#woven leather belts

[audiovisualrecall]

Chag Purim! I went as 'country [pop] singer'! I'm actually super happy about this costume and I think the pink looks good on me 😅

Ma called me 'Jolene' (as in Dolly's song) to have people get the costume lol

[silkentine]

Me when they are the sisters ever: 😭😭😭 They came out soooo freaking well. I won’t lie, they took me a thousand years to finish but through the constant support from all of my buds (and my latent bisexuality), we made it 😤

Hopefully you guys know the deal by now: design choices, easter eggs, and (NEW!) closeup shots below the read more. ⬇️

I wanted Ace to have a very down-to-earth vibe and looked at Aussie beach-girls, coastal cowgirls, and vaqueras for reference. (IDK, I’ve just always envisioned Ace as part-Australian🌺 and Mexican 🏴‍☠️) Her clothing choices are mostly natural or utilitarian materials like the painted wooden beads on her top, her woven fabric and leather belts, and her denim jumpsuit. I gave her bikini top a zen-garden kind of feel because I read the first Ace’s Story Novel and I loved how idyllic and peaceful they made Sixis Island sound so I wanted to invoke that in some way.

Speaking of her painted wooden beads, they hang off the back of her top and represent her connection to Sabo and Luffy. They watch her back once she sets sail. She only wears one red glass bead earring because the other one got ripped out of her ear when a child, leaving her earlobe torn (don’t think about it too much 😢). Also, YES! she does wear a hibiscus flower just like Rouge (because I hate you and I want to make you cry, muhwahahahaha).

Also, I really wanted her to have super textured curly hair that licks behind her like flames. I am always considering whether or not a character should have long hair or not because I don’t want it to be a hindrance if they’re in a fight (or if they ARE a fighter with long hair, how to they avoid an enemy making use of that?). Ace is, of course, a Logia-type Devil Fruit User so I think she wouldn’t have trouble with people grabbing it LOL I get the feeling that she doesn’t take very good care of it even though it looks amazing. Like you’d think it would be soft and bouncy just by looking at it but if you ever get the chance to run your fingers through it, it’s a total rat’s nest and there’s sand and food all up in it. She still falls asleep while eating 😂 but she tries her best to only do it around people she can trust (woman moment 😔).

Honestly, her design is not that different from Ace’s canon look. It feels really vital to Ace’s character to have a lot of skin showing. And he’s always hanging all over himself with his hips all cocked like the weight of the world is too much to stand up straight. It is certainly not my OWN preference to make her an absolute smoke show. That’s just the character, okay? (I’m partially lying and the proof is that I turned the emblem on Ace’s hat strap into a sternum tattoo for no other reason than that it is sexy af.)

Here are some closeups of Ace:

Now for Sabo, I’ve made her very girly. I tried putting her in pants or something more militant but she told me that she’d wear the big poofy sleeves and hiked-up ruffled skirt. I think Sabo has always had a strong grasp on his fashion sense and individual flair and I truly believe that his personal style is one of the major influences for the rest of the Revolutionary Army resulting in the very flashy, queer, steampunk aesthetic (aside from Dragon’s plain-ass cloak). So of course I had to implement her nonconformist look when reimagining her as a woman and dress her up to the nines.

I’ve given her very ornate jewelry that is there to tell a story, even if she herself doesn’t know it. I like to think she picks up stuff from her travels that resonate with her, such as a damaged set of earrings with one stone missing or red cup-shaped shells featuring three nestled pearls. Another accessory that cannot go unmentioned is her dragon claw hat pin that keeps her top hat resting on top of her hair (and is definitely used as a weapon when the situation simply doesn’t call for trusty metal pipe). She also has a veil that obscures her prominent facial scar. I imagine she’s not very keen on the reminder of the incident from her childhood that took away her memories. I also kept her chipped toothed because 1) it’s fucking adorable and 2) is a visual reminder that she no longer aligns herself with the nobility who would have gotten such a thing fixed. She is so poised in almost every outward facet of her life from her dignified role as the Chief of Staff to the elegant materials in her clothing that it can be easy to forget she was also a rough and tumble forest dweller. Every time Koala remembers this, he lets out the biggest sigh.

Her hair is inspired by Gibson Girls and Elizabeth Swann from the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie. I wanted it to be fussy and tidy but fall apart when she’s in moments of distress. For example, when she remembers her sisters, her hair starts to look like Ace’s flaming mane. I’m so in love with her, I think she looks like an adorable little porcelain doll that would fuck you up. I made an effort to keep her eyes a little bit manic. I get lost in her steely black orbs (and also Ace’s warm brown ones, but we’re talking about Sabo rn).

Here are her close-ups:

Plot notes for this AU:

For this series of character designs, I wanted the expressions and outfits to be aligned with the canon plot but I don’t know if I have the heart to kill fem!Ace in my AU. I’m too attached and ASL has suffered enough!!!!! But Ace’s death is also a major defining moment for Luffy so it feels disingenuous to completely avoid it. Also a huge aspect of Sabo’s character is carrying on Ace’s will and I have so many thoughts about how the Dressrosa Colosseum scene would play out if they were all women. Oh well, I’ll cross that tragic bridge when I get to it. I’m definitely going to draw some Modern AU Girl Piece ASL though. They deserve to hang out with no stakes 😭 They are sisters!!!

Check out the tag “girl piece” on my blog for my other One Piece genderbends! 🥰

[bumblebeesfromvenus]

Northman!Price 🪓

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Born from this post and a late night conversation/brainstorming sesh with the lovely @flowermiist !!

This was so fun, and Northman!Price is now occupying my mind 24/7 lol

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─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Northman!Price who's a lone wolf. Likes being on his own, surrounded by the thick and vast forest surrounding his wooden cabin. The quietness of it all gives him peace of mind when he listens only to a soft breeze rustling the branches of the tall and strong trees.

Northman!Price who built his cabin with his own two hands. It's quite spacious at that, and the intricate carvings on the wooden door beams add a mystical touch.

Northman!Price who's big and burly. Bulging muscles that are covered with a layer of soft pudge and a thick blanket of hair. Strong arms and a broad back that have lifted many logs and various kinds of animals for dinner.

Northman!Price who's covered in meaningful markings and tattoos. Some for battles won or lost, and others just because. They decorate his arms and his chest, all the way to the beautifully woven Celtic knot that adorns his shoulder blade, moving in sync with the rippling of his muscles.

Northman!Price who has two wolf companions that pull his sled in the deep winter, making the thick snow a breeze to get through. Yrsa and Trygve, his loyal pups that he rescued from traps and nursed them back to health. He never planned on keeping them, but they just wouldn't leave. Staying by his side until he relented and took them in.

Northman!Price who's covered in furs, leather, and other natural fibers. Layers are key in such a bitter winter, after all. The huge bear hide is what keeps him warm most of all, held in place with leather straps over his linen underclothes.

Northman!Price who has a thick leather belt, holds all kinds of useful things. Knives of many different sizes, some for carving others for breaking down animals or adding a new scar to the raiders that dared to cross his territory. Pouches with materials to start a fire, a quiver, and a small axe.

Northman!Price who takes great care of his beard, always keeping it nice and groomed. His hair on the other hand, not so much. The longer locks are pulled back into a bun, a few strands falling in his face still. There are a few small braids scattered throughout, some wrapped with twine or leather strings with a charm carved from bone dangling from it.

Northman!Price who's lost a wolf companion before. He knew it would happen eventually. The graying fur around the wolf's face and the slower pace gave it away. With great sorrows, he buried his friend in their favorite place in the woods and fashioned a small wooden marker so he wouldn't forget. He wears one of their fangs around his neck, right above his heart.

Northman!Price who wears a singular earring made of stone with a rune carved into it. A tradition he continued to hold dear even after he made the choice to leave his family behind and make a peaceful life for himself in the deep forest.

Northman!Price who, when he goes out hunting, only takes what he needs. Who humanely and respectfully puts the animal to rest and always thanks Mother Nature for keeping him and his wolves fed. He uses every part of the animal, so their sacrifice wasn't in vain. Uses the bones for tools, the hide to keep warm, the sinew to patch up any holes and the antlers to decorate his cabin.

Northman!Price who's very knowledgeable when it comes to plants and herbs, always gathering bundles in the summer months. Especially when spring comes so the animals he killed during winter can replenish their numbers.

Northman!Price who despite his intimidating and scary appearance couldn't be more of a gentle soul. Not so much towards humans if he does cross one once in a fortnight, but he has all the animals eating out of the palm of his hand, literally.

Northman!Price who has fallen asleep with Yrsa and Trygve on more than one occasion. It always happens on accident, but who's he to complain? It happens a lot in the fall when he chops wood outside, preparing for the harsh cold months. He thinks he deserves a quick break, wiping the sweat from his brow, only to immediately nod off with his two wolves nuzzled close to his side, keeping him warm.

Northman!Price who always keeps his battle axe strapped to his back, right next to his bow. He doesn't use it unless he needs to fight off some unwelcome guests, but having the weight of it pressing between his shoulder blades is more reassuring than it should be.

Northman!Price who can't help but feel a little lonely sometimes. It would be nice to have another human around, he thinks. Maybe even someone to love. He grunts in frustration at his ridiculous thoughts and lets out his feelings at the chopping block, splitting wood until the horizon has swallowed the sun whole.

Northman!Price who has a stream not far from his cabin. It's his main water source. In the summer, he bathes right in the stream and brings water back for his wolves and himself. In the winter, however, he heaves bucket after bucket to his cabin to boil it, needing a hot bath to warm him up and release the tension from his muscles.

Northman!Price who traces the many scars on his body, some he looks at with fond memories while others only seem to make his heart ache. They remind him of when he was with his family, his people, storming into battle with his friends to defend their honor. Unfortunately, as time went on, he kept returning with fewer and fewer comrades and made the decision to put down the battle axe.

Northman!Price who has matured and doesn't crave the thrill of battle like he used to. He never passes up an opportunity to slice up some raiders or bandits, however. But the guilt lays heavy on his shoulders, knowing that if and he and his friends hadn't been so naive, he would still talk to them and share some mead instead of going to visit where they fell.

Northman!Price who indulges the playful moods of his pups and wrangles them to the ground with a boisterous laugh, even letting them win. The sweet nudges of their wet noses never fail to make a smile crack on his face.

Northman!Price who loves sitting outside on a cold winter night and admires the sparkling stars and constellations. Or how the Moon shines her light on the snow and makes it look like a blanket of precious stones. His favorite, however, is when he can spot the occasional Aurora Borealis.

Northman!Price who goes out hunting one day, taking care to take slow and quiet steps so as not to scare the deer that has its snout buried in the snow, looking for food.

Northman!Price whose body moves without thinking, crouching for cover and carefully readying his bow to take the shot. The cold is biting at his fingertips, but his hands are steady nonetheless.

Northman!Price who lets out a breath, his fingers slowly slipping to loose the arrow, only for the deer to drop dead accompanied by the whiz of someone else's arrow cutting through the air.

Northman!Price who's immediately alert and on edge, stashing away his bow and pulling out the small axe he has attached to his belt. He keeps his eyes trained on anything that might move and slowly starts to approach the dead deer.

Northman!Price who ducks behind a tree, when he sees a bush rustling. He tightens and adjusts the grip on his axe, just in case.

Northman!Price who doesn't know what to do or think when you come out from the bush and cautiously look around, bow still in hand. He watches, frozen, as you kneel before the deer and whisper illegible things, but the tone of your voice alone is enough to soothe his soul.

Northman!Price who finally takes you in. Same as him, you wear furs to keep you warm, but you don much less weapons than him. A bow with a quiver and a small knife is all you have. He lowers his guard and continues watching.

Northman!Price who thinks you're way too soft and sweet to be out here like this. He's seen his fair share of female warriors, raiders, and such, and he doesn't think you couldn't be those things, but something about you gives him the immediate urge to take care of you. Keep you close and make sure you have the best life he can give you.

Northman!Price who's lowered his guard too much, and when he comes back from his thoughts, you're gone. The deer is still there, so is your arrow lodged in its heart, but you're nowhere to be found.

Northman!Price who thinks he must've been dreaming, but the arrow that clearly doesn't belong to him makes doubt tug at his mind. He hasn't started to lose his sanity from being alone for so long, has he?

Northman!Price who mirrors your actions and makes his way to the deer to kneel before it. He removes the arrow and runs his fingers over the delicate carvings adorning the shaft.

Northman!Price who's, for once, completely unaware of his surroundings just because he saw a strange woman take down a deer with a shot so precise, he swears he's never seen anything like it before.

Northman!Price who lets out a grunt when something is pressed into the middle of his back and a glinting blade is held dangerously close to his neck.

Northman!Price who shivers when you lean down to talk into his ear.

"Hasn't your mother taught you not to spy on women, hm?"

Northman!Price who can feel your breath down his neck and takes every ounce of his self-control not to buckle.

Northman!Price who wants to turn his head and look at your face to see if you're as beautiful as he thinks you are, if your enchanting voice does you justice. However, he has your knee digging into his back and your knife against his throat, but all he can think is that he's in love.

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Consider me deceased 😵‍💫😫

he's just so AURGHHAHAJAJAJAJA

More of my work -> 💫

[latenightdaydreams]

Perhaps you have plans for things, but can you please write part 2 of Viking! Konig? I'm so curious how would reader get used to her new life and her new husband

Husband upgrade🤭

Viking!König x Reader Part 2 (fem)

MDNI🔞

Part 1, Part 3

Master List

>cw: fem/afab, p in v, breastmilk

2.1k word count

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Two middle life blonde women gently help you out of the tub they were bathing you in. Small drops of water fall to the wooden ground beneath you. They speak in a soft tone, but in a language you cannot understand. They’re telling you how beautiful you are and how lucky you are to be König’s queen.

You’re seated in a wooden chair, drying off from the bath. One woman stands behind you and combs through your hair. The other leaves out of your view to grab something. You shiver slightly, being naked and wet.

“Vi varmer deg opp snart.” The woman’s voice is kind, and she stops combing your hair and caressing your arms, trying to warm you.

You don’t respond, not knowing what she said. In a weird way, her touch feels familiar and calming. With a simple nod of your head, she goes back to combing your hair.

The other woman walks in front of you, holding up a beautiful blue dress. Again, she speaks and you just gaze up at her. Her blue eyes are bright as she’s speaking. Your head pulls back slightly as the tension on your scalp grows from your hair being pulled into a long braid.

Once your hair was done, she stood you up to dress you. The indigo blue dress fits you tightly, extenuating your breasts and the curve of your waist. A woven belt placed around your waist and a necklace with a medallion of a wolf dangles for it. Leather shoes tied to your feet as you

“Hun er klar.” She exclaims as she sees you totally transformed into a queen. “La oss gå.”

You leave the small house, their arms wrapped in yours as your guild you down a pathway. Inside, you feel as though you are about to throw up. Your feet drag beneath you, dreading seeing König.

“I can’t” You try to turn but the women’s grip on you is firm.

“Du blir bra.” One speaks as she pets your arm.

König paced back and forth in his house waiting for Hilda and Thyra to finish cleaning you for him to enjoy. He walks shirtless and without a mask, exposing his sculpted body covered with battle scars, tattoos on his pecs, and scars on his face. His light blonde hair falls to his shoulder, some pushed behind his left ear.

His head turns as he sees the door open and you enter. The same worried look that has plagued your face this whole journey is still there. König walks to you and takes your hand, thanking the women and sending them on their way.

Worried or not, you’re still the most beautiful woman he has ever laid eyes on. You look as if a goddess decided to come live amongst men. He will never understand how he got so lucky as to find you. Your breasts are full and swollen with milk, he can’t wait to taste you.

“You look beautiful, Liebling.” The door closes, and it’s just the two of you.

“Please, I can’t stay here.” You instantly plead, voice shaking. “I need to go home.”

“You are home.” He looks down at your face, studying you in the low light. “Don’t be so sad.”

“My children—”

“Are safe at home.” His hands caress your arms up and down.

“I need my children here.”

“I’ll give you new ones. Stronger ones.”

König’s hands grasp yours and bring them to his chest. You look at his body, turning your head away to gaze at the ground. He lifts your chin to face him.

“How about you come with me? I’ll help you forget about your troubles.”

There was no room to protest as he grabbed your hand and led you to the large bed in the corner of the room. He sits on the bed and keeps you standing in front of him. His hands roam over the curve of your body. On the journey back he refrained from touching you so you could mourn your last life, but now- now you’re all his.

“Are your breasts sore?” He asks as his hands feel how swollen they’ve become after days away from your child.

You don’t answer, but just look him in the eyes. It’s clear to see that you’re too full to be comfortable. His hands squeeze slightly and the indigo fabric begins to darken from the milk he expressed. Thyra and Hilda got you all dressed up only for König to ruin you.

König grabs at the woven belt around your waist and slowly undoes it, pulling it towards him, and laying it on the bed beside him.

“Please stop, I’m a married woman.” You step back.

“You are. To me.” He wraps his arm around your waist and brings you closer.

“In the eyes of God, you’re not my husband.”

“God? Which one?” König teases as his hand runs down to rub your plump ass. “Here, in my land, you’re mine. Unless your old family comes to my shore and fights for you back…you’re mine.”

You just stare into his eyes and nod. Realistically, your husband will never come for you. He wouldn’t even know where to look. The memories of your life with him, with your children flashes before your eyes until a tap on your ass takes you out of your own mind.

“Let’s get you more comfortable.”  His voice is a soft whisper as he stands to get you naked in front of him. The last piece he grabs is your necklace, setting it down on top of your dress.

You stand naked. Your breasts are full and round. Body soft and curvy. A small white pearly bead of milk lingers on your left nipple. Between your legs is a soft patch of hair, he can’t wait to feel it rub against his face. All you can think about is how God will smite you for infidelity, you can only hope he understands.

“Look at you. Beautiful.”

König wraps his arms around you and places you gently on the bed, as if you were a delicate jewel he didn’t want to harm. He looks down at you as he finishes undressing. As he steps out of his pants, you can see his massive cock bounce, leaning down. He notices you looking at him, making him feel cocky.

“Big, ja?” He walks to you, parting your legs. “Let me show you how a real man fucks.”

Instantly, a blush forms on your face as you look at his blue eyes. His blonde hair falling forward as he looks down at you. You hate to admit that, compared to Callum, König is far more attractive. Your eyes travel all over his body, inspecting his tattoos as he moves on to the bed with you. He notices your gaze and smiles.

“It’s for my family name.” He whispers as he rests his large body next to yours.

“Oh.”

König moves his lips to yours, tenderly kissing you.  You don’t kiss back at first, and that's okay. He knows you’re nervous. His lips leave yours and travel down your neck, he lightly nips at your flesh. A small whimper leaves your lips causing him to smile.

Lifting his head for a moment, he moves his hand to your breast and squeezes. A fountain of milk begins to spurt out. König moves his mouth to your other nipple and begins to suck. He continues to squeeze the other to spray himself with it.

A mixture of relief and pleasure rushes over you. Callum has not touched your breasts since the milk came in, finding it repulsive. König acts like a starved man, as if your milk is the only thing that can save you. It’s…hot.

Milk begins to drip from the corner of his mouth, rolling down your breast. He slowly pulls away, licking his lips. “So sweet.”

König licks in between your breasts and over the other, cleaning up the mess he’s made. His hand slowly trails down your body and touches your pussy. The feeling of your wet folds between your fat pussy lips drives him wild.

“I can’t wait to bury my cock deep inside of you.” He growls as his lips kiss up your neck.

König moves his body between your legs, running his hands from your breasts down to your hips. He brushes his hair back and out of his face with one hand as he presses his cock against your entrance. You gaze up at him before he moves his hips forward.

“Wait.”

His eyes move to your eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“I- I can’t. My husband—” You were cut off by the euphoric sensation of meaty cock being shoved into your tight little cunt. A moan spills from your lips as your eyes go wide.

König grins looking at your reaction. He leans over your body to kiss the tip of your nose. “I am your husband now. Don’t forget that.” The words leave his lips as he slowly shoves the rest of his cock into you.

Your nails dig into his arms as you squeeze your eyes shut. König looks at your face, your mouth hanging open and eyebrows pinched together. His hips slowly pull back before pushing back into you slowly; enjoying the look on your face as he does. A small chuckle leaves his lips as he pulls away.

“My perfect queen.”

He grabs your hips, pulling your rear up slightly off the bed as he bucks forward into your tiny cunt. Your back is arched as his fingers dig into your ass. Loud moans leave your lips, loud enough people passing the home can hear the two of you.

“König, I- it’s too much.” You feel a tingle run over your body as a heavy pressure builds in your core.

He realizes that you’re about to cum, “beg for it.”

“For what?”

“To cum.”

“I- I can’t.” You feel shameful. Shame for having sex with someone other than Callum and shame for feeling this pleasure. You’ve always been taught to not give into this type of lust.

“It’s okay to let go.” He whispers in your ear as he leans over you, his arms on either side of your head. His lips meet yours, pushing his tongue past your lips. You open your mouth accepting him in as you mewl pathetically.

You turn your head away, desperately begging. “Please…harder.”

He grabs your head and forces his tongue back into your mouth. Moans leave your lips into his mouth as your legs tremble around his waist. His kisses begin to trail to your cheek and down your jawline as he feels your walls flutter around his cock.

“There you go.” His kisses travel down to your breasts.

König pulls out and stands from the bed, grabbing your legs and pulling you to him. His arms wrap around you and hold you up. One arm holds you tightly to his body as the other reaches down to line himself up with you. He pushes forward while lowering you slightly. A groan leaves his lips, your arms wrap around his shoulders.

His fingers grasping the supply flesh of your ass as his hips thrust into you; your tight little cunt squeezes his cock as he bounces you on his length. The lustful daze you’re in makes you gaze up at him as if you’re in love. The sound of your wet pussy and little pitiful sounds leaves your lips mixing. König glances down to your breasts bouncing. Everything is just perfect.

“Y/n…” He groans as his cock pulses, face scrunching with pleasure.

The next morning you take up to an empty bed. You rub your eyes and stretch, slowly stepping out of the bed. That’s when you noticed König sitting nude and watching you with a smile. Your eyes travel along his body before meeting his eyes, trying to sit in a way that conceals your body.

“Don’t try to hide your beauty, Liebling. It’s just us here.” He stands and walks over to you, caressing your face. Your braid is barely together and face flushed with an afterglow from last night’s activities.

“We have a long day ahead of us. You’re going to be introduced to my people as their new queen. They will be astonished at your beauty.”

You look into his eyes and nod. There is still a lingering sadness in your eyes, he is aware you miss your old life. It will take time for you to move on, but he knows you’ll be happier here with him. No longer are you poor and working the fields. Now you’re a queen.

Part 3

[solbaby7]

someone requested [ Manhattan + salt rim + neat ] and I accidentally deleted it but i remembered!!

warnings: leashes (yup like for dogs 🤭) minors dni, thank you thank you thank you thank you for this request 🥵

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Azriel knew it was going to be an issue—you spending so much time with Nesta Archeron.

He’d found it cute at first. His sweet girl making friends with someone as prickly as death incarnate, until he’d started noticing the changes. How kind words shift into a biting wit; adopting a darker kind of humor that leaves his brows raised and tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth. “Come bunny, it’s time to get out of bed.”

Perhaps it’s in that learned behavior where you find the gall to part your lips and mutter, “No, I’m not going.”

It’s surprising—your defiance. Enough for him to pause in the middle of his morning routine, thigh holsters half buckled with an array of sharpened daggers and switchblades laid out before him. “Say that again?”

“To training,” You elaborate, mindlessly toying with the fraying edges of your nail varnish. Soft sheets swallow you whole, thick pillows and duvets emitting Azriel’s comforting scent all around you. “I’m not going today.”

For only a second he falters before his movements start up again, deft fingers easily buckling strips of leather and filling the slots with weapons. “Are you not feeling well?”

“I’m feeling like I don’t want to sweat under the burning sun all fucking day.” Your eyes are too busy rolling at the thought to notice the tick of Azriel’s jaw, the strained way he tightens his belt. “Nes and I are going shopping after brunch instead.”

“Oh?” There’s a pause, a tense silence that forces you to lean up on your elbows, neck craning to peer over at the Illyrian. Though, Azriel’s not getting ready anymore and he’s lounging too comfortably for someone who’d been adamant on following the guidelines of his rigorous schedule. The clock tick, tick, ticks away and for some reason he’s not reaching for his top or the crossbody holsters he slides on after. His hair is still dripping wet from his shower, not even bothering to work his styling pomade through. “Says who?”

He just sits there—watching, waiting. Staring at you like one of the prisoners he chains up in his dungeons; prodding at the barriers of their restraint until the spymaster tore it to shreds. You hate how well it works, chipping away at the fortified walls you’d built in your new friendships. How easily Azriel’s able to walk up to those borders and send them crumbling down with nothing more than a look.

It should be embarrassing, the affect he has on you. The way one arched brow has your spine instinctively straightening, throat rolling with a swallow as you struggle to muster up the same confidence that burned through you just moments ago. “I wasn’t aware I needed permission.”

Azriel hums low in his chest, shoulders relaxing and head nodding once, twice, three times before that stoic expression melts into understanding. “I see, that’s probably my fault. Got a touch lenient—allowed room for a little too much…hope.”

“Hope?”

Alarm bells begin ringing the further he settles in the chair, thick thighs spreading wide and veiny forearms eat up the space along the armrest. “Hope,” he agrees. “Give a good pet a little too much freedom—too much hope and all the necessary structure begins to waver.” You’re caught like a fly in a trap, limbs sticking to the carefully spun webs Az’s woven until your struggle only leaves the metaphorical ropes twisting and knotting tighter. “Don’t worry, I’m a good trainer. Won’t let you slack for a second—even if you do bat those pretty lashes up at me.”

Your mouth goes dry when his wrist flicks, two fingers beckoning you closer in silent command. A part of you hesitates; resists the rigorous discipline and rules put in place to keep you safe. Protected. But Nesta said that you were perfectly capable of protecting yourself without some overgrown bat looming over your shoulder. Right?

You obey anyway, praying that Azriel doesn’t hold the contemplation against you.

The Mother doesn’t seem to hear your plea, too occupied with more deserving persons to spare a second glance at the predicament you’d weaseled your way into. Each step closer feels like knowing wrong and choosing the sin anyway, solidifying your fate and dealing your destiny with the devil for all time. “Sit.”

A huffy breath of irritation before you ease down to your knees, leaning your weight back against your calves. “I’m not some fucking dog.”

“No, you aren’t,” His hand smells of body wash when a thumb runs over the curve of your cheek, blunt nail tracing against the shape of your mouth. It’s almost sweet, toeing the line of possibly romantic when you hear it—the squeaky strain of fresh leather. The cool bite of the latch registers too late, a metallic click locking it in place. “But lately you’ve been acting like one. My rabid mutt.”

Manicured nails grip at the newest accessory but it doesn’t budge no matter how much you tug at it. Your cheeks flame, a mix of fury and pure embarrassment from the rush of arousal that soils your panties when each breath grows just a bit labored. “You fucking collared me?”

“Watch your mouth or I’ll buy a muzzle to match.” He catches on to the way your thighs clench together, lips snapping shut as your brain fights to decide whether you want to scream back a “fuck you” or “fuck me”.

You land somewhere in the middle, words stern but tone leaking with curiosity. “You wouldn’t dare.”

A hellish grin splits across the handsome lines of his face, like a wolf straining in the seams of sheep’s clothing. “Try me.” He’s lost the concept to time when such fun prey has found itself stuck in his crosshairs. Such a sweet lamb should know better than to wander away from its shepherd—heaven forbid something should happen to you. “Test me, I dare you. I’ll walk you through town like some purebred if you keep acting like you weren’t taught to act with decorum.”

He means it too. You know he does. Even after all these years, you still had yet to hear words Azriel’s didn’t back up with action. Instantly, your eyes lower, head bowing in order to conceal the pinpricked pupils that dialate with desire. It burns in your belly, a cacophony of fantasies lashing against your eyelids at warp speed.

You in your shiny collar, name engraved on the customized nameplate with Azriel’s information on the back right under “If Found, Return To”

It’s purely involuntary, the desperate whimper that cuts through the bedchambers and Azriel pats at your head like some pampered pup in need of comfort. Offering love and fond coos when you easily correct the behaviors he doesn’t enjoy.

Obedient. Disciplined. Loyal. His.

“There’s a good girl. Keep that up and I’ll give you a treat.”

[eupheme]

— looking back

joel miller x f!reader

rated e - 2.2k

tags: jackson-era Joel pov, angst, canon-typical violence/references to death, established relationship, Joel is an ass man, consensual somno elements, posessive!joel, body worship, dirty talk, male masturbation, spitting, touching, come marking

a/n: easing back into writing and started 2 little wips that are sort of "introspective-joel-pov-smut-fics" - here is the first one! 💕

“Fuck. I need you.” He rasps - an edge to his voice, “Would you let me look at you, honey? Just let me look.”

Or - Joel gets off just from the sight of you

He’s strung as tight as a bow. The lingering adrenaline a notched arrow, leaving him about to snap. Blood seeps into his jeans - splattered across his knees, where he had jerked the knife from the man’s neck.

It had been a mercy killing. A stranger, but they had all seen the bite. He had been the only one to do something about it.

He’s told others that you get used to it. The killing - that after a while, survival wins out.

You get over it.

But you don’t. Instead, it clings to him like a shadow, following him home - down the worn, familiar path. Inside the gates, back to Jackson.

Heavier than it’s been before. An itching beneath his skin. If he was over it, he wouldn’t have to turn himself off. Shutting away a part of himself, only to fight to come back - clawing his way out later.

An aching reminder at how short life could be. That yes, things were different - but he was never really safe.

Not really.

His path brings him to you. A beacon, guiding his way back.

His - your - home coming into view, just as the dawn creeps over the fall, wooden fences. The misty grey brightening into gold and pink with the sun, as he’s unlocking the wooden door, shouldering it open.

A look thrown out the window as he scrubs his hand clean in the kitchen - seeing that the garage light is on. That she’s home, that she’s okay. An automatic check, before his weary feet take him upstairs.

Joel sheds the layers, the jacket thrown over the railing at the top of the stairs. Fingers fumbling with his belt, pulling the worn leather through the loops before his stained jeans crumple on the floor, as he pushes the cracked door open.

The light from the hallway stretches across the wooden floor, creeping into the dark room. Where you still lay sleeping, curled on your side within the blankets and sheets. Missing him in your dreams, that space next to you long empty.

Cold - where your fingers reach out, searching for him.

His path diverts, moving to you instead of the attached bathroom. The edge of the bed sinking under his weight, a soft sound as you stir.

“‘Welcome ‘ome.” You murmur, still half-asleep. A little wiggle as your bent knee hitches higher, the oversized shirt you’re wearing bunching up around your hips.

He reaches out, just the ghosting of his fingers against the soft skin near your knee. The fluttering of heavy lashes as you fight sleep, only to be pulled under again.

Joel’s hand shifts. A warm palm pressing against your thigh. Against soft skin, so different than his own calloused touch.

Home.

It is, isn’t it? As close to he’s had in years. Decades. The old apartment in the QZ had never felt that way, not with the faded floral walls. Those small rooms that still held ghosts.

But here, his own touch lingers. Yours, melding with it. It would never be like before - the picking out of furniture, of paint. But it’s his clothes in the closet. His worn guitar that rests against the couch. His wooden carvings lining the top of the mantle, above the fireplace.

And you - you're scattered throughout. Woven blankets and thick sweaters. Books, covering damn near every surface.

A little bottle of found lotion tucked away in the bathroom. He can smell it now, as he leans over you. A bristly kiss pressed against your cheek, the curve of your shoulder.

Amber, vanilla, caramel.

He’s pulled back to the memory, the light shining in your eyes when he handed the beaten bottle over. The minuscule amount you had worked into your knuckles - the soft sigh of contentment.

A bright laugh when he had pulled you close, the murmured “smells good” against your throat, as you had squirmed in his grasp - smiling as you read the fragrance notes out loud.

Something stirs in him, then. The press of his thigh against yours, as he leans over. Eyes dragging down to the bare curve of your ass, his hand tracing cup your thigh to palm your flesh.

His already uneven breath hitching, as you sigh. That little smile - his name - murmured out as you rock instinctively into his touch. Still on the edge of consciousness, lulled off into a deep sleep with the cooling of summer.

Waking you up wouldn’t be unusual. Half the time you’re already up after these early-morning patrols. Waiting for him.

How he waits for you, on those few days where it’s you out there, instead of him. His jaw working with irritation until you’re home and back and safe, and he’s stripping your clothes from you himself.

It’s selfish to wake you, on a morning where you sleep so deeply. Even with the stress that’s eating at him, simmering in his veins.

But maybe… maybe he can just-

Joel is leaning, his mouth against your neck. A shift as you stretch, baring your skin to him as your lips curl in a smile. A soft, sleepy hum as you reach for him, fingers curving over the thick muscle of his forearm.

The hand on your ass drifting up - across to the small of your back. Meeting nothing but warm, bared skin beneath your shirt.

“Fuck. I need you.” He rasps - an edge to his voice, “Would you let me look at you, honey? Just let me look.”

Heavy-lidded eyes open then at the sound of his voice - his words - as you tilt your head. A slow sweep over the breadth of his shoulders, the curve of his stomach. The spread of his thighs as he kneels behind you. The already half-hard tent of faded boxers.

You had been waiting for him. Anticipating his return, eager for his touch. The cloud of sleep begins to clear as he palms himself, the bed shifting as your hips shift, thighs spreading open for him.

“I can take care of you,” Your voice is scratchy - husky, in the early morning. A hand pressing again on your back as you begin to roll over, holding you in place.

“You already are,” Joel groans, as your hips tilt up, off the bed. Knees pressing into the mattress as he nudges your thighs wider, fitting between them, “Stay just like that, alright?”

The combination feels erotic. His smell on the shirt you wear. The tingling throb between your thighs, the desire in his voice. How much he wants - enough that just the sight of you has him hard, thumbs catching on the waistband of his boxers to free himself.

You relax into the bed, as you watch. The weight of his hand as it moves to squeeze your ass. A pressure as he tugs, opening you up.

“Fuck.”

Joel spits in his palm, before it’s wrapping around his cock. A rough groan as some of that need is eased, with the sharp stroke of his fist.

Just letting himself look. Admire.

A sight that is only his, fingers sinking into soft flesh. The way you trust, how effected you are already - the shallow rock of your hips as the sound of skin-on-skin fills the room.

“You got a pretty little pussy, honey.” He hears himself saying. Watching how you clench at his praise, the little gasp that follows. “Pretty little holes. All for me, right?”

He can feel the weight of your gaze. Darkening, as your hunger grows low in your belly. Darting between his face and the sharp flick of his wrist.

Rarely getting to see him take, like this. Usually he would have been buried in you, by now. There’s the urge to ask, but there’s a power in this - wanting to watch him get off to you. Not having to lift a finger to do so.

“All for you.” You sigh, “Always.”

His jaw grits, teeth clicking together. A bead of precum joins the slick of his spit, that angry fire in his belly transforming.

So different that the little mouse he had taken to bed, all those months ago. Your hands covering your mouth, muffling the moans, until he had pried them away. Pinning them against the pillows, whispering filth in your ear.

Now, he can see the greed in your eyes. The way you glisten, when his own gaze drops. The shift of your thighs as he takes a second to rub himself against the curve of your ass. Dipping down to press against your core.

The tip coming back slick, in a new kind of way - fueling the pressure, building in his belly.

Your moan breaks the early-morning quiet. His name on your lips again - more urgent than before.

The little beg only sends him closer, a rough groan in his throat. His own hand too familiar - used to the quick and precise touch he needs to get off, when he had to.

In the before. In the during - when it was only words that the you of you had exchanged. Heated looks that lingered late into those lonely nights.

Hasn’t felt the urge to, since he’s had you.

He expects you to ask him to fill you, eyes caught on the enticing lift of your hips.

Caught off-guard for the briefest second, a heat flushing over his cheeks, when you shift beneath him instead. Flipping over, onto your back.

Eyes bright, teeth sinking into your lip as you smile.

“Wanna watch.” You admit, and that tension in his shoulders settles in his chest, turning sweet.

His fist tightening around his cock, as your thighs splay over his. Opening yourself up under his gaze, stretching out in front of him.

And fuck, what a sight. There’s a rolling wave deep in his core that he chases with the rock of his hips.

His hand fits perfectly against the curve of your waist, eyes caught on the way your fingers catch on the hem of your shirt.

Pulling it up over your breasts, a path that his eyes follow greedily.

“Christ, darlin’.” The words rumble in his chest.

A rough exhale as your own gaze drops to his fist. The pace that he’s picked up - the peek of the flushed tip when he strokes down to the base.

Already about to burst, like he’s a man half his age. Could say it’s just his own touch, the urge to relieve the weight of his stress.

But he knows it’s more. That warmth in his chest, a tenderness that has only softened the rough stone of his heart since he’s left Boston.

It’s there in the way that he could linger on the slick place between your thighs. But instead he’s watching you watch him. Focusing on the part of your lips, the shine in your eyes.

“‘m close.” Joel breathes, his words low. Rough. “Where do you want it?”

He’ll catch it in his palm if he needs to. If it helps you go back to sleep, after. He hasn’t given up on that wish - to let you drift off for a little longer.

The look you give him, the little smile that turns mischievous, has his stomach twisting into knots. Like butterflies, he thinks.

Your hand drifts down, knuckles brushing over the jerk of his. Soft fingers tracing over hot, swollen flesh. Only to curve over your mound, to spread yourself open for him.

“Fuck.” He breathes, again, “There?”

The answering hum is low, desperate.

“Wanna hear you ask me.” Joel pushes - needing to hear you say it, knowing it will push him over the edge.

You squirm beneath him, affected by the edge to his voice, the soft command.

“Want you to come on me.”

“Where, baby?” The word slides from his lips without thought.

The eye contact breaks, your gaze darting away with embarrassment. But after a moment it’s back - the soft heave of your breasts as you suck in a breath, steeling your nerves.

“Want you to come on my pussy, Joel.”

He can’t help the rough groan, ripped from his chest. The shift of his thighs as he pulls back, as that pressure builds. The pleasure surging instead of ebbing, as he tips his cock downward.

The next stroke of his fist pushes him past the threshold. Relief sings in his veins as he spills across your mound. Painting your abdomen with his release, eyes fluttering closed as his hearing goes fuzzy.

Drowning out his long moan, as you push yourself up. He meets you instinctually, arcing over you as his mouth is drawn to yours.

As his spend drips down the crease of your thigh, so warm against soft skin.

It feels like a weight is lifted, like he’s back in his own skin again. Relaxing into the fingers that scratch into his hair, the tongue that sweeps against his.

But it’s only a few moments before he remembers. Coming back to himself, as he fits his hand between your thighs.

Fingers dragging through his release, bringing his slick fingers to circle against your clit.

Because there’s no way you’re going back to sleep after this. Not if he knows you - which he’s now certain that he does.

"Thank you honey." He murmurs, with lips that press against your cheek.

The smallest smile after, as your own part with a moan - as he croons against your skin.

"Now let me take care of you."

thank you for reading! was excited to explore a little idea I had 💕

(tags: @celestianstars)

[venusiancharisma]

Rising Sign & Your Perfect Festival Outfit

Here are the perfect any music festival outfits for each of the 12 zodiac signs and Ascendants, with details on color schemes, materials, accents, and overall aesthetics:

PSA: Images and descriptions are both complimentary, so they may not be entirely identical, but everything is relevent.

Aries Rising: Bold and daring, an Aries rising would rock a fiery red crop top paired with high-waisted denim shorts. Accessorize with a black leather choker, combat boots, and a statement belt. The outfit screams confidence and adventure.

Taurus Rising: Earthy and sensual, a Taurus rising would opt for a flowy, bohemian-style maxi dress in shades of green and brown. Pair with a leather fringe vest, ankle boots, and a wide-brimmed hat. The outfit exudes comfort and laid-back elegance.

Gemini Rising: Playful and eclectic, a Gemini rising would mix and match patterns and colors. A graphic tee paired with a colorful, patterned skirt, fishnet stockings, and high-top sneakers. Accessorize with layered necklaces and quirky sunglasses for a fun, youthful vibe.

Cancer Rising: Soft and feminine, a Cancer rising would choose a vintage-inspired, pale blue sundress with delicate lace details. Pair with a cozy, oversized cardigan, ankle-strap sandals, and a small, cross-body bag. The outfit radiates comfort and nostalgia.

Leo Rising: Bold and dramatic, a Leo rising would make a statement in a metallic gold romper with a plunging neckline. Accessorize with a chunky, gold chain necklace, oversized sunglasses, and platform heels. The outfit screams glamour and confidence.

Virgo Rising: Clean and practical, a Virgo rising would opt for a crisp, white button-down shirt tucked into high-waisted, black denim shorts. Pair with a black leather belt, minimalist jewelry, and comfortable, low-top sneakers. The outfit is polished and effortlessly chic.

Libra Rising: Elegant and balanced, a Libra rising would choose a flowy, pastel pink maxi skirt paired with a white, off-the-shoulder crop top. Accessorize with delicate, gold jewelry, strappy sandals, and a woven clutch. The outfit is feminine and harmonious.

Scorpio Rising: Mysterious and alluring, a Scorpio rising would opt for a black, lace bodysuit paired with high-waisted, faux leather leggings. Layer with a sheer, black kimono, and accessorize with a choker, ankle boots, and a dark, smoky eye. The outfit is seductive and intense.

Sagittarius Rising: Adventurous and free-spirited, a Sagittarius rising would rock a tie-dye, cropped t-shirt paired with distressed, cut-off denim shorts. Accessorize with a woven, multicolored belt, layered anklets, and gladiator sandals. The outfit is playful and adventurous.

Capricorn Rising: Classic and sophisticated, a Capricorn rising would choose a sleek, solid & colored co-ord with a structured, cinched waist. Pair with knee high or thigh high black boots or dainty shoes, minimalist jewelry, and subtly refined look. The outfit is timeless and powerful.

Aquarius Rising: Unique and unconventional, an Aquarius rising would opt for a holographic, iridescent bodysuit paired with high-waisted, flared pants. Accessorize with a chunky, silver choker, platform boots, and a brightly colored, faux fur coat. The outfit is futuristic and eccentric.

Pisces Rising: Dreamy and ethereal, a Pisces rising would choose a flowy, sheer, pastel purple maxi dress with delicate, floral embroidery. Layer with a soft, crochet cardigan, and accessorize with a flower crown, layered, beaded necklaces, and strappy, barefoot sandals. The outfit is whimsical and enchanting.

[conditioned-to-obey]

Burying her face in my chest while she holds me close. Nuzzling into my sternum like she wishes to live, breathe and die there. I'd let her make her grave in my ribcage. Wrap her body in soft cotton cloth and lay her to rest with me in a shoe box. Sleeping in a bed of lavender and babies breath, pelt soft as the day I found her. Tiny still heart, a red glass bead. Luckiest rabbit's foot. I hang her around my neck. Hare-like, rich as charred earth. Soft as chimney soot and just as radiant. She stains just so. It's hard to remove her from my skin. Under my nails. Woven into the leather of my belt, sitting silver on my hip. I wear her proudly. My mind a living mausoleum to her sable memory.

[sare11aa11eras]

Daenerys Missandei Irri and Jhiqui!

[Image Description: A full-length drawing of four people, Daenerys Targaryen, Missandei of Naath, and Dany’s two Dothraki handmaidens, Irri and Jhiqui. They are standing progressively farther back from the viewer. Daenerys stands in profile, walking forward, talking to someone. Missandei and Jhiqui have their bodies facing the viewer, Irri is angled slightly to the right side of the drawing. Missandei, Irri, and Jhiqui look at Daenerys. They are standing on a red carpet against a blank background.

Daenerys wears a purple tokar with a gold fringe. She wears her dragon crown, a gold bangle, rings of various materials, a gold vambrace with purple stones, gold earrings with purple stones, and an elaborate necklace with purple stones. From the necklace and the crown dangle long strings of red and black beads. She wears an anklet and leather sandals. A few golden bells can be seen in her hair.

Missandei wears a knee-length light orchid-color dress. It hangs loosely around her. Her dress is trimmed at the hem with purple and blue beads of different lengths. She wears sandals similar to Dany’s. She wears a large V-shaped piece of jewelry similar to a collar around her neck and over her collarbones. It is gold, mostly decorated with purple stones, and a blue butterfly design. Missandei wears earrings with blue butterflies and purple, pink, and yellow stones. She wears a bracelet of alternating pink and yellow stones. Her hair is in braids to pull it away from her face, but is otherwise in an Afro-type style. She holds a tablet and writing utensil in front of her chest. She has an interested expression as she looks up from her writing towards Dany.

Irri wears Dothraki clothes. She wears long trousers, which are blue fabric with a fringed panel of leather along the inside of her leg and groin. She wears leather boots with green, white, and purple painted swirls on them. She wears a dark leather belt around her middle and a belt of gold discs over it. The central gold disc has a green stone. More blue fabric wraps around her chest, either pleated or wrappings. Over this is a painted vest, primarily decorated with blue, green, and white. On her upper arm is an armband with an illustration of a horse galloping in grass. She has leather wrappings on her wrist and opposite upper arm. She wears one visible ring. She wears a leather necklace with a triangular gold pendant and gold triangular earrings. Her hair is in at least three braids, tied off with gold beads. She has bangs. She wears a woven headband of green and blue, with jade stones. Her face is neutral.

Jhiqui also wears Dothraki clothes, although hers do not look practical for riding. Her clothes are primarily fabric of a deep raspberry color. Along the outer side of her trousers is a stripe of leather, fringed at the end, painted with pink and pale purple flowers. On her chest she wears a beaded brooch shaped like a flower, with pink petals and a green “stem”. She wears slippers, in the same material as the rest of her outfit, with a decoration of pink flowers on yellow around the heel. Her vest is laced closed over a green and gold under layer. Her vest is trimmed at the hem with gold discs. Around her middle is a dark leather belt, with a thin belt of gold discs over it. She wears a leather necklace similar to Irri’s, with a circular gold pendant with a garnet stone. Her earrings match this pendant. She wears two rings. Her arm band is gold and garnet. Her hair is worn similarly to Irri’s. She has a bracelet with chips of green jade set in silver on a leather cuff. She has a nose piercing with a gold chain that leads to her earring. She appears to be wearing rouge. She looks mildly interested in whatever is happening. End ID./]

[stabbythespaceroomba]

Okay here we go again! If tumblr deletes this I’m gonna scream

Aeron - easy to see what he’s wearing, underclothing can be speculated

Aeron’s layers include breeches, tunic you can barely see under gambeson, gambeson (over something with long sleeves), tabard, gauntlets, gloves and belts, then then cloak

I’d argue you might have another underlayer of an undershirt, but that might just be the tunic you can see. We have nothing canonical for that, but it would make sense!! we can’t see if he’s wearing a quilted gorge or how his gambeson connects around his neck, meaning we can’t see if it’s tied or pulled over his head.

You can see a bit of a dip in the collar though so I would Heavily argue that it is tied down the front

-

Davos is now easy to know! Kieran Burton fed us GOOD today! Living for the fact that it’s Not a woollen tunic!

People into Davos-sexy times will be glad to know that the breeches are not just suspended but laced up (@benjicotblckwood thinking abt you lmaooo)(possible on both sides at the front, from the amount of string but I cannot see due to the shadow) . As is his under shirt, it laces at his neck

The next layer peeks out slightly!

It’s quilted and grey and I’d suggest it’s probably a quilted gorge maybe like

Or something more like that ^

Then comes the gambeson

Quilted and tied at the front, she looks lighter and is shorter than Aeron’s. The leather detailing would give extra protection and could easily be swapped with metal.

On top is his beautiful leather braided jerkin, woven leather gauntlets and cloak!

Everything seems to be tied together and nothing looks too heavy. This is a guy who prioritises moving fast

Layer check - breeches and undershirt, mystery quilted layer, gambeson, jerkin, cloak. 5 layers!!

-

So much work and thought have been put into these two, rather throw away outfits! They’re beautiful! I love how it shows Aeron in quite traditional knights wear. Aeron looks very proper for his station and yet is still underprepared! He doesn’t even have any mail on, bless him.

Davos on the other hand, his clothes are more of a wildcard and yet he’s clearly coming from money, he’s well protected himself and you can see that he’s well suited to fight with his knife. His clothing looks lighter but is no less unprotective (for border guarding, not necessarily a battle field 😬)

-

If anyone has any other idea or thinks I’ve named anything wrongly pls let me know! I’m a HEMA enthusiast and an medieval/early modern church historian not an armour expert!

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

To Hunt a Silver Stag (I)

AU MASTERLIST || PART II

PAIRING: Knight!Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x F!Fae Princess!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 6.9k

WARNINGS: Arranged marriage, talks of childbirth, traditional views of women & men in medieval times, talks of war, death, heavy religious imagery/symbolism, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You wore a crown of deer antlers atop your head. Charms were woven into the gaps between the tines, attached to golden thread; jewels of starlight strung like teardrops from the moon. Your feet, staying still on the hard stone of the Great Hall, are bare though attract no dirt or dust—it is as if the very ethereal aura that coats your gown of pure white repels any such thought of uncleanliness or corruption of this mortal plane. 

You are so very far from home.

Standing in the center of your soon-to-be husband’s court, your eyes seem not to be on the man himself, who watches you greedily from the throne of black iron, but instead behind him. Blank of any emotion, your long lashes blink in the direction of the stained glass windows with a horrible longing. Whispers from the multitude of court attendants go in one ear and out the other—useless to you. Their time would be gone in a blink, and yet here you would remain, immemorial. Their words were nothing, and their utterances would turn to dust faster than their bodies would.

You can’t help but wonder if those colorful depictions in that glass window, of God and his valiant angels, are mocking you as you blink at them slowly. Not only for what you are and where you now find yourself in the kingdom of your enemies but for being so full of the very qualities that would normally resign a woman of this age to the stake. 

Independent, confident, and curious, among others. 

A voice raises above the rest, and your eyes blink elegantly, the silver hue to them unnatural in all senses. Yet, you do not look away from the mighty white stag, its soldered bits of thin glass a patchwork of an overwatching Lord. Saint Eustace is there, staring at it, just as was told from generation to generation.

A pagan man converted to Christianity, the symbol of a cross set between antlers very much like the ones adorning your head. Humming under your breath, your eyes dip down, chin moving. Below the window, there stands a tall knight, and your gaze locks with his softly. 

“Today,” the King’s voice echoes over the crowd as brown orbs stare at you, blinking. “We are here to celebrate the joining of two great bloodlines!” He stands with a grand cape over his shoulders, falling to the floor as his boots stand at the top of the stairs to the throne. Yet, this knight holds your attention more than your Promised does as the cheering starts, loud; making your ears twitch.

At your waist, a golden belt is engraved with expert attention, stories woven into metal that even seem to move with the magic embedded into it. It seems to hum with an energy that makes your eyes narrow in confusion upon this stranger.

He had brown eyes, the knight, and the hues reminded you of brown that you could see in the trees of your home—those old beasts that grew still with the magic of your line and your gentle touch. Surrounding him, there was silver armor and a strip of red fabric that went over one shoulder, hanging beside the items of his station; a sword and a dagger on a brown leather belt.

Brows furrowing, your head tilts slowly, unblinking, as the eye contact persists. 

A bold man, it seems.

The knight’s eyelids slightly widen, as if realizing he had been staring, and his face swiftly moves to the side, his short hair close to his oval skull. You hear the faint clearing of a throat come into the shell of your pointed ears.

Sighing, your focus returns to the matter at hand, the crown’s adornments clinking together as your head rotates. The speech. 

King Michael spreads his hands out, a man far into his older years but still had the gleam of malice in his eyes. Those beady things. They remind you of a rat—a small creature, while intelligent, that cannot win unless through tricks.

“We all know that magic has slowly been disappearing from the lands,” the King utters, voice echoing off the walls. Your hands are holding themselves near your abdomen, grace embedded into your bones. Watching how he speaks, you can’t deny he was influential. But influence didn’t matter when you had no wife—no children. He has a dying line, and that means weakness…which is why you’re here, after all. “And in that time, our war with the Fae has fallen into a stalemate.”

Your expression sharpens, fingers twitching. Stalemate? There were humans in your lands—spreading their fires and swinging their defiling iron swords. There was no war here except the one that this King was perpetuating. 

But you held your tongue, even if your silver eyes narrowed in an ancient, bitter, anger. Your head raises itself higher, hanging gemstones swinging. The knight near the stained glass is back to watching you—his feet shifting from under him, hands behind his armored back with loose shoulders.

“...Today, myself and the King of the Fae have come to an agreement in confidence, and in the fashion of old, I am to be wed to his daughter, a princess!” Gasps, cheers, clapping. They spring up from all corners of the Hall, bouncing. Your body longs for nature, to be away from rock and metal, these suffocating walls that close in with the gaggle of wretched corpses walking. “Peace shall be beholden to all of us! Magic shall come back into my bloodline through our many children, and all will share in its wealth!” 

You had compared yourself to a broodmare when your father had given the news of your journey here. A womb to be filled until you could give no more; restrained to a bed—away from any privilege and right.

And you’d been sent here anyway. A price needed to be paid, your father had told you. A daughter to stop the war. A child to bring back mortal magic and keep the peace through generations. Was your head to be put to the block for that? Who was to say that children would bring peace? That there weren’t more conflicts to come?

This was a momentary sacrifice, and here you were wearing white.

You hum under your breath and feel shackles tie themselves to your ankles; tying you to this place. But what other option did you have?

Your ears listen to the loud rapturous cheering, the exclamations of love that mean nothing to you—you do not love these people, do not love their need for violence and their pride. You want to go home, to find where you can rest among glades and grass. Converse with the birds and the beasts to learn of their news of far-off lands; run your hands through clear streams and watch plants grow where you walk.

As your stone body stays still, silver eyes unblinking, the knight near the window is the only man in the room not gazing at you like he wants something from you. While Lords have their eyes filled with lustful envy of your age-less skin—your finery and wealth; the promise of strong children, the knight is the only one with an open expression. 

He only watches, handsome face holding the whispers of stubble and eyes that would make many moral women wish to be his wife. 

Admittingly, your attention keeps going back to him, just as his own is stuck on you even as he tries to look professional. Back straight, armor glinting, sword pommel fiddled with by long fingers. 

The King is walking down the stairs, one withered leg at a time. You don’t offer any help.

“My bride,” Michael licks his lips when he’s in front of you; but he’s more fixated on your stomach than all else. What it will hold for him. “My beautiful Fae bride. My wedding will be known through history for ages to come.”

My. 

The world holds its breath. The knight’s jaw clenches, though no one sees it. 

You take a heavy breath into your lungs to hold back your snapping tongue. As the words meet the air, they come out as unemotional as a wave at sea. Wind holding mist.

“Certainly.”

—

As it turned out, the castle itself was even less homely than the material that was used to build it. You walk slowly through the halls, hands behind your back and your crown glimmering—the trail of a thin and flowing gown making you look like a specter. One crudely carved window after another passes by your right shoulder, and you look out of every slit; seeing the silver shades of moonlight. In contrast, everything on your left was washed with firelight from the blazing iron sconces, your ears twitching to the pop of wood and fabric saturated in animal fat. 

Everything here was horrible.

A prison, you think, slowing near one of the larger windows in the hall. A cage.  

Staring outside, trying for only a moment to understand the disgusting castle and adjoined town you look at, there’s a faint noise from far down the corridor. 

Wasting no time, your head moves slowly to the side, blinking. There isn’t anyone to be seen, but yet again, your slightly pointed ears twitch. 

A firm heartbeat. 

Bump-bump, bump-bump, bump-bump.

Staring at nothing, you listen for a moment, taking it in as your visage fights with blue and red light, shadows littering the small cracks and the marks of stone—your hands slightly tighten, but you hold no fear. 

You refused to be afraid here; you would go to your spiritual death with a high head, and nothing less. 

“It’s unbecoming to stalk as if a wolf,” you call, voice smooth and even. A beat of bird’s wings. “Four-legged beasts have perfected it, yet, the same cannot be said of you.” 

There’s a lapse of silence—a swirling of slight tension that comes not from you but another. The heartbeat in your ear lightly skips. Startled. A shadow cusps one of the connected hallways, a gleam of silver armor. You blink slowly.

“Apologies, Ma’am.” The Knight. The one from the Great Hall. “I…didn’t mean to make you nervous.”

His lithe form doesn’t try to hide from your accusation, instead, his body moves to the middle of the stone floor and straightens—one hand going to his heart and the other behind his back; bowing. The darkness of his complexion seems to glow in the light, smooth skin besides the marring of small scars along the left cheek. Tiny things, only two lines.

For no reason at all, your body lightly turns towards him, watching.

“I’m not nervous,” you respond. “Please, stand straight.” 

He does so without hesitation, though his eyes are avoiding yours. A guilty pull is to his lips that you can’t help but quirk a brow at. Yet, you remain emotionless, and outside the shadows of flying birds shift past.

“What is your name, Knight?” You see his expression slightly tense at the question, but you continue easily. A test, perhaps, if this man was worth your time. “I recall your face.” 

“I can’t give you that, My Lady.” Brown eyes go to meet yours, and the silver flecks in your orbs glimmer. “My orders were clear.”

“And were those orders also to follow me?” 

He clears his throat, feet shifting. “...Maybe.”

You hum, moving your body slowly and walking forward to him. The man blinks in surprise, straightening even more but a firm set to his eyes. His attention never wavers, unless it’s to glimpse your crown and belt, perfect pieces of artistry lost to this section of humanity. No mortal craftsman could imagine making something as such. He liked them, you notice at the light impression of awe in his gaze.

Anyone with sense would.

Stopping just a few feet away, you tilt your head. 

It was common knowledge that you never gave your name to one of the Fae, your betrothed would have told everyone close to him to avoid doing so. Just as you would never tell your real name to anyone—not even under dire circumstances. Names hold power, and no person in this castle would make you even more of a prisoner than you already were. 

You know the names of beasts and plants, flora and fauna—they bend to you, let you manipulate them to your will, though you often find no need to. The animals from any land prefer your company, anyway. The castle’s hunting hounds have already become well acquainted, just as the messenger birds had. 

But mortals? No. No, there were no names that you knew besides the King himself, and even then it was a fake one. Second names and such, are common. 

“Your title, then,” you say to the Knight. “If you’re to be a constant face to me.”

“Gaz is just fine, I’d say.” He nods his head, a slow smile moving his cheeks. Your brows furrow. Strange fellow. “A pleasure. I really do need to say that I wasn’t following you for long—I was only concerned you might have lost your way.”

You stare. 

“Lost?” Owlishly, your head shifts.

Gaz makes a noise in the back of his throat, one hand coming up to rub at the base of his neck. “Yeah—lost. It’s, uh, it’s a big castle, My Lady—”

“Stag.” Wide eyes blink, this meeting is only awkward on his part and not yours. In fact, for how humans go, he was acting far better than most. Usually, there was iron being brandished by now.

“What was that?”

“My title,” you explain, your crown’s gems bright in the light. The fire crackles, popping. “Stag. I do not need my status stated. I know what I am, Knight.”

“Then I’d say the same,” your fingers twitch, liking the word game he plays. Inside of your sockets, the unnatural makeup of your eyes shimmers. 

“Very well,” you pause, picking your words. “Gaz. A strange choice to be sure.”

He chuckles, nodding in a very stoic-like way despite the nearly boyish nature of him. “Well, Stag isn’t exactly common, either.”

You hum in your throat, unblinking; staring. Your intrigue grows the longer the man talks. Just like in the Great Hall, his form attracts all of your attention to it, against all laws that you seem to know in your soul. 

“Pray tell,” you shift, moving back to the window with your feet not making a single sound. Gaz watches on, eyes flickering between the hanging gems and how you tread over the stone as if you had wings. Your form slips back to the window, and your focus once more goes outward. “Has the King told you to spy on me, Gaz?”

The title, even if not the one of his birth—not the one written on his soul like a brand—still made the air quiver with might. You were older than most of this kingdom, the Knight knew. Older than the oak trees of the nearby forest; older than rock and wind and air.

Power dripped off your tongue like water to a leaf. 

But it wasn’t your influence that made the man answer you. It was his own nature. 

“Yes,” Gaz says, taking a few steps to where you stand, watching a flock of birds dance above the courtyard, silver moon-drips illuminating white feathers. “But I wouldn’t call it spying. Officially, I’ve been put in place to keep you safe, Princess.” His dark brows crease when you don’t pay him any mind. “I take my job very seriously, yeah?” 

“I can see that,” you utter, eyes still on the birds. “The only thing I need protecting from is the iron ring on your right hand.”

He startles, blinking for a moment. 

“...Parden?”

Silver eyes pierce him, watching; waiting. 

Gaz looks down, locking on the hand that has been resting on the pommel of his sword. Cape swishing, he makes a noise in the back of his throat. His sigil ring—the one that had been given over at his dubbing ceremony sat on the first digit, the engraving of his King’s coat of arms glimmering back. 

A wolf; a snake caught in its fangs. 

Brown eyes dart back, and he sheepishly smiles, huffing a chuckle of sorts. 

“Comes with the job, unfortunately,” yet still, his other hand easily grasps and slips the thing off, tucking it away into the leather pouch swinging from his belt. “I thought that was a myth—the Fae being harmed by iron. Conjured up to give people something to cling to.”

“I can name a million things that men and women like you consider myth,” you mutter, starting at that pouch, deep in thought. You hadn’t expected him to give in that easily. Your shoulders loosen their rigidness, but your chin never drops its high pride. “Every story comes from somewhere—be it reality or wives’ tales. Who’s to say that the words don’t give them life in one form or another?” 

“Bloody hell. Not a discussion to take up with me, I’m afraid,” Gaz huffs a chuckle, smirking. While still hesitant around you, the conversation wasn’t anything that made him want to not be around you. Everyone deserved to have their character shown, and what he was seeing so far wasn’t ringing any alarms. “Sound more of a scholar than a Princess, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Your lips quirk. “I prefer philosopher.”

“And what’s a Fae philosopher doing out in the middle of the night, then?” A breeze wafts through the window, blowing on your dress and making Gaz’s cape flutter in its bloodish tint. The torches whip and dance. You take a low breath, bird chips coming closer. 

“Speaking with an old friend.”

A white dove lands on the stone opening of the window, fluttering wings coming to fold along its sleek form until it shakes and settles all at once. 

“Lysander,” you say in greeting, nodding your head. Gaz watches, barely moving as his lips part in astonishment. 

Your hand extends itself, bearing no rings or bracelets. All you needed was your crown. Tiny eyes blink as an angular head turns to the side, tiny coos sparking from a rounded breast. Pale feet grasp your perfect flesh, such a tiny weight settles before you lift effortlessly; wings flapping to keep balance. 

“What news, then?” You ask in a whisper, bringing the beast to your crown. Lysander settles on one of the tines, head dipping down as feathers puff. Into your ear, words take shape. 

You hum in answer, blinking at every clicked sentence; tapping talons. 

Gaz stares blankly, eyebrows pulled up on his head and unable to articulate himself.

So many stories about your people—he hadn’t thought half of them to be true. While he’d been stationed in many places during the duration of this war, he’d never actually encountered one of the Fae before. Gaz had been told they were like a plague; they came in when you weren’t looking, spoke magic into your ears, and forced you to come back to their home and live as mindless beasts. Cupbearers and entertainment. 

Of the countless knights he’d been in line with, he knew the true names of none of them. A precaution. Forethought. 

Yet…you don’t look dangerous. 

But the man is far from stupid. 

“He says the fires from your forges burn his eyes,” your voice snaps him back to you, and he straightens, fingers twitching. Gaz finds your face already turned his way, owlish in its movements. “The smoke makes his throat ache.”

“I,” he pauses, mouth opening and closing. Brown eyes dart to the sharp-beaked dove; the thing very much like you in the way it watches him. “I’m…sorry?”

Your lips pull in a frown, sighing with a shake of your head. 

I can never survive here, you find yourself thinking. I believed this is what I had to do, but if this is how I’m going to live…

“Tell me about your King, Gaz,” your body swiftly turns, feet carrying you down the corridor once more with long, even, steps. “If I’m to marry him, I will know of his nature.”

The man clears his throat and follows after, where you hear the clinking of silver and the scabbard against his thigh. He glances over at you, walking if not a bit behind yourself in proper fashion. 

“What do you want to know, Ma’am?”

Your unnatural orbs shimmer, and the bird on your crown hunkers down; puffed contently and eager to rest his wings from a long flight. 

“Everything. I will not be unaware of my fate.” 

“Well,” Gaz sighs, rubbing at his chin with his opposite hand. He licks his lips, mind running to answer the best he can. “You’ll not want for anything—finery and wealth will—���

“I do not care about mortal revelry. I need neither fine things nor wealth.” Your voice curtly moves along the open air. The Knight’s boots connect with stone while your bare flesh emits nothing. “His character, Knight. Is he fair—just?”

Gaz’s face tightens, glancing from you to the hallway as he takes a moment to think.

“My King has…become troubled with the turning tides of the war. I’m sure when your marriage is official, he’ll go back to how he was before.” He doesn’t seem certain, but loyalty is a trait that a knight knows well. You had been set as his charge, of course, not under the best of circumstances, but he would do his job how he believed would benefit all parties. Even if his guts were stiff at the thought of a forced marriage. 

“My Lady Stag?” He asks, and your heart jerks unexpectedly at the muttering of your title. 

Blinking in confusion, your hand coming up to rub at your collarbone like a willow branch, you almost miss the question entirely. 

“Where you come from, if I can ask, of course, what’s it like?” Your mind strays from marriage ceremonies and consummation—momentary peace slipping in on waves of this man’s smooth accent. 

Mouth opening, only to close once and open again, you decide to indulge this man with your answer. If only because he speaks of your home. 

“Green,” is the soft utterance of your answer to him. “It’s green. More trees and rivers than you can count in your lifetime. Animals each more fantastical than the last; all of which your people now call nothing but hearsay.” 

You can sense his attention, sucking up knowledge as if he had the years to know and understand it all. 

Lysander coos, shaking his feathers out, and you glance upward without moving your head. You chuckle like a blade of moving grass. 

Blinking, Gaz slowly begins to smile, cocking his skull to the side boyishly. “What’s so funny, then?”

Your high nose twitches. 

“He says you’re as if a Wyvern hatching. A curious thing.” Brown eyes drift to your companion, whose peaked eye pierces like black fire-stone. Gaz’s mouth releases a puff of a chuckle, chest jerking. 

“Hell, never thought I’d get insulted by a bird.” 

“Humans have not the ability to speak with beasts,” you ease out, walking on. “On that, I have to say you are at a sure disadvantage.”

“What?” Gaz’s amused voice is in your ear. “Minus the whole immortality thing?”

You side-eye him, visage calm with decades of understanding. “Not everything is built to last forever.”

A momentary silence falls between the two of you. Eyes locked, you both stare, legs carrying bodies across the unfeeling stone until the area Lysander had told you about takes form. You shift a slow right and exit into the inner courtyard, large stone walls making a small square of patchy green grass and dying plants. A fountain sits still. 

“If this is to be a game of equal exchange, Knight, I desire to ask the next question.” Your eyes take it all in, hand moving out to capture the blackened leaves of a Medlar tree. Frowning at the dead fauna, you hear Lysander take to wing, flapping until his ghostly form lands on the far-off fountain’s edge. 

“Alright,” Gaz nods, looking around at the dying place with a frown as well. He’d never come here before, but the state of things was…sad, really. “Ask away.”

“When you leave the castle—the town,” you let power move to your fingertips, and you feel the tingles of it running the lengths of your arms like ice and fire; taking a low breath. “What do you see? I admit, I’m not used to having company with humans. I know not how their souls feel.”

Gaz walks into the small enclosed space, humming as he taps the pommel of his sword. His shoulders shrug as his head tilts up, blinking at the stars. 

“I wouldn’t see it as you would, I gather.”

You look over your shoulder, amusement in your face mixed with a slice of intrigue. “That wasn’t my question. But, no, you would not.” 

“Figured,” he chuckles, nodding at you. Gaz articulates himself dutifully. “I see a place far more peaceful than the one here. Outside the stone and smog—it’s beautiful, truly. Calm. You can actually think above the noise, you know? I usually find myself wanting to get out more often, but my duty ties me here.” 

Your eyes soften slightly, thumb running the face of the leaf as you take in his words. Lysander stoops to take a sip of water. 

“You’re…” You lack the words, only humming and stopping yourself. 

“Why are we here, Princess?” Gaz asks you, gazing around. “I had only expected you to walk to the kitchens—the library, even. Don’t get me wrong, you can go as you wish, but I’m not sure this is the most…” He grunts. “Sightly place to end up. Everything’s dead.”

“Nearly,” you whisper, a tiny smile taking over your flesh. “Not quite.” 

Gaz’s frown is lost to you, as is his comment that he mutters, “Looks it.”

Leaning forward, you press your lips to the leaf you hold as if a precious object. Into its blackened and shriveled form, you whisper its name—its true name, one you had learned through years of patience and trust that bordered on an entirely trance-like state. A Medlar is a tough and stubborn thing, like the fruit it bears, it will hang on until all else is gone to dust. Its roots are strong, and from them, you had listened to the earth sing its songs one buzzing note at a time.

All things speak, you just have to know how to listen. 

There’s a surge of wild order, a dichotomy of will and freedom; the sing of an axe and the memories of young saplings just gracing their leaves to the sun. A circle of death and rebirth as old as the stars that still shone in a sky of black. 

You know many names, but those of the trees were the first to come to you, and it was only proper. Before anything, there were trees. 

The Medlar shakes, its leaves dropping down one at a time until they come in groups, in clusters—bare branches shiver like dogs do until creaking ballads move over the air. 

Starling, Gaz had taken a large step back, hand snapping to the handle of his sword, the blade half drawn. Lysander flies past his face, blunt talons skating the close-cropping of his hair before the bird grapples to your crown. Flinching, the knight watched with a mixture of horror and pure wonder.

The tree was sprouting new greens. 

You step back, and from your feet, the dead grass quivers, before the smell of groaning earth makes his nose twitch; fresh blades show themselves anew. The dove atop your crown jumps from one sharp tine to the next, dodging lines of gold—eyes glinting and wings flapping excitedly. 

Life is in the very air. 

You smile to yourself, silver eyes moving as a nearly ancient-looking spark flares to life in them—a long breath entering your lungs. 

Gaz’s face begins to heat as he watches, his heart pounding with something he can’t understand. He stares at your bright face before his fast-blinking eyes move to the grass growing all around; the bushes dancing, flowers opening up and turning to you. Birds gather on the edges of this verdant and fertile land, darting one by one to the fountain and to the trees. Singing.  

The knight steps back, feet dancing over the ground with an airy laugh stuck in his throat. 

“Holy hell…” he breathes, nearly panting. 

Wide eyes move back to you, expression open, innocent. This was a moment when you truly believed you’d never seen a face more bare than this; more giving. 

“You…” He laughs. “You’re tellin’ me you could always do that?” You chuckle, and it is a sound that could make roots grow in his heart, flowers bursting from his lungs. “I…I’m speechless, really. This is,” he laughs once more, turning a full circle, with his hand going to the back of his neck in shock. It was entirely new—all of it. Ivy climbed the stone, and the animals spoke and flew in the air; excitement something that transcends species. “This is extraordinary.”

You were something incredible. 

Chuckling, you raise a slow brow, feeling a foreign heat move over your cheeks. It’s a moment before you speak, taken aback by the reverency.

“My thanks, Knight,” your head nods his way, a simple dip of your chin and nothing more. “But this is only a small courtyard. A fraction. If I so wished, forests could grow from ashen ground.”

“How?” He asks you, eyes glittering more than the moon. 

Smaller birds join Lysander on your head, finches, perhaps, and sparrows. They tweet and chip, speaking their thanks. You reach up and let one move onto your finger, bringing it back to eye level as you move to softly connect your forehead to its own. Moving back, you hum and watch the bird fly off.

“Ages of practice,” you elegantly tip your head his way, careful of your cargo. “Quite verbatim.” 

Gaz is speechless, unable to recall something in his life that had made him feel so special to be able to witness it. Magic to humans was a dying thing—you’d be surprised if he’d ever even seen it in this magnitude before. 

“...Amazing,” he utters under his breath, smiling like a fool.

For all of your Fae trickery, your games, you had to be honest. “I don’t believe I thought you’d be this moved by it.”

“Really?” He blinks at you, a boyish twist to his face. “How could I bloody not be, Love?”

Your air gets stuck in your throat, eyes minutely widening. 

Gaz quickly comes back to himself, straightening and clearing his throat as your face suddenly blazes in a way that startles you. Heart pattering like a horse’s hooves not only at the…different title but his awe at your magic as well. 

“Forgive me, My Lady,” you choose not to correct him. “I overstepped.”

His body bends forward in a deep bow, hand to his heart, resting over his armor as the cape drapes its crimson fabric to the now vibrant grass. 

It had briefly eluded you that you were to be married soon. A comment like that could get the Knight and his tree-bark brown eyes put to the sword. You hold back a long sigh, eyelids fluttering shut softly. 

“Is he kind?” Your question is small, but it moves like a knife.

Gaz stares hard at the ground, once dead and nothing but a reminder of nature. He clenches his jaw, a worry swirling in his gut. The man knows who you’re asking about, and he holds the same dread he did in the Great Hall as you were led like a sacrificial lamb to the altar. 

Maybe the Knight was broken, but even if he’d never met one of your kind before, he knew that no person deserved to be bartered for the illusion of peace—forced to give children like they were only objects. But maybe he was also just a man not meant for this lifetime.

It was the way of things.

Gaz swallows the tension in his shoulders. He will not lie. 

“...No.”

—

This tall knight had become a constant at your side. Officially, he’d been placed for your protection, but you knew it was because the King didn’t want you to cut and run. 

But unless there was a very good reason to, he should have known that you were not the running type. It was a battle of wits, and even into your marriage, you would always come out on top.

It started easy enough—Michael would invite you for tours of the castle ‘making it a home’ he’d said in front of his court. It was a power trip. 

He’d talk about his wealth like it would make you swoon; like you cared at all. You could only hide your sneer for so many hours, even with your infinite amount of patience. Time had mellowed you like the rocks of the ocean, but even they cracked when the storm was strong enough. 

Yet still, you considered yourself too intelligent for baseline insults.

“My palace was much the same, your Highness. Our towers rose high—nearly gracing the clouds themselves.”

“Oh, lovely, my King. Pray tell, do you also have pet dragons? Oh…unicorns, perhaps? My, I had the most lovely unicorn companion when I was just shy of my two-hundredth birth year. A little thing—all legs and neck. Beautiful creatures.” 

“Gorgeous little trinkets. Tell me, do you have a coffer for fallen stars? They create the most magnificent illumination for late-night reading.”

Gaz nearly lost his composure at times, even if no one else could tell except for you and your pointed ears; twitching at every breath that was fought to keep still. The over-the-lip huffs and chuckles. In fact, you found yourself perpetuating the back-handed insults just to hear those noises. Such small and meaningless things, in the grand scheme. 

You took…enjoyment from it.

Seeing the effect it had on the King was also a bonus—his raging eyes, snapping tongue held back for only his reputation and little more. He wanted to take you by the arm and shake you, you knew, yell in your face. 

Kind, King Michael was not. Gaz had been correct. 

In the nights, you would discuss with the Knight—sitting in the dense and growing courtyard with your body comfortable on the grass; Gaz’s on the fountain’s edge.

You have much of the same confidence in one another as you do tonight. 

“Do knights marry for love?” Your voice wafts out, petting Lysander with a single finger in your lap; itching at his neck as he coos. “Do they get to choose?” 

Gaz fiddles with his cape’s clasp, fingers dancing over the silver make. He has made a motion to always take off his ring when it’s just the two of you, easily slipping it away until he was forced to put it back on. He doesn’t know if you feel it, but he believes the two of you to be well-off acquaintances—perhaps even friends. 

The man enjoyed speaking to you. He reveled in the limitless knowledge that spilled from your tongue, your stories and tales. Gaz, unlike so many others, enjoyed your company not for the power that it offers in a physical sense, but for the words that you freely give. Often your sentences were like honey to him, seeping into his head.

A princess speaking with a knight? Unheard of. A Fae princess? Blasphemy. 

It was easy to forget that you were older than many generations of his family line. 

“No,” he says, glancing over. “All knights take a vow of chastity when they commit to service. None of those alive in this kingdom will wed unless they willingly break their oaths.” 

Your head tilts, crown resting comfortably a small distance away on a rock.

“That sounds lonely.”

Gaz smiles, “Worried about me?” 

You stare, eyes traveling the little deaths on his face—the lines, the scars. “If it’s what you wish to do with yourself, who am I to tell you any different?” 

The man’s face softens, lips pulling as his cheeks heat under the moonlight. “Figured you’d have some opinion of it.”

You hum, raising a brow. “It’s your life—it’s so fleeting. Tread it as if water between your fingers. Before you know it, it’ll be gone.” Lysander leans into your flesh, shivering. “Live it.”

“For someone who says they don’t know humans that well,” Gaz grumbles, though his chest is light. “You sure know a lot about them.”

“Intuition,” your mouth twitches in a smile. “And a bit of reality.”

Delicate looks are shared. 

You do admit, you liked these conversations with Gaz. The long nights and the feeling of grass under your flowing dresses; the horrid contraptions that your betrothed had tried to make you wear stuck far back into the wardrobe of your room. Heavy items—suffocating corsets, unlike the simple but elegantly sewn one you wear now. You could feel it trying to sneak in when the days drew on. 

Control. 

It was all becoming more and more apparent. You did not want to live like this. 

Your face goes troubled as the calm silence moves over the Medlar with its reaching branches. Fireflies hang like miniature stars as you take your crown and slip it back on; to feel the comforting weight of antlers. 

The knight pauses as he slips his cape off of his shoulder, blinking over at you in a slow confusion. You look troubled. He’d never seen that expression on your face before.

“Stag?” Your head swivels, as if in another world.

“Just thinking,” your voice moves into his ears, making them hum with energy. Gaz’s brows furrow, a frown taking over. After a second, he stands, moving closer on quiet feet. 

You watch him as he goes to kneel near you, one arm moving over the bent nature of his leg while the other holds fabric—letting it cascade over the earth. Brown eyes narrow, and a joking tease moves with the undertone of slight concern.

“I’m usually the talker, I know, but when you look a bit like that it makes me nervous.”

You frown. “Look like what?”

“Like someone’s got a sword to your neck, Princess.” The air is cool here, the deep throws of night taking you by the breath in your throat. A smooth smirk. “It’s my job to make sure that doesn’t happen, yeah?”

If you leave, if you find a way out of this…the war will never end. It will go on until stone cracks like glass and generations forget why it even started in the first place. 

But why were you put to the axe because of it? Why must you take the blade to the stomach—an object of greed? 

Gaz’s amused voice moves lower at your immobile lips, going serious. 

“Hey,” a hand outstretched to your arm, hovering. “Really, is everything alright?”

“Gaz,” you pause, voice still level despite your heated pulse. It’s like a snake curls itself in your guts, roots growing in your veins. The courtyard seems to shiver all by itself, leaves curling into themselves from bushes and trees. Lysander’s feet shimmy, head moving about. 

This knight had been kind to you as well as honest about his intentions. Chivalrous. Such qualities are hard to come by anymore.

“I don’t believe I want this.” It’s a breath more quiet than a lapping of waves. Gaz stills, fingers above your flesh twitching. “I can’t live in a cage. I refuse.”

Silver meets brown, holding it firmly. 

“I will not be a prize to be chained to a birthing bed.” 

The man’s face pulls at that, tightening. 

You don’t know what to expect. It isn’t fear in you—no, nothing like this could make you afraid. Apprehensive? Perhaps. Age made you cautious. At any moment he might flip his tune; run off to tattle to a King he, seemingly, likes just as much as you. Which is to say, very little. But there’s still the possibility, the knowledge stacked over ages and ages of strategy and mind games. 

A knight of a tension-ridden kingdom, swearing fealty to a King whom you’re betrothed to. You’d just expressed treason, in a way. It could put you to the sword; to the rope. To irons. Your mind runs through the millions of possibilities, not able to settle on a single one before—

A cape settles over your shoulders, startling you. 

Hand snapping to grab the front, your head snaps up, eyes wider than you can remember them ever going. 

Soft browns meet you, a thin smile. Fireflies buzz about, and a dove sits under your still finger, watching with beady orbs intently at the scene. A Medlar quivers. 

A stag and a knight breathe the same air. A godly creation and a saint ensnared in a song far larger than they intend, as the world shifts past all around them. Silver starlight leaves long reflections breaking from the hanging glory of your gems, but the patches of light on Gaz’s face capture yours in that instant far more than they should have. 

Impossibly so. Unnaturally so. 

Does this mortal have magic of his own, perhaps? You have to ask yourself. There was no other possibility. 

And when he speaks…it’s like whatever ice has been layered over your antediluvian heart breaks into fire. There wasn’t even a fight from him.

“Then tell me what you need.”

TAGS:

@sheviro-blog, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @mrshesh, @berryjuicyy, @romantic-homicide, @kmi-02, @neelehksttr, @littlemisstrouble, @copperchromewriting, @coelhho-brannco, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @fictional-men-have-my-heart, @sleepyqueerenergy, @cumikering, @everything-was-dark, @marmie-noir, @anna-banana27, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @irenelunarsworld, @rvjaa, @sarcanti, @aeneanc, @not-so-closeted-lesbian, @mutuallimbenclosure, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @gildedpoenies, @glitterypirateduck, @writeforfandoms, @kohsk3nico, @peteymcskeet, @caramlizedtomatoes, @yoursweetobsession, @quesowakanda, @chthonian-spectre, @so-no-feint, @ray-rook, @extracrunchymilk, @doggydale, @frazie99, @develised, @1-800-no-users-left, @nuncubus, @aldis-nuts, @clear-your-mind-and-dream, @noonanaz, @cosmicpro, @stinkaton, @waves-against-a-cliff, @idocarealot

[pinkmirth]

I think we need some headcanons of cowboy Reiner

— ( save a horse, ride a cowboy! )

༉‧₊˚. — synopsis: just a cluster of fluffy and smutty headcanons for none other than the love of my life, cowboy reiner!

༉‧₊˚. — contains: (2k words of…) cowboy!reiner x fem!reader, (black coded), fluff, nsfw/smut, modern au, southern setting, established relationship (married), fantasies of having a child, breeding kink (‘cause this is reiner we’re talking about duh!), mentions of pregnancy, bondage kink, oral (m!receiving/blowjob), cowgirl position, doggy-style, creampie, reiner calls himself “daddy”, use of the petnames (mama, sugar, darling, honey, cowgirl), reiner calls you “woman” once, lowercase intended, minors shoo!

༉‧₊˚. — mira’s note: oh absolutely, nonnie! here are some thoughts I have on cowboy rei-rei 💕 (check masterlist for other reiner fics!)

this man is always covered head-to-toe in classic cowboy attire— embroidered cowboy boots, blue denim jeans with a lasso hanging from his belt loop, and a trusty old cowboy hat. he’s got the whole getup, and he looks even sexier in it every time you see him! though, his best look by far is the shirtless one. it’s the highlight of your day when whenever it gets too warm outside, because he’s soon to peel off his top. from across the farm, he can feel your eyes burning into his lightly-tanned skin as he does the most mundane chores. his muscles tense and flex with every move, pecs gleaming with sweat. he shoots you a smirk, folding his arms across his bare chest. “y’like what ya see, honey?” you pray the weather’s even hotter tomorrow.

it warms his heart whenever you come around to watch him do his daily chores around the farm. your presence motivates him to work harder, so he can continue to provide for you and sustain your comfortable lifestyle. you try not to be too much of a distraction, but you can’t help wanting to be closer to your husband; so you tug at his leather belt and pull him in for a kiss. that gets him giddy like nothing else. “ya know how much i love it when y’do that… gimme another,” he puckers his lips, and you giggle. “i don’t wanna keep you sidetracked for too long, rei. you were busy before i got here,” you caress his stubbled cheek and he pouts in response, leaning forward to receive another pillowy kiss. “jus’ one more, mama.”

cowboy reiner loves to cook and bake! he often goes on farmer’s market dates with you, walking hand in hand as you help him pick out the freshest ingredients and spices. you chat and laugh amongst one another, dropping carrots and apples into the hand-woven basket that reiner made for you. after arriving back home, he allows you to relax in yours and his shared bedroom while he whips together a hearty southern meal for the two of you. he shouts from across the house, adorned in nothing but a short pair of checkered boxers and a flimsy apron, “supper’s ready, darlin’! come on down ‘n eat!”

he’s great with animals! reiner cradles an adorable month-old horse in his strong arms, feeding milk to the baby with a soft smile. it’s just about the sweetest thing you could ever see! all the little foals follow him around the ranch because they love papa reiner just as much as you do <3 he’s built something of a connection between himself and his beloved herd, which is why he’s able to bring the horses over to their stables with no hassle whatsoever. this man could practically be a veterinarian with all the animal knowledge he has!

he’s a locally known rodeo champion! reiner wins the prize for longest bull-riding every single year. he should allow someone else a fighting chance, at least 😭 but he’s just effortlessly good at anything he puts his mind to! he skillfully rides the beast with such ease, leaving the crowd in awe. courtesy of his natural-born strength, he hardly ever gets tossed off. reiner’s got medals galore hanging on his wall from every competition.

as a southern man, he’s very family-oriented. his loved ones are of the utmost importance to him, and he’ll always put family first before anything else. he utterly adores you, and can’t wait to start a tiny lil family of his own with you <3 when I tell you this man cannot wait to be a papa, I mean it! there’s no denying that reiner would be an amazing father, considering that he’s so caring and attentive. he knows the best tickle spots to target, and the silliest faces to make to get a child cracking up (both of which he discovered through spending lots of time with gabi when she was small.) he constantly daydreams about dressing up his little one in tiny boots and overalls and carrying them up on his shoulders. (yes, I’m pushing the daddy rei-rei agenda on this fine weekend!)

cowboy reiner has manners like none other— the epitome of a true gentleman! he’s a great listener, is always so patient, opens doors for you, pays for your things without hesitation, gives frequent massages, carries you when you begin to feel tired; the list goes on! he’s just so kind and selfless, and never fails to show it. cowboy rei-rei is truly the perfect husband. “your feet hurt? well c’mere, sugar. i’ll carry you. it ain’t too much for me, y’know i can handle ya! jus’ hold onto me. i gotcha, okay?”

cowboy reiner is a grown man who can wholly appreciate your body and every striking detail about it. he scrutinizes the small dotted beauty marks scattered across your skin, your cutely patterned stretch marks, the curves and crevices of your soft tummy and thighs, and he fucking loves it all. makes it a habit to kiss up and down your body, just to give you a well-needed confidence boost. this man right here surely knows how to make a woman feel special! “listen t’me— you’re so fuckin’ gorgeous, y’know that?”

(nsfw) — reiner loves when you treat him to a surprise blowie during work. he’s up to the usual, arranging things around the barn and tending to the animals. you then make your entrance, wrapping your arms around his waist to hug him from behind. your plump lips curve into a sensual smile as you ask him, “can I steal you for a moment, baby? it won’t be for too long, I swear it.” in an instant, he's allowing you to pull him away from his duties, unknowing of where you’re taking him, but also uncaring because he’d allow you to do whatever you please. he follows you with the goofiest smile plastered on his charming face, because he knows that he’s about to receive the most knee-buckling blowjob of his entire goddamn life. you bring him into the hayloft, pushing him against the red-painted wall until he’s flat against it. you drop to your knees and bring his jeans down with you. “fuck, darlin’… kiss the tip ‘fa me.” he moans lowly. you do as he wishes, suckling on his cockhead with the most beautiful, glistening eyes. you’re so eager to please, and it makes him throb on your tongue. with a hand at the back of your head, he guides you further onto him until you’ve swallowed the entirety of his fat dick. reiner ruts his hips, fucking into your wet mouth. you always know just how to make him feel so good, so loved. he adores you like nothing else. “oh, that’s it, honey, right there… atta girl.”

(nsfw) — the bondage kink on this man is insane, I tell you! cowboy reiner loves to keep your hands tied behind your back and watch you squirm against the rope. “rei,” in a breathless whine, his name falls from your plush lips. you wiggle your ass in the air for him, anticipating his next move. he takes you from the back, raw-dogging your pussy with a merciless pace. you truly wonder where he gets all this unparalleled energy to drill you into the bed, especially considering all the hard work he puts into maintaining the farm every day. one large hand of his stays planted on your waist, hastily grabbing, while the other holds onto your tied hands for leverage. he delivers harsh, deep-reaching thrusts, with his firm hips sharply smacking against you from behind. your wrists struggle against the rope, and he can tell just how desperate you are to touch him. his gaze is fixated on your soft body; every jiggle of your ass and ripple of your thighs is more hypnotizing than the last. you mewl for him, stuttering out something along the lines of ‘t—too much!’ … reiner leans down until his chest grazes the arch of your back, so that he can say, “quit alla-that whinin’, woman.” he clicks his teeth, flooding your ears with that sexy southern drawl of his. “y’can take it all, you’ve done it before.”

(nsfw) — we all know it, the entire goddamn fandom knows it: cowboy reiner has a massive fucking breeding kink! he wants nothing more than to get you pregnant by stuffing your pliant womb with his thick loads of cum. giving you a creampie makes him go completely wild; he watches his seed drip down your slit with hitched breath. a sight such as that is enough to get him hard all over again. the lust takes over, and he’s thinking with his dick for the next three rounds. plowing into you and rubbing at your puffed clit with calloused fingertips, reiner asks, “want me to come inside you? hm?” he gently holds onto your chin, directing your gaze to him. you dazedly look at your husband, pulsing around his thick cock. seeing how fucked-out you are makes his chest swell with the utmost pride. his greatest achievement is being able to please you. “tell me how bad y’fuckin’ want it, baby.” he rasps. your pleading moans urge him to release for you. his warm, pearly arousal seeps into you for the nth time that night. all he wants is to fill you up until you’re walking funny, with your leg shaking from all the stimulation. or, at least until that little stick comes out positive one day. having you grow plump with his child is his ultimate fantasy. “you’d look so stunnin’ as a mama, carryin’ my baby… don’t’cha think so, sugar?”

(nsfw) — reiner likes to let you wear his cowboy hat while you ride him. mounting onto your husband with your legs on either side of his hips, you straddle him. your dainty hands are planted on his broad chest for balance. he pulls off his iconic hat, hair cutely tousled from wearing it all day, before sitting up to place it on your head. “since you’ll be the one ridin’ tonight. giddyup, cowgirl.” he teases with a slick grin. you tip the hat with a breathy laugh before sinking down on his fat dick, maintaining sharp eye contact with him as your throbbing cunt takes him in little by little, until your clit’s grounded and snug against the dark-blonde tufts of his happy trail. his warm palms rub along your body as you swivel your hips, slamming down on all nine girthy inches that he has to offer. he watches your tits bounce, one manicured hand of yours squeezing at your left boob while the other holds onto his hat that rests upon the crown of your head. you rock back and forth with fervor, and he swears he can feel every spongy ridge of your contracting pussy. he throws his head back onto the pillows and gazes at you with the prettiest set of honey-golden eyes, hooded and lust-blown. gravelly moans fall past his agape lips as he spurs you on, giving your ass a thorough smack, “bounce on it, jus’ like that— yeah, fuck daddy’s cock.”

[chasingthedragons]

Prince Aegon "the elder" Targaryen attires

1 - Gala suit in the colors of the House Targaryen. Red embroidered with gold details, white woven collar and sleeves.

1 - Training suit made of green quilted fabric with brown leather borders, gold brooches and brown leather belt. 2 - Accompanied by simple training armor.

1 - Attire worn at the funeral of Lady Laena Velaryon, in the colors of House Hightower, green with embroidered pattern and green along the chest with gold embroidered details along the chest and wrists. Gold brooches and a black leather belt. 2 - Accompanied by a green cape with a gold brooch at the neck.

1 - Daily black suit with dark green fabric along the chest and sleeve cuffs. Gold buttons, leather belt and gold and emerald buckle. Gold and emerald necklace.

1 - Commoner's clothes, white shirt, brown pants, blue vest and black boots. 2 - Accompanied by a simple blue cape

1 - Coronation suit of shiny black cloth with embroidery in diamond pattern. With the emblem of House Targaryen on the chest with dark gems. Black leather belt with gold buckle. Gold brooches on the collar. Black leather gloves with gold clasps. Chain with gold links. 2 - Accompanied by a cloak hanging from his shoulders, held in place by a pair of gold brooches with the emblem of House Targaryen engraved on them.

> Aemond Targaryen > Jacaerys Velaryon > Lucerys Velaryon

[fanaticsnail]

The Marine's Mistake

Masterlist here.

Word Count: 1,700+ (just a small little drabble for me!!)

Warnings: Clean-shaven Mihawk, lots of flirting, mentions of drinking.

@feral-artistry requested this a while ago, and I finally had enough in me to pump out this little drabble. I can easily see myself adding to this little relationship down the line, but for now it's all short, sweet and innocent.

Hushed whispers travelled along the rotund dining table in the dimly-lit tavern. Hands shielding lips, narrowed eyes, the smallest tilt of chins spread like the trickle of seawater through a crack in the ship’s hull to litter the hallway with the salty liquid.

“What do you think happened?” a red-headed marine uttered to her comrade beside her, eyes widening the longer her sights were held to the table in the centre of the tavern.

“He wouldn’t have shaved it,” another shook their head, raising the cool glass of bitter beer to their lips. A small foam line falling to their top lip as they pulled the glass back to utter: “it’s a part of his look, right? It wouldn’t be intentional.”

“Perhaps it was an accident,” a blonde, tall cadet uttered with a curt nod, “cannon fire, a blast or something.”

“I don’t think he’d be close enough to the end of a cannon for that to happen,” a smaller, pink-haired cadet offered in response as he adjusted his circular glasses up the bridge of his nose.

You sat at the corner of the table, not quite following the conversation falling amongst your peers of marines. This was the third transfer you’d been a part of in the span of a month: the latest ship needing to utilise your skills as a hand-to-hand combat specialist to better the skills of the marines.

Vice-Admiral Garp and his marine cadets were in the early stages of building rapport with you, you only truly interacting with your peers and subordinates while running drills or swapping over watch shifts so far. This venture in land for the replenishment of supplies and to fix up any chipped wood for the ship was truly your first opportunity to really get to know your new crew on a deeper level.

You looked down at the end of your pint-glass, the slosh of the final dregs of the beaded liquid swaying as you held your gaze firmly to it.

“Marines,” you addressed your peers, bringing the attention of your drinking companions over to you, “I’m getting another round,” you rose to your feet, pushing your wooden bar-stool back beneath the table below, “speak now if you’d like another, I think it’s my turn this time?”

A chorus of a resounding “yes!” fell to your ears, prompting a small giggle rise in your chest. The “yes!” gained the attention of the rest of the small dining room, prompting you to lower your palm to the floor with a playful “shh”, the laugh falling as you began taking orders.

“I’m assuming all ales then?” you asked as your laughter diminished, “I should just get a jug, at this stage.”

“Yes to the jug!” the red-head began to chant, a broad smile displayed openly on her lips.

“Aye!” the marine beside her confirmed with a similar amount of enthusiasm.

Another giggle fell from your lips as you turned to make your way to the wooden bar, the barkeeper meeting your gaze with a nod in your approach. As you stood your torso up against the bar with a handful of berry clutched in your hand, your eyes travelled to the body which began their own approach to the bar.

The gentleman was adorning an open, cream-coloured silk shirt, frills embellishing the low collar with a crossed draw-string revealing the crevasses of his muscular chest. Dark and loose curls framed his face, angular and strong arches of his jaw and cheek bones comparable to carved marble. His yellow eyes beneath his long, dark eyelashes held an intensity you hadn’t seen before.

He was breathtaking. Your eyes travelled to his dark, leather pants held by a woven belt with a large, brass buckle. Trailing your eyes back up, you found your gaze met by the gentleman you were shamelessly undressing with your eyes; a warmth rising to your cheeks under the knowledge that you were found out.

“Marine,” he offered in a bored tone as he drew his body beside yours at the bar.

“Beautiful,” you challenged him, a small smirk rising to your lips. He arched his brow upwards in response, his intense frown no longer present atop his handsome features. He hummed, leaning his elbows against the wooden bar and flicking out his index and middle finger to gain the attention of the bartender.

“What are we drinking, gorgeous?” you asked him, turning your shoulders to offer him your full attention.

“We?” he scoffed, yellow eyes trailing over your face as his shaven chin pointed towards your own, “I am not buying you a drink, Marine.”

He turned back towards the bar, completely ignoring your presence beside him as he focussed on trailing the bartender with his eyes.

“I never suggested such a thing, charming,” you taunted him, your index finger trailing the benchtop beside him slowly; drawing his gaze to your digits. He arched his brow upwards, intrigue gracing his honey-coloured eyes briefly. The bartender finally gracing the both of you with his presence, brushing down the benchtop with a tea-towel and smiling broadly.

“What’ll it be?” he asked, placing his white and blue tea-towel over his shoulder and leaning against the counter.

“Three jugs of ale for the table in the corner,” you smiled, turning again to the man beside you, “and add his drinks to my tab, along with two more of what he’s having.”

The dark-haired man snapped his face back towards you, eyes wide at your boldness. His eyes narrowed at you, training over your playful expression.

“You have no idea who I am, do you?” he uttered in a low tone.

“None in the slightest,” you shrugged, your bottom lip falling into a small pout, “but I sure would like to.”

The man was taken aback, his eyes widening before a small smirk grew itself against his lips.

“A bottle of Sangiovese,” he tilted his chin back at the bartender, “and two glasses.”

You scrunched your nose upwards in delight, drawing out the berry to cover your tab and handing it over to the bartender. You turned to face your torso to the room, your elbows finding the bar behind you as you arched your back outwards in your leaning.

“Sangiovese?” you questioned the mysterious man beside you, “you in the mood for something more on the tart and sour side, handsome?”

“There you are again with the pet-names, Marine,” he taunted you with a small purr in his tone, prompting a warm flush to once again draw over your face. You broke away your eye contact with him and looked to the table of your peers; who seemed to have widening eyes and the colour drained from their faces. You shook your head a little, brows furrowing in question as they witnessed a waitress bring over their jugs of ale.

“And here I was thinking my poor mood would travel back home with me, after that meeting,” he uttered under his breath as the bartender came back with a decanted bottle of sangiovese and two crystal wine-glasses.

“What was that?” you asked him, turning your gaze back towards the gentleman who currently captivated you with his mysterious aura.

“Indeed, sweetheart,” he leant his body over yours, towering you beneath his intimidating aura, “something tart that I can roll over my palate with subtle spice is what the current mood of the hour calls for.”

Instead of backing away and cowering beneath his towered stoop, you instead arched your back upwards further and lulled your head to the side with your jaw revealed to him. He hummed down at you, reaching behind you both to collect the glasses and the decanter within his wide fingertips.

“You are intriguing,” he praised you in a deep rumbly whisper, his lips falling dangerously close to your own as he retrieved the objects behind you, “allow me to escort you outside to continue this delicious conversation over the wine you graciously paid for, that is-.”

You tilted your head, awaiting for him to continue his sentence. He turned his head to look to your commanding officer, Bogard and Vice-Admiral Garp, with his brow arched upwards. His lips curled up into a smirk, you watching how truly beautiful his smile grew to become.

“That is…-?” you trailed in question for him to continue, drawing your right hand up to his cheek. You utilised your index finger and thumb to collect his smooth chin and draw his attention back to you. Upon slowly sweeping the room before drawing his attention back towards you.

“That is, if you’re completely ‘off-duty’ for the rest of the evening,” his lips grew into a soft, playful grin. Oh, how gorgeous.

“A whole evening with a gorgeous stranger?” you questioned him, releasing his chin from your fingers and opting to caress his cheek, “and here I thought we were just sharing wine. Honey, you spoil me.”

A small rumbly growl released itself from within his chest to almost purr at you. He withdrew from his stoop, turning with the collected decanter and glasses within his right hand and turning to offer you the crook of his left elbow to escort you out of the tavern.

“You truly have no idea who I am?” he chuckled at you as he led you from the tavern doors, the room falling almost silent amongst the gasps and whispers from your peers.

“Should I, beautiful?” you asked him giving his bicep a small squeeze as you praised him. He sighed with a small chuckle, drawing his forehead in to press against your own briefly as he allowed the doors of the tavern to swing shut behind him.

The sunset hovering over the sea was a welcome sight, the warmth of the day falling on your skin and welcoming it into the romantic atmosphere you had both found yourselves in for the evening.

Dracule Mihawk was going to enjoy this unbridled and flirtatious attention for as long as you would allow yourself to play along with him. It had been a while since his aura of intimidation had been shed from his body, and even longer still since he was the one being approached at a bar rather than himself finding someone to toy with. He simply can’t wait for the pin to drop against the floor and you realise you are literally dancing with death.

And it was all thanks to a horrible prank performed by the chop-chop devil-fruit user. The devil-fruit user who was currently pinned against the hull of his ship by harsh chains of sea-stone as punishment fitting the crime. Perhaps he should even thank the infamous clown-captain for his idiocy, but for now: the promise of wine and a beautiful, flirtatious companion for the evening awaits. How Mihawk adored this attention.

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 90

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 90: The Mother's Prayer

AO3 - Masterlist

Dark clouds gathered overhead, heavy with the promise of an impending deluge. The scent of rain permeated the air, carried on a chilled with that made Daenera shiver. The light fabric of her gown offered little resistance to the growing chill–summer was truly over, and winter was coming. She gripped her skirts, rising a few steps towards the doors of the Royal Sept before stopping. Turning, she glanced down at Mertha, who trailed behind her with the usual frown on her face. Mertha halted when she noticed Daenera had stopped, lifting her murky gray eyes to meet the princess’s gaze.

“Would you be so kind as to fetch my shawl?” Daenera asked, her tone carefully threaded with a semblance of sincerity, masking the deliberateness of the act. 

Mertha’s expression settled into a scowl, her brows knitting into a tight frown, “You ought to have heeded my warning when I told you to bring it, Princess.”

“Yes, I realize now it was a mistake. I should have listened,” Daenera conceded, carefully smoothing any hint of condescension from her voice. “But could you please fetch it now?”

“I should let you feel the chill, perhaps then you’ll learn to listen to me,” Mertha grumbled under her breath, her steps deliberate as she headed past Daenera towards the doors of the sept. She seemed almost inclined to leave Daenera to endure the consequences of her supposed heedlessness. 

Daenera lifted the hem of her gown slightly to facilitate her movement and quickened her pace to match Mertha’s. With a calculated ease in her tone, she suggested, “It would be rather unfortunate to fall ill now, wouldn’t it?”

Mertha stopped abruptly and turned to confront Daenera, her height accentuated as she stood two steps above on the staircase, a deep scowl etching her features. Her left hand clutched the skirts of her dress, while her right firmly clasped her well-worn, leather-bound copy of The Seven-Pointed Star–a tome from which she often instructed Daenera to read. 

With a stern expression, Mertha asserted, “I mustn’t leave you unattended, Princess. I will not allow you to make a mockery of me again or cause another spectacle.”

“The princess isn’t unattended,” Finan interjected, stepping up to join Daenera on the same stone step, his posture relaxed yet alert, thumbs hooked casually on his belt. “It wouldn’t bode well for the princess to take ill, especially not with the wedding so close. I doubt the Prince would appreciate his betrothed being sick to say her vows, nor would the Hand find it acceptable.”

“Then you should fetch the shawl,” Mertha retorted sharply, her eyes narrowing suspiciously at Finan, who met her gaze with an amused calm, unconcerned by her scorn. 

Daenera stepped closer to Mertha, her expression one of slight dismay. “I’d rather not have a man searching through my belongings. You know which one I mean–the thick, green shawl with the small blue flowers on it.”

Mertha’s lips pursed as she seemed to consider the situation, her eyes flicking between Finan and Daenera. She seemed to realize the implications of allowing Finan into Daenera’s private chambers–a space where the guards, typically stationed outside the door, seldom entered. 

With a reluctant huff, Mertha finally acquiesced. “Very well. Ensure that she remains within your view and that no one approaches her while she’s in prayer.” Stepping down another step, she handed Daenera her book of prayers with firm instruction. “You may start with the Mother’s prayer.”

Daenera nodded in agreement, her gaze lingering on Mertha as she made her way down the steps, her figure gradually diminishing as she crossed the vast expanse of the courtyard outside of the Sept, moving down the path leading to Maegor’s Holdfast. The Keep buzzed with activity as though the world hadn’t turned upside down. Servants scurried across the cobblestones and dirt paths, their movements swift and determined, some clutching linens, others hastily covering baskets and removing them from the impending rain. 

As her eyes roved over the scene, she noted the guards patrolling the high walls, their presence a reminder of the new regime–their uniforms had been changed to a striking green, each emblazoned with a golden, three-headed dragon that seemed to gleam even under the overcast sky. Even the servants' uniform had become a subtle forest green. It struck Daenera how quickly the fabric of the Keep had been altered; the seamstresses and tailors must have worked through the nights to provide the Keep with their new uniformity–or it suggested premeditation, one she wouldn’t put past the Hightowers. 

Daenera’s voice was a low murmur, her eyes remaining cast out over the courtyard as she spoke, “I’ve secured Fenrick’s release. He will be freed the morning after the wedding.”

The weight of the concession she had made hung palpably in the air between them. There was no need for words to convey what was understood in their shared silence: she had bartered her obedience and compliance for his freedom–a substantial sacrifice on her behalf. 

She could have resisted, could have continued to balance precariously on the edge, with Fenrick’s and Patrick’s lives dangling like a sword over her head, vulnerable to any misstep she might make. The wedding was unavoidable–a fact set in stone–and she had chosen to leverage what little power she had for Fenrick’s freedom. It was a calculated trade, a deliberate sacrifice made within the harsh confines of her circumstances–and it would not be the only sacrifice made that day. 

“Otto Hightowers is unlikely to let him simply leave the city,” Finan remarked, echoing Daenera’s own concerns. His brows furrowed deeply, his face etched with the stern solemnity characteristic of a Northerner. “Neither will the Lord Confessor.”

Daenera nodded, her expression equally grave. She understood all too well the reality that either figure might send men to prevent Fenrick’s departure, ensuring that he never left the city alive. It was impractical for them to allow a known adversary to reinforce the ranks of their opposition–and to bring them any information they might suspect he carried. 

“I have contacts here in the city,” Finan continued, his tone somber yet resolute. “I’ll arrange for them to aid his escape, to ensure he vanishes without a trace.”

The chill wind wrapped around Daenera, penetrating the fabric of her dress and settling into her bones. She instinctively hugged the book closer to her chest, seeking its meager warmth. “Fenrick knows how to fend for himself.”

Finan’s eyes met hers, brows inching downward. “Are you asking me not to get involved?”

“I advise caution,” Daenera replied, her voice steady but somber. “If the Hightowers suspect outside help, they’ll scour the Keep for anyone who might be involved. If your ‘friends are caught, they’ll trace it back to you, and then to me. I cannot afford to lose you in this.”

The loss of Finan would strip her of her eyes and ears beyond the confines of the Red Keep, severing her last tether to any semblance of influence and knowledge of the war efforts. She needed him; without his aid, she would be completely isolated, reduced to a mere pawn on the board for the Hightowers to move about as they willed. The thought of such isolation, of being utterly alone, was a chilling prospect that made the wind seem even colder. 

Daenera relied too heavily on Finan to allow him to needlessly risk himself. She trusted Fenrick’s ability to ensure his own safety. He would undoubtedly have reached the same conclusion about the Hightower’s unwillingness to let him leave the city alive. He had friends within King’s Landing and the City Watch. He would find a way out, of that she was sure. He had to. 

Finan’s jaw ticked as he clenched his teeth. “I’ll make certain no trails lead back to me. I’ll have him seen out of the city, alive, and with enough coin to pay his way to Duskendale where a ship can take him to Dragonstone. Don’t ask me to abandon him… Please.”

Daenera’s expression hardened as she turned to face Finan, her eyes narrowing as she regarded him for a long, measuring moment. “I once told you I had little use for someone whose loyalties lie elsewhere. You assured me that your loyalties would lie with me. You gave me your word–you swore to me.”

“My loyalties lie with you, Princess,” Finan assured her, his eyes earnest and sincere. “But my concern is also for Fenrick and the state he’s in after days in the dungeons. He’ll need help if he is to survive the journey.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Daenera cast her gaze out over the gloomy sky again. “Do what you must, but do not get caught.”

She locked eyes with him again, her gaze intense and commanding–be cautious, she warned him. Finan acknowledged her with a firm nod, understanding the gravity of the silent command. He then gestured towards the sept, the wind picking up and sending a shiver down her spine. “We better get you inside before you truly catch your death in this weather.”

They turned away from the courtyard and ascended the final steps to the Royal Sept. Finan courteously held the door open for Daenera, allowing her to step into the sanctified space. Immediately, the sweet yet cloying scent of incense mixed with the warm aroma of burning candles enveloped them, the fragrance almost tangible as it clawed at the back of their throats. 

Inside, the sept was hushed, the silence punctuated only by the soft whisper of flames dancing in the draft. A few septas stood in the corners, methodically sweeping the floors and tending to the candles, their movements quiet and reverent. 

Soft light seeped through the grand, stained glass windows of the sept, casting a tapestry of muted colors upon the floor, their vibrancy subdued by the overcast sky. Candles lined the walls and clustered solemnly on the altars dedicated to the gods, were the only source of true light, their flames flickering gently in the air. 

Although the thick walls of the sept offered refuge from the biting wind outside, they did little to ward off the pervasive chill that lingered within. Daenera felt the cold slither across the stone floor, sneaking beneath her dress and creeping up her legs. 

As she walked deeper into the sacred space, her footsteps echoed softly against the ancient stone, harmonizing with Finan as he felt into step at her side. 

“The Hightowers haven’t been idle,” Finan said, his voice a hushed murmur meant only for her ears. “There have been significant changes made within the City Watch.  Ser Gregor Selter has been removed from his position as Lord Commander for his refusal to bend the knee, and they’ve  installed Luthor Largent in his stead.” 

Daenera’s lips pursed as she took in the information. “Ser Luthor Largent served under Daemon during his time as Commander of the City Watch. They were friends, I believe.”

“Many Gold Cloaks have served under the prince, Princess,” Finan replied, his eyes scanning the room cautiously. “But with the threat of dismissal or worse, a great number have sworn obeisance to Aegon. These are treacherous times, and with the Hand of the King positioning his own son, Gwayne, as the second-in-command of the City Watch, self-preservation dictates much of their allegiance.”

Daenera’s thoughts lingered on the loyalty of Ser Luthor Largent. While he was Lord Commander of the City Watch, he was still kept under the watchful eye of his second-in-command, Gwayne Hightower. It seemed unlikely that he could offer her any immediate aid; his circumstances were similar to her own–both were shackled by their roles, both adrift in a menacing sea of constrained choices. 

As they made their way towards the main altar, Daenera’s voice was thoughtful, “What are the sentiments among the smallfolk with this shift in power?”

Finan’s reply was a subdued murmur, matching the solemn pace of their walk. “They grow… uneasy. With the first blood of war being drawn, and the king’s brother having made himself a kinslayer, they fear retaliation.” He glanced towards her. “They pray for you, Princess, and curse Aemond’s name in turn…”

Daenera paused before the altar, her gaze fixed on the dancing flames. The warmth radiated from the flickering wicks, distorting the air above them, yet it barely penetrated the chill that clung to her skin. As she watched, a notion began to take shape in her mind. She had always been adored by the smallfolk for her charity and love for the arts. It seemed these efforts were now poised to yield dividends, a factor that undoubtedly fueled House Hightower's determination to wed her to Aemond.

If she could publicly forgive Aemond for his act of kinslaying, perhaps the common people might follow her lead. 

There was strength in the goodwill of the common folk. While power was limited, leveraging this favor could prove advantageous. And though Otto Hightower would recognize the intent behind her actions, he was a man of pragmatism. If she gained the favor of the smallfolk, that favor would extend to them.  

Daenera circled the rounded altar, her steps slow and measured. Finan trailed behind her, his voice a soft undertone as he added, "The blockade your mother has enforced on the Gullet is tightening. It's becoming nearly impossible to bring in imports. The wealthy are already hoarding provisions, and as a result, those less fortunate are left scrambling for the leftovers. Such scarcity is soon to bring unrest among the people."

Good, Daenera mused, opportunity often lay hidden within unrest. She drew in a slow, deliberate breath, shifting the conversation, turning slightly towards Finan as she inquired, “How is Cerys?”

Their eyes locked, and a small smile touched Finan’s lips. His voice warmed with a touch of admiration as he answered, “She’s showing remarkable strength, all things considered.”

Daenera’s gaze shifted to the nearest altar, where The Smith was eternally frozen in stone, his figure commanding within the semicircle. He was sculpted with a hammer clasped in his hand, his strong form standing tall, his head bowed reverently toward his own altar, and a gentle beard framing his solemn face.

With a contemplative sigh, she turned back to Finan, her expression troubled. “I fear my advice to Cerys was misguided. I urged her to nurture her anger towards Aegon, to never forget his offenses. It was harsh, perhaps too much so. Now, I worry she might act rashly, endangering herself.”

Now fully aware of Joyce's concerns, Daenera felt a pang of apprehension. She realized that inciting Cerys to seek vengeance against Aegon might have dangerous repercussions. Such encouragement could not only place Cerys in grave danger but potentially threaten Daenera’s own safety as well.

“When I last spoke with her, she seemed well aware of the risks,” Finan answered, his tone steady. “She promised not to take matters into her own hands and to serve you loyally, as she has done ever since you took her in.”

“And you trust her word?” Daenera pressed, searching for any hint of doubt in his eyes. 

“I do.”

Daenera responded with a slow, contemplative nod, her gaze drifting towards the next statue. The Warrior stood tall, helmented, both hands gripping the hilt of his downward-pointing sword, his head bowed in a  posture similar to The Smith’s. The details of his armor were meticulously cared into the stone, every line a testament to the sculptor’s skill. She knew she would have to rely on Cerys’s promise of restraint and patience. 

“Has there been any news from Dragonstone?” Daenera asked quietly, her eyes shifting to the Statue of The Father, as they continued to follow the semi-circle, finally reaching its peak. His long beard was carved into the stone, resting against his chest, and in his hand, he held out a scale for judgment. Unlike the other statues, The Father’s gaze was not directed downward but stood tall and judging. 

“No,” Finan replied, his voice carrying a note of empathy. “Your mother hasn’t returned yet from Storm’s End, it seems.”

Daenera’s gaze lingered on The Father’s stern visage, the weight of his judgment seeming to bear down on her. She clutched the book of prayers a little tighter, her heart heavy with the thought of her mother still scouring Shipbreaker Bay for her lost son. The relentless waves seemed to refuse her any remnants they might have swallowed. It was cruel, Daenera thought, and foolish for her mother to linger. As Queen, she was needed at Dragonstone, especially during a time of war. Each day she remained away from her seat of power, her influence waned, and perhaps even her spirit. Daenera wondered if her mother was taking care of herself or if she had become consumed by grief. Her mother also had to think of her own well-being and that of the child she carried–a child Daenera would never be able to see into this world. 

Daenera couldn’t blame her for searching, though. She, too, would have done the same, seeking any sign that her brother was truly gone–that he had been alive at all. 

Finan’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Your brother remains in Winterfell.”

“Winterfell?” Daenera echoed, her eyes drawing to the statue of The Mother as they stopped in front of it. The stone figure wore a gentle smile, her head bowed towards her altar. A veil cascaded down her back, hiding her tied hair, and her hands were neatly folded in front of her, poised as if ready to tenderly caress the heads of her kneeling children. 

Daenera took a deep breath, steadying herself with the thought of her brother–alive and safe in Winterfell. He would have gone there to forge an alliance with House Stark and bring the North to their mother’s side. “If anyone can sway the Starks to my mother’s cause, it is Jace. He will manage well.”

Finan nodded. “Cregan Stark will welcome him warmly and treat him with the honor and respect due to a prince… But his main concern will remain with the safety and welfare of his people. He will be reluctant to get involved in Southern conflicts.”

“This war will affect the whole realm, not just the south,” Daenera said tersely, her frown deeping as she shook her head in exasperation. The North might be isolated and governed on their own, but they must understand that this conflict would inevitably reach them. “The Stark swore their loyalty and to defend her claim when she was named heir.”

Finan responded with a cautious hum. “Aye, they swore to your mother and they will keep their oaths. But wolves protect their own, and Cregan must consider his people now that the winter is steadily approaching. He will be reluctant to lead them into war.”

Daenera seated herself at the altar, her gaze rising to meet Finan’s. He remained standing, his expression solemn yet kind–an embodiment of the Northern demeanor, she supposed, where even friendliness was tinged with solemnity.  

“Will my brother be able to win him over?”

Finan’s lips curved into a slight smile, a gleam of reassurance in his eyes. “I’m confident he will. We Northerners may be a stern folk, but our hearts are not made of stone. Cregan understands the pain of seeing one’s rightful claim challenged. He will sympathize with your mother’s cause. And your brother, being a good and honorable man, will earn Cregan’s respect.”

The flickering candles cast a warm glow on Daenera’s face as she absorbed Finan’s words. The room seemed to hum with a quiet intensity, the presence of the statues–the gods–adding the feel of judgment upon her shoulders. 

A small smile appeared on her lips as she turned her gaze to the flames. Jace could be stubborn at times, yet undeniably charming. He would understand that they needed the alliance with the North, and he wouldn’t return to Dragonstone empty handed. The thought of her brother made her heart twist painfully within her chest. She missed him dearly. The smile faded as she stared into the flames for a long moment, letting the silence settle between them, broken only by the soft snapping of orange tongues lapping at the air. 

“Could you procure something for me?” Daenera asked quietly, lifting a finger to dart through the flames just fast enough for their scorching touch not to linger and burn. “From the gardens, I mean.”

Finan shifted beside her, the sound of leather rustling as he moved. “What do you need?”

“In the herbal garden, near the southern hedges, there’s a particular plant,” Daenera began, her voice measured and careful as she played with the flames. “It’s distinguishable by its long, slender stem that branches out near the top. The stem is strikingly red, and each branch culminates in a white berry, marked by a single black dot.” Her voice strangely soft as she mused, “like the eye of a doll.” The flames were warm against her skin as she played with them, fingers flickering through their tongues as though teasing them for a taste. “But you must be careful–the stem and the berries shouldn’t be touched with bare hands.”

“White baneberry,” Finan drawled, his voice low and serious. “I know of it.”

Daenera abandoned the flames and turned towards Finan. Her eyes met his, reading the seriousness beneath the furrow of his brow. “If you could, I need only a handful of those berries.”

Finan's expression darkened, his brows knitting into a deep furrow. His gray eyes, mirroring the somber sky outside, were filled with a concerned question. The word ‘poison’ fell from his lips, spoken with such caution it seemed as though he feared it might disrupt the fragile silence that enveloped them.

“Yes,” Daenera replied quietly, continuing, “Once you’ve acquired them, leave them in the small lavender sachet beneath my pillow.”

She was sure that Mertha, or indeed anyone else, would overlook such a sachet. Why would they? They were common among the nobility, used to suffuse fabric with the scent of whatever dried flower or herbs contained within. They were often nested in the pockets of dresses or among linens, tugged behind pillows and hidden in small chests around the room. 

“I must have them before the wedding,” she added with a sense of urgency, facing Finan directly. 

“I feel I must ask–”

“You really don’t have to.”

“Even so, I will,” Finan insisted, his tone firm despite the clear reluctance. “Why do you need these berries?”

Daenera’s gaze drifted back to the altar, her eyes fixed on the candle flames that flickered and danced, consuming the wicks with a sputtering hunger. “I am left with nothing.” Her hand fell from the flames, resting against the cold stone of the altar. “They’ve sought to remove my herbs, my teas, oils, even my soaps. My jewelry has been taken, fearing I might use them for bribes. I am defenseless.”

“You still have the dagger I gave you,” Finan reminded her, hoping to offer a sliver of solace. The dagger remained unsettled in its hiding place beneath the table beside the settee. The knowledge that it was there did offer some semblance of comfort, but it did not extend beyond her chambers. 

“But how long will it remain hidden there?” She murmured aloud, casting her eyes back at Finan. “It’s not easily concealed in a spot that’s both discreet and accessible. I need something I can carry with me, if necessary.” 

Finan hesitated before cautiously offering his thoughts. “Considering your upcoming marriage–”

Daenera couldn’t suppress the small, wry smile that tugged at her lips, a soft chuckle escaping her. “Are you concerned I might use it against my future husband? Or perhaps you fear I might poison the King?”

With a wary frown on his brow, Finan cast a glance around the shadows of the sept, ensuring no one lurked close enough to overhear their conversation. The only ones present were the septas’ sweeping the floors at the opposite end of the sept. 

“Or,” Finan ventured cautiously, “perhaps you intend to use them on yourself…”

His concern was evident, reflecting the multitude of perilous possibilities that lay in the simple act of acquiring those berries. Daenera understood the gravity of his apprehension, aware of the delicate thread upon which their plans–and her life– balanced. 

The fleeting sense of amusement vanished from Daenera as abruptly as the light from a blown-out candle, replaced by a profound sadness that lingered like wisps of smoke dissipating into the air. She understood Finan's apprehension; their plans balanced on a delicate thread, and she knew his concerns ran even deeper, rooted in the hopelessness and helplessness she had felt the previous night, consumed by grief.

Daenera averted her gaze, feeling her throat tighten. "It would be a swift end once the symptoms take hold. The heart slows and eventually stops. You’d simply fall asleep..." She looked back at Finan, her eyes reflecting the gravity of her words. "But I have not yet reached the point where I consider using it on myself, nor would I target my husband-to-be or the usurper king."

The room seemed to hold its breath, the flickering candlelight casting long, wavering shadows on the stone walls. The statues around them stood silent and watchful, their carved expressions frozen in time. 

Daenera understood the implications all too well. Poisoning the wedding party would require far more than just a handful of berries though, and becoming a kinslayer or kingslayer was not part of her plan. Despite her deep-seated desire for retribution, she was wise enough to recognize the folly in such actions. Any attempt would inevitably cast suspicion upon her, implicating her mother as well.

Moreover, the thought of her own death carried consequences far beyond herself. It would lead to the execution of her loyal men and plunge her mother into an even deeper abyss of grief, intensifying the already profound sense of loss Daenera knew she was enduring.

"And Lady Mertha?" Finan probed, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Daenera matched his smile with a faint one of her own. "If I were to poison Lady Mertha, however much she might deserve it, I would only see more of my freedom taken away, and she would simply be replaced." She shook her head slightly, thinking that if she were to poison Mertha, it would be with something far more painful than the berries. "The berries are merely a safeguard, nothing more."

Finan responded with a nod, yet his expression still held traces of unease, indicating his lingering worries despite Daenera’s reassurance. 

The resounding creak of the heavy sept doors opening reverberated through the sacred space, immediately followed by the distinct sound of Mertha’s footsteps hastening towards Daenera and Finan. A moment before she arrived, the gust of wind she had let in whirled around them, the candles flickering wildly. Daenera, sensing her approach, turned her attention to the book, deftly flipping to the page where their previous reading had concluded. 

“What were you two discussing?” Mertha demanded, her tone sharp and laced with suspicion as she arrived beside them. Her cheeks bore a rosy tint from exertion, and a few stray strands of hair framed her face, too short to be caught up in the tight bun at the nape of her neck. 

“I was going over the Mother’s prayer,” Daenera responded evenly, her voice carefully neutral, betraying neither falsehood nor sincerity. 

Mertha’s lips tightened into a thin line. She unfolded the shawl and draped it around Daenera’s shoulders before taking her place on the cushioned bench below the altar, adjacent to Daenera. Finan, sensing his cue, quietly withdrew to the periphery, blending into the shadows. He stood watchful and alert, his hands clasped behind him. 

“Begin again, from the start,” Mertha commanded, settling herself for the reading. 

Oh, gentle Mother, god of mercy, Bestow your grace upon our souls. In your embrace, we find sanctuary, In your wisdom, our hearts console.

Mother, guide us in our journey, Through trials, through pain, unseen. With your light, the path illuminates, In shadows deep, where hope has been.

Bless the children, your tender flock, In your compassion, let them grow. Shield the weary, under your cloak, Grant them solace from their woe.

In times of strife, be our haven, In moments of doubt, be our guide. With your love, our hearts unladen, In your strength, we shall abide. 

Mother, hear our humble pleading, To your kindness, we entrust our plea. In your care, our souls are leading, To a future where we are free. 

The prayer was one mothers uttered to their children at night as they tucked them in, brushing strands of hair away from their foreheads before placing a loving his there. It was not a prayer her own mother had ever whispered. Instead, Rhaenyra had often hummed an ancient Valyrian song to her before bed–a song of fire and blood, of dragons and magic. The notes of the song would linger in the air, blending with the crackling of the fire and whirling of the wind as it swept past the stone outside. 

While the Faith was something every prince and princess was subjected to learning, it had never been strongly enforced within the walls of Dragonstone. The Maesters' lessons of the Seven often felt distant and formal, lacking the warmth and intimacy distinct to Valyrian traditions. Daenera had always felt a deeper connection to the Valyrian customs, those of fire and blood, and the more ancient faiths such as the Old Gods. 

As Mertha continued the lessons in the Faith, Daenera listened dutifully, nodding at the appropriate moments, humming agreements, and posing questions when necessary. Her face was a mask of solemn study–an act created with the sole intent of showing her compliance. 

While she harbored no animosity towards the Faith of the Seven or the gods themselves, she found little interest in them–especially when the teachings were forced upon her. She did not discount the existence of the gods; she might even pray to them at times, but she found little comfort in them now. 

Still, she prayed, lighting candles in their name to carry off her plea: protect her family, keep them safe and well, and see the Hightowers pay for their treachery and the blood they had shed. Make them suffer. 

Rain began to pelt against the windows of the sept, the sky outside finally breaking open to unleash a rough downpour. The rhythmic drumming of the rain against the glass filled the air, a low rushing sound that seemed to fill the quiet of the sept. As the downpour intensified, the light filtering through the stained glass windows dimmed, the colors on the floor fading into shadows. Now, only the candlelight illuminated the sacred space, casting a delicate glow on the stone walls and the statues that stood vigil.

Daenera glanced towards the windows, tugging the thick shawl tighter around her body, feeling the chill creep in. 

The quiet of the room was suddenly broken by hurried footsteps echoing down the aisle, crossing the vast expanse of the chamber. The sound grew louder, finally coming to a stop just before Daenera and Mertha, who remained seated under the watchful gaze of the Mother at her altar. 

Mertha glanced up at the servant, a boy with dirty blond hair cropped unevenly and an unfortunately narrow nose that hooked at the top. Her eyes narrowed at the interruption of their lesson, and she barked out, “What is it? We are in the middle of our lessons.”

Daenera felt a flicker of half-hearted hope that this intrusion might bring an end to the lesson. She would much rather endure Otto Hightower's discerning company than continue with this dreary affair. In fact, she’d even prefer Alicent’s presence, perhaps to discuss wedding preparations, over Mertha's monotonous instruction. Any company would be better than this, she thought, as boredom gnawed at her mind.

The servant shifted nervously under Mertha’s scrutinizing gaze, his feet shuffling slightly as he stood at the edge of the candlelit altar, his hair plastered to his pale face. His green tunic was darkened by the rain, the droplets having seeped into the fabric making it fall heavily upon his quivering shoulders. “The Prince, Aemond, wishes to see the Princess.”

“Can’t it wait?” Mertha questioned, her tone sharp with irritation. 

“I–I…” The boy stammered, then forced out, “The Prince wishes her brought to him immediately…”

“Tell the Prince that I am busy with my lessons,” Daenera said dismissively, her voice cold and firm. She managed to avoid him ever since the council meeting and had no desire to face him now. She was not some dog he could summon at will. “If he wishes to see me, he should arrange it through Lady Mertha to find an appropriate time. He should know that I am busy with my lessons and still recovering. I have little time to spare.”

The rain continued to batter the windows, the downpour’s intensity matching the tension in the room. Daenera detested her lessons with Mertha. Yet, as much as she loathed the dry, endless monologues about the gods, she preferred them over the thought of seeing Aemond. She had no desire to see him or speak with him. They would be married soon enough; there was no reason she should grant him more of her time now. 

Spite coiled within Daenera like a vengeful serpent, nesting amid the searing flames of her anger. She knew that he wanted to see her–she had felt it in the scorching intensity of this touch when he had gripped her with a fierce, almost desperate force, his eye burning with incredulous fury, demanding acknowledgement. He wanted her, and that precisely why she would deny him. Although she had traded her compliance for Fenrick’s freedom, she had no intention of offering him anything beyond what was agreed. 

Mertha’s lips tightened into a grimace, pursuing in displeasure as she drew in a resigned breath. With deliberate slowness, she closed her book of prayers and gently gripped it with both hands. “If the Prince wishes to see you, we shouldn’t deny him.”

Daenera’s eyes narrowed as she stared at Mertha. There was a prick of betrayal nibbling at her at the crones decision–as though for once they had been allies in something. But she supposed that she could never depend on Mertha. 

With a resigned sigh, Daenera rose from the altar, wrapping the shawl tighter around her body. The fabric, though warm, did little to shield her from the chill that had settled in her bones. Mertha followed closely, clutching her book of prayers tightly as they made their way towards the doors. Their footsteps echoed in the silence, the low hum of rain lashing against the windows reverberated through the air. 

The world beyond the oaken doors had become one of mud and water. As they stepped out of the sept and stood poised on its upper steps, still shielded by the roof’s overhang, their gazes turned skyward. The sky had plunged into a deep, oppressive gray, and the rain poured down with such ferocity that it felt as if the gods themselves were trying to wash away their existence. 

The once familiar courtyard was now a mire of puddles and rivulets, the ground churned into a slippery mess. The rain fell in relentless sheets, each drop striking the earth with a force that seemed to fracture into a fine mist upon impact. The distant outlines of the Keep’s towers were blurred and softened by the downpour, giving the scene an almost dreamlike quality–if dreams would have you drowning that is. 

Daenera pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, feeling the cold, damp air seep through the fabric. Her breath fogged in front of her as she exchanged a glance with Mertha, who now clutched her book of prayers tightly against her chest. The old hag’s expression was one of grim determination, her mouth set in a thin line as she surveyed the sodden landscape. 

“Go! Fetch something to cover us with!” Mertha barked, her voice barely audible over the roar of the rain. At the command, the boy darted out into the rain, each footstep stirring the mud and as he rounded a corner, he slipped and fell into the mud, landing with a wet twrp before quickly scrambling to his feet and continuing on his path.

The sight might have been amusing were she not to venture out into the downpour too. Gazing up at the sky, Daenera mused aloud, “Do you think this is a sign from the gods?”

“Don’t be obtuse,” Mertha chided sharply. “If it is a sign from the gods, it is a warning of their displeasure.” Her eyes found Daenera and narrowed with condemnation. “The gods are not so forgiving towards heaten girls and their wickedness.”

“Should the gods not be more offended by the act of kinslaying than by a girl uttering curses in the night?” Daenera retorted, her voice even as she met Mertha’s gaze. “Perhaps it is their displeasure for the blood that has been shed.”

“Bastard blood,” Mertha sneered, clutching her book of prayers so tightly the leather might rip, holding it against her heart as though it could shield her from the judgment of the gods. “The gods may yet forgive the sin of kinslaying–indeed it is a heavy one. But the gods have always despised bastards. They are an insult to all that is virtuous and honorable. The gods may forgive the prince for his sin, I’m sure. They will forgive the action taken in battle. You, however–”

“Lady Mertha,” Finan interjected, his voice cutting through the rain-soaked air. Mertha almost seemed to startle at his presence, as though she’d forgotten it. “Don’t confuse your view of bastards with those of the gods. Bastards are judged more harshly by man than by the gods themselves. Why should a babe be condemned by the actions of their parents, whether born of love or violence? Why must they then suffer the judgment of the rest of the world? Is the rape of a peasantgirl by a highborn man less sinful than the babe she births?” 

Mertha let out a derisive scoff, head shaking in exasperation, wordlessly voicing her opinion on the matter.

Finan continued undeterred, “Should shared love between two people and the product of that be punished?” He shifted to face Mertha more directly, thumbs hooked in his belt. “I’ve met bastards far more compassionate than many devout followers of the gods are, who would share their last bit of food with a stranger in need. Bastards are no different than you or I; they are no more sinful.” 

Finan head tilted slightly. “And a kinslayer offends every god, new or old. They care little for the circumstances; the gods condemn it all. And there’s none so accursed as the kinslayer…”

“How can the gods not judge those born of sin? It is in their very nature to be sinful,” Mertha replied tersely. 

“Does the birth of bastards offend you more than the acts of kinslayers?"

“Mind your tone,” Mertha warned, a note of condescension in her voice. “I will not take lessons in faith from a northern dog whose god is no more than a tree. You are not here to offer your opinions; you’re here to ensure that the princess does not run off. Do so in silence.” 

Finan’s lips remained curved, unbothered by the hostility. “Mmh, yes, we mustn’t forget ourselves in the presence of the princess.”

“Well,” Daenera hummed, her tone one of exasperation, “I suppose we’ll see who the gods favor and who they condemn to drown should the rain persist like this.”

The boy reappeared, his clothing muddied and clinging to him, thoroughly drenched. He was followed by a group of guards, who grappled with a large canvas cover, each man holding the wooden posts and attempting to stretch the canvas at the top to provide cover. The men strained against the wind that whipped and pulled at the canvas. 

Pulling the shawl tighter around her, Daenera released a resigned breath before stepping into the relentless downpour. The rain immediately lathered her, even as she stepped into position under the canvas cover, finding it as insufficient as expected. Mertha was quick to follow, almost stepping on Daenera’s heels, and together they drudged across the soaked terrain. As they walked over the muddy ground, water seeped into their shoes and saturated the hems of their skirts.

Halfway to Maegor’s Holdfast, a shrill yelp sounded behind Daenera, followed by a tug on her skirts and a swooping twrp. When she glanced back, she saw Mertha on her hands and knees, mud blotting her face and soaking through her dress. Half-amused, Daenera chided, “Come along now, Lady Mertha, this isn’t the time for play.”

Mertha glowered up at her with angry eyes, sneering as Finan graciously helped her to her feet. The moment she was steady, she yanked her arm away, flicking mud off her hands. “You did this on purpose…” The unspoken words hung heavy in the rain-soaked air between them: wretched girl, cursed girl.

“Do not blame me for your own misfortune, Lady Mertha,” Daenera replied, gripping her skirts more tightly as she began trudging through the slippery mud again, fully prepared to leave Mertha behind if she didn't hurry after her.

The storm continued to pour, the relentless rain turning the path into a treacherous mire. The sky above was a roiling mass of dark clouds, and the air was thick with the scent of wet earth and the distant rumble of thunder. Daenera's steps were careful but determined, her eyes focused on the looming silhouette of Maegor’s Holdfast ahead.

And by the time they reach the safety of the Holdfast, each of Daenera’s steps squelched with the weight of water. Her gown, now heavy and sodden, trailed mud and puddles across the stone floor. Although her hair remained largely dry, the tips clung damply to her neck and her dress adhered uncomfortably to her body as she ascended the steps, with Mertha and Finan closely behind. 

“It would be wise, I reckon, to make for your chambers and have you changed out of your sodden clothes–”

“No, if the prince summoned me with such insistence, then I must go as I am,” Daenera interjected sharply, her voice echoing slightly in the damp corridor, the sound of the rain hitting the room creating a low, consistent hum. She clutched her soaked skirts, lifting them as she ascended the steps, the sodden fabric trailing heavily behind her and leaving a wet streak on the stone.

If the chill from her drenched attire led her to catch the death, then so be it. Falling ill might even serve her a purpose–if she needed a swift exit, her drenched condition would provide the perfect excuse to retreat from his company. 

They boy led them up the steps and into the corridors that followed along the inner courtyard of Maegor’s Holdfast. Below, the relentless rain battered against the wet stones, shimmering in the low light. The other side of the courtyard was a blur through the sheets of rain, obscuring the opposing corridor. The platter of droplets echoed through the hallway, growing louder as it fell through the semi-open architecture, causing droplets to splatter against the polished stone floor and bead off the ornate banisters that protected them from the plunge to the stone below. 

The columns along the corridor were unevenly wet, showcasing the odd way the rain infiltrated this part of the holdfast–dry on one side where the shadows lingered longer, and slick and glistening on the other, exposed to the weather’s fury. The very air was heavy with the scent of rain-soaked stone, a cool dampness that wrapped around Daenera as she followed closely behind the boy.

As they walked past the Queen’s chambers and the adjacent nursery where Jaehaerys and Jaehaera played on the carpet, their gentle musings reaching into the hall as their caretakers played with them, Daenera half-expected to be brought towards Aemond’s chambers, however, the boy stopped before they ever reached his doors.

The boy gestured towards the open doors of one of the unused apartments–one of many others, kept ready for royal visits or the royal offspring to grow into. 

Daenera’s brow furrowed as she took a few steps into the chambers. There, she found Aemond casually leaning against a round table, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm on its edge. As she approached, his gaze lifted to meet hers, brow rising slightly as his eye took her in.

“You look–”

Daenera swiftly interjected before Aemond could fully articulate his thought, her eyes briefly shifting back to Lady Mertha, who lingered at the entrance of the chamber. Mud coated Mertha's hands and climbed nearly to her elbows, with splatters marring her face and her hair in disarray, strands escaping the confines of her usually meticulous bun. Her dress, soaked at the knees and hem, clung to her form in a sorry state.

"Yes, I agree," Daenera acknowledged, locking eyes with Mertha, whose scowl deepened at the observation. "Lady Mertha does indeed appear rather unfortunate, but we must overlook it," she continued with a sly tone. "Unfortunately, the gods were not generous, and today's rain has done her no favors."

Turning back to Aemond with a more formal demeanor, Daenera added, "You must excuse our appearance. The weather outside is truly dreadful."

The thunder growled ominously above, punctuating her words, while a sudden flash of lightning illuminated the room through the windows. Aemond paused, his eyes tracing Daenera's sodden figure. His head tilted contemplatively as he ventured, “Perhaps you wish to change—”

“Thank you for your concern, but you made it clear that you wished to speak with me, urgently,” Daenera replied, her voice steady despite the chill that clung to her wet clothes. She brushed a hand along the heavy fabric of her skirt, fighting the urge to shiver as the cold began to bite deeper. Her gaze remained fixed on his.

Aemond watched her intently for a moment, then his voice softened, "I thought you might wish to lend your voice on the matter of preparing our marital chambers.”

A frown creased her brow, his words slowly sinking in, as she repeated softly, almost to herself, “Marital chambers…”

Her gaze finally moved from Aemond to the activity within the room. Servants were busy at work, one teetering on a ladder as he carefully removed the heavy curtains from the windows, likely preparing them for washing. Others swept the floors briskly and striked the fire in the large hearth, bringing a flicker of life and warmth into the space. There were servants coming and going with buckets of water and fresh linens, some dusting the shelves and carefully placing the decorations back in their place. 

A heavy thud echoed in her chest, her heart pounding as a wave of understanding washed over her. She swallowed hard, her stomach twisting at the thought that they would share these chambers, that she would have to relinquish her own personal chambers–however violated that sanctuary was, it had still been hers. It had somehow never truly crossed her mind.  

A sense of dread settled in her stomach as she took in the room–the large hearth at the end of it, with two chairs set up in front of it and the two settees framing a small table between them at the center of the common room, then drew to the long table behind Aemond and casting a glance toward what would be their bedchamber, hidden behind ornately carved screens that gave the hints of what was within. 

“It's considerate of you to ask for her input, my prince, but I'm certain the Queen Mother will arrange the chambers to your satisfaction–”

“These will be our chambers, Lady Mertha, not my mother’s,” Aemond interjected, his voice gentle yet firm, a tone he often adopted. His gaze shifted dismissively from Mertha back to Daenera, observing her with careful attention.

Daenera inhaled deeply, masking her discomfort with a practiced smile. “Thank you, my prince. I will give it some thought, but if there's nothing more, I would like to retire to my chambers now.”

As she turned to leave, her movement was halted by his voice calling out her name, “Ābrazȳrys.”

Daenera closed her eyes for a moment, letting the word sink into her heart with a volatile gentleness, like the caress of claws tearing it apart and feeding it to the flames of her anger. Her voice was hard and forcibly even as she bit out, “Do not call me that. I am Princess Daenera, if you must call me anything.”

“Daenera,” he answered, so softly that she wished he had not spoken at all.

A shudder coursed through her, her heart skipping a beat at the softness of her name on his lips, wrapping around her like a silken thread. She stood still, the storm outside a mere whisper compared to the tempest within her. The room felt suddenly smaller, the walls closing in as the intensity of the moment pressed down on her.

With a wary expression, she turned to face him. Aemond straightened, leaning more purposefully against the table. His gaze was sharp, slicing through the air like a blade, grazing against her carefully maintained composure. He seemed eager to cut through the layers of formality she wore like armor, aiming to uncover the raw wounds of her thoughts beneath. Daenera stared back at him coldly, her eyes expectant and unyielding.

Aemond’s gaze remained on her as he commanded, “Leave us.” 

The servants hastily abandoned their tasks and scurried out the room, their gazes lowered as they passed by Aemond, and then Daenera–she held his gaze, eyes burning with defiance. 

“Mertha, would you be so kind as to arrange for a warm bath? It won’t be long,” Daenera dismissed the vulture hovering over her shoulder. 

When Mertha hesitated, Aemond finally shifted his sharp gaze from Daenera to her. His decisive glare was enough to send Mertha scurrying away–the sounds of her hurried, wet footsteps and the heavy, sodden fabric of her garments dragging across the floor echoed through the room as she departed. Daenera felt the change as his eye left her, like a shadow lifting, and she breathed a bit more easily. She turned her attention to the room, noting the sudden quiet as Aemond moved past her to close the doors behind the departing servants. The silence settled heavily in the room, accentuating the tension that lingered in the air.

Her dress dragged heavily over the stone as she descended the two steps into the common room, the weight of the damp fabric creating a soft, sloshing sound with each movement. The only other sound there was was the rain outside and Aemond’s steps as he lingered behind her. Her eyes swept across the space, taking in the unfamiliar layout–the crackling fire in the hearth, the rich tapestries adorning a few of the walls or being prepared to be mounted, and the plush cushions arranged neatly in the chairs arranged before the fire. 

She paused, her gaze lifting to the inner corner of the room, where a stately chest of drawers lined the walls, reaching all the way to the ceiling. The chest, made of dark polished wood, seemed to almost gleam in the dim light, small nooks set into each drawer for easy pull-out. As she approached, her fingers brushed over the smooth surface of the round table propped up between the drawers, the wood cool and solid beneath her touch, yet unblemished by cuts and spills as her own had been. 

A small frown creased her brow as her fingers curled into one of the nooks of a drawer. She pulled it open, the wood sliding with a soft creak, and the sweet, earthy scent of comfrey wafted up from the dried leaves hidden within. The aroma was soothing, a familiar comfort would have eased her nerves did she not feel his gaze on her. 

Daenera sensed his presence behind her, the weight of his gaze tracing her every movement. It prickled against the nape of her neck, like the soft caress of a shadow, sending an involuntary shiver through her body–she felt a chill run down her spine, as if a cold claw had trailed along the curve of her spine, and the dampness of her soaked clothes only deepened the sensation. 

“Your herbs,” Aemond hummed quietly, his voice a low murmur that broke the heavy silence. “I had the Maesters procure what you might need so you can prepare your teas and draughts.”

Daenera’s fingers paused over the open drawer, the earthy scent mingling with the cold air. She took a moment to absorb his words–felt them settle heavily within her as her eyes roamed over the chest of drawers, each promising to be full. It was a small comfort, a touch of familiarity in an otherwise unsettling environment. 

Slowly, she turned to face him, her expression carefully neutral as she clung to her formalities, and she nodded slightly, “Thank you, my prince. It is… considerate of you.”

She could see her formality needle at him, a subtle tightening of his jaw betraying his annoyance. Daenera averted her gaze, biting the inside of her cheek as she pushed the drawer closed. The words ‘how gracious of you’ died on her tongue, swallowed to fester in the pit of her stomach. 

Daenera moved past the fire, feeling its warmth briefly seep into her damp skirts before the chill reclaimed them as she continued. The contrast made the cold feel even sharper, the damp fabric of her skirts clung uncomfortably to her legs, and with each step, water and mud squelched between her toes–a sensation she detested. She trailed mud and water across the newly swept floors, leaving a messy path behind her as she came to stand before the windows. The gardens and Blackwater Bay lay hidden beneath a curtain of rain and clouds, the usual splendor of the landscape reduced to shadowy outlines and indistinct shapes. Raindrops streaked down the glass, blurring the outside world even further. 

The view, she supposed, would be quite beautiful on a clearer day, with the gardens in full bloom and the bay glittering under the sun. But today, the relentless downpour and gray skies mirrored the dismal tension within the room, adding to her sense of unease and confinement. 

Daenera traced the path along the outer wall, where windows, now bare from the removal of drapes, allowed the muted light from the overcast sky to filter through. She ascended the steps again to the long table, noticing a bowl of fruits at its center, awaiting the evening meal. Along the wall leading to the archway of the bedchamber, shelves brimming with books had been mounted. 

Her fingers glided over the leather spines, recognizing some as her own and others belonging to Aemond–books that had once cluttered his tables, towering as he diligently studied each one. She let her gaze wander through the room once more before settling back on the shelves, pulling out one of his books–a volume of ‘Watchers on the Wall’ by Archmaester Harmune. 

“Your books and mine,” Aemond remarked, his voice drawing her attention. He had taken up a position against the round table opposite where he had initially greeted her. His eye were fixed on her, observing her movements with the same intensity one might reserve for a pet exploring its new surroundings. 

“These are the only things of yours here,” Daenera noted coolly, glancing up from the book’s cover, where a crown of ice was embossed in silver on the leather. She watched Aemond through her eyelashes, feeling the chill seep further into her skin. Then, it scarcely qualifies as a marital chambers, does it?"

The room’s flickering firelight cast long shadows, the sound of rain pelting the window adding to the oppressive atmosphere–thick and damp and suffocating. Her eyes remained fixed on Aemond, who returned it with his own intensity. 

Aemond tilted his head slightly, his eye appraising. “I cannot have my blades here,” he answered, voice steady and measured. “They would not be appropriate in a shared space meant for us.”

A derisive scoff escaped Daenera's lips. “Why not?”

She abandoned the book on the table, stepping towards Aemond with deliberate slowness, her fingernail trailing over the polished wood surface until it reached the edge. Now that they were alone, she felt her formal composure unraveling under his persistent gaze, each thread slowly cutting away and reopening the wounds he had left her with.

“Are you afraid I might use them on you?” she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. Her head tilted slightly as she scrutinized his reaction. “Wait until you fall asleep and take your other eye?”

Aemond’s gaze hardened. The tension between them crackled like thunder in the air, the distance closing as Daenera stood her ground, defiance etched in every line of her posture.

"Or do you fear that the very thought of marrying you is so intolerable to me that I might use them to slit my wrists?" Daenera pressed on, her voice cutting through the thick tension between them. She noted a subtle shift in his demeanor, a flicker of unease shadowing his features–a thread of something she couldn’t quite decipher. "Or perhaps after you've finished off my family? Believe me, if I intended to end my life, being deprived of your blades would hardly stop me–an open window would suffice."

Aemond's reaction was immediate; his gaze shifted away, a muscle twitching in his jaw as he gritted his teeth, lips thin and sharp. 

“You are the kinslayer, not I. I will not curse myself by becoming one,” Daenera spat at him, her voice filled with venom. “However much you and your treacherous family deserve to die…” 

Aemond’s expression hardened, but he maintained his composure. “I cannot have all of my things here–the maps and plans I have, and my swords,” he said, his voice measured. “I cannot trust you with them, as you well know.”

The room seemed to grow colder, the heat from the hearth battling bravely against the chill that crept along the floors. Daenera’s eyes burned with defiance as she faced Aemond, the tension between them as palpable and dense as the sheets of rain battering against the windows. 

“Not much of a marriage then, is it?” Daenera needled, her words seeming to burrow beneath his skin as he glowered at her, gripping the edge of the table tightly.

Their gazes remained locked, the tension between them crackling like distant thunder. A sudden flash of lightning illuminated the room through the windows, casting stark shadows across his face, followed closely by a resounding crack of thunder that seemed to shake the very air around them.

Finally, Daenera broke the intense stare, her gaze drifting through the archway into the adjoining bedchamber–their bedchambers. She moved into the room, feeling the warmth from the hearth contrast sharply with the chill that swept in from the windows, creeping along the stone floor. By the hearth stood a bathing tub, its copper surface gleaming, flanked by a stool and a small table holding a neatly folded piece of cloth and an array of familiar oils. A comfortable chair had been set up by the fire as well, turned slightly towards the tub, with a little table at its side. 

In one corner, a desk stood with a chair neatly tucked underneath it. The desk was well-organized, with quills and parchments ready for use, and a small, ornate inkpot gleaming in the firelight. Shelves above the desk held an array of books–most of these Aemonds. 

The bed itself was constructed from sturdy dark wood, with two tall spires at the corners of the headboard, spiraling upwards. It was larger than her own, adorned with a spread of silk and cotton blankets neatly arranged across the mattress, and atop the blankets lay several of her dresses, yet to be put away–her own dresses, their familiar fabrics and colors a strange reminder of her displacement. Her fingers brushed over the fabric of her dark blue dress, adorned with vines of silver embroidery. 

Her eyes lifted to the painting framed by the spires of the bed, noting how the bed had been pulled away from the wall to give the artist space to complete the new mural. The mural depicted a castle rising from the ground, its walls darkened and molten by fire as a dragon unleashed a torrent of dragonfire upon it. Harrenhal. 

“You’re having Harrenhal painted above our bed?” Daenera questioned, glancing over her shoulder to see Aemond leaning casually against the stone pillar of the archway, his arms crossed over his chest. 

“I thought it suitable,” Aemond answered, his voice smooth, a twist to his lips. “It is part of your heritage after all…” He pushed off the pillar and strode towards her. As soon as he reached the end of the bed, Daenera moved away, out of his reach. His expression darkened, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “And I shall soon claim it.”

Daenera exhaled, shaking her head, her eyes returning to the half-finished mural. “If Daemon does not take it first.”

“If he does, he won’t hold it for long,” Aemond drawled, his hands folding behind his back, holding himself with an air of confidence that bordered on arrogance. “I will take it from him.”

Harrenhal seemed not a place to be easily claimed and much less easy to hold, Daenera thought. There was something twisted about the castle—haunted, as it was said to be. And cursed. It seemed almost like an entity unto itself.

"Then you will die there," Daenera mused, her voice light yet laden with dark foreboding as she drifted closer to the dressing table. "Daemon is likely to take your head."

"He may try," Aemond retorted, a thread of confidence woven into his soft drawl, unperturbed by the grim possibility of Daemon Targaryen severing his head from his body. "But he grows old and slow."

"Your arrogance will be the death of you," she replied, turning sharply towards him. Her gaze was icy, piercing through the air between them like a cold blade. "He merely needs to approach you from the right angle—then you won't even see him coming."

Daenera’s fingers brushed over the items on the dressing table, her touch light yet purposeful, while Aemond remained rooted behind her, his posture unwavering. “If you so desire to gaze upon Harrenhal before bed, then mayhaps you should sleep in your own chambers, as it seems you are to keep them.”

Her frown deepened as she reached for one of the many familiar bottles lined up on the dressing table. She picked up a pink one, pulling out the cork. The scent of rosemary oil and lavender wafted up, filling her nostrils as she inhaled deeply. Tears stung her eyes–he had returned her perfumes and oils, those familiar bottles whose contents she had made herself. 

The scent seemed to claw at the back of her throat as she placed the bottle back down, her gaze shifting to the nearby chest. Opening it, she discovered her own jewelry. Her fingers traced over the pearls that had adorned her hair during her first wedding, brushing over the small shell hidden in the corner. Baela had brought the shell on one of her visits from Driftmark, having found it on the beach. Its interior shimmered with a deep, iridescent purple. She’d hidden it in her jewelry chest to keep Joffrey from getting his hands on it, the boy having once snatched it from her table and run away with it. 

Daenera's fingers brushed against the cold steel of a necklace—a piece her mother had once lent her. The dark steel was intricately wrought into three interconnected circles with a ruby set at its center. She withdrew it from the box, her thumb tracing the smooth gem, feeling the metal warm beneath her touch. As a child, she had been captivated by it, frequently sneaking it out of her mother's collection until she was finally allowed to keep it in her own jewelry box.

She was jolted from her reverie by the sound of his approaching footsteps. His voice was soft, almost tender, "Let me help you put it on."

With a sudden motion, Daenera tossed the necklace back into the jewelry chest and slammed the lid shut. The sound echoed sharply in the room, and she heard him release a breath, a subtle sigh that spoke of his resignation. 

“You may decorate our chambers as you see fit,” Aemond asserted, his voice as smooth and soft as silk, and had she been able to fully appreciate it, she might have noticed a thread of plea weaving through his words. 

Daenera drew in a tight breath, feeling as though her lungs couldn't fully expand, her ribs tightening painfully around them as her heart twisted within her chest. She understood that his actions were meant as a kindness, a gesture to ease the pain he had caused her—but she couldn't so easily forget.

“Do you believe that returning my possessions will earn you my forgiveness for forcing me into this position?” Daenera asked incredulously, her voice edged with bitterness. “Do you think changing the drapes or adding a new rug will make this any less of a prison?”

She abandoned the dressing table, her wet skirts dragging heavily across the floor, leaving a damp trail in their wake. “No matter how many comforts you allow me, this remains a cage.”

The room fell into a heavy silence as Daenera met his eye. His gaze was sharp and piercing, the color of it a steely gray, colder and more intimidating than the shade of blue it usually held. The chill in his look seemed to seep into the air around them, adding a tangible tension that hung heavily between them.He stared at her, offering no glimpse of what, if anything, lay beneath–a gaping void or a soul festering with cruelty. 

Daenera took a moment to gather herself, retreating into the familiar coldness of formality. She straightened her posture, standing tall and regal, embodying the highborn lady and princess she was. Her head was held high, her neck stretched gracefully, and her shoulders pushed back. The chill of her wet dress had seeped so deeply into her skin that she felt ice, but she used that coldness to bolster her resolve.

“I thank you for your consideration,” she said, her voice steady and composed. “My only request for our marital chambers is that there should be no seven-pointed star emblems.” She couldn’t stand to look at one more seven-pointed fucking star. “Should any more be added to the Red Keep, it will soon resemble a sept.”

With that she walked past him, her heart feeling hollow and her chest aching.

[keisobe]

: 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 — (𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐲𝐚𝐦 + 𝐥𝐨’𝐚𝐤 𝐬𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲)

— from avatar 2 : the way of the water (spoiler free!!)

contents. gn! reader, reader is a omaticayan, established relationships, angst, hurt/no comfort, emotional neglect, small kissing scenes, male red flags, the sully brothers being bad boyfriends + wc. 1.1k

notes. okay, so i write a lot of romantic + fluff drabbles of neteyam and lo’ak but i wanted to switch it up and write their red flags because guys are … guys. i realized i wrote a lot more for lo’ak, so i’m sorry about the word count difference between neteyam and lo’ak’s drabbles. enjoy reading some gut wrenching angst ♡

── ✦ 𝐍𝐄𝐓𝐄��𝐀𝐌 always put his family first. it was always charming to see him quickly scoop tuk into the warmth of his embrace or aid his mother when her emotions got too overwhelming. the days where you both spent together, making each other beaded jewelry or stargazing always put a smile on your face. until those days were always cut short. 

“sorry, dad needs me right now,” neteyam would push you out of his arms, rushing to gear himself with his woven pouch and poisoned arrows. he leaves a chaste kiss onto your cheek and hairline before he sprints into the forest.

it’s his family, it was okay. 

“kiri needs my help,” your body felt cold again— watching him sit up as he adjusted his leather belt, storing his hunting knife. 

no word was spoken from your lips, instead you replied with complete silence. neteyam didn’t glance away from his scattered belongings— collecting them as fast as he could. 

this time there wasn’t a kiss, but only the coldness biting your bare skin— neteyam ran off once again.

okay, this wasn’t okay.

“hey, is everything all right?” his honey glazed eyes shifted from the dusky sky, now gazing at your contorted features.

though you wanted to hold back, lie to his face. the feelings became too overwhelming— you had to tell him.

“no neteyam, nothing is all right,” you sat up, gazing down at the incomplete bracelet that sat limp on your dainty wrist.

“what’s wrong?” neteyam replicated your movements— sitting up as he gently rested his hand on your shoulder. 

there was a brief pause, the rustle of leaves filling the silence. neteyam was patient, watching your small movements. a sniffle came from your nose.

“it’s you,” your lips quivered as you said that. “you keep leaving me.”

neteyam shuffled in his seat a bit, a dry chuckle escaping his lungs.

“my family needs me,” he excused, shaking his head at your words. “you know that.”

he would never understand, it made you angry.

you swatted his hand off your shoulder, scooting away from the warmth of his skin— as much as you didn’t want to.

“no neteyam, it’s hard,” you turned your head away from him, tears welled up in your yellow eyes. “it’s like… like you don’t value our time.”

his lips pressed together as he avoided your gaze, thinking about what to say.

before neteyam could reply back, you stood up without ease— swiping off the tears that fell on your arms and knees.

“this time i’ll leave first,” you muttered, escorting yourself into the depths of the darkened forest.

guilt buried deep within neteyam’s gut. he had to make it right, but did he have time to get to you before—

“bro, i really need your help, like right now!” lo’ak’s desperate voice blasted through the speakers of his throat comm. 

his eyes glanced back and forth between where you left in the hollow forest to the familiar direction of his home. 

slowly adjusting his heavy pouch and clawed knife, neteyam takes a deep breath, turning his thick heels towards the right— back to his home.

family always came first and it’ll always be like that.

── ✦ 𝐋𝐎’𝐀𝐊 lived life on the edge. venturing out when everyone else rested for the night, weaving through the thick veins and feeling sap kissing the bottoms of his feet. there was always a surge of energy when he didn’t stick to the rules— he didn’t feel bound by his family, by the people from his clan. though his risky attempts to sneak off every night led you to be the one always by his side. you just wanted him to be safe.

“lo’ak, you’ll definitely get in trouble for this!” you warned, watching him skip across the tree bark towards an unknown, mossy area that was banned from being entered.

he briskly looked back before taking another leap, a smug smirk planted on his face.

“come on, don’t be such a wuss,” lo’ak shrugged his shoulders, voice sprinkled with utter sarcasm. the tips of your ears burned with frustration but also a tinge of fondness.

when he ran off, you followed.

“don’t hold that lo’ak!” lo’ak waved the heavy gun into the air, his finger lightly settled on the trigger.

after a successful raid, the omoticaya clan celebrated into fits of traditional cheers and clatters of new military artillery were being passed along to a more secure storage area. lo’ak happen to get his hands onto a stray gun left during the raid.

“it’s fine, my dad taught me how to use it,” lo’ak reassured, aiming the gun towards random directions. you let out a sigh, a small smile snuck onto your face.

“lo’ak!” a familiar voice shook your spine.

the olo’eyktan, jake sully, stood tall among the crowd— a scorn tucked into the wrinkles of his face.

quickly, you snatched the gun from lo’ak’s grasp, throwing it down onto the dirt floor as you knelt down. you felt jake’s presence grow near, every nerve in your body felt like needles prickling on your skin.

you picked up the gun, raising your head high to meet jake’s hard glare.

“this was a stray gun, someone probably dropped it while it was being passed,” you explained, gently handing the gun to jake.

lo’ak didn’t say a word, silently observing you deceive his father.

jake simply nodded, fishing off the gun from your grasp— walking off towards a group of fellow clan members to continue the formation.

“thanks,” lo’ak smiled, kneeling down himself to give you a tight back hug. the two you erupt into relieved laughter, a plethora of kisses adorned your face and shoulders.

when he’s in trouble, you covered for him.

“what is the meaning of this?”

neytiri and jake eyed both of you in disappointment— watching the fiddle of your fingers and the way your eyes darted with nervousness. once again, lo’ak ventured out into the forbidden parts of the forest, forcing you to accompany him. both of his parents caught you in the middle of the act, dragging you back home without a word.

“it was me,” you raised your hand, looking deeply into lo’ak’s worried eyes. “i wanted to see what was there, so i forced lo’ak to go with me. it’s all my fault.”

neytiri pouted at your explanation, glancing at jake for his insight. with a silent agreement, they both nodded their heads.

“then you’re banned from hunting for a week,” jake announced, the color in your face vanishing completely.

lo’ak flinched at his father’s words, his lips parted— but nothing came out.

though you took the blame, you wanted lo’ak to at least defend you— maybe even confess to all his rebellious behavior that put you in so many difficult situations.

neytiri walked over to you and firmly latched onto your arm, escorting you back into your tent.

you looked back to lo’ak, but he never met your eye.

when he’s silent, you took the blame for him, but he couldn’t bring himself to say a word.

© 2023 keisobe – please do not copy any of my writing and repost or translate to other sites.