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kandlewick · 9 months ago

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everyone awoke to malleus defeated. except for you meant to be read as platonic malleyuu but can be read as romantic.

Malleus could hardly breathe. every inhale felt like it was too small, like the air surrounding him was too thin. His lungs were empty, barren, and dry. And then he would exhale. a shaky breath. It rattled his bones and burned in his chest. As if nothing but flames raged in his insides. Before him laid a friend, a betrayed comrade, someone who put too much trust in the wrong people. You. You were asleep there, in a bed of thorns and roses, nestled deep and safe. Each petal cradled your cheek like a picture frame and you were a work of art. It all felt so clinical, so far away that Malleus could hardly tear his eyes away from your sleeping form. while constricted by vines to your familiar bed in ramshackle, no thorns pierced your skin. you knew no pain lying there. only dreams. It hardly felt real.

Malleus had made a mistake. He knew he had as soon as the blot began pouring from behind his tongue. but he couldn't stop it. the delirium. it poured out of him like a cracked glass of sand. In those fleeting moments, nothing had mattered more to him. The blot retched every single negative emotion out of his soul, bearing it for the world to bear witness to. And he was ashamed.

but you and the others had succeeded against him, saving all of your classmates and himself from the curse of eternal slumber. One by one, they all began awakening. Eyelids fluttering in the new morning sun. He awoke to the sound of laughter and cheers while he laid there on the broken floor, alone and empty and so so cold. Quietly, Malleus raised his head to thank? Curse? The Ramshackle prefect that laid beside him.

only, you remained there. asleep. too far gone and too far deep for anyone to reach out to. it was like your soul and body were separated, torn asunder. the only sign of life was your chest moving up and down from the breath that filled your lungs. At the moment, Malleus thought perhaps you were simply exhausted, with the heavy bags under your eyes and the pale complexion dusting your cheeks. Like the others, he thought that you only needed more rest. But days passed and there were still no signs of life behind those closed eyes. The teachers talked amongst themselves, unwilling or perhaps unable to offer any sort of explanation. There were talks about asking for assistance from other bodies but they were quick to be shot down. It seemed like nobody knew what to do with you. Or… your body.

Nobody took it well.

Malleus in particular had ceased his studies, locking himself away in your room in Ramshackle. Ace and Deuce would appear on occasion, Grim in tow, but the three were quick to make themselves scarce once Malleus made it clear he was not leaving your bedside. He sat there for hours, uncaring of the passing of time as night became morning and dawn became dusk. What were mere days to a nigh immortal fae. If this was his curse, to watch the one human who befriended him and suffered for it waste away from his own folly, then so be it. Every morning, like clockwork, he sat there. Unflinching. Unmoving. Like a gargoyle. His eyes were empty and red, long dried from tears but he couldn’t drag himself away from you - he refused to even think of calling you a corpse.

This day was like any other. He sat there beside you, his hands in his lap, the book he had foolishly planned to humor to read had been cast aside long forgotten, but for some reason the sight of you there pricked at his heart more than before. His voice came out quiet, weak from disuse, but he made an effort all the same.

“My child of man.” he croaked, his tone heavy with shame and sadness, “I will not ask you for forgiveness.”

He took a shaky breath. Hesitantly, he reached out with a weak hand and clasped your own. The thorns around you pricked him and drew blood, but he paid no mind to it. He felt nothing. Numb. Malleus choked back tears as he pulled your hands close to his chest and against his still beating heart. He lowered his head in agony as he confessed like a convict at death’s door. “What I have done to you is unforgivable.”

He held you to him. Like if he held onto you tight enough, you wouldn’t fall even more to pieces. “You were my first true friend, my closest companion. The only one who treated me as if I was an equal…” He bit back a sob as he tried to cradle his face between his hands, desperate for your touch to once again warm his bones. But there was nothing. Only the cold. “And now I’ve lost you.”

“And not a day shall pass in the centuries that I am cursed to live will I ever forget your smile.” Then with an almost reverent touch, the prince brought your hand to his lips and pressed a delicate kiss to the back of your hand. His lips stayed there, the taste of salt and skin filling his tongue, but he made no effort to move while he cried.

So far gone was he that he never noticed the batting of eyelashes, the furrowed brows, or the intake of breath. So far gone that it wasn’t until he felt your hand, tiny and weak, press against his dark hair, did he lift his head.

“Good morning, Hornton.”

#twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland reader #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #reader insert #malleus draconia #malleus x reader #i love platonic malleyuu ok #also hes quoting maleficent from her movie and i love platonic love so sosososo much #also hornton is OBJECTIVELY the funnier name i stand by this

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nuadha-airgeadlamh · 10 months ago

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godhood and the nature of the world

For me some of the most interesting dialogue delivered in the DLC comes from Ymir when you ask him about the nature of the world:

"I fear that you have borne witness to the whole of it. The conceits – the hypocrisy – of the world built upon the Erdtree. The follies of men. Their bitter suffering. Is there no hope for redemption? The answer, sadly, is clear. There never was any hope. They were each of them defective. Unhinged, from the start. Marika herself. And the fingers that guided her. And this is what troubles me. No matter our efforts, if the roots are rotten, …then we have little recourse."

Immediately upon hearing this dialogue I thought of the item description for the Mending Rune of Perfect Order:

"The current imperfection of the Golden Order, or instability of ideology, can be blamed upon the fickleness of the gods no better than men. That is the fly in the ointment."

I think Ymir and Goldmask are essentially stating the same fundamental ideas here, and that these ideas hit upon a key theme of the entire game: human beings should not become gods.

Marika's traumatic origins are laid bare at the Bonny and Shaman Villages. The extermination of her people through such disturbing means no doubt left her horribly scarred. The spirit in the Whipping Hut spells out how the Potentates treated the Shaman:

"For pity's sake, your place is in the jar. Nigh-sainthood itself awaits your within. For shamans like you, this is your lot. Life were you accorded for this alone."

And the Minor Erdtree incantation demonstrates her bereavement:

Marika bathed the village of her home in gold, knowing full well that there was no one to heal.

We know, too, from Ymir that the Fingers were just as broken as Marika, the children of an abandoned mother.

"Do you recall what I said? That Marika, and the fingers that guided her, were unsound from the start. Well, the truth lies deeper still. It is their mother who is damaged and unhinged. The fingers are but unripe children. Victims in their own right. We all need a mother, do we not? A new mother, a true mother, who will not give birth to further malady."

And the Staff of the Great Beyond gives us further context behind this:

The Mother received signs from the Greater Will from the beyond of the microcosm. Despite being broken and abandoned, she kept waiting for another message to come.

Marika's ascension to godhood placed a traumatized person in a position of ultimate power. Yes, the Hornsent did terrible, unspeakable things to the Shaman people and employed a truly brutal inquisition, but there is no excuse for what Marika did to them through her Crusade. There is no excuse for what she did to the Hornsent, or to the Fire Giants, or to any of the victims of the Golden Order's colonizing mission. The game makes this abundantly clear. Did Hornsent's wife and child deserve to die by Messmer's flames? Does the Hornsent Grandam deserve to remain alone and abandoned, her home crumbling around her? What about the Dried Bouquet, a talisman you find in Belurat:

A quaint bouquet of dried flowers, offered to a small grave.

Raises attack power when a spirit you have summoned dies.

The sorrow that flows from the untimely demise of a loved one is a tenderness shared by all, regardless of birthplace.

The game even draws parallels between the Hornsent Inquisition and the Golden Order's torture methods in the description of the Ash of War: Golden Crux on the Greatsword of Damnation:

Leap up and skewer foe from overhead. If successful, the weapon's barbs unfold to excruciate from within; else, additional input releases barbs in the area. There is something of the Golden Order in the sight of those fixed upon this crux.

After dark, does Limgrave not fill with the screams of the crucified? There is no perfect society— there is no society whose crimes warrant absolute extermination. By giving her the capacity for limitless violence, godhood has made Marika into the perpetrator of some of the greatest crimes in the Lands Between.

We see this effect happening in real time through Miquella's story. While his ideology may initially seem admirable — redemption for those oppressed by the Golden Order, redemption for the Hornsent — on his road to godhood, he abandons everything that matters. The path to godhood is an inherently dehumanizing process and requires of Miquella for him to cast aside everything that makes him him.

Ymir says about Miquella that:

"Ever-young Miquella saw things for what they were. He knew that his bloodline was tainted. His roots mired in madness. A tragedy if ever there was one. That he would feel compelled to renounce everything. When the blame…lay squarely with the mother."

What I believe Ymir is articulating here is that Miquella seeks to atone for his mother's crimes and remove the corrupt order by usurping her position as god, even though he personally is not to blame for these deeds. Hornsent states similar ideas:

"Miquella has said as much himself – he wishes now to throw it all away. He says the act – though undoubtedly painful – will sear clean the Erdtree’s wanton sin. The truth of his claim can be found at each cross. Tis evidence enough to earn my belief."

"Uphold his covenant Miquella shall, and in godhood redeem our rueful clan. Then Marika, and vilest Erdtree both, will at last be from divinity wrench’d."

But in order to replace Marika, Miquella must also commit terrible crimes: he abandons his other half, he beguiles even those who would oppose him into being his very own blind followers. He charmed Mohg and violated his corpse, and Radahn's consent in this whole matter is dubious. In trying to make up for Marika's atrocities by becoming god of a new, kinder age, Miquella leaves behind a whole host of his own sins.

I believe that "the conceits – the hypocrisy – of the world built upon the Erdtree" and "the fickleness of the gods no better than men" are addressing this same idea. Miquella and Marika are no more special or inherently better than anyone else; they become fickle gods and establish hypocritical orders because no human being is perfect enough to wield absolute power with an even hand. Even Ymir himself falls prey to this thinking: he believes he can be a better mother than the ones before him, but he is just as broken as he rightfully points out they were.

This theme goes hand-in-hand with the story's emphasis on the Tarnished as the new inheritors of the Lands Between. From the very beginning, it establishes that it is the Tarnished who are chosen to succeed Radagon as Elden Lord, not the demigods. The intro cinematic announces this:

"Arise now, ye Tarnished. Ye dead, who yet live. The call of long-lost grace speaks to us all. Hoarah Loux, chieftan of the badlands. The ever-brilliant Goldmask. Fia, the Deathbed Companion. The loathsome Dung Eater. And Sir Gideon Ofnir, the All-knowing. And one other. Whom grace would again bless. A Tarnished of no renown. Cross the fog, to the Lands Between. To stand before the Elden Ring. And become the Elden Lord."

Enia translates for the Fingers that the Greater Will itself has abandoned the demigods:

"The Greater Will has long renounced the demigods. Tarnished, show no mercy. Have their heads. Take all they have left."

We the "Tarnished of no renown" enter the story at a major crossroads. The time of fickle Marika and her warring demigods is over: by the time we defeat Radagon and the Elden Beast, she is only an empty husk. We are ushering in a new age in which gods are no longer the primary overlords of the Lands Between, in which the power is vested in ordinary people.

I think the array of endings offered up to us further demonstrates this point. Every unique ending, save one, is based around the ideology of a Tarnished, whether it be Goldmask, Fia, Dungeater, or you as the Lord of Frenzied Flame. The only ending themed around a demigod is Ranni's. I've seen people complain before about how you can't side with the demigods and bring about the worlds they envision —Mohg's Age of Blood, Miquella's Age of Compassion, Rykard's destruction of the very gods themselves— but I think this goes against the primary themes of Elden Ring's story. The time of Marika and her demigods is over: now rises the age of the Tarnished. This is why Ranni succeeds where her siblings fail: she wants no power for herself because she, too, recognizes that nothing good can come of a human becoming a god. She explains as much:

"_Mine will be an order not of gold, but the stars and moon of the chill night. I would keep them far from the earth beneath our feet. As it is now, life, and souls, and order are bound tightly together, but I would have them at great remove. And have the certainties of sight, emotion, faith, and touch… All become impossibilities."

Ranni does not wish to become the god of the Greater Will and the worshipped figurehead of the Golden Order. She wishes to set herself apart so that she cannot interfere in the affairs of the Lands Between, unlike Marika and her regime. Ranni's ending reinforces the agency of the Tarnished, while Mohg and Miquella and Rykard's endings still focus around themselves.

Godhood is a dehumanizing force that turns individuals into the most corrupt versions of themselves; the main story sees us supplanting the old, rotten order of the gods as an exiled nobody.

And I think there's no better summation of these themes than Ansbach's dying words:

"Righteous Tarnished. Become our new lord. A lord not for gods, but for men."

#elden ring #shadow of the erdtree spoilers #count ymir #marika #queen marika the eternal

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connorsui · 4 months ago

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For without you... there's nothing

• All LADS Men x reader

He was unlike any other man, for his love was a force that defied reason, propriety, and the fragile order of the world. In his heart, there was no room for moderation or restraint where you were concerned. It was not a love that flourished in the quiet gardens of conventional affection, but one that burned with the intensity of a consuming fire, a love that would unmake the world if it dared to threaten you.

There was a certain desperation in the way his gaze lingered on you, as though the mere sight of you was both his salvation and his undoing. He could not look away, for to do so felt like a betrayal of the devotion he carried so earnestly. His every thought, his every breath, centered upon you, and when he beheld you, tears glistening like dew upon your cheeks, your whispered confession of love trembling in the air between you, it was as though the universe itself paused to bear witness to his devotion.

To lose you, even in the faintest imagining, was a prospect so unbearable that it eclipsed all rational thought. For what, he mused, was the value of the world, of all its fleeting splendors, if you were not in it? Such musings were not madness, nor folly, but the most profound truth he had ever known. You were his compass, his sanctuary, his divine purpose.

Were the heavens to collapse or the earth to crumble beneath his feet, it would not matter, so long as you were at his side. Indeed, the destruction of all creation would seem a trifle if it meant securing your safety. In you, he found the very essence of existence, a sanctity that rendered the rest of life’s concerns trivial by comparison.

And so, when his lips met yours, it was not merely a kiss...it was a vow. It was the silent pledge of a man who had forsaken all else for the one thing that truly mattered. His hands, trembling with the weight of his emotions, cradled your face with a tenderness that belied the ferocity of his feelings. His heart swelled with the knowledge that you were his, even as the world beyond burned in inconsequence.

He was well aware that his love was neither balanced nor tempered by reason. It was a love that bordered on the unrighteous, that flouted the dictates of morality and sense. But how could he repent of it when it was as much a part of him as the air he breathed? If to love you so utterly was to fail, then he would fail gladly, for to love you less would be to deny the very essence of his being.

For you, he would forsake the sun, the stars, and the very heavens. And as his forehead pressed to yours, his voice a reverent murmur, he made his promise anew: you were his world, his life, his everything, and he would let all else burn before he let you go.

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mybeautifulchristianjourney · 2 years ago

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Every Wise Woman Builds Her House

1 Every wise woman buildeth her house: but the foolish plucketh it down with her hands.

2 He that walketh in his uprightness feareth the LORD: but he that is perverse in his ways despiseth him.

3 In the mouth of the foolish is a rod of pride: but the lips of the wise shall preserve them.

4 Where no oxen are, the crib is clean: but much increase is by the strength of the ox.

5 A faithful witness will not lie: but a false witness will utter lies.

6 A scorner seeketh wisdom, and findeth it not: but knowledge is easy to him that understandeth.

7 Go from the presence of a foolish man, when thou perceivest not in him the lips of knowledge.

8 The wisdom of the prudent is to understand his way: but the folly of fools is deceit.

9 Fools make a mock at sin: but among the righteous there is favor.

10 The heart knoweth its own bitterness; and a stranger doth not intermeddle with its joy.

11 The house of the wicked shall be overthrown: but the tabernacle of the upright shall flourish.

12 There is a way which seemeth right to a man, but the end of it are the ways of death.

13 Even in laughter the heart is sorrowful; and the end of that mirth is heaviness.

14 The backslider in heart shall be filled with his own ways: and a good man shall be satisfied from himself.

15 The simple believeth every word: but the prudent man looketh well to his going.

16 A wise man feareth, and departeth from evil: but the fool rageth, and is confident.

17 He that is soon angry dealeth foolishly: and a man of wicked devices is hated.

18 The simple inherit folly: but the prudent are crowned with knowledge.

19 The evil bow before the good; and the wicked at the gates of the righteous.

20 The poor is hated even by his own neighbor: but the rich hath many friends.

21 He that despiseth his neighbor sinneth: but he that hath mercy on the poor, happy is he.

22 Do they not err that devise evil? but mercy and truth shall be to them that devise good.

23 In all labor there is profit: but the talk of the lips tendeth only to penury.

24 The crown of the wise is their riches: but the foolishness of fools is folly.

25 A true witness delivereth souls: but a deceitful witness speaketh lies.

26 In the fear of the LORD is strong confidence: and his children shall have a place of refuge.

27 The fear of the LORD is a fountain of life, to depart from the snares of death.

28 In the multitude of people is the king’s honor: but in the want of people is the destruction of the prince.

29 He that is slow to wrath is of great understanding: but he that is hasty of spirit exalteth folly.

30 A sound heart is the life of the flesh: but envy the rottenness of the bones.

31 He that oppresseth the poor reproacheth his Maker: but he that honoreth him hath mercy on the poor.

32 The wicked is driven away in his wickedness: but the righteous hath hope in his death.

33 Wisdom resteth in the heart of him that hath understanding: but that which is in the midst of fools is made known.

34 Righteousness exalteth a nation: but sin is a reproach to any people.

35 The king’s favor is towards a wise servant: but his wrath is against him that causeth shame. — Proverbs 14 | Webster’s Bible Translation (WBT) The Holy Bible; Webster’s Bible Translation by Noah Webster, a revision of the King James Bible, Published in 1833 is in the public domain. Cross References: Leviticus 5:7; Ruth 4:11; 1 Samuel 2:36; 2 Samuel 19:7; Job 8:15; Job 21:25; Job 28:28; Psalm 16:11; Psalm 36:4; Psalm 41:1; Psalm 109:17; Psalm 144:14; Proverbs 1:5; Proverbs 2:15; Proverbs 10:22; Proverbs 11:30; Proverbs 12:6; Proverbs 17:4; Proverbs 19:4; Proverbs 19:23; Proverbs 23:9; Proverbs 29:11; Ecclesiastes 7:9; Isaiah 33:6; Habakkuk 3:16; Matthew 24:45; Matthew 25:40; Romans 6:21; 1 Corinthians 3:19; James 1:19; James 4:9; Revelation 1:5

#wisdom #folly #sin #consequences #righteousness #woman #faithful witness #laughter #sorrow #backsliding #Proverbs 14 #Book of Proverbs #Old Testament #WBT #Webster's Bible Translation

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twstowo · 1 year ago

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True Love Kiss But He Isn't The One [Housewardens+Jamil]

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗SYNOPSIS: You have fallen under a sleeping spell and only a kiss of true love can break it, he kisses you but you don’t wake up.

♡︎ Since I love angst I decided to write this

♡︎ I’m adding Jamil because this fits him so much not because im biased or anything like that

♡︎Warning: Angst, blood in Jamil’s part, Malleus is kinda yandere

♡︎Second part

⋆⋅☆Riddle

His gaze holds a pained expression as he watches you. Not seeing any reaction after kissing you, he waits, hoping the spell might take time to break. But as minutes pass, his heart beats fast, aching painfully as he begins fearing the worst—that he might not be the one you love. His head bows, fighting back tears.

You were his first love, someone who made him feel like no one else ever had. To him, you meant everything. Even if he's not the one, he stays by your side, tending to you. He refuses to let anyone else kiss you, unwilling to discover who your true love might be. Instead, he focuses on finding a potion or magical spell that could awaken you.

──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

⋆⋅☆Leona

He broke the lamp next to your bed. Consumed by heartbreak and rage, he couldn't control his emotions. Was it all a way to win his favor? Did you only care about his money? Did he hold no significance to you, despite your importance to him? Storming out of the room, he leaves you to your fate, vowing never to return. Someone else will need to assist you. He fears that if he ever lays eyes on you again, he might commit the gravest mistake of his life—doing something to make you despise him forever.

──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

⋆⋅☆Azul

He can't bring himself to look at you. He even kissed you twice, feeling devastated after seeing you not wake up from the first kiss. How could you do this to him? You made him feel so relaxed and open, sharing his deepest, darkest secrets that he wouldn't tell anyone else, only for him to realize he might not hold your heart. He isn't angry at you, he's angry at himself. He's not as great as he envisions himself to be, and you knew it. You'd always seen through his fake smiles.

He doesn't return to see you, but even after such heartbreak, his heart still belongs to you. He prepares a potion to break the spell. However, don't expect anything more from him.

──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

⋆⋅☆Kalim

He can't hold back his tears, convinced that something's amiss with the spell and that you truly love him. Jamil has to take him out of the room otherwise, he'd stay there until he witnesses you waking up. Thoughts of you consume him, he's willing to spare all his money for a potion that could awaken you. Even after you awaken, he won't leave your side. Despite knowing you may not reciprocate his feelings, he's determined to be there for you.

──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

⋆⋅☆Jamil

He's utterly disappointed in himself, feeling ashamed for even thinking that kissing you would alter anything. How foolish he was, how naive... He bites his lip so hard that blood drips onto the floor, his gaze fixed on your peaceful expression. He contemplates his love for you and the folly of ever hoping for your reciprocation. Storming out of the room, he's relieved no one saw him entering. You'll never discover that he had been there. You didn’t need to know how much he liked you.

──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

⋆⋅☆Vil

Vil handles this situation better than anyone else, he comprehends that your feelings for him don't mirror his own, and he's accepting of that. He seeks another way to awaken you, and when you regain consciousness, he'll be there to support you. Even though he didn't capture your heart before the spell, he's determined that he can certainly do so after.

──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

⋆⋅☆Idia

He locks himself inside his room, crying inconsolably. Not even Ortho can take him out. When he discovers that you're finally awake, he avoids learning how it happened, unwilling to entertain the possibility that someone other than him might have kissed you. Mustering all his courage to give you a kiss was a testament to his genuine love for you, a feeling that still lingers within him. He doesn’t know what to do with these emotions.

──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

⋆⋅☆Malleus

He truly believed that the two of you were destined for each other. The way you made him experience such unfamiliar emotions, feeling wanted and less lonely, all the hours spent talking, the gentle touches, and the enamored looks he'd give you—it had all been one-sided. He gazes at your sleeping face, knowing he possesses the power to wake you up with a spell. Yet, he hesitates. What if he awakens you, and you run to someone else instead of him? The mere thought is unbearable to him.

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novaursa · 4 months ago

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Caught by Fire

- Summary: A story where Daemon's daughter falls from the sky. And by some strange events orchestrated by fate, Otto catches you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Otto Hightower

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Next part: the daughter

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

The streets of King’s Landing were alive with noise and color as the festival in the lower city reached its peak. Crowds pressed against one another, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats, honeyed wine, and the tang of the Blackwater rushing nearby. Musicians played bawdy tunes on lutes and pipes, their notes dancing over the clamor of merchants hawking their wares. It was a scene Lord Otto Hightower had no intention of witnessing firsthand.

Yet here he was, against his better judgment, striding through the chaos, his brocade cloak trailing through the muck of the streets. Beside him, Lord Jasper Wylde, known for his rakish charm and devil-may-care attitude, laughed heartily at Otto’s perpetual scowl.

“Come now, Lord Hand,” Jasper chided, slapping Otto’s shoulder with mock camaraderie. “Even the most dour of men must loosen their chains every now and then. You’re beginning to make Ser Harrold Westerling look positively jovial.”

Otto’s glare was as cold as the winds of the Reach. “I’ve no business in this rabble. My duty is to the Crown, not to trifling entertainments.”

Jasper waved a dismissive hand. “The Crown will not collapse because the Hand of the King partakes in a cup of mulled wine and watches a few fire-eaters. If anything, it might remind the people that their lords are not entirely made of stone.”

Otto sighed heavily but allowed Jasper to lead him further into the throng. He was keenly aware of the eyes upon him—common folk staring with mixtures of awe and suspicion at the austere man in his fine attire. It was rare for a lord of Otto’s stature to mingle so closely with the smallfolk, and rarer still for the Hand of the King to do so.

As they turned a corner, Jasper grinned and pointed toward a colorful tent pitched near the edge of the square. A sign hanging from its entrance read, Madame Lysara: Seer of Fates, Whisperer of Truths.

“You must be joking,” Otto muttered, his tone flat.

“Not at all,” Jasper replied, already tugging him toward the tent. “What’s a festival without a bit of harmless folly? Let’s see what the stars have to say about the great and mighty Lord Hightower.”

“I’ve no patience for charlatans.”

“And I’ve no patience for your endless brooding,” Jasper countered, shooting Otto a wicked grin. “Humor me, my lord. Consider it penance for dragging you out of your tower.”

Reluctantly, Otto allowed himself to be ushered inside the tent. The interior was dimly lit by flickering candles, their wax pooling onto an intricately patterned rug. The air was heavy with the scent of incense, sweet and cloying. Madame Lysara, a woman of indeterminate age with piercing eyes and a dramatic cascade of silver hair, sat behind a low table strewn with cards, crystals, and curious trinkets.

“Ah,” she purred, her voice low and melodic. “A man of great stature, though burdened by the weight of his own making. Please, sit.”

Otto remained standing, his expression carved from granite. Jasper, on the other hand, plopped down onto a stool with the enthusiasm of a man half his age. “He’s a stubborn one, isn’t he?” Jasper quipped, jerking a thumb toward Otto.

“Such men often are,” Lysara said, her gaze never leaving Otto’s. “But the stars speak even to the unyielding.”

Otto crossed his arms. “I’ll not pay coin for empty words.”

“Then you risk hearing the truth for free,” Lysara retorted smoothly, drawing a card from her deck and placing it face-up on the table. The illustration depicted a tower struck by lightning, figures tumbling from its heights.

Jasper leaned forward, his curiosity piqued. “What does it mean?”

Lysara’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “A great change approaches—a shift that will shake the very foundation of his life. And at its heart, a woman.”

Otto’s brow furrowed, his patience wearing thin. “If this is your attempt at flattery, it’s wasted.”

“Not flattery, my lord,” Lysara said, her tone soft but insistent. She drew another card, this one showing a figure falling through the air, arms outstretched. “The woman destined for you will arrive as if from the heavens, a gift of fate. She will bring chaos, but also clarity. And you,” she added, fixing Otto with a penetrating look, “will catch her as she falls.”

Jasper let out a bark of laughter. “Falls from the heavens, you say? Well, Otto, I do hope you’re prepared to catch an angel.”

Otto’s lips pressed into a thin line. “This is nonsense.”

“Perhaps,” Lysara allowed, gathering her cards. “But nonsense often carries a grain of truth.”

Jasper clapped Otto on the back as they exited the tent, his laughter echoing into the night. “Well, my friend, it seems your days of solitude are numbered. A woman falling from the sky—what a sight that will be!”

Otto ignored him, his mind already dismissing the fortune-teller’s words as the drivel they were. Yet, as they walked back toward the Red Keep, a faint unease settled in his chest. He told himself it was the incense clinging to his clothes, the noise of the city, the sheer absurdity of it all.

But the image lingered: a figure falling, and his arms reaching out to catch her.

The day began like any other, the city bathed in pale sunlight, the streets bustling with their usual chaos. Lord Otto Hightower stood on the steps of the Great Sept, flanked by a small retinue of guards. A heated discussion with Lord Beesbury over tariffs had drawn him away from the Red Keep, and though Otto’s attention was fixed on matters of governance, his thoughts were distracted by the open sky above. The festival's fortune-teller, and her ridiculous prediction, had faded into the back of his mind. Yet, when his gaze drifted upward, he found himself momentarily lost in the endless expanse of blue.

“My lord,” Ser Arryk interrupted, snapping Otto from his reverie. “Shall we return to the Keep?”

Otto adjusted his cloak, nodding briskly. “Yes, the king waits on no man.”

The party began its descent from the Sept, Otto leading the way with measured steps. He barely noticed the city around him, his mind preoccupied with the endless demands of his position. But then, a shadow passed over the sun. A large shadow.

Above the city, a dragon’s roar pierced the air, its deep, bone-shaking timbre sending the smallfolk scattering. Otto froze, his head snapping upward as a magnificent beast streaked through the sky—a dragon, its scales glinting like molten bronze in the sunlight. It swooped low, its rider clinging tightly to the saddle.

You had taken to the skies on a whim, your dragon restless and your heart yearning for the open air. Vermithor’s powerful wings carried you effortlessly above the city, the wind tugging at your hair. Below, the world seemed so small, so inconsequential, and you reveled in the freedom that came with flying. But then, as Vermithor banked sharply to avoid an incoming flock of ravens, the unthinkable happened.

The saddle strap—worn from battle and flight—gave way.

You barely had time to gasp before you were tumbling, the air rushing past you in a deafening roar.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sensation of falling. Panic clawed at your chest, but instinct kicked in. You tried to right yourself, arms flailing, the ground rushing closer with terrifying speed. Vermithor’s roar echoed somewhere above, the dragon circling back too late to catch you.

On the ground, Otto saw you before anyone else did—a figure hurtling toward him from the heavens. The memory of the fortune-teller’s words hit him like a physical blow.

She will bring chaos, but also clarity. And you will catch her as she falls.

“Seven hells,” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the commotion.

The guards around him shouted, some scattering while others moved to shield him. But Otto stood rooted to the spot, his eyes locked on the falling figure. Instinct, or perhaps fate, took hold. As you plummeted toward him, he stepped forward, bracing himself.

You collided with him in a tangle of limbs and motion, the force of your fall driving him backward. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs, and the two of you tumbled to the ground in an ungraceful heap.

“Gods,” Otto groaned, his body aching as he struggled to push himself upright. “Are you—”

“Get off me,” you hissed, shoving at his chest.

Otto blinked, stunned. He hadn’t expected the woman in the prophecy to be so…fiery.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he bit out, his tone clipped. “But you are the one who fell from the sky.”

You scrambled to your feet, brushing yourself off and glaring at him. “I didn’t ask you to catch me.”

“Should I have let you splatter against the cobblestones, then?”

Your retort died on your lips as Vermithor landed behind you with a thunderous roar, his massive frame dwarfing the surrounding buildings. The dragon’s eyes burned with protective fury as he lowered his head toward you, his hot breath ruffling your hair.

“Easy, boy,” you murmured, placing a hand on his snout to calm him. “I’m fine.”

Otto watched the exchange with a mixture of awe and disbelief. “You… you’re Daemon Targaryen’s daughter.”

You turned to him, your silver hair catching the light. “And you’re Otto Hightower.”

He inclined his head, his expression unreadable. “I suppose that makes us…acquainted.”

“Hardly,” you replied, your gaze flickering over him. “But I suppose I owe you thanks.”

“Thanks?” He raised a brow. “I’ve just saved you from death, my lady. I’d say you owe me more than that.”

You smirked, a spark of mischief in your dark violet eyes. “A debt I shall repay. Perhaps I’ll save you one day, Lord Hightower. If you’re lucky.”

Before he could respond, you swung yourself onto Vermithor’s back with practiced ease. The dragon let out a low rumble, his wings unfurling.

Otto stepped back, watching as you rose into the sky, the dragon’s powerful wings stirring the air around him.

Jasper Wylde appeared at his side, his face alight with amusement. “Well, Otto,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder. “It seems the fortune-teller was right. She fell from the heavens straight into your arms.”

Otto scowled, brushing Jasper’s hand away. “Not a word of this to anyone.”

But as the dragon disappeared into the horizon, Otto couldn’t help but wonder if fate had just played its hand—and if he was ready for what was to come.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep buzzed with conversation as courtiers gathered for the day’s proceedings. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, but the warmth of the room was undercut by the ever-present tension that came with power games and politics. Lord Otto Hightower stood near the dais, his face a mask of composure as he observed the assembled nobles.

He was in the middle of a conversation with Lord Beesbury when the heavy doors swung open, and the clamor in the hall faltered.

Daemon Targaryen strode in, his presence commanding and unmistakable. His long silver hair caught the light, and the black-and-red tunic he wore bore the three-headed dragon of his house, the fabric rich and imposing. His dark violet eyes scanned the room with a mixture of boredom and disdain, and the edges of his lips curled in the faintest smirk as courtiers parted before him like leaves before a storm.

Otto’s spine stiffened.

It had been moons since the incident with you—Daemon’s daughter—had left him both bemused and bruised, and while the Hand had worked to compartmentalize the events, he knew well that Daemon had likely heard of them by now. Targaryens, after all, had a way of knowing things they shouldn’t.

Sure enough, Daemon’s gaze landed on Otto. The Hand braced himself, his grip on his staff tightening as the Rogue Prince began to make his way toward him.

“Ah, Lord Hightower,” Daemon drawled, his tone dripping with mock civility as he approached. “Still alive, I see. Good. I was beginning to think the gods had finally grown tired of you.”

Otto inclined his head slightly, his expression carefully neutral. “Prince Daemon. What an unexpected pleasure.”

“I’m sure it is,” Daemon replied, his smirk widening. He glanced around the hall before leaning in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to make the exchange feel intimate—and pointed. “Tell me, how are your arms? I imagine catching my daughter must have been… taxing.”

Otto’s jaw tightened, but he refused to take the bait. “Your daughter is fortunate to have been spared a far worse fate. Though I must say, her impulsiveness is… troubling.”

Daemon barked a laugh, drawing the attention of nearby courtiers. “Troubling? Coming from you, Hightower, that’s rich. Impulsiveness is a Targaryen birthright, or have you forgotten?”

Otto met Daemon’s gaze evenly. “A birthright that often ends in disaster.”

Daemon’s expression hardened for a moment, but then he smiled, sharp and wolfish. “And yet, here she stands—alive and well. A miracle, wouldn’t you say? Perhaps the gods themselves decided to spare her and gift you the privilege of her company.”

Otto resisted the urge to roll his eyes, keeping his tone measured. “I consider it my duty to protect the realm, regardless of who requires aid.”

Daemon tilted his head, studying Otto as though he were some peculiar creature on display. “Duty,” he mused, his voice dripping with disdain. “You wear that word like armor, don’t you? As if it can shield you from everything—including the truth.”

Otto’s brow furrowed. “And what truth is that, Prince Daemon?”

“That no matter how high you climb or how tightly you clutch your precious titles, fate will always find a way to humble you,” Daemon said, stepping closer. His voice dropped to a near-whisper, the words meant for Otto alone. “And if fate doesn’t… I will.”

The two men stood in tense silence for a moment, the air between them charged. Finally, Otto straightened, his face carefully impassive. “If that is a threat, my prince, I would advise you to reconsider. The king does not take kindly to such talk.”

Daemon’s grin widened. “Oh, it’s not a threat, Lord Hightower. Merely a promise.”

With that, he stepped back, his posture relaxed once more as he cast a casual glance around the room. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must find my daughter. I hear she’s taken a liking to… wandering.”

Otto’s lips thinned, but he said nothing as Daemon sauntered off, his presence drawing the eyes of every courtier he passed. The Hand of the King remained where he stood, his thoughts swirling as he replayed the conversation.

If there was one thing Otto Hightower knew, it was that the game of thrones was never without its challenges—and Daemon Targaryen was one of the most unpredictable of them all.

The private solar of Lord Otto Hightower was a haven of calm compared to the bustling chaos of the court. The Hand of the King sat at his desk, a pile of correspondence before him, his quill moving steadily across parchment. Outside, the muffled sounds of King’s Landing filtered in—distant voices, the clatter of hooves, the occasional toll of bells. It was the sort of environment Otto found productive. Or at least, it usually was.

Today, however, Lord Jasper Wylde’s persistent presence threatened to unravel Otto’s carefully maintained composure.

Jasper lounged in a chair across from Otto, sipping from a goblet of wine and grinning like a man with a secret. For the past few minutes, he had been circling the same topic with infuriating persistence, and Otto’s patience was wearing thin.

“When will you act, my lord?” Jasper asked at last, setting his goblet down with an exaggerated flourish.

Otto didn’t look up from his parchment. “Act on what?”

Jasper chuckled, leaning forward conspiratorially. “The prophecy, of course. The fortune-teller. The princess.”

The scratch of Otto’s quill stopped abruptly. He slowly lifted his gaze to meet Jasper’s, his expression carefully neutral but his tone as cutting as a blade. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, don’t be coy,” Jasper replied, waving a hand dismissively. “The gods themselves have practically handed her to you on a silver platter. A Targaryen princess—Daemon’s daughter, no less—falls from the heavens and into your arms, and you mean to tell me you’re not even considering the possibility?”

Otto set his quill down with deliberate precision. “Considering what, Lord Wylde? That I should ‘act,’ as you so vaguely put it? On the basis of a festival charlatan’s ramblings?”

Jasper smirked, undeterred. “Oh, come now. You and I both know it wasn’t just ramblings. The woman spoke true, did she not? She said a woman would fall from the sky and into your arms. And lo and behold, the princess did exactly that.”

Otto’s jaw tightened. “The circumstances of her fall were nothing more than a cruel twist of fate. There is no grand meaning to be found in it.”

“Isn’t there?” Jasper pressed, his grin widening. “You’ve spent years advising the king, orchestrating alliances, and navigating the treacheries of court. Yet when fate hands you a moment as undeniable as this, you choose to ignore it? Why?”

Otto leaned back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap. “Because she is a princess, Lord Wylde. A Targaryen princess. The daughter of Daemon Targaryen, a man whose disdain for me is well-documented. To approach her in any manner beyond what is strictly required by duty would be… unwise.”

Jasper raised a brow. “Unwise, or inconvenient?”

“Both,” Otto snapped, his voice low but firm. “She is not some court lady to be wooed with flattery or gifts. She is a dragon’s daughter, bound by blood and fire to a family that would see me undone given the slightest provocation. To involve myself with her would be folly.”

“And yet,” Jasper countered, leaning back with an infuriatingly smug expression, “she has already involved herself with you—whether by fate or accident. Tell me, Otto, has it occurred to you that this could be an opportunity? A chance to strengthen your position, to bind House Hightower even more to the blood of Old Valyria?”

Otto’s eyes narrowed. “At what cost? My life, perhaps? Daemon would kill me before I could so much as utter a word of intent.”

“Daemon wouldn’t dare,” Jasper said with a dismissive laugh. “Not openly, at least. He may be reckless, but even he wouldn’t risk the consequences of spilling the blood of the king’s Hand.”

Otto stood abruptly, the movement silencing Jasper mid-laugh. He placed his hands on the desk, leaning forward as he fixed Jasper with a piercing glare. “Listen well, Lord Wylde. Whatever foolish notions you have conjured up regarding myself and the princess, I suggest you abandon them at once. I will not jeopardize my position, my life, or the stability of the realm on the basis of a prophecy whispered in a smoky tent.”

Jasper met Otto’s gaze evenly, though the amusement never left his eyes. “Very well,” he said, rising to his feet and brushing imaginary dust from his tunic. “But mark my words, Otto. The gods are not so easily ignored. And neither, it seems, is the princess.”

With that, Jasper turned and strode toward the door, leaving Otto alone in the quiet of his solar. For a long moment, the Hand stood motionless, his thoughts a tempest of frustration and unease. At last, he sank back into his chair, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Foolishness,” he muttered to himself. But as he resumed his work, he couldn’t shake the memory of you falling from the sky—and the strange, inexplicable feeling that his life was no longer entirely his own.

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