocence in a world tainted by the whispers of the unknown.

As the sun bathed the city in its warm embrace, casting long shadows that danced across cobblestone streets, the allure of the day's brightness was juxtaposed against the haunting specter of the night—a reminder that even in the midst of life's vibrancy, darkness lurked and was waiting to find you.

There existed an individual who found solace amidst the terror that gripped the city—a solitary figure drawn to the chilling truths that lay beyond the confines of her mundane existence. For her, the relentless cycle of office paperwork and the rigors of managing her father's staff offered little respite from the monotony of daily life. It was within the eerie depths of New Orleans' dark underbelly that she found a semblance of purpose—a twisted fascination with the shadows that danced along its cobblestone streets.

To her, the city's sinister allure was more than just a passing fascination; it was a refuge from the banality of her existence—a tantalizing glimpse into a world where the boundaries between reality and nightmare blurred. While her father dismissed it as the grim underbelly of New Orleans, she saw it as the missing spice that infused her horribly normal life with a sense of exhilarating uncertainty.

In the depths of her psyche, she reveled in the macabre tapestry of the city's secrets, drawn to the darkness that whispered of untold mysteries waiting to be unraveled. It was a world where the rules of ordinary life held no sway—a realm where she could shed the shackles of convention and embrace the primal instincts that lay dormant within her soul.

However, that would all have to wait until after work. There was too much on her plate for daydreaming about meeting the infamous serial killer.

(Name) served as the sole secretary to her father, Harold Wilson and the personal assistant to many of their high earners. Within the workplace, she functioned as his enforcer, tasked with the responsibility of preserving order and disciplining those who didn’t fall in line. Any individual seeking to engage with her father was compelled to navigate through her, encountering a formidable barrier that often made their lives a living hell. She was given a position of power and she would of course abuse it.

That was who (Name) Wilson was. A petite young woman, she clung to any semblance of power within her reach. Outside of her father's workplace, a realm she referred to as a little bubble, (Name) found herself powerless in the broader reality. That little bubble of her workplace was all she had and would face the world alone.

She was supposed to be happy with that and she was — to an extent.

Until Alastor reappeared two years prior, swiftly capturing her father's attention. He swiftly became the apple of her father's eye, securing a role as a radio host on an experimental channel funded by her father's hopeful investment. Within two years, Alastor ascended to become one of the most successful radio hosts in New Orleans, daresay the United States. And, it left (Name) seething in anger.

(Name) yearned to witness his downfall, eager for her family to sever ties with him once and for all. She would spare no expense to see him eliminated from their lives, reduced to a state where his impeccable charm could not salvage him. It was a moment she anticipated with fervor—the day when Alastor Broussard would be stripped of everything, compelled to rebuild his life beyond the confines of New Orleans.

That would be perfect.

With him gone, (Name) would have a perfect life.

She would be guilt-free and never have to feel that way about anyone ever again.

Unfortunately, destroying Alastor proved to be a formidable task. It appeared as though the world conspired to uphold his perfection and flawlessness. A charming man without a single chip on his shoulder. Kindness emanated from him, accompanied by a soothing smile that calmed all who encountered it. His personality commanded attention with his deep yet smooth voice. Alastor was the definition of a gentleman.

(Name) knew better.

She knew the true man under his mask of perfection. The teenager inside the man with tears going down his face as he cried himself to sleep. (Name) knew how fragile he was when it came to matters of the heart and why he was so kind to women.

It didn’t matter, that version of Alastor was long dead and gone. Buried under piles of scar tissue and blood.

Alastor, now was as bad as his crazed fans. Every woman in New Orleans was obsessed with him and his show. And, everyday was a fight to get through the door. (Name) was just here to do her job and not have to step onto twelve toes to stomp her way into the building every morning.

Just like today.

(Name) sighed as she saw the swarm of fans around the studio’s front entrance. “God damn, vultures. Can’t they sleep in for a day?” She grumbled.

(Name)'s long black hair swayed behind her as she plowed through the crowd, determined to carve a path forward. While she wasn't particularly fond of this daily ritual, it beat the alternative of encountering Alastor, who often lurked near the back entrance. With a firm resolve, she shoved aside the throng of fans, her keys clutched tightly in her hand.

As she reached the entrance, (Name) wasted no time in inserting her keys into the keyhole, her movements swift and purposeful. With a quick twist, she opened the door just wide enough to squeeze through, the sound of it slamming shut echoing behind her. In the relative calm of the building's interior, she allowed herself a moment of respite and glanced at the mob of mad vultures outside.

With a sigh of relief escaping her lips, (Name) regained her composure and straightened herself up. "Fucking crazy. Every bloody day."

"Those are inside thoughts, (Name)," Alastor remarked, his morning smile not exactly what she needed to see first thing in the morning.

He was holding two cups in his hand as he took a sip out of one, undoubtedly his personally brewed coffee. She had no desire for a cup if it was intended for her. As good as his brewed coffee was, it was made by him. Therefore, it always tasted awful.

"And I didn't ask," (Name) snapped back, her gaze fixed on the crowd.

"You're as prickly as ever," Alastor remarked, his smile never faltering as he extended the cup of coffee towards her. "It's one of your many charms."

He really didn’t ever learn. Try as he might, they would never get along and she knew he hated that she never fell for his charms.

"Alastor, go to hell," (Name) spat out, her frustration laced in her every word as she turned back to the door and unlocked it.

"That's a lovely thought, maybe I will," Alastor quipped in response, his reply falling short of her expectations. Yet, it was quintessentially him to find a retort that painted him in a favorable light.

With a swift motion, she flung the door open and began striding past Alastor. "Have fun, vultures!" She found it amusing how Alastor stood there accepting his fate.

His fans wasted no time rushing in, forming a throng around him as they clamored for attention. (Name) watched from a distance as Alastor struggled to keep up, his attempts to answer their myriad questions leaving him visibly flustered.

"(Name)!" Alastor shouted from the crowd, he was probably asking for her help. Which he would never get.

(Name) chuckled to herself as she made her way back into her office, nestled next to her father's. A daily newspaper lay waiting for her, its familiar presence a comforting sight as she picked it up. With a quick turn of the key, she unlocked the door and pushed it open, stepping into her own little corner of paradise.

Paperwork certainly wasn't the most thrilling task, and being the owner's daughter came with its own set of responsibilities. Despite the occasional frustrations, (Name) took pride in her role, recognizing the importance of upholding the family business. Just excuse the jabs and nonsense she pulled against Alastor. But, it did add spice to her job.

Throwing the newspaper onto her desk with a frustrated huff, (Name) accidentally hit the pile of work scattering all over the floor. "Are you fucking serious?" She grumbled, irritation evident in her voice, as she tossed her bag onto the coat rack nearby.

She truly was off to a rough start to her day. (Name) sighed heavily as she began picking up the pieces of paper and various documents scattered across the floor. Among them were proposals and ideas for their radio station to host, but to her dismay, the majority turned out to be letters mailed to them by fans who had somehow obtained their address.

(Name) carefully set aside the pile of 'worthwhile' work, ensuring it was positioned farthest away from Alastor's nonsense mail. With a determined air, she unbuttoned her coat, feeling the weight of the morning's frustrations begin to lift as she finished picking up the last few documents. With a swift motion, she slipped off her coat and tossed it over her bag, ready to tackle the tasks that awaited her.

With a wry smile, (Name) pulled the trash can closer to her chair and reached for the painfully familiar black plastic box. Seating herself, she placed the box on her lap and began sorting through the pile of letters. (Name) never bothered to read any of the letters that Alastor received. Instead, she would open them up, discard whatever contents weren't paper into the trash, then neatly place the letter back into the envelope before dropping it into the box.

(Name) would do this for every single piece of mail Alastor got. He was a famous fellow and it wouldn't be surprising for him to get some questionable things from his fans. Though, (Name) would wish they’d stop sending pictures of themselves or locks of their hair. That was a little excessive.

After sorting through about thirty letters from various unknown senders, (Name)'s concentration was interrupted by a knock on her office door. Glancing up from her busy work, she was met with the sight of a disheveled Alastor standing at her door. To her satisfaction, he lacked his usual smile this time.

"May I help you, Alastor?" (Name) greeted with a hint of fondness, as she cut open the seal on another envelope.

Alastor allowed himself into her office and closed the door behind him. "Of course, you can. (Name), what in the devil's name were you planning there?" The frustration in his voice brought a sense of satisfaction to her little stunt.

(Name) said a silent prayer, hoping that nothing strange would drop out of the envelope as she pulled out its contents. "Your vultures were waiting for you, Alastor. It was about time someone let them all in," She remarked, her attention still focused on the task at hand. Something cold hit her hand and it made her jolt slightly. It felt like metal and it was relatively small.

"(Name), look at me.” Alastor’s voice sounded the best when he was upset. How slight fluctuation tickled her ear as he slammed his hands against her table. "You're well aware of the reasons we keep them out of here.”

(Name) glanced down at the golden ring, her expression shifting to a glare as she met Alastor's gaze. "Mainly, your vultures are freaks ," She stated, her voice laced with ice, emphasizing the chasm between them. There would never be an understanding between them, not now, not ever.

"At least they have heart," Alastor retorted, undeterred, as (Name) lifted the golden ring from the palm of her hand and lifted it in front of her eyes.

"Heart? Alastor, my dear. Your vultures want to marry you," She sighed, her exasperation evident as she offered him the ring, now resting in the center of her palm.

Alastor accepted the golden ring, his gaze lingering upon it for a moment. "No, you're incorrect," He countered, a hint of amusement replacing his frustration as he realized he held the upper hand. "They want to marry you." With a swift motion, Alastor slipped the ring onto her ring finger, and to her surprise, it was a perfect fit.

"You gave them my ring size? Are you crazy !" (Name)'s voice rose in incredulity as she stared at the perfectly fitted ring adorning her hand. "How did you even get this?"

Alastor's low chuckle reverberated in the room as he made his way around her desk, his hands finding purchase on her armrests as he leaned in, effectively caging her in. "I'm not the only one with a fan club, my dear," He replied, his proximity unsettling as her mind raced with thoughts of who could have provided such intimate information.

(Name)'s hands instinctively rested on the edge of the plastic box in her lap as she looked down at the golden band encircling her finger. "A fan club? That's absurd," She retorted, her tone tinged with disbelief at the notion.

Alastor tilted (Name)'s head up, but she forcefully shoved his hand away from her. "Plenty of followers, and a plethora of names to uphold. My personal favorite among them has to be Lilith's spawn ," Alastor remarked, his voice was playful as he spoke fondly of her little fan club.

"How charming of you, I simply don't care," (Name) spat, her irritation palpable as Alastor laughed at her annoyance.

"Charming? Thank you, my dear," Alastor replied, a smirk playing on his lips as he released her from his grasp.

(Name) thrust the box into his hands with a huff. "You know I hate you, right?" She declared, her frustration evident in her tone.

Alastor placed the box on her desk. "It's always a pleasure working with you, (Name). Truly a pleasure ," Alastor stated, seemingly unfazed by her animosity as he made his way out, with (Name) following closely behind.

"Just quit already!" (Name) screamed, frustration boiling over as she took off the ring and hurled it at him.

Alastor sidestepped, skillfully avoiding her attempt to harm him. "And lose the pleasure of being your co-worker? I'd never," he retorted, his tone laced with a hint of amusement.

(Name) could hear her father's door open, his booming voice echoing through the hallway. "What's going on out here?" He inquired, his tone commanding attention.

"Nothing, Father," (Name) attempted to dismiss her father's question, hoping to avoid further scrutiny.

"Nonsense, (Name). I heard you yelling," Her father insisted, his demeanor surprisingly calm as he approached her, his towering figure casting a shadow over her.

"I don't care what you do. But, you know Al is our best moneymaker and the face of this company," Her father continued, his words making her deflate with every word that escaped his lips. "Do treat him better. There are other workers to direct your anger at."

"Of course , Father. I'll remember that for next time," (Name) replied, her voice resembling that of a mouse, subdued and acquiescent.

"Now, what happened to you, son?" Her father inquired, his gaze shifting to Alastor's disheveled appearance, concern evident in his tone.

"Some eager fans attempted a taste, sir. Luckily, they only managed to nibble on a few buttons," Alastor explained, his gaze flickering toward (Name) from behind her father, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.

"Sweetheart, you can fix that for him before his show?" her father asked, turning his attention to (Name), his request accompanied by a hopeful tone.

(Name) bit the inside of her cheek, her fists balling in frustration as she suppressed the urge to lash out. This wasn’t worth fighting over. If her father wasn’t here, she’d kill him. How dare he embarrass her like this.

“Of course, father.” (Name) would always do what her father asked. There was no point in arguing. “Let's go, Alastor.” No matter how humiliating it would be.

For (Name), her father was all she had. He was the only person who truly understood her, flaws and all. And even if she resented it at times, she knew she would always do what he asked, if only to maintain the fragile bond they shared.

(Name) took Alastor's arm and guided him back to the storage room upstairs, confident that they would find a sewing kit of some sort. Her mother always kept one around when she assisted her father, and he wasn't the type to discard such practical items.

Casting a small glance back at Alastor, she caught sight of his gentle smile. It was a smile that she despised, one she felt she didn't deserve. A smile that seemed meant for anyone else but her. (Name) took the lead as they ascended the stairs, releasing her grip on his arm as they made their way forward.

She just wanted to fix up his shirt and be done with it. Downstairs awaited a newspaper full of juicy details about her savior. Everything he did was meticulously documented there and broadcasted on the radio. He had New Orleans by the throat and shaking with fear.

Their walk was silent, save for Alastor's consistent humming as he strolled alongside her. (Name) attempted to shove her annoyances aside as she pulled out her keys and selected the master key. With a deft hand, she unlocked the door and left it ajar for Alastor to enter. He closed the door behind him, and (Name) couldn't help but jump slightly at the sound of the door locking.

Turning around with an annoyed expression on her face, (Name) accused, "What are you planning?" She sighed and turned back around to start digging through various boxes.

"It would indeed be quite troublesome if we were discovered alone up here, wouldn't it?" Alastor remarked, his grin widening as he walked over to one of the shelves and pulled down a box.

"For you, maybe. I don’t exactly care," (Name) retorted, her tone firm as she reiterated her indifference. She had always made it clear that she didn't care, and yet sometimes she would wear the ring one of his fans had given him. She couldn't pawn it until after her shift – and she would pawn it off every shift, adding it to his bonuses.

The sound of him sifting through the box echoed through the room. "Always stuck in your ways," Alastor observed, his tone devoid of disappointment as he spoke.

(Name) didn’t respond, keeping her gaze fixed on the box on the floor as she continued to dig through its contents. She always found it odd how her father kept the majority of her mother’s belongings in the studio’s storage room. The various pictures in the box evoked a wave of nostalgia through her body.

Her mother, Margaret, had died when she was seventeen under questionable circumstances. Since then, her father had practically removed all traces of her mother from their home and moved everything here, to the storage room that always remained locked and accessible only to herself and her father.

As (Name) carefully pulled out an old picture frame and dusted it off, a family photograph emerged. Her father stood proudly with a bright smile on his face, exuding a youthful vigor that seemed to belong to another era. Margaret was captured holding onto her daughter's shoulders. In the photograph, her mother appeared radiant and beautiful, her hair perfectly groomed and her clothes devoid of wrinkles. But what struck (Name) the most was the brightest and warmest smile adorning her mother's face.

Yet, (Name) couldn't recall her mother ever smiling at her like that. Her mother seemed entirely absent from her childhood memories, lost in the depths of her own struggles. The rare days when her mother did come around, (Name) found her drowning at the bottom of a bottle, lost in a haze of despair and loneliness.

Her father had hoarded plenty of liquor before the prohibition and that was more than enough to help her mother through her issues. Issues that made her nothing more than a footnote in (Name)’s life. She wanted nothing more than to get to know her and have the parent-child relationships from the fairytales her mother once read to her.

(Name) acted swiftly, removing the picture from the frame and unbuttoning her shirt. With deft movements, she slid the picture under her bandeau brassiere, securing it safely under the strap before hurriedly buttoning up her shirt. Lost in the depths of her memories, she became completely absorbed in her thoughts, momentarily forgetting about Alastor's presence in the room.

Unbeknownst to her, Alastor hovered above, his eyes glancing up and away from her, a semblance of respect for her privacy. At this point, modesty seemed inconsequential. If he saw anything, she decided, it was his problem, and she would certainly make him regret it if he dared to use that against her.

Standing up and returning the box back into place, (Name) addressed Alastor. “I’m assuming you’ve found it?” She inquired, her tone tinged with anticipation as Alastor presented her with a small metal box, the thread spilling out from the edges.

"In fact, my dear, I did," Alastor replied, a hint of pride evident in his voice as (Name) accepted the metal box from him.

Leaning against the shelf, (Name) pulled out a spool of white thread and a needle. “Take off your shirt, unless you want me to sew this into your skin,” She commanded as she looked up at him and her expression dropped at Alastor looked beyond amused.

“If you wanted me to undress you could’ve just asked.” Alastor spoke with a smirk as (Name) narrowed her eyes.

If he were anyone else, that might have worked. But Alastor's charms never had any effect on her. Still, she couldn't deny the slight flutter in her chest, fighting down the flustered expression threatening to appear on her face. Alastor was undeniably good-looking, and any woman would feel a pang of attraction in her position.

However, (Name) didn't bother to give him the satisfaction of increasing his ego any further. “In your dreams, Alastor. I'll leave that to the vultures outside,” She retorted, her tone cool and unaffected. Fiddling through the box, she searched for similar buttons that matched the few that were left.

Alastor maintained his smirk as he observed her digging and fiddling through the contents of the box. “Always immune to my charm,”

“There was no charm to begin with.” (Name) replied flatly as she finally found the button she was looking for. “You haven't moved an inch. I suppose, I'll have to sew this into your skin.”

Alastor sighed, casting her a disapproving look. “It's inappropriate for a man to undress in front of a lady.”

“Fortunately, I don't view you as a man. Hand over your shirt,” (Name) retorted, her eyes narrowing as she walked into the far corner and took a seat, her back turned to him.

With (Name)'s back turned, Alastor began to unbutton his shirt. “As cruel as ever,” he remarked, folding his shirt over his arm before walking back over to (Name).

“You can call me anything you like,” (Name) replied curtly as Alastor took a seat next to her. (Name) snatched his shirt from him and began her work, her focus solely on the task at hand.

She really always did give him openings to tease her. “Sweetheart, Darling, Dearest, ” Alastor quipped with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

(Name) looked up at him, her expression stern as she tried to thread the needle. “ No . Absolutely not. Call me that again and you'll be sewing your own buttons.”

Alastor's laughter filled the room as he leaned back. “Never one for fun,” he remarked, his tone light despite (Name)'s clear warning.

“You couldn't handle my definition of fun,” (Name) replied, her tone firm as she felt Alastor’s shoulder touching hers. It felt odd, feeling his touch, and she absolutely hated it.

Alastor watched her weave the needle through the button holes. “Right. Your fun is your little obsession with our little boogeyman.”

“He's not just a boogeyman,” (Name) retorted, a softness creeping into her voice that only emerged when she spoke about him. “He's a kind man watching out for the people of New Orleans.”

“(Name), he kills people.” Alastor stated bluntly, his tone devoid of judgment. He didn't criticize her for her obsession; He understood it and where it came from.

(Name) glanced over at him, and that split-second distraction was all it took for her to prick her finger. “Ow. Alastor, he's much more than just a killer. He has an agenda to push. He's cleaning the filth from this city,” She asserted, her voice tinged with conviction. She didn't care if he was a killer. In her eyes, he was more than that; he was a force for justice, albeit a dark and unconventional one. She was determined to prove to everyone that he was a killer with morals, that he was doing everyone a favor by ridding the city of its filth.

Alastor watched as (Name)’s blood started to bead on the tip of her finger. “What if that's not the case?” He asked, his voice carrying a hint of concern.

“That's highly unlikely. But, in that case, I'll just give my information over to the police,” (Name) replied confidently. She knew her boogeyman was a vigilante who operated outside of the law, removing the people the police had no way of disposing of.

“And if your little investigation gets you killed?” Alastor questioned, unaware of how little she cared for her own safety.

(Name) slid her bloody finger against his cheek, leaving a faint trail of red. “Then you get to cry me a river,” She retorted, a rare smile gracing her lips. It was one of the few times Alastor ever got to see a smile on (Name)’s face. Her smiles were reserved for when she spoke of her killer and the dangers of hunting her unknown assailant's identity.

“I'm sure nothing will happen to you. You won't have to worry; there won't be any rivers of tears for you,” Alastor reassured her, his tone gentle. He didn't understand why she looked so upset when he finished his sentence.

“ Right . Of course. There wouldn't be a need for it,” (Name) replied tersely, her focus returning to her work with her bloody finger held up and away from Alastor's pristine white dress shirt. “There's no use mourning the dead. They'll never see it,” She muttered half-heartedly.

Alastor leaned against her and closed his eyes. “I'm sure there's someone who would mourn your death,” He whispered softly, his words hanging in the air as (Name) remained silent.

“If you're tired, take a nap somewhere else,” (Name) retorted, her displeasure evident in every word. Despite her irritation, she didn't move, allowing Alastor to do as he pleased.

They both ended their conversation there, with Alastor relaxing and taking some time to mentally prepare himself for his show while (Name) diligently worked to sew every button, keeping Alastor's position in mind.

(Name) had a feeling Alastor was exhausted and it made sense why. Dealing with his vultures earlier that morning was enough to tire anyone out. It didn't make her regret her actions, there was hardly anything that would make her do that.

But sometimes, (Name) would allow Alastor to rest when he needed it. He was the apple of her father's eye, the son he never had and the one he wished for. (Name) understood the importance of looking out for him and taking care of him, especially to maintain her father's favor.

However, she recognized that these thoughts were ultimately meaningless in the grand scheme of things. With a final glance at her handiwork, (Name) finished sewing the last button. Admiring her handiwork (Name) shook Alastor awake and threw the shirt over his face.

“Get up and get dressed. You're on air soon,” (Name) commanded, pushing Alastor off her as she pulled herself to her feet.

“You could've been softer,” Alastor grumbled, observing her as she collected her supplies and carefully placed them back into a box.

“No,” (Name) replied firmly as she walked back to the door and unlocked it.

(Name) glanced up at the clock, her eyes darting back to Alastor who was still buttoning up his shirt. With a sense of urgency, she jogged back to Alastor. They had only five minutes left, and Alastor still needed to do his final checks before going on air.

With a deep sigh, (Name) returned to the room and grabbed Alastor's arm. “Come on, we're live in five minutes.”

Alastor sprang into action, practically dragging her along behind him. (Name) had thought she was the one doing the dragging, but it became clear how much Alastor truly cared about his show. Despite the pressure, (Name) was astonished by how swiftly Alastor moved. She could barely keep up with his pace.

Running past various employees and down a few hallways, they arrived at Alastor's recording booth. (Name) tried to resist being dragged inside, but Alastor stumbled into his chair, immediately diving into his final checks. His shirt still wasn't fully buttoned up as he scrambled to get ready for the show and start on time.

(Name) felt her breath catch in her throat as she noticed her father narrowing his eyes. Without a second thought, she rushed to help Alastor finish up the last of his checks. They were a few minutes late, but Alastor's listeners never seemed to mind.

“This is Alastor Broussard, signing in this morning,” His sickly smooth voice filled the airwaves, brimming with gentle tenderness. It was as though he was speaking to someone genuinely special to him.

(Name) could feel her father's gaze fixed on her and Alastor. He expected her to take action, not stand there like a headless chicken. With cautious determination, (Name) took a step forward as Alastor picked up the microphone. She forced a smile onto her face as she finished buttoning up his shirt. It felt awkward, the microphone pressing against her chest.

Alastor's gaze lingered on (Name) as he continued speaking into the microphone. "I hope you're all having an eventful morning. Because mine was quite eventful," His laughter rang out, sounding so practiced to (Name)'s ears. She felt his eyes probing hers, as if seeking out the truth hidden behind her little facade.

A sense of urgency washed over (Name). She knew she couldn't linger here any longer. The longer she stayed, the harder it would be to leave undetected. Every sound would alert his listeners to her presence, even the subtle click of her heels against the floor. She needed to slip away unnoticed, disappearing into the background before anyone noticed her absence.

“I got to meet some of you today.” Alastor motioned for her to go as he talked directly into the microphone. “It's always a pleasure to meet and connect with some of you.”

Her father's smile was warm as he glanced down at her, his eyes full of paternal pride. "Sweetheart, you and Alastor look like a fantastic match," He remarked, his voice tinged with approval. "What do you think about it? (Name) Broussard has a nice ring to it."

(Name)'s response was firm yet gentle. "I won't marry him, Father," She replied softly, her resolve unwavering.

Her father chuckled lightly, the sound echoing in the corridor. "That's unfortunate. One day, perhaps," He mused, his words carrying a hint of teasing.

(Name)'s shoulders slumped slightly at his response, a mixture of disappointment and frustration washing over her. With a nod, she acknowledged his words before excusing herself to attend to her duties. "I'll finish your paperwork and leave it on your desk for review," She stated as she turned to leave, her steps quick and purposeful as she retreated back to her office, her mind swirling with conflicting emotions.

💟

With a resounding thud, (Name) shut the door behind her and turned the lock, sealing herself away from the outside world. She sank to the floor, her frustration and resentment bubbling up inside her like a tempest. How she loathed the way Alastor's presence seemed to permeate every corner of her existence, his charm casting a shadow over her own accomplishments.

The constant adoration and influence he wielded over everyone she knew grated on her nerves, a reminder of the imbalance of power in her father's recording studio. (Name) longed for a reprieve, a day where her life wasn't dictated by Alastor and the whims of her father's studio.

In the quiet solitude of her office, (Name) took a few deep breaths, steeling herself for the challenges ahead. With determination flickering in her eyes, she rose from the floor and settled into her chair, ready to tackle the arduous workday that lay ahead. Today would be different; (Name) said that to herself every bloody day — nothing ever changed.

As (Name)'s gaze fell upon her desk, her eyes landed on the ring she had tossed at Alastor, now resting innocuously on the polished surface. With a mixture of annoyance and resignation, she snatched it up and flung it into one of the desk's cluttered drawers, burying it beneath a mound of forgotten trinkets and paperwork.

Turning her attention to the newspaper, she skimmed over the bold headline splashed across the front page.

‘Another man was found dead in the alleyway off of Main Street. The boogeyman strikes again!’

(Name)'s finger traced the bold print of the newspaper article, a faint smile touching her lips as she absorbed the words before her. "You're perfect," She murmured under her breath.

With a sigh of resignation, she returned the newspaper to her bag, tucking it away alongside the countless other artifacts of her daily life. It was time to confront the demands of her workday and the piles of paperwork ahead.

💟

The clock had struck seven, and the city's streets lay deserted as (Name) left and locked up the studio for the night. A reminder of the pervasive fear that gripped the city. The ominous shadows cast by the fading light of dusk only served to accentuate the eerie stillness that hung in the air like a heavy shroud. (Name) didn’t care, in fact she enjoyed the eeriness of it all.

She couldn’t help feeling disappointed in the citizen’s cowardice. They were all so scared of someone who wouldn’t harm them if they were decent people. If they were, they wouldn’t have to worry about him coming after them. After all, New Orleans was their boogeyman’s personal playground and they were all his toys. Which pushed (Name) to hunt him down and praise him for his every action.

As (Name) walked alone through the deserted streets, her mind wandered into the realm of dark fantasies, where the elusive figure known only as her savior prowled the shadows like a vengeful specter. In her imagination, she envisioned him as a shadowy figure, swift and merciless, his every movement a dance of death and retribution.

She relished the thought of witnessing his gruesome work, of standing amidst the chaos and carnage as he selected his unsuspecting victims with chilling precision. In her mind's eye, she saw him move with silent grace, his blade glinting in the moonlight as he closed in on his prey with calculated determination.

The thrill of anticipation coursed through her veins as she imagined the terror-stricken faces of those unfortunate enough to cross his path, their futile struggles echoing in the empty streets as they fell prey to his merciless wrath. For (Name), there was a perverse satisfaction in the thought of witnessing their final moments, of seeing the light extinguished from their eyes as they succumbed to the cold embrace of death.

With each step, her fantasies grew darker, her desires more twisted and macabre. She longed to stand at the precipice of oblivion, to revel in the chaos and brutality that defined her savior's reign of terror. In that moment, she felt a primal exhilaration, a rush of adrenaline that fueled her darkest desires and consumed her every thought.

Now, if only he would kill Alastor. That would be amazing.

Unfortunately, Alastor had already gone home hours earlier, he seemed like the type who would cower in fear at the mere mention of the city's mysterious predator. While he didn't fit all the requirements to be one of the killer's victims, he had to have some. (Name) was sure he would have a couple of overlaps with the previous victims.

Maybe, she'd go over her killer's known similarities between his victims and see how they applied to Alastor. That would be a good way to pass the time and make her day better. It made her pick up her pace as she walked back home.

Upon entering her family's manor, (Name) greeted her father with a tender kiss on the cheek, a customary display of affection. Swiftly, she navigated through the familiar halls, her footsteps echoing in the quietness of the expansive residence. As she reached her destination— her investigation room.

Dropping her bag to the floor, she gracefully threw herself onto the sofa. The room, adorned with shelves of meticulously organized files and the remnants of past investigations. The large map of the city that took up half the wall with various red strings linking one murder to the next.

(Name) retrieved the newspaper from her bag and began to methodically retrace the lines of the front-page headline. The text, a tapestry of words that hinted at the city's ongoing turmoil, drew her focus like a moth to a flame. As she immersed herself in the details, (Name)'s mind tried to place herself in his shoes.

Pulling her notebook from her bag she began scribbling whatever details that leapt out to her.

💟

Alastor approached the Wilson estate with a sense of apprehension that had become all too familiar. Each visit to this imposing mansion stirred a discomfort within him, as if the grandeur of the estate itself repelled him. Despite its vastness, the estate felt empty, devoid of the warmth and familiarity that one would expect from a home.

The sheer scale of the mansion, designed to impress with its grand architecture and sprawling grounds, only served to accentuate its soulless nature. There was something wrong with the estate and Alastor could never put his finger on it. Perhaps, how every curtain was drawn and every window remained closed.

It was never enjoyable coming here, there was always something that made his skin crawl.

There was just no heart in that home. However, this was the place (Name) called home.

(Name) was the only one worth visiting and that wasn’t out of genuine interest or affection, but solely to provoke her and revel in her exasperation. He took pleasure in witnessing her attempts to outwit him, watching her attempt to outsmart him every chance she could.

Despite her undeniable charm, (Name) was as prickly as a rose, her sharp tongue and quick temper serving as formidable defenses against potential suitors. There would be no man brave enough to court her. Which Alastor found amusing as she was getting dangerously close to becoming a spinster.

(Name) remained indifferent to the advances of others, appearing almost heartless to those who dared to come too close. She maintained a formidable barrier, a wall of concrete, between herself and the possibility of forging meaningful connections with others. Despite her undeniable allure and intelligence, (Name) seemed content to keep her distance, unwilling to let down her guard and allow others in.

Alastor attributed (Name)'s emotional detachment to her opulent but soulless home. Despite its grandeur and splendor, the mansion lacked the warmth and love that should have defined a family's dwelling. It stood as a hollow shell, a mere imitation of what a loving home should be.

Within its ornate walls, there echoed a palpable absence of genuine affection and connection. The air was heavy with a sense of emptiness, as if the very essence of familial bonds had been stripped away, leaving behind only a facade of prosperity and privilege.

But, this home only created a flower who bloomed for no one. Hidden under layers of concrete and thorns.

Maybe that was why he pitied (Name).

Perhaps, that's why he found himself here. Alastor's sense of responsibility for (Name)'s well-being compelled him to accept her father's invitation to dinner, despite knowing that (Name) herself might not appreciate his presence.

She deserved better than what she was dealt.

Forcing a smile to mask his discomfort, Alastor pressed the doorbell and patiently waited for someone to let him in. After a short wait, Harold swung the door wide, his jovial demeanor filling the threshold. A servant lingered in the background, her presence almost ghostly as she continued her task of sweeping the floor.

“Alastor, my boy! Always a pleasure to have you,” Harold boomed, his arm encircling Alastor's shoulders in a gesture of familiarity.

Alastor couldn't help but feel a sense of unease as he stepped into the opulent interior. The dim candle light was the only light in the area as the temperature visibly dropped.

The ostentatious furnishings and intricate wallpaper told him all he needed to know about how deep Harold’s pockets went. It was an utter waste of money. Alastor saw his reflection from the large mirrors that Harold loved to have around. He looked miserable.

“Sir, it's always a pleasure stepping by.” Alastor replied, his smile masking his inner reservations as Harold guided him towards the dining hall.

“You're always welcome, son.” Harold smiled as he walked around without batting an eye at the servants who cowarded in his presence.

“I'm glad to hear that.” Alastor echoed, though his words carried a hint of skepticism. If (Name) wasn’t his daughter, he would stay far away from this estate.

The emptiness of the house was unmistakable, despite the presence of a few servants Alastor passed by on his way to the dining hall. Even with Harold bustling about, the grandeur of the estate seemed to amplify the sense of vacancy, as if the walls themselves were longing for companionship.

Harold's relentless chatter was a constant drain on Alastor's patience. It seemed that Harold possessed an insatiable need to keep Alastor engaged, to ensure his presence lingered in the grand estate. Alastor couldn't help but wonder about the extent to which Harold would go to keep him tethered to this place.

As they entered the grand dining hall, Alastor couldn't help but notice the lavish spread laid out on the table. It was a feast fit for royalty and there was no one sitting at the table.

"Are we the only ones having dinner, sir?" Alastor inquired, his eyes scanning the empty chairs. (Name)'s usual presence, engrossed in a newspaper or notebook, was noticeably absent.

Harold sighed, an air of resignation in his voice. "(Name) will be joining us."

Alastor raised an eyebrow. "Where is she? We can't start dinner without her." It was a statement rather than a question, expressing his disapproval of the thought proceeding without (Name).

Alastor could feel his eye twitch, did Harold really think he would have dinner with him alone? Absolutely not . Of course, (Name) would be his safety net. He was an odd man and a strange father. He allowed his daughter to do whatever she pleased and never questioned it.

“In her usual place, her room of horrors.” Harold didn't seem too happy, but he was rather supportive of (Name)'s strange hobbies. “I swear, she'll grow out of her phase, son.”

Alastor nodded, understanding Harold's hopes. "I can fetch her and escort her downstairs," he offered, already moving towards (Name)'s quarters.

"That would be lovely," Harold agreed, his relief evident in his tone as Alastor took the initiative to bring (Name) to dinner.

(Name)'s Room of Horrors was what her father called her investigation room. She had spent the last two years meticulously hunting down her beloved boogeyman, desperate to unmask him and help him with his reign of terror.

It was a rather chilling idea for a normal person, but Alastor wasn't a normal person by any means. He found it rather amusing to see (Name) untangle his murders, piece by piece, and be wrong every time.

But, her dedication to hunting him down was admirable. She had no idea just how close her beloved killer was to her.

Alastor grinned as he saw the door was wide open and let himself inside. The room itself was a cacophony of clippings, notes, and strings connecting various points on the map. It was her lair, her Room of Horrors, as her father liked to call it. The place where (Name)'s obsession unfolded, and Alastor often found himself as a peculiar subject of her investigations.

(Name) stood before the large-scale map of the city, her hair pulled back into a messy bun and thick-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. It was a familiar sight for Alastor, one that revealed the true essence of (Name) Wilson. In this room, amidst the organized chaos of her investigation, she was unapologetically herself. The map, adorned with pins and strings connecting various locations and (Name) stood in front of it.

(Name) meticulously pinned today's newspaper article about the latest victim to the board, her movements deliberate and focused. With each pin, she anchored the grim details of the crime to the sprawling map of the city before her. The victim's face stared back at her from the newspaper and she didn’t seem the slightest disturbed. As she affixed the article in place, (Name)'s fingers traced the lines of her notes, a web of observations and deductions that danced across the surface of the board.

With practiced precision, she attached a red string to her notes, its vibrant hue standing out against the backdrop of the map. The string served as a visual marker, connecting disparate pieces of evidence and drawing attention to crucial details that might otherwise be overlooked.

Alastor stood quietly at the threshold, taking in the scene before him. (Name)'s room, though sparse in its furnishings, was rich with the weight of her obsession. There was a large bookshelf and a sofa, and plenty of tables. But, there wasn’t much else in the large room.

On the tables lay an array of evidence, each item a piece of the puzzle that had consumed (Name)'s thoughts and fueled her determination. Forgotten by the police or deemed inconsequential, always found sanctuary in this room, where they awaited her scrutiny and analysis.

As Alastor watched, (Name) paced the room, lost in the labyrinth of her own thoughts. Her mutterings were a symphony of determination and frustration, punctuated by the rhythmic cadence of her footsteps. With each circuit of the room, she chewed on her nails as she lost herself in her thoughts.

"(Name)," he called out, announcing his presence as he leaned casually against the doorway. She turned around, a mix of surprise and annoyance on her face. Just the expression he knew she’d make when he made his presence known.

(Name)'s head snapped toward him, her expression a mix of surprise and irritation. She stomped over, her footsteps echoing through the room. "Alastor! Who let you in here?" she shouted, her voice tinged with annoyance, as she looked up at him through her thick-framed glasses.

“I let myself in.” He joked as he raised an eyebrow at Marie's less-than-enthusiastic response.

Marie didn't look impressed and he chose another avenue. "You're not thrilled about the prospect of dinner?" Marie knew what that meant and there was only one other person who was rather fond of sharing a meal with him.

(Name) sighed, a mix of frustration and resignation evident in her expression. "It's not about the dinner, Alastor. It's about the fact that you're here."

Alastor chuckled, finding amusement in her candidness. "Well, I am your father’s invited guest. You wouldn't want to be impolite, now would you?"

(Name) winced at the tone of his voice. "Oh, that's just great," she muttered under her breath, her irritation evident.

Alastor couldn't resist a chuckle, his demeanor light despite her obvious annoyance. "Well, it's always a pleasure being here," He remarked with a hint of amusement, his eyes dancing with mischief.

"And it's always a pleasure to not have you here," (Name) shot back sharply, her tone laced with sarcasm as she pushed Alastor out and firmly closed the door behind her.

Alastor's curiosity always got the better of him, especially when it came to (Name)'s relentless pursuit of her mysterious boogeyman. "Are you any closer to finding your elusive boogeyman?" He asked, leaning slightly to catch a glimpse inside her investigation room.

(Name)'s determination shone through her response, her smile radiant with confidence. "Not yet, but I'll find him," she declared resolutely. There was a spark in her eyes that Alastor found both intriguing and unsettling. What was it about the thought of a murderer that lit her up like a beacon? "But first, dinner. So, you can get out of here," (Name) added, as she ushered him away from the door.

“Always so cruel, (Name).” Alastor teased as he followed her down the hallway.

(Name) shrugged as she walked beside him. “Me? Cruel, I could never.” Her voice faked, sounding offended and Alastor couldn't help but grin.

“You are the cruelest flower in New Orleans, my dear.” Alastor remembered, but (Name) didn't mind.

“Shut up and have dinner with my father. I want you gone after.” (Name) always loved ordering him around. That one was a given, he didn't want to stay in that estate overnight.

He just needed to survive another dinner with Harold. Then, he'd be free from this hellish estate for a short time. Alastor always kept coming back for (Name).

#alastor x reader #alastor #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel #hellaverse #fanfic #really long post #hazbinhotel #hazbin hotel au #alastor hazbin hotel

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illuminatedquill · 16 days

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Story Summary: As Sabine's training begins in earnest, she finds herself struggling while wielding Ezra's lightsaber. Disheartened by her lack of progress, Sabine wonders if she is truly worthy of the weapon. Ahsoka, however, senses that the blade's kyber crystal is resisting Sabine's attempts to claim the weapon as her own. With no other recourse, Ahsoka resolves to perform a risky Force ritual which will allow her padawan to commune directly with the crystal. The communion will bring Sabine face to face with what lies in the heart of Ezra Bridger . . . and in her own.

"That's enough," called Ahsoka. She was standing, arms crossed, off to the side near a stack of supply crates. Her voice rang clear through the crisp Lothal air; overhead, a few wisps of clouds were the only things blighting any otherwise clear blue day. In the distance, you could see the spires of Capital City, still being rebuilt after Thrawn's vicious siege.

Huyang nodded in acknowledgement and stepped back, his sparring lightsabers closing down. Sabine, standing opposite him, followed suit with her own lightsaber, a gift from her friend, Ezra Bridger. The emerald blade disappeared, and she straightened, panting slightly, rivers of sweat pouring down her front and back.

The courtyard of Sabine's home - formerly Ezra's comm-tower - was serving as their practice area this time. Ahsoka visited her padawan there to continue her training semi-regularly when not running the occasional mission for the Rebellion. It was peaceful there, Ahsoka found. Something incredibly rare - and precious - during these dangerous times.

But she and Sabine knew that peace could easily be shattered. Elsewhere in the galaxy, the fires of war continued to spread between the Rebellion and the Empire.

Once upon a time, Ahsoka would have been out there, on the frontline of missions against the Empire. But things had changed. For now, her place was here, training Sabine and preparing her for whatever the Force had in store for her.

"Bow," said Ahsoka.

Huyang went first, then Sabine. The former Jedi noted her padawan visibly shaking, worn out from the sparring match.

She knew Sabine well, having served alongside her and the Specters during the early years of the Rebellion; Ahsoka had seen firsthand what the younger woman was capable of. This exercise should not have left her so winded.

Something was wrong.

"You look exhausted, Lady Wren," observed the droid.

Sabine merely nodded - and then fell down, landing on her backside. The lightsaber fell from her grip, rolling a few inches away on the ground before coming to a stop. In a flash Ahsoka was next to her, studying Sabine's face with worry.

"Sabine," she said. "Talk to me."

"Ezra's lightsaber," Sabine wheezed. "It's so karking heavy."

Ahsoka cast a glance at Huyang. The ancient droid returned it, his photoreceptors shifting into a concerned look. It bothered her that Sabine continued referring to the weapon as her friend's, despite him passing it on to her some time ago.

She reached to her belt and unhooked a flask of water. "Here," she offered, extending it to Sabine. "Sit up and take a few sips of this."

Her padawan grabbed the flask and guzzled down the water, ignoring her master's instructions. Ahsoka snorted. Should have expected that, she thought wryly. Sabine was a much more willful personality than Ahsoka had previously thought; passionate, driven, and intense. Spending time with her outside the Specters had been . . . enlightening, to put it politely.

She's just like Anakin. The thought, unbidden, rose suddenly to the surface of her mind - and she immediately clamped down on it.

The truth was there, she admitted privately. Ahsoka was still unsure if training Sabine was the right path for the young Mandalorian - or even for herself. But she could not ignore the gentle nudges from the Force that had led her on to this current path.

She had returned from her exile to look for Ezra, as promised.

Instead, she found Sabine.

Her musing was interrupted by Sabine choking on a last gulp of water. Sitting up abruptly with her eyes wide, she clutched at her chest, heaving with the force of clearing her lungs from the sudden intake of water.

Ahsoka sighed and thumped her solidly on the back. After a few seconds, Sabine's breathing returned to normal.

Wincing, she handed the now empty flask back to her master. "Still thirsty?" Ahsoka asked sarcastically.

"I'm good," Sabine croaked.

"I doubt that," Huyang remarked. "You vomited out all the water you just drank."

The young woman threw a weak glare at the droid, but no snarky response erupted from her mouth. Ahsoka raised an eyebrow in surprise. She really is tired, she observed.

Reaching past her padawan, the former Jedi carefully took Ezra's lightsaber from the ground. Examining it closely, she extended her senses in the Force reaching out the kyber crystal within.

Instead of the small twinkle of life she was expecting emanating from the crystal, Ahsoka felt . . . a sense of dimming; like a slowing heartbeat, felt only in the Force.

That's what I was worried about, she thought grimly.

Sabine, despite her exhaustion, didn't miss the sudden change in expression on her master's face. "What is it?" she asked.

Ahsoka hefted the lightsaber, feeling the weight of the weapon in her hand - it's history, the solid construction of its design. She could feel Ezra's presence in every centimeter of the lightsaber's hilt, constructed years ago without the instruction of a Jedi Order. In the years since the fall of the Order, she never thought another would be built. But Ezra, along with his master, Kanan Jarrus, proved that the Jedi ways would continue to exist regardless of the Empire's best efforts to purge them from galactic history.

Ezra Bridger was a marvel, a bright spot of light in the darkness of the Empire's reign. This lightsaber was his life - his legacy.

And it was dying.

-----

Sabine lurched to her feet in shock. "Dying?" she demanded. "What the hell do you mean, it's dying?"

Ahsoka sat cross-legged on the ground. Closing her eyes, the lightsaber lifted from her palm and began to carefully disassemble in front of Sabine's eyes.

In the middle of the floating mechanical components was the kyber crystal that made up the weapon's heart: a small emerald crystal that glowed with an inner light.

Or, rather, it was supposed to be glowing. Instead, the crystal was dull, almost opaque in the Lothal sunlight. Only upon a closer inspection could you see a faint inner light, pulsing weakly within.

"Take it," Ahsoka directed, eyes still closed. Sabine did so immediately, carefully plucking the crystal from the air.

"It's not . . . shiny," Sabine noted, trying to keep the panic rising in her voice.

Her master reassembled the parts back into their correct configurations, and the lightsaber hilt was rebuilt with hardly a whisper. As always, Sabine felt a mixture of awe and envy at the apparent ease of Ahsoka's use of the Force. Her, Kanan, and Ezra - they made it all seem so easy.

Despite Ahsoka telling her that it was possible - that the Force was present in all living beings - she was still not able to reach out to the cosmic power that the Jedi regularly wielded in life and death situations.

Ahsoka laid Ezra's lightsaber onto the ground before opening her eyes. Blowing out a breath, she looked directly at her padawan. "The kyber crystal is fighting against you, Sabine," she said, her tone calm. "The effort spent to do so is causing it to fade. As you can see."

Sabine gripped the crystal tightly in her hand. "I've dealt with this before," she said. "With the Darksaber."

The former Jedi tilted her head in a curious manner. "Yes. Hera told me about your training with the Darksaber. What did Kanan tell you at the time?"

She rubbed her head, trying to remember. "Something about the kyber crystal needing to resonate with me. I was fighting against myself at the time. Suppressing feelings about myself, my family, my reason for running away . . . "

Ahsoka nodded. "The crystal resonates with its wielder, becoming an extension of them. It's said that it can retain memories, feelings, and . . . desires over time from the being that constructs it. This lightsaber is essentially a piece of Ezra. And he gave it to you."

"A Jedi's weapon is their life," Sabine quoted. "Kanan was fond of saying that."

So was Anakin. Ahsoka mentally shook the image of her master away from the forefront of her thoughts.

"His life is in my hands," her padawan said quietly. "Why is the kyber crystal fighting against me? I don't understand."

"It's something you're not dealing with," Ahsoka surmised. "Something about Ezra."

Sabine was silent for a moment. Then she shook her head. "I don't know," she said. "I honestly can't think of it. There's nothing about Ezra that I don't . . ."

Ahsoka watched her trail off. No, there's something there, she concluded. Something even she isn't aware of.

Kanan managed to find a way to get Sabine to confront her issues. But she wasn't Kanan. And they didn't have time, going by the kyber crystal's weak vitality.

"Huyang?" she prompted. The droid had been standing off to the side, giving them distance, but never too far away to assist when called upon.

"How may I assist, Lady Tano?"

"How much time do we have to save Ezra's kyber crystal?" she asked.

He walked over to Sabine, still morosely staring at the crystal in her hand. "May I?" he asked.

Without a word, the young Mandalorian offered it up to the droid. He examined it, his mechanical photoreceptors taking in every minute detail. After a solid minute, he responded, "Not much, I'm afraid."

Ahsoka snorted. "Yes, I gathered that. Do you have a specific time frame?"

"Could be a day," Huyang offered, somewhat dryly. "Could be a month. But the longer Lady Wren continues to wield it, the more energy it will expend resisting her. That much is certain."

"What do we do?" asked Sabine. "I can't - I can't lose this. He trusted me."

Ahsoka reached out to grab Sabine's hand. Giving it a reassuring squeeze, she said, "You won't. There's a ritual we can do."

Huyang's head snapped towards her. "Ahsoka. You can't be serious."

Sabine blinked in confusion, her gaze turning from her master's face to the droid's. "What ritual? Is it dangerous?"

"Immensely," Huyang said. "It could accelerate the kyber crystal's decay if it fails."

"If it fails," Ahsoka countered. "It won't."

"How can you be so sure?" the droid asked.

The former Jedi smiled brightly, looking back at Sabine. "Because Ezra Bridger trusts her," Ahsoka said. "And so do I."

-----

Sabine's heart thudded a silent, steady beat against her ribs. She had never felt this nervous before. Normally, the awareness of an incoming battle left her in a heightened sense of anticipation and focus. Her Mandalorian upbringing taught her that the belief in victory before a fight helped to determine the outcome long in advance.

But this was not a physical battle that was about to be waged. Involving herself with the Jedi and their mystical connection to the Force had taught her that not all battles could be won with superior firepower and tactics. It took heart; it took soul.

Dusk was falling on Lothal, the evening sky becoming a burnished red and gold. The whisper of a cool night breeze brushed up against the tall grass fields surrounding the comm-tower. It felt good against her skin, as she leaned into it, breathing deeply in the scents of her new home.

Ahsoka had settled into her usual meditative position: cross-legged, hands laying sedately on her knees, palms open, facing the sky. In front of her was the kyber crystal contained within a metal bowl.

Piled around the crystal was a small amount of tinder. Enough to light a small fire.

Huyang had assured Sabine that the fire would not damage the crystal in any way. But still seeing the small gem outside of its protective casing made her realize just how vulnerable it was, despite the droid's assurances.

Ezra's life, Sabine thought. It's all in my hands.

And now it was dying. He trusted her with this weapon, and she was failing him.

Her hands curled into fists. Sabine took a deep breath, diving deep into the Jedi calming techniques she had been taught, forcing herself to relax.

No. No, I haven't failed you, yet. I will fix this, I promise.

Ahsoka spoke into the evening air, her words barely rising above a whisper. "Sabine, it's time."

"Okay." She took her spot opposite the former Jedi, mimicking her master's pose. "What do you need me to do?"

"Close your eyes and center your thoughts. Still your mind, take my hands, and wait for the crystal to reach out."

"Sounds easy enough," replied Sabine. "What will you be doing?"

Her master waved at herself. "I will be acting as a kind of . . . conduit, between you and the kyber crystal. You can't touch the Force yet, so I'll be acting as the connection."

"Cool. Right. Well, let's get this started," she said.

Huyang walked over, a match grasped in his mechanical fingers. "Prepare yourself, Lady Wren."

She frowned at him. "What can I expect? It's just a conversation, right?"

"Depends on how receptive the kyber crystal is. Which, as we've seen so far, it's not feeling particularly so towards you."

Sabine blew out a breath. "Great. Thanks for the pep talk."

"You are very welcome. Remember, if this fails, the crystal's strength will fade forever," Huyang pointed out.

"Huyang," Ahsoka groaned. "Just light it, please."

"As you wish," he said and lit the match by striking against his steel frame. A second later, he dropped it into the metal bowl; the tinder surrounding the kyber crystal burst into flame - but not the usual warm, golden glow. It was an eerie, emerald flame that looked familiar to Sabine.

She glanced at her master. "That looks like - "

"Witch-fire," Ahsoka confirmed. "Not your standard Jedi ritual."

"Hence why I argued against it," Huyang remarked.

Sabine had tangled with Dathomiri magick before, along with Kanan and Ezra. It was not the most enjoyable of experiences and definitely not one she wished to repeat anytime soon. But Ahsoka was here and seemed to know what she was doing.

"Are you ready?" her master asked.

Sabine straightened her shoulders, steeling herself and pushing aside any remaining doubts. "I am," she said, trying to project confidence into her voice.

Ahsoka nodded. "You look ready."

She reached forward to take Sabine's hands.

The fire between them roared, wicked green sparks flaring out from the flames.

A deep breath . . . and the ritual began.

-----

After a few minutes of silence, Sabine began to fidget. She couldn't help it; despite the calming techniques she had run through previously, anxiety continued to spike through her in erratic pulses.

The quiet was overwhelming. It seemed that even the fire had gone silent, since she could no longer hear the crackling flames. Sabine bit down on her lip, fighting against the impulse to speak out, vent her frustration and impatience that the ritual didn't seem to be working -

A voice spoke, suddenly. Not Ahsoka, but female - human. And very, very familiar.

"Are you my thief?" asked the voice.

She opened her eyes, at last.

Sabine found herself sitting in . . . what appeared to be void-space. A small oval of light surrounded her; outside of it lay an open sea of stars and the occasional flashes of emerald light.

Am I inside the kyber crystal? she wondered, filled with awe at the majestic view around her.

The voice spoke again, sounding curious. "Are you my thief?"

She focused onto the source: a figure sitting across from her, draped in an overly large cloak with a hood obscuring its face.

"Ahsoka? Is that you?" she asked uncertainly.

The hood raised up enough to catch a glimpse of feminine, human features - and familiar eyes the color of rich, vibrant wood.

Where I have seen . . .

"What is 'Ahsoka'?" asked the unnamed figure.

It suddenly clicked for Sabine. who the figure was "You're the kyber crystal," she realized.

"Is that what I am?" it asked.

"You must be," Sabine insisted. "The ritual worked. I'm here to talk with you."

The shadowy face inside the hood cocked to the side. "Talk about what? You're not my thief. I have nothing to discuss with you."

Sabine frowned at the cloaked figure. "Thief? You mean Ezra? Why do you keep calling him that?"

"Because he stole me away. From the caves of Ilum. You were there, weren't you, Sabine Wren?"

She blinked at the figure's mention of her name. Yes, she was there. Years ago, in the frozen caves of Ilum, she had helped Ezra build his new lightsaber. It had been a tumultuous time for her best friend after his experience on Malachor. Sabine had decided to accompany him on his pilgrimage since Kanan was out of action, against his wishes.

It was a good thing she did, since they ran into trouble.

She brushed the memory aside. A story for another time; she had to focus on the task at hand.

"If you know me," she said steadily, "then you know that Ezra trusted you into my care."

The figure was quiet. She continued, "If that's the case, why are you spending your energy fighting against me? We should be working together."

The cloaked face seemed to stare at her with those familiar brown eyes . . . "I cannot allow you to wield me."

"But why?" asked Sabine, her tone becoming heated. "I have nothing to hide about Ezra. He was my best friend!"

"This is not about Ezra," said the figure. "This is about you. You do not understand your purpose, as of yet."

"My purpose?" Sabine blinked, taken aback by the statement. "What purpose? I'm a fighter, that's my purpose."

The figure shook its head. "That cannot be all that you are. You must be more. Just like Ezra was."

It waved at itself. "Just like I am more than a kyber crystal."

Sabine opened her mouth to ask what it meant by that when a recent memory flooded through her mind in Ahsoka's voice:

"The crystal resonates with its wielder, becoming an extension of them. It's said that it can retain memories, feelings, and . . . desires over time from the being that constructs it. This lightsaber is essentially a piece of Ezra."

The figure gazed at her, and Sabine got the sense it understood the direction of her thoughts. "You begin to understand."

"Maybe," Sabine admitted. "A little more clarification would be helpful."

"What was Ezra Bridger to you?"

She felt her face heat up at the question. "What do you mean?"

The cloaked figure regarded her patiently but said nothing. Sabine blew out a nervous breath, thinking what her answer should be.

Finally she said, "He was . . . my partner."

"Is that all?" it asked.

Sabine stared directly at the place where the cloaked figure's eyes would be. "In every sense of the word," she added.

There was a nod in the depths of the hood. "Ah. An acceptable answer. I consider him to be the same."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. You thought a lightsaber was merely a tool used by the wielder?"

Embarrassment colored Sabine's cheeks. "Well . . . yeah," she confessed. "Sorry. I sort of considered you to be on the same level of importance as my Westar blasters."

She caught a glimpse of something resembling a smile that flashed briefly in the shadows. "Still very important, considering who you are," remarked the figure.

"Yes," Sabine said, "but they'll never be more than just that. I'm beginning to see that now. You grow and evolve with the person who wields you."

"Yes. And they do the same. We become two parts of a whole being, in tune with one another to achieve the wielder's desire."

"So, when Ezra wielded you . . . he became something more than he was," Sabine said.

"It was his purpose as a Jedi," confirmed the figure. "To fight against fear. To bring courage and victory when there was none."

The statement from the mysterious figure brought a melancholy smile to Sabine's face. In her mind's eye, she could still see her friend, brandishing the emerald blade in the heat of battle, batting aside blaster shots.

"I am the part of Ezra that contained his bravery and his commitment to victory against any injustice he saw," said the figure solemnly. "Whenever he was scared, he thought of a single image - of a single person, who represented unerring courage and absolute victory to him."

Sabine saw the brown eyes flash fiercely within the hood - and it struck her all at once where she had seen those eyes before.

Her heart thudded painfully inside her chest. "Show me your face," she whispered.

The figure stood up and let the cloak fall away.

Before her stood a young Mandalorian woman with warm brown eyes, dressed in strikingly colored beskar armor. Her hair was cut in a short bob, the edges tinted a rich, deep purple.

Sabine stared at the younger version of herself, feeling her eyes begin to fill with unshed tears. "This is what you are?" she managed to ask.

"I am what lies deep inside the heart of Ezra Bridger," said the younger Sabine. "I am courage incarnate; a shining beacon of victory to all those who fight against the dark."

This is what he fought for, Sabine realized. This is who he wanted to be in his darkest moments.

This was his purpose.

"I understand now," Sabine said quietly. "Why you're fighting against me."

"Do you?"

"Yes," Sabine answered. "This was Ezra's purpose. This is what he had in his heart. But you can't be that for me. I need my own purpose. Which means you need to be something else - something I need."

The younger Sabine smiled kindly at her. "For what it's worth, you have plenty of courage yourself, Sabine Wren. You don't need more."

She wiped away the tears with a snort. "Thanks."

Looking at the younger version of herself, she asked, "Ezra really thought so highly of me?"

"It would seem to be the case."

Oh, Ezra. "I don't know if I'm really like what he saw me as," Sabine said. "Sometimes I feel like I forget. Especially since he's gone."

The younger version of herself squatted in front of her. "No one's ever really gone. If you keep him safe in here," she said, pointing at her chest. "Ezra will always be with you, whenever you need him."

Sabine placed a hand on her heart, feeling the organ's steady, purposeful beat.

"I know what my purpose needs to be. What you need to be," Sabine said.

The younger Sabine nodded. "Name it."

She smiled, thinking of a young boy from long ago she met on the streets on Lothal . . . "Do you know what hope looks like to me?"

The younger Sabine grinned - and then, in a flash of pure white light, transformed. The features changed, lengthened, becoming more masculine -

And there he was. Standing in front of her, like no time had passed. Ezra Bridger, as he was on the last day she saw him.

He stuck out his hand, and Sabine's heart leapt into her throat. "Ready?" he asked. The voice, the familiar tones of it making her heart ache, sent goosebumps prickling across her arm.

She forced herself to blink back the hot tears that were threatening to burst forth. It had been so long . . .

No. No, she would not mourn him. There was nothing to mourn.

He was still out there. With that fact, hope remained.

Her hope.

Sabine slapped her hand into his and hauled herself up. "I'm ready."

A flash of emerald light -

-----

She came back to herself, blinking rapidly in the cool Lothal evening.

Evening? How much time had passed?

Ahsoka was across from her still; the former Jedi's expression was neutral. "Well?" she asked.

Sabine coughed, her throat feeling raspy. A wave of exhaustion suddenly fell across her. "Well, what?" she responded.

"Did it work?"

She looked to the metal bowl sitting between them -

The kyber crystal sat within the dying embers of the fire, glowing with a fierce, emerald light. It looked like a tiny star had erupted within the bowl's center.

Sabine grinned. "Do you mind?" she asked her master.

Ahsoka rolled her eyes. "Sure, since you asked so nicely."

With the Force, she quickly inserted the kyber crystal back into the lightsaber's hilt and passed it to Sabine.

She gripped it in her hands, her palms suddenly feeling sweaty.

In her mind, she saw Ezra smiling at her. Her hope. The thing she clung to the most for strength in this dark galaxy.

Sabine felt her anxiety fade away. She would never let him fade away. Not as long as she drew breath.

"Ignite the blade," said Ahsoka.

Sabine did. The emerald saber blazed to life, humming in the cool, dark evening - like a bright star, lighting the way for all who could see.

#sabezra #sabine wren #ezra bridger #ahsoka tano #star wars #ezrabine #ahsoka show #ahsoka #natasha liu bordizzo #sabezra fanfiction

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extorsiian · 10 days

Text

Fragments of a Fading Reflection ● A Poem

In the cold, unfeeling glow of your screen, I disintegrate,

Lost in a parade of faces, where beauty’s cruelly innate.

Their figures, ethereal wisps, like whispers of the dawn,

While I, a heavy shadow, struggle and feel withdrawn.

Their hair, a cascade of spun gold, flowing like molten light,

While mine, a tangled abyss, swallowed by the endless night.

Their skin, a flawless canvas, untouched by time or pain,

While mine is a patchwork of scars, etched by life’s harsh strain.

They display their inked art, stories written in vibrant hues,

While my own skin hides the remnants of battles I didn’t choose.

Their tattoos speak of freedom, each line a tale of grace,

While I cover my own wounds, shrouded in disgrace.

You follow their lives with fervor, each one more perfect than the last,

While I linger in the periphery, a ghost from a distant past.

Your followers rise like a flood, their beauty a constant beam,

And I, caught in the riptide, drown in a fading dream.

Each swipe on your screen is a dagger to my hollow soul,

As I measure my worth against these images so whole.

I count every calorie, each bite is a penance paid,

Trying to sculpt my existence, to fit into the mold displayed.

Anorexia’s grip tightens, a merciless, invisible chain,

Each calorie a crime, each hunger pang a piercing pain.

My reflection shows a gaunt shell, frail and withered, hollow-eyed,

A mere echo of my former self, a life stripped and denied.

I am confined by form-fitting clothes, a prison of my own making,

Their sizes mock my struggle, my self-worth slowly breaking.

I squeeze into garments, hoping to erase the stark divide,

But with each squeeze, I feel more like a fragment, more denied.

“Maybe if I shrink enough,” I whisper in the night’s cold embrace,

“You’ll finally notice me, my figure will find its place.”

Yet even as I lose weight, my spirit becomes more thin,

The mirror’s harsh judgment shows the turmoil deep within.

Thirty pounds lighter, but I am a mere shadow of my former self,

A fragile wisp in the reflection, a life left on the shelf.

“Look at me,” I plead silently, tightening my grip on this gaunt frame,

Hoping that somehow, my suffering might end this cruel game.

The fear of you leaving, a specter haunting every breath,

A constant torment, a lingering, undying death.

I strive to fit into the ideal, to blend with the flawless dream,

But each size, each comparison, makes me feel more obscene.

“Why am I not enough?” I cry in the dead of night,

As I stare at my reflection, a figure devoid of light.

My waistline grows slimmer, my heart grows colder still,

In the pursuit of your approval, I lose my will.

Each day I battle this endless sorrow, this unyielding, crushing despair yearning for your touch, for a love that seems so rare.

But in the mirror’s unfeeling gaze, I see only my demise,

An endless cycle of anguish, as my heart slowly dies.

So I am left in this void, a figure unseen and broken,

Longing for a touch of love, for words that remain unspoken.

In the cruel theater of my own making, I am forever confined,

An echo of what I once was, lost in the labyrinth of my mind.

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pupsmailbox · 7 months

Text

GHOST ID PACK

NAMES ⌇　abir. agnes. ahriman. avira. axar. banshee. bella. blanc. blanche. blanchette. bliss. bones. boo. booelle. booette. boolita. buffy. caden. carrie. casper. caspian. cassie. cheery. claw. cynthia. damien. deathilia. deathphia. desdemona. drauaga. dusk. eidolon. eisa. emmett. esme. espi. esprit. espíritu. eulalia. evelina. evie. exo. exor. expiry. fantasma. fantôme. felis. frightenne. frispirit. geist. ghoest. ghost. ghostelle. ghostette. ghostie. ghostisma. ghosty. ghostyre. ghoul. ghoulesse. ghoulette. ghoulie. ghouline. ghoulita. ghoulity. ginny. grave. grim. grimric. hantu. haunt. hauntelle. haunterly. hauntide. hauntie. hauntoille. haunty. hellgeist. huntesse. huntette. huntus. idony. imp. ivy. jan. klara. knyftes. kotori. lili. lilith. lillith. lorena. lucille. lumia. luna. mary. merry. mon. mona. morrigan. mortimer. nyx. ophelia. ouija. oul. penny. phan. phantom. polter. poltergeist. priscilla. ramona. rascal. reaper. roho. ruin. ruth. ruyu. sable. salem. shen. shy. shyette. shyine. soul. soulesse. soulette. souline. soulphi. specter. spectra. spectral. spectre. spir. spirit. spirited. spite. spook. timid. timida. timido. tomb. trix. twilight. twyla. veil. weep. winona. wisp. wraith. wrath. wynnie. yurei.

PRONOUNS ⌇　agony/agony. avoid/avoid. bone/bone. boo/boo. breeze/breeze. che/cheer. cleanse/cleanse. coffin/coffin. cold/cold. creep/creep. dea/death. dead/dead. dead/death. death/death. dis/embodied. dread/dread. eerie/eerie. entity/entity. ex/expire. fear/fear. fester/fester. flo/float. float/float. fog/fog. freeze/freeze. fri/fright. fright/fright. frolic/frolic. geist/geist. ghast/ghastly. gho/ghost. ghost/ghost. ghoul/ghoul. glee/glee. gra/grave. grae/grave. grave/grave. grave/graveyard. grave/yard. graveyard/graveyard. haunt/haunt. horror/horror. hun/hunt. hx/hxm. hy/hym. ir/ir. ix/ix. joy/joy. kill/kill. kni/knife. light/light. linger/linger. lone/lone. lost/lost. lurk/lurk. mer/merry. mist/mist. murmur/murmur. phan/phantom. psych/psyche. roam/roam. salt/salt. scare/scare. shadow/shadow. shx/hxr. shy/hyr. shy/shy. slash/slash. smoke/smoke. smol/smol. sorry/storie. soul/soul. spec/specter. spec/spectre. spi/spirit. spir/spirit. spire/spire. spirit/spirit. splint/splint. spook/spook. spooky/spooky. sun/sun. thxy/thxm. ti/timid. timid/timid. tomb/stone. tomb/tomb. tomb/tombstone. undead/undead. unknow/unknowing. unknow/unknown. unknown/unknowing. unknown/unknown. veil/veil. victim/victim. wander/wander. wander/wanderer. whi/whisp. whisp/whisp. whisp/whisper. whisper/whisper. wraith/wraith. ⚰️ . ⚱️ . 👻 . 🤍 .

#⭐️lists #id pack #npt #name suggestions #name ideas #name list #pronoun suggestions #pronoun ideas #pronoun list #neopronouns #nounself #emojiself #ghostkin #spiritkin #undeadkin #deadkin #ghostcore

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zeciex · 6 months

Text

A Vow of Blood - 74

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

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

Chapter 74: Salt and Smoke

AO3 - Masterlist

Daemon lingered in the hall outside of the room he shared with his wife, his posture rigid as he leaned against the wall, the chill of the stone offering no comfort. He was held in place, not by chains or locks, but by the haunting echoes of Rhaenyra’s cries of distress that filled the corridors of Dragonstone. The sound of her agony, as piercing and relentless as a barrage of arrows, struck him with a visceral pain, each wail an arrow embedding itself within his flesh, tearing at him with the promise of leaving deeper wounds upon extraction. Inside him, a tempest of anxiety and helplessness swirled, a tumultuous storm that found no outlet, only manifesting in a physical itch, an urge to move, to do something, yet he remained rooted to the spot.

Daemon yearned to be at her side, to envelop her in the comfort and support she so desperately sought as she called out to him, yet an unseen force held him back, rendering him unable to step into the shared sanctuary of their anguish.

Her voice, frail yet imbued with a desperate hope, cut through the oppressive atmosphere of the chamber. It rose and fell like wisps of mist at dawn, a tender, soulful plea to the child she carried. “Please, please, please… Please, come out…”

Her words, though faint with exhaustion and pain of labor, carried the weight of her longing for seeing the child into this world and the love she held for it, reverberating poignantly in the silence that engulfed Daemon. The air around him seemed to carry the echo of her voice letting it linger over him like a shadow.

Consumed by frustration and powerlessness, Daemon gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, his head recoiling against the hard, cold stone wall with a muted thud. This act of self-punishment, his head banging repeatedly against the unyielding surface, served as a silent confession of his failure to comfort his wife in her hour of need. Each thud was a painful reminder of his powerlessness.

Daemon wished he could take on Rhaenyra’s suffering himself, fully conscious, however, of his own limitations. Words of comfort felt hollow, stuck in his throat and unable to grow into something more, and the soothing touch he yearned to offer felt out of his capability, far out of his reach.

A haunting fear gripped him – the dread of history’s cruel repetition, the possibility of losing another wife to the merciless fate of childbirth. The agonized cries of pain that reached him were a haunting echo of Laena’s.

Daemon preferred the clarity of warfare, a realm where victory’s cost was clear, measured in the resolve of his men and the strength of his sword, to the uncertainties of childbirth. He found solace in the order of battle, the straightforward nature of leading his forces against a tangible enemy. The thought of being confronted with having to choose between the life of his beloved wife and that of their unborn child was a torment far greater than any battlefield could offer.

In warfare, decisions, no matter how severe, followed certain logic; they were clear, direct, tangible. But in the dim, uncertain shadows of childbirth, the specter of loss loomed large, an adversary for which Daemon felt profoundly unprepared.

In the dimly lit corridor, Daemon stood enveloped in the shadows, his stance mirroring the inner chaos that raged within him. It was there that Ser Brandon Piper, the Captain of the guard, made his approach, his demeanor carrying the weight of formality yet laced with an underlying current of tension that seemed to pervade the halls of Dragonstone.

“My Prince,” he began, his eyes momentarily drifting towards the door of the bedchamber, the source of Daemon’s anguish, before locking back onto Daemon. “The men have been gathered and await your presence.”

Acknowledging the message with a mute nod, Daemon detached himself from the support of the wall, the lingering echo of Rhaenyra’s distressing calls shadowing his movements. Each step he took away from her side felt laden with the heavy specter of what more he stood to lose.

Daemon’s voice carried a blend of urgency and fatigue as he inquired, “Any tidings from King’s Landing?”

“No ravens from King’s Landing, my prince. The only raven that has arrived bore a message from Driftmark. Lord Bartimos has it,” Ser Brandon reported. “I’ve stationed a reliable man at the rookery, ready for any news that may arrive.”

Acknowledging this with a grave nod, Daemon issued a directive, his mind racing with thoughts of King’s Landing and its current state. “Dispatch someone to the capital. Endure it’s someone whose loyalty is beyond question. I wish to know any and all things that transpire within the city.”

He had hoped to have received some news of Daenera’s condition and circumstances–awaited the information with a wary anticipation.

Daemon made his way into the expansive hall, where the grand map of Westeros dominated the space, crafted from rich, aged wood. Descending the steps to the lower level, he approached the gathered assembly. The group encircled the map, their attention fixed on him, awaiting his directives, a blend of staunch loyalty and barely concealed unease carved into their expressions. Positioned at the center of the advisors, Daemon was cast in the flickering light of the torches, their flames casting long, dancing shadows over the ancient stone underfoot, and the scant rays of sunlight that managed to breach the chamber’s tall, slender windows lent a subdued, almost melancholic light to the scene of impending strategic discussions.

The air was thick with the tension of looming conflict, the room filled with the distinctive aroma of burning wood from the nearby heart, which crackled intermittently, punctuating the otherwise heavy silence.

Daemon stood as the focal point of this assembly, projecting a sense of resolute command, even as the weight of the moment rested heavily upon his shoulders.

“I want patrols along the island’s perimeter, looking for any small ships that might set ashore.” Daemon issued the orders with a sense of urgency, acutely aware of the vulnerability of their position. “If the Greens attack now it will be by stealth…”

The very stones of Dragonstone appeared to carry the torment of Rhaenyra’s cries, her voice weaving through the corridors and lingering in the shadows. As her pained groans finally subsided into the surrounding silence, an unsettling calm took hold. This quiet, heavy with implication, seemed almost solid, imbuing the air with a foreboding weight. The absence of sound was not a relief but a harbinger of unease, casting a tangible shroud of apprehension over all within its walls.

“...not directly,” Daemon continued, momentarily steadying the wavering focus of his men. “We don’t have enough men to surround the island, but we can make ourselves appear stronger than they are.”

Just as the heavy stillness seemed to settle, another of Rhaenyra’s anguished groans tore through the solemn quiet. The sound seemed to take on a life of its own, threading through the ranks of the assembled council and embedding a tangible sense of dread in the air. The discomfort was evident in the eyes of the men surrounding Daemon–heavy with implicit critique of his decision to focus on military preparations at such a critical moment.

The men shared uneasy looks among themselves, their discomfort and unease evident as they shuffled on their feet. Daemon chose to ignore his wife’s shrinks, just as he chose to disregard the men’s apparent disquiet at his composed, unwavering demeanor. His presence was marked by a confident and focused calm, a stark contrast to the tension around him, concentrating solely on the matter at hand–the only thing he could do.

Turning his attention to Ser Lorent Marbrand with a resolve that cut through the thick atmosphere, Daemon issued a firm directive. “Conscript the Dragon Keepers. They’re capable fighters. Waste no time.”

“It will be done, my prince,” Ser Lorent replied, his acknowledgement grave yet resolute.

“Until reinforcements arrive, we’ll have a dragon patrol the skies,” Daemon asserted, the underlying tension palpable in his tone.

The silent scrutiny from those surrounding him bore heavily upon his shoulders, each of Rhaenyra’s distant cries of pain echoing within him, sharp and cold as a blade drawn across his soul. Her torment resonated deep within, its icy grip enchasing his heart, yet he steadfastly quelled these swirling emotions, burying them deep within the recesses of his mind.

Lord Bartimos Celtigar broke into his thoughts, “A raven flew in this morning. The Sea Snake’s fever has broken, he has left Evenfall.”

“Where is he sailing?”

“That much is unclear, my prince.”

“We’ve dispatched ravens to our closes allies,” Daemon relayed to the council, his tone carrying the urgency of their situation. “Lords Staunton and Emmon are expected to arrive soon, and by nightfall, Lord Massey and Darklyn should join us. With their forces combined, we might manage to keep watch over the skies without relying on dragon patrols.”

In an instant, the haunting clarity of Rhaenyra’s voice broke through the tense atmosphere, her call for Daemon slicing through him with the intensity of a blade twisting in his gut. Yet, undeterred by the interruption, Daemon’s determination only solidified. “Our true power resides in our dragons and in Rhaenyra’s rightful claim. It is imperative that we get to the great houses before the Greens…”

Once more, Rhaenyra’s voice echoed, this time laced with unmistakable pain and urgency, “Daemon!”

As Daemon issued his commands, the sound of his voice reverberated off the stone, mingling with the distant moans of pain from his wife, creating a dissonant chord that seemed to echo with the solemnity of the moment. The men gathered around the map, their faces a mixture of resolve and worry, shifted uneasily, their movements barely audible against agony that haunted the halls of Dragonstone.

“Do you want to speak with the maester, my prince?” Ser Lorent inquired, his question hanging precariously between them.

Daemon responded not with words but with a look that carried the weight of a thousand responses. It was a gaze sharp and penetrating, meant to dissuade any further questions. Faced with the intensity of Daemon’s glare, Ser Lorent averted his eyes in deference.

Undeterred, Daemon declared his next move, “I’ll fly to the Riverlands myself and affirm Lord Tully’s support.”

“You will do no such thing,” Jace proclaimed, his voice resonant and clear, seeming to reflect a command from his mother. His entrance immediately captured the attention of all present with his assertive presence. Standing tall, with his shoulders back and his head held high, he exuded an air of authority that demanded respect.

Daemon’s eyes slowly shifted to focus on the young prince, whose bold interruption sparked a mix of irritation and frustration within him.

With an audible sigh, Daemon turned his gaze from Jace, his response tinged with vexation. “It is good that you are here, young prince. You’re needed to replace Baela in the sky on Vermax.”

“Did you not hear me?” Jace shot back, his retort brimming with the boldness and tenacity reminiscent of his mother’s when she was his age.

At that moment, Rhaenyra’s cry once again pierced the tense silence of the room, the sound resonating ominously, adding a palpable layer of urgency and stress to the tension.

Daemon’s frustration swelled within him, igniting with the intensity of a dragon disturbed by a pestering dog. How could Rhaenyra wish for them to remain passive, allowing the Greens the advantage yet again? His actions were calculated and strategic, each command made in effort to protect their rightful claim to the throne, as well as that of her sons. Neglecting to rally their closest allies would leave their position open, susceptible to the cunning plots of the Hightowers. Without securing the support of the realm’s great houses, their disadvantage would persist.

With the strategic alliance of the great houses–Tully, Baratheon, and mayhaps even Tyrell–arrayed around King’s Landing, they had a chance to swiftly recapture Rhaenyra’s crown, preempting any similar strategies by the Greens.

To Daemon, conceding more time to the enemy was unthinkable; they had already lost enough time as it was.

Securing the allegiance of these houses could enable them to surround King’s Landing, compelling a surrender. Should resistance arise, they were prepared to besiege the city.

Rhaenyra’s plea for inaction was a dangerous echo of his brother’s own reluctance to act, a path fraught with missed opportunities and regrets. Daemon stood firm, unwavering as he refused to allow the errors of his brother to be repeated under his watch. Inaction was a risk too great to entertain.

Driven by a resolve to avenge his brother, to reclaim his wife’s stolen throne, and to rectify the injustice the Hightowers had put into this world through years of scheming and plotting, Daemon was prepared to move forward.

This time, his actions would be swift, decisive, leaving no room for hesitation.

“The ravens, Lord Bartimos,” Daemon instructed, his tone imbued with an unchallengeable command.

Lord Bartimos Celtigar, momentarily locking eyes with Jace, displayed a hint of hesitation, a silent struggle against defying his Queen’s explicit orders. Yet, under the weight of Daemon’s imposing presence and hardened gaze, he acquiesced with a resigned nod, “I shall see it done.”

Turning his focus, Daemon addressed Ser Lorent with equal decisiveness. “Summon Ser Steffon. You are needed on the Dragonmont.”

Having issued his orders, Daemon proceeded to leave the room, his steps marked by an assured, deliberate pace indicative of his resolve. Approaching Jace, his gaze intensified, sharpening with a silent censure for the prince’s earlier challenge. Yet, without pausing, Daemon extended an implicit challenge to Jace with a compelling proposition, “Come with me. I’ll show you the true meaning of loyalty.”

Exiting the castle, the distant sounds of Rhaenyra’s distress fading behind them, Jace hastened to match Daemon’s pace, positioning himself a step behind. “She’s calling for you.”

Daemon remained silent, his jaw clenching tight against the subtle challenge in the boy’s tone. He gritted his teeth against his rebuke, keeping his silence. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, feeling the familiar groves dig into his palm. They moved down the stone steps leading to the courtyard. With each stride, his boot crunched against the gravel, a stern rhythm in the early morning quiet.

Jace pressed on, undeterred by Daemon’s silence. “You should be with her. She needs you–”

“What she needs from me is this,” Daemon interrupted abruptly, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. His sharp glance towards Jace was enough to halt any further protests. “There’s nothing more I can offer her now but to ensure the loyalty of the great houses–to secure her rightful place.”

Leaving the confines of the castle behind, Daemon and Jace traversed the stark, rugged terrain that characterized the island’s unique landscape. Their destination was one of the numerous ascents forming the imposing silhouette of the Dragonmont. The day was caressed by a soft breeze, which mingled with the briny tang of the sea with the pungent, sulfur-laden exhalation from the vents leading to the smoldering depths of the earth.

The ground underfoot was unforgiving, strewn with rocks and boulders, amongst which lumps of switchgrass emerged with resilient tenacity. It seemed nature had a way to survive even the harshest environments.

Daemon led them to one of the natural plateaus that offered a clear view over the island, the sea and Dragonstone castle, positioning himself atop it, while Jace, clearly disgruntled, positioned himself a short distance away, his arms crossed behind him, wearing an unmistakable scowl.

The relative silence of the plateau was soon disrupted by the rhythmic sound of armor clinking, signaling the arrival of Ser Lorent Marbrand and Ser Steffon Darklyn. Their approach was marked by the graceful billow of their cloaks in the wind. They paused a respectful distance from Daemon, their position lower on the slope, helmets cradled under their arms as they looked up at him expectantly.

The knights’ demeanor reflected the pervasive sense of unease that seemed to cloak Dragonstone itself. Their subtle, restless movements betrayed a sense of discomfort, perhaps in anticipation of the weighty discussion to come. The air around them felt heavy, and not just with the natural blend of sea salt and smoke that permeated the air around the island.

With an authoritative air, Daemon addressed the gathered knights, his voice carrying the weight of command and the gravity of the situation. He invoked the depth of their loyalty and the solemnity of their vows, reminding them of the sacred duties they agreed to when they first put on the white cloak. “You swore an oath as knights of the Kingsguard.”

“As all do who wear the white cloak, my prince,” Ser Lorent responded, his tone respectful yet firm.

“To whom?” Daemon pressed, his question sharp, seeking clarity.

Ser Steffon Darklyn adjusted his posture, his discomfort obvious as he shifted on his feet, the frown growing ever deeper on his face. “I swore first to King Jaehaerys, my prince. And then to His Grace, King Viserys, when he succeeded him.”

“Do you acknowledge the true line of succession?” Daemon asked, his stance relaxed yet imbued with inherent power, his hands casually resting on the pommel of his sword, embodying the natural ease with which he wielded authority. Daemon knew his reputation preceded him, the Rogue Prince, a moniker that inspired both reverence and apprehension, and he wielded this reputation with the same precision and decisiveness as he did Dark Sister. His mere presence commanded respect, a palpable force that demanded attention and obedience. Just as Dark Sister was an extension of his skill and resolve in battle, his moniker as the Rogue Prince served as a warning for his unpredictability.

“Yes,” Ser Lorent answered promptly, his response unwavering.

“Yes, my Prince,” Ser Steffon echoed, his agreement firm yet accompanied by another subtle shift in his stance, betraying his unease over this line of pointed questions.

Daemon’s gaze shifted towards Jace, intent on impressing upon the young prince the significance of the moment. He sought to teach Jace about the fragile nature of oaths sworn to those now dead, and how even the most honorable could falter in their loyalty when presented with freedom of choice. This was a lesson in loyalty, a demonstration of the weight and consequences tied to breaking the oaths they once swore.

“Do you recall,” Daemon began, his voice carrying a softness filled with gravitas, pausing momentarily to ensure his words would carry the intended impact. “Who King Viserys named as his heir before his death?”

“Princess Rhaenyra,” came Ser Lorent’s immediate response, with Ser Steffon nodding his concurrence.

Allowing a brief, reflective silence, Daemon weighed the significance of their acknowledgement. “I am grateful for your long service to the crown…So I am presenting you with a choice.”

The Kingsguard’s vow was one of unyielding dedication–they were loyal hounds bound to a single master. Yet, with the king’s death and the contested legitimacy of succession, their loyalty found itself upon a precipice of uncertainty–they now had the ability to choose which master to serve, and Daemon was determined to secure their unwavering loyalty to the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms–his wife, Rhaenyra.

The stillness of the moment was shattered by a sharp whistle, a precursor to the looming demonstration of power. Caraxes, embodying a menacing beauty, climbed over the rock formation behind Daemon, his whistling reverberating in the air. Each movement of the dragon was a testament to his formidable presence, claws scraping against the rock in a manner that could unsettle even the bravest soul. With a deliberate heaviness, Caraxes positioned himself behind Daemon, the impact of his landing sending a tangible vibration through the earth, a clear assertion of dominance and strength.

Daemon’s gaze never wavered from the knights, capturing their reactions as Caraxes made his imposing presence felt. The sight of the dragon commanded their undivided attention, their eyes widening with fear and uncertainty–reminiscent of prey caught in the clutches of a predator. A nervous shuffle passed through the knights, faces pailing as the dragon’s whistle evolved into a formidable roar–a high pitched sound that seemed almost like the chirping of a bird if that bird had long sharp teeth and could breathe fire. This chilling sound, slicing through the air with ferocity, compelled a collective, instinctive step back from the knights.

“Swear anew your oath to Rhaenyra as your Queen,” Daemon’s command pierced the tension, his voice steadfast against the backdrop of Caraxes’ menacing growls. “...to Prince Jacaerys as the heir to the Iron Throne.”

His words lingered, heavy with implication, as the knight’s eyes darted between the formidable figure of Daemon and the dragon beside him. “Or if you support the usurper, speak it now and you will have a clean and honorable death.”

This decisive demand, set against the primal might of Caraxes, left no room for ambiguity. It was a moment of reckoning, of declaring loyalties and acknowledging the true order of the world. And Daemon stood ready, Dark Sister at his hip. Should they declare for the Usurper, he would grant them a swift end–more than any traitors deserved.

“But if you choose treachery,” Daemon’s voice deepened, echoing with ominous intent, “if you swear your fealty now only to later turn your cloaks…”

As Caraxes unleashed a chilling, chirping hiss, cutting through the tense silence, Daemon felt the sound reverberate deep within his chest as though he was the one emitting this rumble. He sensed the dragon’s immense shadow enveloping him, its latent power merging with his own, imbuing him with a fearsome energy akin to the devastating flames Caraxes was known to unleash.

“...know that you will die,” Daemon continued, his tone laced with a grim promise, “screaming.”

At this declaration, Ser Lorent Marbrand and Ser Steffon Darklyn knelt, their movements graceful, the soft billowing of their cloaks contrasting sharply with the seriousness of the moment. The tip of their swords grazed the ground as they submitted, bending their heads in reverence–in fear.

“We swear to ward the Queen,” the knights pledged in unison, their voices resonating with unwavering commitment. “With all my strength and give my blood for hers. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, and father no children.”

Daemon’s gaze found Jace, taking in the prince’s steadfast posture, an embodiment of the regal stature that was his birthright–the inherent power of the Targaryen lineage. This was what being blood of the dragon meant – to wield power with an innate authority, secure loyalty, and demand the respect that was owed to them.

“I shall guard her secrets, obey her commands, ride at her side, and defend her name and her honor,” they continued, their vows solemn and profound, echoing the depth of their commitment to their Queen and the realm they served.

Addressing the knights with a voice rich in command, Daemon spoke, “The vows you’ve pledged today bind you in service and loyalty to the one true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, Rhaenyra Targaryen. I will hold you to this oath, and your dedication will be remembered.”

A resonant roar emanated from Caraxes, its powerful cadence echoing with dominance. The dragon then shared a moment of silent communication with Daemon, an understanding without words, before spreading its grand wings. The breeze embraced them, filling the air like the sails of a great ship ready to embark. With a force that stirred the very earth beneath, Caraxes beat his wings, lifting dust and smoke into a swirling dance. The grass rippled as if caught in a tempest’s grip. With an awkward grace, the dragon took to the sky, heading towards the coastline, its departure as commanding as its arrival.

After a brief nod of dismissal to the knights, signaling the end of the ceremony and affirming their sworn duties, Daemon watched them adjust their attire and swords, their movements brisk as they returned to the castle’s embrace. He remained, eyes following Caraxes’ flight until the dragon was but a silhouette against the horizon.

Stepping down from his vantage point, Daemon’s boots met the earth with a sense of finality.

Jace positioned himself beside Daemon, his youthful inquisitiveness shining through the skepticism in his eyes. Together, they stood gazing out towards the bay, where fishing boats bobbed and weaved through the swells. Breaking the silence, Jace ventured, “How exactly was that demonstration meant to teach me about loyalty? It appeared more an exercise in fear than a lesson in earning respect.”

“Fear and respect are but two sides of the same blade,” Daemon elucidated, drawing Dark Sister with an elegance that belied the deadliness of the act. He allowed the blade to catch the sunlight, its rippled steel gleaming as he expertly manipulated it, displaying its dual nature. “Both are potent tools in forging loyalty.”

Jace watched the blade, his interest evident, though his skepticism remained. “But loyalty born from fear seems to me as though it would be inherently weak. Respect, by contrast, seems to build a stronger, more durable allegiance.”

“Fear has the ability to dissolve the bonds formed by respect, just as respect can dismantle the barriers constructed by fear.” Daemon executed a series of deft maneuvers with Dark Sister, allowing the sword to rotate gracefully from one side to the other. Each movement was precise, the sunlight catching and dancing along the intricate ripples of the Valyrian steel. This ballet of steel and light showcased not only the blade’s deadly beauty but also the skill and ease with which Daemon wielded it–like an extension of himself.

And with just as deft a movement, Daemon sheathed Dark sister, its message delivered. “Men are motivated by one or the other. As Targaryens, we wield the authority to invoke both.”

The silhouette of Dragonstone loomed in the distance. Surrounded by the harsh landscape, the castle stood as a beacon of power, its sturdy walls ready to withstand the onslaught of time and turmoil. The castle appeared as if it were an extension of the very stone that formed the island’s mountains–cut from the very stones the same way House Targaryen cut out a seat for themselves within this ruthless world.

Daemon set off towards the stronghold with Jace in tow.

With one hand nonchalantly resting on the pommel of Dark Sister and the other hooked at his belt, Daemon clarified, “Each knight of the Kingsguard has a choice to make, and it was my duty to present them with the consequences of that choice.”

“The Greens would have given the Kingsguard in King’s Landing the same choice,” Jace countered, his tone carrying a slight edge of criticism.

“The Kingsguard pledged their loyalty to a now deceased king and a crown that has been stolen. If they truly believed the usurper to be the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, then, as his Kingsguard, they would have been prepared to embrace death for that conviction.”

“You would have executed them on the spot,” Jace observed.

Daemon met Jace’s inquisitive look with a steadfast gaze, his declaration unambiguous. “They would have been traitors, subject to the justice merited by their betrayal.”

Jace’s expression settled into one of deep contemplation, reminiscent of the focused demeanor he often exhibited during lessons with the maester. “They would have died in service to the one perceived as the true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. It would have been an honorable death.”

“As honorable as a traitor's death can be,” Daemon remarked dryly.

“Had you not held their convictions in some esteem, you wouldn’t have offered a swift end by your blade,” Jace countered with a thoughtful observation, drawing a rare, slight smile from Daemon, amused by the prince’s astute conclusion.

Indeed, Daemon found a sliver of truth in Jace’s insight. The swift justice of his blade was far a more dignified fate than what he envisioned for the usurpers entrenched within King’s Landing. While he might let them taste the bitterness of his steel, he would give them anything but a dignified death.

“The Hightowers are the true traitors,” Jace declared, his voice intensifying with passion. “They, along with the other houses of the realm, pledged their allegiance to my mother as Viserys’ rightful heir. Yet, they have usurped her, resorting to the same treachery they used to challenge Luke’s claim to Driftmark.”

“And what should we do about it?” Daemon challenged.

“Mother has instructed us to refrain from taking any action without her consent,” Jace answered, frowning deeply as his head shook.

“Every second we delay, the Greens consolidate their power,” Daemon asserted, his eyes scanning the horizon as the silhouette of the castle loomed closer. “My brother refused to respond to the threat when the Triarchy tested our borders and destroyed our ships. He allowed them to ravage our merchants and seize control of the Stepstones. He let the blight grow until it threatened the security of the realm.”

“Until you defeated them.”

“They learned why our words are; Fire and Blood,” Daemon stated, his grip on the pommel of his sword tightening just perceptively, feeling every grove of the iron against his skin. “Viserys’ reluctance to act made him weak. Had he decisively cut off the head of the snake, he would have shown that dragons far outmatch any serpent’s cunning. Instead, he allowed the serpent’s venom to poison his mind.”

Stopping in his tracks, Daemon captured Jace’s attention fully before continuing. “While your mother is preoccupied by the labor of childbirth, and we withhold action, the Hightowers are undoubtedly plotting their next move. Do you really think they would simply wait idly by for our response?”

“No,” Jace conceded, the weight of Daemon’s words seemingly pressing upon his shoulders.

“Your mother’s claim isn’t the only one the Greens are usurping,” Daemon pressed on. “They mean to steal your rightful inheritance as your mother’s son and heir, and that of your brother’s claim on Driftmark. They mean to rob you of all that you are. They will take your name and your claim, and they will take your blood.”

A surge of anger flashed across Jace’s features, his youthful face setting into a mask of determination. “I’m well aware of their tactics. I know what they’ll say. They will start by calling us bastards. And then they’ll use that to undermine the whole legitimacy of mother’s claim.”

Continuing their path towards the castle, their progress was heralded by a sharp shout that pierced the air. The call originated from a vigilant guard stationed within the guard tower, directed towards his counterparts on the ground. This timely alert ensured the guards at the gates were promptly made aware of Daemon and Jace’s approach. The heavy doors creaked open, protesting the movement.

“There’s no need for them to question your legitimacy if you’re found dead in your bed, your throat slit,” Daemon states, his voice carrying a cold edge.

Jace’s gaze darted towards Daemon, the severity of the statement seeming to hit him like the stinging rebuttal of a palm. His hands instinctively balled into fists, a visible tremor of apprehension flickering across his features. “Would they truly resort to such measures? To kill a man in his bed seems exceedingly callous, even for them.”

“Otto Hightower is nothing if not efficient,” Daemon responded with a stern tone as they made their way into the courtyard, the crunch of gravel underfoot marking their passage. “A swift assassination is both effective and eliminates all threats to Aegon’s claim to the throne in one swift move.”

Around them, the courtyard was dominated by an imposing dragon statue, carved from the same dark stone that made up the fortress. The beast’s features were sharply defined, a growl eternally etched into its visage, while moss and time had begun to claim parts of its form.

“If they resort to sending cutthroats to murder children in their sleep, they’ve abandoned all pretense of honor,” Jace retorted, his voice laced with contempt. The thought of his younger siblings, vulnerable and defenseless in their beds, seemed to spark a fierce protectiveness in him. “There’s a clear distinction between facing an opponent in combat and the cowardice of killing children in their slumber.”

Daemon couldn’t help but find a sliver of amusement in the young prince’s ideals–naive perceptions of a boy untouched by the harsh realities of war and the bloody burden of leadership. Jace appeared to view the world through the lens of nobility, expecting adversaries to possess the same sense of honor to his own. Yet, Daemon knew too well how elusive and costly honor could be, having witnessed many valiant men fall victim to its demands.

He understood that the world harbored a much darker side, a realm where retribution was meted out in kind and where insults were avenged with ruthless efficiency. History had shown time and again that adherence to rules seldom secured victory in war. Daemon recognized the necessity of confronting this reality, prepared to navigate the murky waters for the sake of his family.

“What are–”

“My Prince!” Ser Brandon Piper, the Captain of the Guard, interjected with urgency, his voice cutting through the air and halting Jace’s words. He descended the stairs from the battlements rapidly, his expression grave, signaling the importance of his message. “A ship approaches from the east, now making its way into the bay.”

Jace ventured a guess, “Staunton? Massey?”

The gravity in Ser Brandon’s voice held a note of surprise as he shared the news, casting a significant look between Daemon and Jace. “The ships sail carry the colors and sigil of House Velaryon.”

“Corlys?” Jace mused aloud, the possibility lingering between them.

The air of speculation was abruptly dispelled by the formidable roar of a dragon, followed by the stirring dust as Moondancer executed a flawless landing in the courtyard. The arrival was a display of Baela’s skill as a dragonrider and Moondancer’s precision, sparing the castle’s structure from any damage. Baela, seated majestically on her dragon, appeared every inch the embodiment of a dragonrider, with her hair tousled by the wind and her cheeks flushed from the flight, her eyes alight with intensity.

She called out to them from above, “The ship!”

Ser Brandon responded, having already relayed the news, “We’ve seen the ship.”

“It’s Meraxes!”

Jace exchanged a meaningful look with Daemon, realization dawning as Jace echoed, “Daenera’s ship.”

In the midst of the rapidly evolving events, Daemon issued his directive with decisive clarity to Ser Brandon, his tone imbued with the unmistakable authority of command. “Take a contingent of guards with you to meet them on the beach, and have them brought to us.”

Understanding the urgency, Ser Brandon acknowledged the order with a quick nod and gesture to the guards wearing the distinctive red cloaks of Princess Rhaenyra’s personal guard. With their swords at their hips, they advanced with deliberate strides towards the gate, which groaned on its hinges as it swung wide to facilitate their swift departure.

Daemon offered Baela a nod of recognition for her timely message, observing as she adeptly commanded Moondancer to take flight once more. At her signal, the dragon lifted off, the beat of its wings garnering a powerful gust of wind as it ascended gracefully into the sky. Jace instinctively raised a hand to shield his eyes, caught in the whir of dust and debris, before turning away to protect himself from the bluster stirred by Moondancer’s departure.

Ascending the battlements, Daemon positioned himself to observe the unfolding scene on the beach. The bay was alive with activity, with local fishing boats bobbing on the choppy waters and the imposing figure of Meraxes making its deliberate approach, its sails proudly bearing the emblem of House Velaryon–a silver sea horse on sea green. By his side, Jace joined, both fixed on the sight of the ship's longboat being lowered into the water before making its way to shore where an escort of guards awaited.

With quiet anticipation, Jace ventured, “Do you think Daenera managed to escape after all?”

His voice carried an undercurrent of hope, a vivid contrast to Daemon’s stoicism. Daemon remained silent, choosing not to voice his thoughts, his attention firmly on the procession of figures now advancing towards the castle. The answer would reveal itself soon enough, rendering speculation unnecessary.

And so, the fleeting hope that Jace held seemed to ebb away as the entourage made its entrance into the courtyard, revealing not Daenera but another figure

“Jelissa,” he exhaled, a note of surprise mingling with recognition.

The girl stood amid the group of seasoned sailors, evidently worn by her ordeal, her gaze reflecting exhaustion. Under the shifting light, her eyes seemed to flicker between shades of blue and gray, while her once vibrant dark blond hair appeared dimmed by the castle’s gloom.

The young prince’s stance momentarily faltered, a visible sign of his disappointment. Yet, almost instantly, he gathered his composure, straightening his back as he masked his initial disheartenment that his sister did not stand among them.

Ser Brandon, with practiced efficiency, guided Jelissa from the group, leading her towards the high vantage point where Daemon and Jace awaited. After acknowledging Daemon with a nod, the Captain of the Guard stepped aside, leaving them to converse.

“Lady Jelissa,” Jace began, his voice brimming with concern as he launched into a flurry of questions–seemingly oblivious to the way her cheeks flushed at being called ‘lady.’ “What happened? How did you manage to escape? Is anyone else with you?”

“Jace,” Daemon interjected with a sharpness that instantly commanded attention, his stern gaze effectively halting the young prince’s torrent of questions. Jace’s expression twisted into a scowl, his frustration and reluctance to pause his inquiries plainly written across his face. Yet, heeding Daemon’s directive, he begrudgingly stepped back, allowing the conversation to unfold without his immediate input.

Jelissa grew noticeably tense under the weight of Daemon’s gaze, her fingers entwining nervously as though she sought to squeeze the anxiety from her very skin. She lowered her gaze. The tension became palpable until Jelissa, unable to retain her turmoil any longer, showed signs of imminent tears, her eyes glistening and nose reddening as she fought to maintain her composure.

Struggling to voice her thoughts, Jelissa finally broke the silence, “My Prince… I…”

Daemon remained unmoved by the tears, his response chillingly indifferent to Jelissa’s visible distress, his voice as cold as the sea breeze that swept the battlements, offering no comfort in her evident anguish. His opening words cut through the tension with the precision of a finely honed blade.

“You abandoned the Princess you were meant to serve,” he stated, each word laden with accusation. “You failed in your duty to protect her. Tell me, why shouldn’t I throw you from this wall?”

The relentless waves below underscored his threat, crashing against the cliffs with a relentless ferocity as the wind howled around them. The girl cast a wary, fearful glance towards the precipice of the wall, visibly paling.

Out of the corner of his eye, Daemon noted Jace’s shift, a subtle readiness to leap to Jelissa’s defense. However, with a sharp glance that brooked no argument, he quelled any attempt by Jace to intervene, then redirected his attention to the woman standing anxiously before him.

Jelissa struggled to form words, her voice faltering into a choked sob, “I–I–”

“Stop,” Daemon commanded, his voice slicing through her emotional turmoil. “Explain yourself. Now.”

With a deep, shaky breath, Jelissa composed herself enough to speak, her voice fragile yet determined, “J–Joyce received word from one of the kitchen servants… about the King’s demise. She–she insisted we flee King’s Landing at once, and she tasked me with alerting the crew of Meraxes. Joyce and Fenrick went to get the Princess and… We waited by the dock.”

Her account laid bare the desperate measures taken in the wake of his brother’s death. Despite the chaos of her recounting, Daemon remained focused, parsing her words for truth, his expression unreadable as he considered her explanation. His hand clenched tighter around the pommel of Dark Sister, his intense gaze fixed unwaveringly on Jelissa.

“You abandoned her,” he accused, his voice sharp.

With tears threatening to spill from her eyes, Jelissa managed a shaky response, “Joyce instructed me that if they couldn’t make the ship in time, my foremost duty was to inform you of what had transpired.”

“She made the right decision,” Jace declared, his eyes burning with conviction as he aligned himself with Jelissa’s reasoning, giving the girl a small nod of reassurance. He challenged Daemon’s stern judgment, jaw set as he met his gaze.

“We lingered at the dock for as long as we could,” Jelissa added, her voice laden with remorse. Her face was etched with the toll of recent events, and bore the signs of fear and fatigue. “Tylan Moot gave his life for us to leave the harbor, holding back the guards on his own as we set off.”

Daemon regarded Jelissa intently, the silence charged with tension before he posed a cutting inquiry, “Is it possible that the Princess chose to remain in King’s Landing of her own volition?”

Taken aback by the suggestion, Jelissa stumbled over her words, a mix of confusion and distress evident on her face as she dabbed at a tear on her flushed cheek. “I–what, my Prince?”

“Why would she do such a thing?” Jace interjected, his disbelief and exasperation apparent.

Despite Jace’s interjection, Daemon’s attention remained unwavering on Jelissa, his determination clear as he dismissed the prince’s contribution with a focused intensity. “Tell me, how long have you served the princess?”

“Since she set out for King’s Landing,” Jelissa answered, her voice wavering slightly as she twisted her fingers together, betraying her anxiety. “It’s been over a year now, almost two.”

Daemon’s response was precise, his tone unyielding as his fingers rhythmically tapped against the pommel of his sword, a manifestation of his growing impatience. “Given your role as the Princess’s handmaiden, it stands to reason you’d be entrusted with her confidence.”

“I…” she began, her voice no more than a whisper.

“Given your proximity to the Princess, you would have been privy to her most confidential matters,” Daemon pressed, his patience clearly wearing thin. “You surely must have been aware of her involvement with the Prince, Aemond. Could it be that she remained in King’s Landing by choice, to be with him?”

Jace’s reaction was instantaneous, his voice cutting sharply across the brewing storm, “What?! No, Daenera–”

But Daemon was unmovable, his stern glance enough to once again quell Jace’s protest. “It appears your sister took advantage of certain… liberties during her time away from Dragonstone.”

“Daenera wouldn’t,” Jace insisted, his voice laden with a mix of disbelief and stubborn resistance, his stance betraying his internal conflict with the revelation. He was quick to dismiss the notion, adamant in his belief–and seemingly clinging to it like a boy clung to his mother’s skirts. “She would never willingly be with someone so vile, someone capable of–”

“Usurping your mother’s crown and calling you bastards?” Daemon concluded for him. He watched as Jace’s face turned a deeper shade of red, anger and disbelief burning in his eyes – a young prince, vehement yet naive in his refusal to face an uncomfortable truth. Regardless of Jace’s readiness to accept it, the truth remained unaltered, and it was time he confronted the implications of his sister's fallacy.

“She wouldn’t,” Jace repeated, seemingly more to convince himself than to challenge Daemon’s assertion.

Shifting his focus back to Jelissa, Daemon’s stare bore into her with such intensity that she seemed to shrink back, her vulnerability evident. Her gaze fell to the ground, her eyes glistening with the effort to restrain her emotions, while her hands twisted together guiltily.

“Speak,” Daemon demanded, his voice carrying a commanding weight that reverberated against the venerable stone battlements surrounding them.

The girl, visibly flustered, struggled to articulate her thoughts, her voice a fragile murmur that risked being carried off by the gusting wind. “I… I’m not privy to the same insights as Joyce.”

“Even so,” Daemon responded, his voice threaded with disbelief, “As her handmaiden, it is reasonable to assume that you might have observed or overheard discussions leading you to draw certain… conclusions.”

As silence filled the air, Daemon’s patience visibly frayed, his next words edged with a clear note of frustration. “While I value your loyalty to the princess, silence on this matter serves no one. Speak.”

“I had no knowledge of any… liaison she might have had, much less with whom should she have one…” A moment of hesitation flashed across her face as she dared a brief glance at Daemon, only to avert her eyes once more, her confession dissolving into a murmur of doubt. “However… I did notice oddities. Marks that appeared overnight, belongings out of place, her smallclothes needing to be cleaned or changed more often than usual, or simply going missing only to later turn up…” Her eyes flickered anxiously in Jace’s direction as he reacted with a noise of dismay and exasperation, before she refocused on her clasped hands. “When I brought up the things that I had noticed to Joyce, she reminded me of our place–to serve, not to infer or question…” Jelissa shifted nervously on her feet. “All I know is that the Princess seemed content, happy even.”

“Happy?” Daemon repeated, his tone dripping with skepticism.

“Fenrick voiced his worry over her well-being, and Joyce too,” Jelissa muttered. “I overheard bits of their conversation… I heard them discuss the princess’s affection–whether she… was in love… I–I didn’t know who they were talking about, but Fenrick was infuriated at the thought of it. Joyce tempered him, reminding him of his place too.”

Daemon’s frustration simmered just below the surface, his contempt for Fenrick’s lack of a spine obvious. He internally berated the man for his failure to communicate the crucial information of Daenera’s misgiven affection for the one-eyed cunt, even if it was just mere speculation–speculations that Daemon was convinced Fenrick harbored, and not merely as baseless doubts. No, he was sure Fenrick knew and failed to report it. And while he understood Fenrick’s hesitation to convey these matters, given how Daenera responded the last time she perceived something to be an act of betrayal. Nevertheless, the sworn knight should have informed him so that he could put an end to the matter.

“Yet, you must have formed some opinions of your own,” Daemon pushed, demanding clarity with a tone that allowed for no diversion. “When did these ‘oddities’ first come to your attention?”

“I do not wish to damage the Princess’s good name or question her honor,” Jelissa confessed, almost as if speaking only to herself. Yet, Daemon’s persistent questioning afforded her no opportunity for silence. “It began shortly before the wedding. Then, for a time, it stopped and I dismissed it as trivial. I don’t believe she would–she would engage in something that could compromise her honor… And after her husband’s death…” Jelissa shook her head, as if dismissing what happened after that. “It is not my place to question her actions.”

Jace couldn’t hold back, his response sharp with incredulousness, “Are you absolutely sure about this?”

“Jace–” Daemon started to respond, only to be cut off by a defiant glare from the prince.

“Such allegations are severe,” Jace snapped fervently, his words fueled by a desperate grasp at the semblance of his sister’s honor, driven perhaps more by his love for her than by conviction in the claim’s falsity.

“It’s no mere insinuation, young prince. It’s the truth,” Daemon stated, his tone stripped of any warmth. “Your sister was involved with Prince Aemond, blatantly so, both prior to her marriage and after. They’ve carried on this affair for months. She admitted as much to us.”

“She admitted to it?” His voice was an echo of bewilderment.

“She did,” Daemon asserted, “Which is what prompted your mother to call her back to Dragonstone. Your sister was supposed to settle her affairs in King’s Landing and meet us here.”

The impact of Daemon’s revelations visibly shook Jace, his body jerking back as if struck. And for a long moment, he appeared utterly deflated, his chest rising and falling in quick succession, the frown on his face growing. Yet, almost as quickly, he rallied, his jaw clenching in determination, signaling a fierce resurgence of will in the face of disillusionment.

Daemon delved deeper into the crux of the issue, his words laden with a gravity that seemed to draw in the air around them. “Daenera was seen standing with the Greens, aligning herself with them in a show of open support of Aegon’s claim to the throne.”

The statement hung heavily in the air, seeming to cast a shadow of doubt over the small gathering as the words settled around them.

“Given her involvement with Aemond, do you think it’s possible that the Princess could have been swayed to abandon her mother’s rightful claim in favor of supporting her lover’s usurper cunt of a brother’s ascension?”

“I don’t think…” Jelissa began, her voice barely above a murmur of resistance, only to be silenced by Daemon’s scornful interjection.

“You don’t think?” He retorted, his presence looming over her, his shadow casting a chilling expanse that nearly enveloped her. “You were by her side in King’s Landing, in her most private moments. Did she ever hint at a willingness to betray her mother’s claim?”

“I don’t know,” Jelissa started, head shaking vehemently. “The Princess has always been steadfast in her belief that her mother is the heir, and I find it difficult to accept that she would change that belief.”

Daemon inhaled deeply, the salt-laden breeze providing a brief respite from the weight of the conversation and the burning of anger that seared within his chest. Exhaling slowly, he addressed Jelissa with a solemnity that emphasized the sensitivity of their discussion. “Your honesty is appreciated, and understand this: what has been disclosed here must remain confined to us, never to be uttered elsewhere.”

“My Prince,” Jelissa intoned, offering a respectful nod, acknowledging Daemon’s directive. With a quick curtsy, she pivoted, retreating from the intensity of the conversation, her departure as swift as it was silent.

Daemon dismissed the girl by shifting his focus to the restless ocean before them, its waves savagely colliding with the coastline. Each assault against the rocks below unleashed a shower of spray, the airborne droplets catching the light and sparkling amidst the tumult. The wind, ever capricious, seemed to echo the turmoil within, scaling the ancient stone walls of Dragonstone with a fierceness that spoke of an impending gale–dark clouds growing on the horizon, distant and foreboding. The wind whirred against the stone, brushing past the battlements to wrap around the flags, the fabric snapping in the wind with sharp reprimand.

“Your knew,” Jace asserted, his words sharp and brimming with recrimination, hinting at a sense of betrayal. “You were fully aware and yet you allowed her to remain in that viper’s nest! You did nothing as Aemond preyed on her.”

Daemon faced the onslaught of Jace’s reproach with a measured calm. “Your sister isn’t some unwitting prey caught in the claws of a predator. You do her a disservice painting her as a hapless victim. She has more agency than that.”

The young prince bristled.

“It was her choice to entertain his advances,” Daemon continued, a reproachful note remaining in his tone as he spoke. “Had there been any manipulation on Aemond’s part, any intent to dishonor her, he wouldn’t have hesitated to use it against her, aiming to discredit your mother’s claim by shaming Daenera openly. Her actions, her decision to engage in an illicit affair with him, were her choice.”

“I knew something was wrong,” Jace admitted, his voice growing heavy with realization and the lingering slivers of denial. “Aemond flaunted their… closeness, goading me with it. Daenera refused his claims, she denied everything and I… I chose to believe her against my better judgment. I wrote it off as merely a way to get under my skin, to provoke me into action.”

Jace found solace on the cold stone of the battlements, leaning against them as he peered into the tumultuous sea below. His arm rested atop the barrier, his hand clenched so tightly it seemed he was trying to draw strength from the stone itself. “The way he spoke of her–what he insinuated… He referred to her as ‘byka ābrazȳrys,’ his little wife.”

Daemon’s reaction was swift and fierce, his gaze locking onto Jace with predatory precision. The taste of anger was almost palpable, and his response was edged with it. “At the coronation, the Hightowers announced her betrothal to Aemond.”

This revelation hung between them like a drawn sword, its implications as sharp and menacing as any blade. Questions swirled in the aftermath of Daemon’s statement, each one striking against the loyalty and trust they had placed in Daenera. Had she decided her path even while they were still in King’s Landing, mere days before? Was this betrothal her doing? How deeply was she entwined in these plots? How deep was her love for that one-eyed cunt?

The shock on Jace’s face was palpable as he tried to process Daemon’s words. It was clear that he was struggling to reconcile his sister’s actions with the loyalty he had always assumed. “You think she has turned against us…”

Daemon’s reply was carefully controlled, his tone marked by a cold, dispassionate clarity. “Considering the intimate nature of her involvement with Aemond and their concerted efforts to keep the affair hidden, it stands to reason she may well have aligned herself more closely with their interests than ours.”

“No.” Jace’s denial came swift, fueled by a mix of conviction and fervor. “I refuse to believe that Daenera would support Aegon over our mother–she despises him and everything he is. She has always been adamant in her belief that our mother is the rightful heir, and her actions have always been in line with that. She’s always done her duty–”

“‘Her duty,’” Daemon reiterated, a note of skepticism and scorn in his tone as he shifted his gaze back to the sea. “She was tasked with fortifying your mother’s claim, forging alliances, and securing support through a strategic marriage. Yet, her actions have fallen short of these obligations. And now, she stands with the Greens.”

The weight of deciding their next steps hung heavily in the air.

Jace, his frustration evident against the backdrop of the chill wind that reddened his cheeks, argued for intervention. “We can’t just abandon her.”

“And if her staying was her own choice?”

“And what if it wasn’t?” Jace responded with a blend of urgency and defiance. “We can’t conclusively say she willingly sided with the Greens. It’s entirely possible she was left no option but to adhere to their will, and as a hostage she has little choice but to comply with their demands.”

It was entirely possible, Daemon agreed. But it was also entirely possible that she had stood with the Green’s of her own volition. He hoped that she was nothing but a mere hostage, that she had no choice but to comply, but the thought that she might have chosen them over her own kin gnawed at him, undermining the trust he had once placed in her. This betrayal stung deeply; he had seen her as capable and loyal, someone who understood her duty and the weight and importance of her position. Her deceit and the risks she took with not only her own reputation but also that of her mother, for the sake of that one-eyed cunt, had shattered that trust.

Loyalty and trust, once broken, were difficult to mend–and Daemon valued both above all else.

The sting of betrayal was more piercing than even the usurpation itself–a twist of fate Daemon had anticipated. This sense of treachery was like a thorn lodged deep within his flesh, its constant irritation serving as a relentless reminder that a girl he once trusted might have turned against her own blood–not only would she be a traitor to the crown, but a traitor to her own flesh and blood, and that was unforgivable to Daemon.

He harbored a deep-seated hope that Daenera had not become the traitor her actions seemed to declare. In pursuit of clarity, he had dispatched ravens to his friends and allies within King’s Landing, alongside a rider who was tasked to penetrate the heart of the capital within a fortnight, all to unearth the veritable truth of Daenera’s circumstances–not only to soothe his wife’s restless worry for her daughter, but to ease his own.

He was acutely aware of Rhaenyra and Jace’s hesitation to label Daenera as a usurper or betrayer, understanding their reluctance stemmed from a place of love and denial. Yet, Daemon saw their unyielding belief as a potential vulnerability. He positioned himself as the counterbalance to their blind faith, armed with skepticism and suspicion. His resolve was clear: to ascertain Daenera’s loyalty, or lack thereof. Until then, he would anchor his family with caution and readiness to confront whatever truth lay waiting.

“Regardless of where her loyalties lie, Daenera will become a pawn, a means for the Greens to bend Rhaenyra to their will,” Daemon declared, his voice imbued with a somber intensity. “A war is upon us, one that has already begun, even if your mother denies it, one that goes beyond the mere exchange of letters. It will be a war fought with steel and fire and blood. A war that will decide the true ruler of the Iron Throne.”

Jace held firm, unwavering in his conviction, “Still, we cannot act against the Queen’s explicit orders. There’s no action to be taken while she labors bringing your child into the world.”

Daemon’s patience wore thin, and with a sigh that bore the weight of his frustration, he looked skyward in a clear sign of his exasperation. “Have you not heard a thing that I’ve said?”

“I’ve listened–” Jace began, but Daemon’s sharp gaze and stern demeanor cut him off, making it clear that such explanation fell short. His posture, authoritative and resolute, both hands resting on the pommel of his sword, signaled the depths of his annoyance that his message had seemingly gone unheard.

“We are on the cusp of war, Jace. Every moment we delay, every opportunity we squander, tips the balance further in favor of the Greens,” Daemon sneered, hoping to pierce the veil of idealism that seemed to shroud the young prince.

The air between them crackled with a palpable tension, embodying the struggle between adhering to orders and the necessity for immediate action, between youthful hope and the harsh realities of leadership. Daemon was fully aware of the idealistic lens through which Jace viewed their situation, nonetheless he felt the pressing need for firm, decisive measures.

“With Rhaenyra indisposed, the responsibility to act falls to us,” Daemon stated, his expression hardening. “My loyalty to your mother is unwavering, as it was for my brother. Yet, there are times when they might not grasp the necessity of certain actions or what must be done. It is then our duty to guide them to take the right course of action.”

Closing the gap between them, Daemon stood so close that Jace had to look up to maintain eye contact. He noted the rigid set of Jace’s jaw, indicative of the prince’s internal conflict. “Defending our birthright and legitimate claim requires tough decisions, decisions we’re obligated to make, even in the absence of direct orders. Failure to take action now will leave us at the mercy of the Greens.”

Jace’s response was a tight-lipped silence, a testament to the weight of Daemon’s argument and the complexity of the situation at hand.

“If we do not quickly secure the support from the great houses, we will soon find ourselves surrounded by men who have long forgotten their oaths,” Daemon continued. “Be assured, the Green snakes will undoubtedly court the favor of the great houses, sowing their venom far and wide. They will vilify your mother as the Great Whore of Dragonstone, and you, along with your siblings, will be denounced as bastards. Any claims you might have will be effectively nullified. The Greens will take every measure to eliminate any challenge to Aegon’s rule.”

The young prince’s gaze drifted to the sea, gritting his teeth as though holding back his response as he absorbed Daemon’s grim forecast. Yet, Daemon pressed further, needing him to understand the severity of the situation they were in, and what it meant to be a leader.

“What will it be? Are you still a boy, or have you become a man?” he prodded, aiming to reach the very depths of Jace’s resolve with a look sharp enough to cut through doubt. “If you remain a boy, then shrink away, clinging to your childlike fantasies as you might cling to your mother’s skirts.”

Stepping back, Daemon surveyed Jace more critically, “But if you are truly a man, then rise to the occasion, shoulder the burden of leadership, and make the bold decisions required.”

“Do not speak to me like you would a child,” Jace retorted furiously. “I am a man grown.”

“Then listen well, for leadership demands the strength of a man,” Daemon asserted, firmly. “For the common soldier, war may be straightforward, but for the leader, it is a labyrinth of difficult choices. You will be forced into corners where the decisions you make will determine the fates of those under your command–decisions that will weigh the lives of your men against the scales of victory. There will come a time when you must decide who among them to offer up in a sacrifice for the greater good. And know this: it could very well be someone you hold dear to your heart.”

His words carried the heavy truth of command, a burden that tested the resolve and moral fortitude of those who sought to lead–and as the heir, he would have to lead one day. Daemon’s gaze was unflinching, driving home the solemnity of the responsibility that came with command–emphasizing that war was not just in winning battles, but navigating the harrowing choices that could alter the course of history

Jace’s countenance dipped slightly, his gaze lifting to meet Daemon’s through the veil of his eyelashes, a silent acknowledgement of the profound burden those words imposed upon him.

“I don’t want to lose my sister,” he confessed, the vulnerability in his voice reflecting the fear of a brother who loves his sister.

“I, too, do not want to lose your sister,” Daemon admitted, his voice suddenly wrought with the weariness he had attempted to keep at bay. The burden of regret and fatigue pressed heavily upon him, and for a fleeting moment, he allowed himself the luxury of closing his eyes, surrendering to the weight of what might have been–a silent acknowledgement of his oversight not to bring Daenera to Dragonstone with them, or leaving King’s Landing entirely.

How different would it have been then?

When he reopened his eyes, his gaze settled on Jace, whose young face was marred by concern. The set of the boy’s brows and the firm line of his lips betrayed his attempt at maintaining stoicism, a look so reminiscent of Daenera under stress. Yet, where Daenera’s worry would manifest in the relentless dance of her fingers, Jace’s was in the tightness of his expression–a silent echo of familiar concern.

“Your sister possesses a sharp mind,” Daemon attempted to provide solace to Jace, albeit knowing the truth of Daenera’s perilous situation in King’s Landing, amidst the vipers. “She is also spiteful–she will be of great annoyance to the Hightowers.”

A subtle smile touched Jace’s lips, a reflection of Daemon’s own, as he said, “I have every faith in her resilience and her ability to persevere.”

Daemon recalled Daenera’s spitefulness, evident from the very first encounter at Laena’s funeral. Her defiant scowl towards Vaemond, amidst his thinly veiled slanders, while her comforting grip on her supposed father’s hand. He had seen her strength and courageous stance against the Queen on the night Aemond lost his eye to the skirmish with her brother. And he had seen the sharpness of her mind that evening when she had come to him demanding answers upon the marriage to her mother–none of the other children dared to question it, but she had.

Throughout the six years they lived together as a family on Dragonstone, Daenera had consistently demonstrated her fierce loyalty and a profound understanding of her duties–and he had come to see her as a daughter. It was for this reason Daemon had trusted her to go to King’s Landing. He had believed her capable of withstanding whatever poison the snakes of house Hightower threw her way. However, he hadn’t anticipated that one of those serpents would not not only infiltrate her chambers but also her bed, seducing her with honeyed lies and false promises.

Had it been anyone else, Daemon might have been more forgiving.

Daemon released a weary breath, feeling the last day's turmoil claw at him, settling as a pounding behind his eyes. “Losing your sister is not something I want either, but if she has sided against us–should she prove to be a traitor, we must accept that she has already been lost.”

Daemon’s gaze drifted towards the bay, observing the distant approach of the ship emblazoned with the sigil of House Massey–a vivid display of a triple spirals in the hues of red, green, and blue, set against the backdrop of the white sails, making their way from the south.

Doubt had taken root in him when Daenera had shattered his trust, and that suspicion had only deepened with time, questioning her loyalty. He hoped that she remained true, yet the harsh circumstance of the situation forced him to brace for the possibility of her betrayal. He wished against it, but duty and caution nudged him to consider that she might indeed have turned against them.

“If we do not act, your losses will extend far beyond a sister,” Daemon intoned, his voice carrying the weight of what they faced. “You will lose your inheritance, and your life will be forfeit, you can be sure of that. Should the Greens achieve what they wanted, all our lives will be lost. Your mother, your brothers–Luke, Joffrey, Aegon, Viserys. All of us, none will be spared. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Jace responded, his voice heavy with it. The urgency in Daemon’s warning seemed to resonate deeply, finally setting in. “But, what if she hasn’t betrayed us?”

“Then she remains a hostage, set to marry Aemond,” Daemon conceded, acknowledging one of the deep-seated concerns that nurtured his doubts–the arranged marriage to Aemond. This was the man for whom she had killed her first husband, burying the alliance she was meant to keep. While Daemon reserved judgment for the murder of her husband, it was her love for Aemond that constituted her gravest transgression, severing the trust between them.

“Assuming your sister is a hostage, her union with Aemond wouldn’t change her loyalty to us. And if she remains loyal to us, she would understand and ensure that nothing comes of this union.”

“You mean a child…” There was a blend of anger and revulsion in the utterance.

“Indeed, a child,” Daemon acknowledged with a grave nod. “A child would complicate things–and I’m sure your sister knows this.” He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle. “If she remains true to us, she’ll prevent any offspring from this union.”

A child would complicate matters significantly, binding her irrevocably to Aemond and the Greens. Such an event would blur the lines of her loyalty, anchoring her to their cause. The conception of a child would, in essence, be an act of betrayal, entwining her fate with theirs in a manner too intricate to unravel.

Jace, however, was quick to contest, “You’re assuming she would have a choice in the matter. What if Aemond were to force himself upon her?”

Daemon acknowledged the grim reality, “She’s aware of ways to avoid having a child–”

“But he would still be raping her!”

Daemon’s expression hardened, a storm brewing behind his calm exterior. “If Aemond truly cares for her, he wouldn’t resort to such an act. But if he does…” His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. “Then we shall ensure that his end is both slow and excruciating.”

“My prince…” A subdued voice broke through the tension, emerging weakly from behind them. As Daemon turned to identify the source, he saw Lady Elinda Massey standing on the battlements, her figure outlined against the wind that tousled her red gown. Her expression, laden with worry and sadness, bore signs of recent tears, evidenced by the slight reddening around her eyes and the tip of her nose.

A feeling of dread descended upon Daemon, prompting him to inquire in a hushed tone, “Rhaenyra, has she… has she passed?”

“No,” Elinda responded, her posture tensed as if bracing against the chill, “She’s still with us. She’s…”

Before she could continue, Jace, his breath coming in rapid succession as if he’d sprinted across the castle grounds, eagerly asked, “And the child? What of the babe?”

Closing the gap between them, Lady Elinda’s expression–a woven tapestry and empathy, fear and grief–ignited an unforeseen flicker of annoyance within Daemon. With a moment’s pause, her voice barely above a whisper, she delivered the heartrending news, “The birthing was fraught with difficulty, my Prince. It grieves me to say, the child… did not make it.”

At her words, Daemon closed his eyes, grappling with the news, “What happened?”

“The child was not… formed correctly. It seems unlikely it would have survived, even under different circumstances, and the maester believes that the child was lost before the princess even commenced her labor,” Elinda explained, her voice wavering, her hands clasping tightly together. “The princess is deeply affected by the loss. She refuses any form of care from us, and I am concerned that if she continues to remain in her current state, she’s at risk of falling ill with fever.”

Daemon’s gaze hardened into an icy stare, concealing his emotions beneath an even expression. The notion that his child was no longer of this world seemed unfathomable. He vividly recalled the gentle thumps against his palms, the unmistakable signs of life from within his wife’s womb. Those moments of quiet connection, his head bowing against her, feeling the stirrings of their unborn child, were too real, too filled with life to end this way.

Attempting to shift the focus, Elinda started, “Maybe if you–”

“Jace,” Daemon interrupted sharply, diverting his focus to the young prince, “have Baela land before the gale hits us, and inform Ser Brandon about Lord Massey’s imminent arrival. Ensure a contingent of guards is sent out for their reception.”

Jace’s response was a silent stare, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, a frown etching deeper into his expression as disbelief and shock took hold upon hearing Daemon’s commands. Daemon sensed the scorn radiating from Jace, its intensity almost tangible, pressing down on him with the force of silent condemnation. Jace’s eyes sharpened with censure, echoing unvoiced reproaches that seemed to reverberate through the charged atmosphere between them–accusations of absence and neglect that hung unspoken yet palpable: You should have been by her side. You ought to be with her now. Why weren’t you?

Without another word, Daemon pivoted, his steps firm and unyielding as she moved along the battlements. Jace’s voice trailed after him, “Daemon! Where are you going? She needs you! Come back!”

Yet, Daemon continued forward, undeterred.

Daemon walked along the battlements, each step echoing against the ancient stones, before entering one of the towering structures that pierced the skyline. Inside, he descended the spiral staircase, its steps worn by centuries of use, coiling downwards like the innards of some great beast. Crossing the open expanse of the courtyard, his silhouette cut a solitary figure against the backdrop of the castle’s imposing walls. Without hesitation, he veered towards an internal staircase, embarking on a descent into the deeper, shadow-laden recesses of the keep, where light of day scarcely touched. The further he ventured, the more pronounced the scent of the ocean became, mingling with the chill that seemed to cling to the cavernous walls.

He found himself drawn towards the sea, facing the brunt of the wind as it lashed against him, and listening to the ceaseless rhythm of the waves that shattered the stifling silence enveloping Dragonstone.

The horizon was as dark and foreboding as the stone walls of the castle, heavy with the promise of an impending gale as it rolled in from the sea. The last rays of sunlight fought their way through the thickening cloud cover in streaks of gold. The sun, in its slow descent, painted a faint glow across the landscape, its light waning but still casting a soft illumination against the encroaching darkness that threatened to envelop Dragonstone and everything within.

With each step on the sandy beach, his progress slowed, the grains clinging to his boots, seeming to anchor him with their weight, and in a fluid motion, Daemon drew his sword and planted it firmly into the sand, the blade flashing briefly. The leather belt and sheath were quickly shed, left to reside beside the sword embedded in the sand.

As though compelled by an unseen force, he waded into the churning waters, advancing until the waves lashed against his knees. A primal scream tore from his throat, raw and guttural–full of loss and rage, the sound carried away by the sea’s own roar. Overwhelmed, he succumbed to his knees, the sodden weight of his garments dragging him downwards as the ocean encircled him, indifferent to his mourning as it embraced him.

The waves battered against Daemon’s sunken form the same way it relentlessly crashed against the shore. The chill of the water penetrated him, sank into his bones and settled there, as his gaze fixed on the turbulent dance around him–dark, gray waters interspersed with relentless white froth. He had not even had the time or ability to mourn his brother before this–he felt the loss of him as only a brother could, but his death had not surprised him. His brother’s decline had been long, transforming him over the years into a distant, cherished memory rather than a constant presence, effectively estranged by Viserys’s actions long before his passing.

Daemon would have gone to him, had he been called, but the Greens had robbed him of his brother long before death claimed him.

And now, they had robbed him of his child as well.

Daemon harbored a conviction that the turmoil surrounding her father’s death and the usurpation of her rightful claim had cast a shadow over the unborn child, corrupting it within the womb.

Wave after wave battered him, the water’s force against his chest, his attire plastered to his form. Daemon mustered the strength to stand, to fight against the drag of his soaked clothes and the beach’s resistance, his boots heavy with sand and water. He managed only a few steps towards the shore’s boundary before the sand ensnared him once more, forcing him to his knees.

The grief of losing a child was a familiar torment, yet the anguish over this particular loss carved through him with a raw, unprecedented intensity. It ignited a fierce, consuming blaze within his chest, a pain profound and uniquely agonizing.

Amidst the relentless surge of waves, the solitude was pierced by Caraxes’ eerie call, a sound that resonated with the depth of Daemon’s despair. Perched high upon the cliffs, the dragon remained a silent witness to its rider’s grief, its gaze fixed upon him.

In his torment, Daemon buried his fingers into the damp embrace of the sand, desperately seeking something tangible amidst his grief. The coarse grains, unyielding beneath his battle-hardened hands, clung to him as he clutched the fleeting solidity of the earth, even as the relentless waves washed over him. Each surge of water not only drenched him further but also rinsed the sand from his grasp, leaving his hands empty and washed clean.

A surge of rage overwhelmed him, and with a guttural cry, he released his sorrow into the vastness, his voice tearing through the quiet, a raw challenge to the ocean’s incessant din.

Spent, he allowed himself to fall back against the saturated sand, the world tilting precariously as he stared up into the sky. The sun, which had been a beacon of light, now retreated behind the advancing army of clouds, reflecting the shadow that loomed over his soul.

Daemon lingered on the sand, his eyes cast upward to the ever-darkening sky, surrendering to the relentless caress of the waves that leached the warmth from his body, leaving him hollow. He forced himself to sit upright, his eyes drawn to the line where the tumultuous sea kissed the stormy horizon. In his heart, he named the Hightowers makers of his misery–they who had poisoned his brother against him, who had conspired with the council to usurp them, and who had stolen the life of his child, corrupting it within the womb. Their treachery knew no bounds it would seem.

The anger within him surged and receded with the waves’ rhythm, engulfing him until he felt nothing but a chilling emptiness. That emptiness rang hollow, seemed to reverberate with a dark echo–a vow of retribution, a vow of vengeance.

Inhaling deeply, Daemon collected his resolve. He stood and walked towards the cavern from which he came. With determined strides, he pulled the blade out of the sand and sheathed it, its weight a comforting presence in his hand. He walked back through the cave and up the steps towards the keep.

The silence that pervaded the halls of Dragonstone was suffocating. This was not the serene quiet of peace but a dense, burdensome quietude steeped in grief, pervading every crevice and shadow with its sorrowful grasp. The echo of his footsteps in the empty halls rang out in the solitude. Each step towards their chambers, the quietude seemed to grow louder with its emptiness, his boots leaving a trail of his somber journey. The doors to their bedchambers, once a gateway to solace, now stood as a daunting threshold to a realm of sorrow and loss.

Pausing at the threshold of the chamber he shared with his wife, Daemon found himself unable to move any further as his eyes settled on his wife. Positioned on the ground, she swayed gently, enveloping their lifeless child in her arms, her voice tenderly humming a lullaby. His heart seemed to cease beating for a moment as he watched her continue rocking their child, humming to it as though it could hear her.

The surrounding midwives bore expressions mingled with pity and sorrow, yet Daemon’s attention remained on Rhaenyra–there was a devastation in her tenderness, and a despair in the way she mused to the child.

Compelled by a strength he scarcely felt, Daemon took measured steps towards her and with deliberate care, he descended to his weary knees at her side. Extending a hand, he tenderly brushed her skin, which, though pale, felt warm against the cold that had entrenched itself within him. Her acknowledgement of his presence was fleeting; her gaze lifted to his before it was drawn back to the silent figure she cradled.

As Daemon looked over her shoulder, his gaze fell upon the tragic form nestled within his wife’s arms: a tiny being, grievously misshapen and sightless, with scales and strangely reptilian features.

The sight clenched Daemon’s heart with a cold grip. The child, marked by such profound deformities, bore the unmistakable sign of a life that would have been mercilessly brief, had it even begun. The child was an abomination. With this harsh acknowledgement, Daemon found a sliver of mercy in the fact that it had not endured the cruelty of life.

Rhaenyra continued her gentle, rhythmic sway with the child, lost in a world of grief and silent contemplation–a wordless lament that filled the air with an unbearable weight of unspoken sorrow.

“We must burn it,” she finally uttered, her voice a broken whisper.

In response, Daemon closed the distance between them, offering a kiss to her temple and resting his head against hers.

“It was a girl,” she whispered into the silence.

A girl. Another daughter. Their daughter–their only daughter.

“Visenya,” Rhaenyra breathed out, her fingers lightly caressing the lifeless form swaddled in a thick blanket. “I’ve always dreamed of a Visenya–Daenera nearly bore that name, but I named her after you…”

Daemon closed his eyes, a knot forming in his throat. “Visenya, second of her name. She would have been as fierce as her namesake.”

Rhaenyra lamented in a low murmur, “So much has been taken from us. My right to rule, Daenera, and now, our daughter–our Visenya.”

In response, Daemon’s embrace tightened, his lips brushing her temple in a whisper of a kiss. “We will rescue your daughter and we will reclaim what is rightfully ours. They will rue the day they set their eyes upon the throne.”

Rhaenyra’s voice was laden with exhaustion as she spoke, barely a whisper, “I don’t wish to talk of war and succession.”

The vibrant spark that once lit in her eyes now seemed extinguished, replaced by a profound weariness and the sheen of sorrow. She glared up at him in silent reproach, before returning her eyes to the babe.

“Princess,” came Elinda Massey’s gentle interjection, her expression one of deep sympathy. “The Silent Sisters should tend to her preparations.”

“No, I shall see to it myself,” Rhaenyra answered, determination weaving into her expression. Her voice lowered to a soft murmur. “She is mine to care for.”

“You should rest, Princess,” Elinda said, attempting to coax the princess to hand over the child, but a firm look from Rhaenyra stifled her efforts.

Rhaenyra’s imploring eyes met Daemons, seeking his support. Daemon drew in a measured breath, then acknowledged her wish with a nod. He helped her to stand, his hand supporting her as they prepared to make their way through the halls.

Their progress was measured and painstakingly slow, with Rhaenyra’s every movement betraying her fragility, each step accompanied by a faint exhalation of discomfort. Perspiration coated her pallid skin, which had lost the warmth it once held, now replaced by a cold that matched the air around them. Daemon’s arms encircled her, providing her a steadying presence, ensuring she remained upright as they moved forward, while she cradled their child close to her chest.

Nestled deep within the castle, the Silent Sister’s chambers exuded a bone-deep chill that seemed impervious to the flickering warmth of the heart that burned brightly. The room’s dimly lit corners appeared to cradle the cold, as if the ghostly presences lurked just beyond sight, their icy fingers trailing whispers of unease.

Upon their entrance, the Sisters, with their faces partially obscured by veils, turned their attention to Daemon and Rhaenyra as they entered. Each of them carried a banner of the Seven-pointed star. The Silent Sisters carried themselves with an air of solemnity, sworn to a life of silence and keeping vigil over those who had passed. This aspect, their pervasive silence coupled with an air of implicit judgment, unsettled Daemon profoundly. They seemed spectral, akin to phantoms themselves–shifting shadows that dwelled in the liminal space between life and death, their presence an ever-present whisper of mortality.

Daemon released Rhaenyra’s hand, stepping back to meld with the chamber’s shadows, observing as she moved towards the table. Each step seemed to carry the weight of her loss, her form outlined against the slender beams of light that managed to pierce through the room’s tall, narrow windows–the last slivers before disappearing entirely. Rain began to plet the windows and a low rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance.

The chamber was permeated with heavy, lingering dampness, the air tainted with the unmistakable, pervasive scent of mortality. Attempts to mask this grim reality with dried herbs and burning incense only succeeded in creating a thick, almost suffocating atmosphere that seemed to stick in the throat.

Daemon’s damp clothes clung to him, a discomfort magnified by the bone-deep cold that seemed to seize the very air around him. He watched in silence, a solemn observer, as his wife gently unwrapped their child from its swaddling. Each of her breaths was a battle against the surge of grief that threatened to overcome her. The sorrow that marred her countenance seemed to cast a heavy, dark veil over her, aging her with its profound shadow.

Rhaenyra dipped the sponge into a bowl filled with water, subsequently caressing the infant’s skin with it. Her movements were gentle and deliberate, imbued with a tenderness that spoke of the love she held for the child. In her actions, there seemed to be a silent hope, a desperate wish that this act of cleansing might undo the finality of their loss, erase the marks of their child’s brief existence. The spine, dragging up the remnants of birth, gradually tainted the water in the bowl, muddying the clarity with a silent testament to what was and what might have been.

Daemon swallowed thickly, a knot forming in his throat as his heart contorted with pain as he silently observed his wife’s solemn rites for their child. The pressure of his fingernails against his palm served as a grim reminder, anchoring him to the moment as he stared at her with a sharp form of detachment.

After Rhaenyra had meticulously cleansed their child, delicately erasing any traces of birth, she tenderly wrapped the infant in cloth. With a gentleness that belied the tragedy of the moment, she cradled the still form, wrapping it securely before placing it back on the table, now enveloped in the soft embrace of cloth, hidden from the cruel gaze of the world.

It was at this moment that Rhaenyra seemed to allow her grief to surge forth unbridled. Tears cascaded down her cheeks, her visage crumbling under the weight of her sorrow, a visual echo of her heart fracturing anew.

Leaning heavily against the table, a sob wracked her body, the sound raw and heartrending. She then sank to her knees in a posture of utter desolation before their swaddled child. Her hands, shaking with the force of her sorrow, lingered in the air before tenderly enveloping the tiny form. In a final act of maternal love, she brushed a kiss across the covered feet of their daughter, a gesture of farewell steeped in anguish and love.

The sight of his wife crumbling cut through Daemon–a profound despair sharp as a blade sinking between his ribs, leaving an indelible mark of sorrow on his heart.

Rhaenyra rested her forehead against the table’s edge, her hand pressed firmly over her mouth in a futile attempt to silence her sobs. Daemon crossed the room then, in quiet determination and knelt beside his wife. He wrapped his arms around her, offering the support she needed. Her fingers grasped desperately at the damp material of his doublet, clinging to him as if he were the last thread that kept her from falling into the depths of her despair. He held her close, his lips finding the crown of her head in a soft, reassuring gesture as he swallowed the pain of his own grief.

“We must get you to bed,” he whispered softly. “I refuse to lose you as well.”

Daemon carefully positioned her arm around his neck while sliding his own arm under her knees, preparing to lift her. As he raised her from the cold, hard floor, the weight of her form pressed heavily against his fatigued muscles, each movement stiff with the chill that had seeped into his bones. Yet, he held her securely, transporting her with unwavering resolve along the shadowed corridors of Dragonstone.

Upon reaching their room, he gently lowered her onto the bed with a care that belied his own physical discomfort.

“The midwives will look after you now,” Daemon told Rhaenyra, his voice a mixture of reassurance and command as he gestured subtly to the waiting attendants, signaling them to proceed with their duties.

Rhaenyra did not respond, she merely stared out into emptiness, a weary expression on her face.

“I’ll return soon, my love,” Daemon softly promised, sealing his vow with a gentle kiss upon her forehead before stepping back to allow the attendants to care for her.

Once he had shed the cling of his wet garments for dry attire, Daemon made his way back to their shared quarters, meeting maester Gerardys at the doors.

“My condolences for your loss, my prince.”

“Has lord Massey arrived yet?” Daemon asked pointedly, disregarding the condolences.

“Yes, Lord Massey has arrived, as has Lord Staunton,” the maester informed him. “They’ve been accommodated in the west wing of the keep and have been notified of the recent events… “

Daemon’s response was a gaze of steely resolve. “Inform everyone that the funeral for our daughter will be held on the morrow.”

“Understood, my prince,” Maester Gerardys acquiesced.

“And what of King’s Landing? Any word?” Daemon inquired, his voice carrying a hint of underlying tension.

“No news, my prince,” came the reply.

With a sharp nod, Daemon dismissed the maester, his expression unreadable as he turned towards the bedchambers. There, he found Rhaenyra enveloped in the bedding, her hair spilling across the pillow in waves of silver, her gaze lost to the gale raging beyond their window. The relentless downpour and the mournful wail of the wind created a symphony of sorrow that mirrored the turmoil within.

Silently, Daemon joined her on the bed, enveloping her in his embrace. He kissed her temple, sharing the heat of his own body in a silent offering of comfort. Rhaenyra remained still, her reaction to his closeness imperceptible, but he did not press for acknowledgement. Instead, he chose simply to be there, a steadfast presence in the midst of their shared desolation.

Tears began to fall from the corner of her eye, like the rain pouring down outside, as if the gods themselves grieved with them.

And heres for Next chapter: It's not done yet, and so far its around fucking 19K words as we follow the funeral, the green envoy, the black council pt2+pt3, a Rhaenys/Corlys scene and the deleted Jace/Rhaenyra scene. So... It will likely be cut into 2 parts, and I will update one on Fridays and hopefully again Monday, and then Friday again--depending on how far I've gotten with editing the chapter after 75 (which is then 75-76, and then 78 as a new chapter)

#a vow of blood #hotd #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen x oc

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