#Alice having the life she deserves and more

[daddy-dins-girl]

Playdate - Chapter Ten

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pairing: Marcus Pike x f! Reader x Dave York

Word Count: 7.4k

Chapter Summary: Of all the ways you managed to dream up in your head about seeing Dave again, this was never how you would have imagined it actually playing out.

Chapter Warnings: 18+ MDNI. (SPOILERS IN THE TAGS!) Angst. Alcohol consumption. Brief violence and mentions of blood. Dave's feelings deserve their own warning 🫠. Dave's idiocy also deserves its own warning (we're working on him okay?). Dave gets a little pushy/forceful/needy with Reader but there's no actual threat or non-con, but figured I should mention it (you are held against a wall at one point but never physically hurt or threatened). Mentioned smut (including sex toys, anal play, light bondage, etc.).

HUGE thank you to @janaispunk for beta'ing and just being amazing in general 💜

Notes: This chapter starts off with Dave's POV and switches to Reader, I just figured we could use a little insight into Dave.

~ DAVE ~

Knelt down on one knee on the lawn of his ex-wife’s house, Dave could give a shit about the wet grass stain he could feel seeping into the denim of his jeans as he wrapped his arms a little tighter around both his girls, giving them one final goodbye hug. He pulls back slightly, frowning when he sees their wet faces staring back at him. He has to swallow the hard lump in his throat to hold back his own tears that want to fall so he can be strong for them so instead he plasters on the best smile he can manage and brings both hands up to ruffle the hair on both their heads.

“Don’t be sad Angels, I’ll see you again in two weeks okay?” he assures them and they both slowly nod their heads. He knew it would be hard dropping them off today after having them for the entire summer, not only for them but for him as well. It was going to be difficult to go from seeing them every day back to once every two weeks. Not to mention he was now saying goodbye to the only distraction in his life that was holding him together these past couple of months.

“I miss you already Daddy,” his youngest, Alice pouts before her chubby little arms wrap around his neck once more and squeeze. Dave lets out a little chuckle and hugs her back tightly before pressing a kiss into her hair.

“I miss you too, babies,” he sighs.

“Why don’t you girls go inside and wash up now,” his ex-wife Carol finally speaks up from up on the porch at the front door. “Dinner’s almost ready. Steve’s making your favorite,” she announces and both girls' faces light up like kids at Christmas as they finally pull away from their father.

“Sketti and meatballs!” Alice shouts excitedly.

“Bye Daddy,” his oldest, Molly, says one final time, pressing a kiss to his cheek before she takes her younger sister by the hand and leads her up the porch steps and they disappear into the house.

“Said the magic words huh?” Dave chuckles, standing up to his feet and dusting off his jeans.

“Sketti and meatballs” Carol shrugs, a fond smile on her lips. “You look good,” she says after a moment. “Better than the last time I saw you.”

“Yeah, well…” Dave trails off, not wanting to get into why he came to her all but desperate a couple of months ago to let him take their children for an extended summer vacation. “Thanks again, I had a really great time with them.”

“Of course,” she nods. “Did you want to stay for dinner? I’m sure Steve made enough to feed an army. God knows I love him but that man can’t measure pasta to save his life,” she jokes of her new husband and Dave lets out a small chuckle but shakes his head.

“I should probably get going, let you guys have your family dinner.”

“Ok well… the usual time then? Two Saturdays from now?” she asks and Dave nods.

“I’ll be here.”

“Okay. And Dave?” she says just as he turns to head back to the driveway.

“Yeah?” he answers, turning back to face her.

“Take care of yourself, okay?”

“Sure,” he smiles, unconvincing even to himself before he heads down the driveway and gets into his car.

He hadn’t been very candid with her about why he suddenly needed to “get away” and wanted to take his kids on an impromptu summer vacation, but she read him like a book anyway. “What’s her name?” is all she’d asked when he’d shown up on her doorstep a couple of months ago looking tired and distracted. “Doesn’t matter” he’d carelessly shrugged back, not meeting her gaze. Carol had pursed her lips and hummed her agreement but otherwise didn’t push. She knew better. Dave wasn’t exactly one for expressing his feelings, even when they’d been married.

The weeks that follow since bringing his kids back to their mother seem to pass by in a blur as he throws himself full force back into his work, even working on the weekends that he’s not with his kids, mostly as a distraction rather than a necessity. He doesn’t want to be reminded of what his Saturday nights used to be, before. And despite his ex-wife’s wishes he knows he’s not taking proper care of himself. He’s working too much, drinking too much (apart from the days when he has his children of course) and certainly not eating enough. He feels pathetic. Like some lovesick puppy and it’s definitely not a feeling he’s used to. Hell, he didn’t even feel like this when he got divorced or when his now ex-wife got remarried. He bought them a damn wedding present and danced with his daughters standing on his feet at the reception hall. Not that he was thrilled to be a divorced Dad or anything, but he couldn’t argue with Carol when she told him he wasn’t giving her enough of himself. He did feel like shit for months after the separation but after a while it faded and he was able to carve out a new life for himself and he was fine. Happy might have been a stretch, but he was existing just fine.

He of course hadn’t expected you and your husband to turn up barely a year later and turn his whole life upside for several months. It had started out as just fun. Blowing off steam, getting his dick wet, he was far from complaining about any of it. He loved how obedient you both were to him immediately, filling a void in him that he hadn’t engaged in nearly as much as he wanted to. Sure he’d had some rough fucks in his day but that was different than what he had with you. Having a partner - partners - that you built a trust with just brought everything to a new, heightened level and that, well, he hadn’t quite experienced before. But along with trust, of course other feelings start to emerge, feelings Dave had long since given up on expecting to have at this point in his life. And having these feelings for a fucking already married couple did not help his situation any. It was a mistake, he realizes in hindsight, spending your birthday with you both. An entire weekend wrapped up with you, spending the night together, waking up together, having meals together, it was… well, for Dave, it was everything. Everything he never even knew he was looking for and of fucking course he had to find it with two people who already had each other.

And now? Now what the fuck was he doing? Drowning his sorrows in the bottom of a bottle of overpriced bourbon at a bar, by himself, on a Friday night. Just like he’s found himself the past countless Friday nights, hoping he’d wake up the next morning and be able to forget about the two people who had apparently taken up permanent residence in the tight cavity of his chest, refusing to be let go.

He was fucking pathetic. And probably needed to get laid, too. That was one thing he could surely do something about easily enough. He’s been coming to this same bar every Friday night for a month now and one cute waitress in particular never seemed to stray very far from his table and he wasn’t that great of a tipper. He’d barely managed a second glance in her direction his past few visits but maybe tonight he should change that. The drinking wasn’t enough of a distraction anymore and this week was his off-week from seeing his kids so he didn’t have that to keep himself occupied either.

Mind made up he signals the waitress over to his table - whatever her name was. She’d told him probably a dozen times but fuck if he could remember it. It didn’t matter, after tonight he doesn’t plan on seeing her again and he’ll make sure she understands that before he actually leaves with her. For now, what’s the harm in a little fun? A decent pair of tits and a tight pussy is all he needs to get his head back on straight he thinks. And judging by the way the waitress basically comes bouncing over to him the moment he waves her over, it isn’t going to be much of a challenge. The only challenge for Dave will be when he closes his eyes as he sinks inside her, hoping, praying that it’s no longer the image of you that’s emblazoned on the backs of his eyelids.

~ YOU ~

It’s been nearly four months since your birthday. Since you last saw him.

In the time since that first weekend after Dave had disappeared from your lives, you and Marcus had found your rhythm again. Your lives are back to normal and, realistically, maybe even better than they’ve ever been. You were communicating so much more now and your physical relationship (which, you’d never had much of an issue with to begin with) was definitely thriving. Due to the increased communication, the two of you were always not only willing, but eager to talk more while in bed about anything you were particularly craving and put in the effort together for each other. It had really started the night Marcus had taken charge (a week after your birthday) and fully blossomed from there. There was one Sunday morning back a few months ago where the two of you laid in bed together with your laptop in front of you and were online shopping for fun new sex toys you both might enjoy. You filled your cart without judgment or shame and Marcus hastily typed in his credit card information when you were done browsing. The moment you heard the ‘swish’ of the order confirmation being sent, Marcus snapped the laptop closed, tossed it to the far corner of the bed and then all but pounced on you.

Early on when the two of you were still navigating your post-Dave waters Marcus had even asked you if you still wanted someone else in your lives. The role Dave was meant to (and had initially) played, you assume he meant (before it had gone and gotten complicated). You could tell by the way he asked you, his voice unsure and hesitant sounding, that it wasn’t something he wanted. And in all honesty, you didn’t want it anymore either and you were quick to assure him of that. Not only was Marcus indulging and fulfilling anything you desired, but whoever it was, they’d never be Dave anyway. It didn’t have to be said out loud that he was the only extra piece you’d both ever want in your marriage, you both knew it already.

Sunday mornings seemed to be when you’d find yourself thinking of and missing Dave the most, when you’d look around your bedroom in the aftermath of what your Saturday night had been. Saturday nights had become your routinely scheduled evenings where you and Marcus would get extra adventurous in bed, typically breaking in more of your new toys you’d purchased and just letting loose and taking out all your stresses of the week on one another.

One particular Sunday morning you remember lying next to Marcus who had just opened his beautiful sleepy eyes and you brushed his hair back from his forehead and then let out a little giggle followed by a sad sigh when your gaze caught site of the black fuzzy handcuffs that were still looped around one of the spokes in the headboard.

“He would’ve loved to see you like that,” you murmur, eyebrow raised playfully and you actually see Marcus’ ears turn pink and he bashfully hides his face in the pillow for a quick moment and laughs.

“You think so?”

“I know so baby. God you were so hot, at my mercy like that.”

Your blood begins to run hot just thinking about it again now. How he’d submitted to you. He’d laid down on his stomach, arms stretched above his head where you’d cuffed him to the bed and then you sat back on his thighs, massaging his ass with one hand while the other prepared the lube and the plug that the two of you had picked out together on your impromptu online shopping adventure a couple of weeks earlier in the other. It was the first time he’d ever let you do anything like that to him, though you’d discussed it a few times beforehand, and you were both pleasantly surprised how hot you found it.

You’d slowly fed him the plug, all the while gently rubbing his back with your free hand, soothing him and telling him how well he was doing for you. You still can’t erase from memory the way your breath hitched when he replied in a low, quivering voice, “yeah, I’m being a good boy?” God, the way the arousal instantly flooded you it was a miracle you were able to continue what you were doing and not abandon it all together to take care of yourself.

“Fuck, you’re such a good boy,” you assured him, hand leaving his back to smoothing across the globes of his ass instead

Once you’d gotten it all the way inside and ensured he was comfortable you’d began to slowly maneuver it partially out and then back in, over and over again until it got to feeling so good for him that you’d gotten off his legs and let him get up on his knees when he’d begged you to let him fuck you.

You slid underneath his body, never uncuffing him, wriggling up the bed until you were face to face and left the plug seated deep in his ass as you helped guide his leaking tip to your entrance and he pushed inside. His hands were able to grip the spokes in the headboard so he had some leverage while still held captive in his position and he railed into you deep and hard, moaning like you’d never heard him before for the entire time, like he was on an entirely different plane of pleasure he hadn’t yet experienced.

Afterwards when you both lay spent and chests heaving with exhaustion you’d uncuffed him, gently removed the plug and gathered him in your arms, letting him cling to you with his head resting on your chest. You kissed and played with his hair, murmuring into the top of his head what a good boy he was for you and he just held you tighter until you’d both fallen asleep.

You loved your playful, risque and experimental Saturday nights, but you also loved the quieter, more intimate times as well. You loved waking up on a Sunday morning and lazily making love for hours, refusing to leave the comfort of your marital bed for most of the day. You loved weeknights sprawled out on the sofa relaxing after dinner and watching TV when you’d start necking like teenagers until he’d shove your pants down and slip inside of you, fucking you slow and deep until you both came and then he’d carry you up the stairs to bed. You loved nights when you were both too exhausted from your work days to do much of anything but still wanted to be close so you’d make out a little until he got hard and he would push inside your warm heat and then just wrap his arms around you and hold you until you’d both fall asleep with him inside you.

At the end of the day, well and truly, this had been what you both had wanted, originally. Dave was meant to come in, spice up your love life a little bit, teach you both a couple of things and then leave you to your lives with your newfound sexual knowledge. He’d done that, and yet, there was no denying that you still felt like a piece was just missing now.

A Dave York shaped piece.

You didn’t like to bring him up often to each other anymore. All it did was cause sadness for you both. You’d talked a lot early on and had eventually both admitted out loud your feelings you had for Dave but now there was no use bringing up his name anymore. He was gone and you had to accept it. It didn’t mean you couldn’t miss him, because oh, you missed him. All the time. But there was no use dwelling on something you had no control over, you had to move on. And you had, for the most part.

Or so you thought, until one Friday evening when your work colleagues managed to drag you out with them to a bar and there in the flesh, across the room of the dimly lit tavern, sat the one and only Dave fucking York.

You’d nearly spilled your drink on yourself when your head had turned and you saw him in your peripheral. He looked handsome as ever, wearing dark jeans and a white button up shirt with his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, top couple of buttons undone showing a teasing amount of perfect sun-kissed skin. Wherever his “emergency sabbatical” took him, it was apparently somewhere spent mostly outdoors in the sun you presume. His face looked a little thinner as well, his features more sharp and refined and you have to wonder if he’s been hitting the gym a lot more recently.

The only thing, frankly, that didn’t look good on him right now was the tiny blonde currently seated in his lap holding up a tray of shots you assume were meant for another table before Dave had intervened when something pretty caught his eye. You could practically feel your blood boiling at the sight before you, those deft fingers that knew your body all too well pulling and teasing at the belt loops of the tiny denim shorts the waitress was wearing while she threw her head back in laughter at something he’d said, eating up whatever attention he was willing to give her and you can’t say you blamed the girl. When the sly, sexy grin crossed his lips and he buried his face in her hair to undoubtedly whisper something absolutely filthy next to her ear and you saw her bite her lip in response, it felt like a hard slap across the face and everything happening around you instantly turned to white noise as you focused all your attention on the man across the room who, far as you could tell, hadn’t noticed you yet.

Before you do anything you quickly dig into your purse hanging on your chair for your phone and send a text to Marcus letting him know that Dave is here. His reply of ‘holy shit’ comes back near instantly but before you have a chance to type anything further you hear a loud voice bellowing from behind you for service, waiting for their shots apparently, and the tiny blonde regretfully starts to peel herself off of Dave’s lap to attend to her duties. Unfortunately Dave’s eyeline drifts to where the voice comes from, which you happen to be right in the cross hairs of. You see the tiniest flicker of shock etch across his features before his carefully crafted mask slips perfectly back into place and he gives you a small shit-eating grin that you wish you had the courage to slap right off of him. Eyes not leaving yours he simply picks up his beer and pulls another sip from it before he reaches out, grabs the hand of the waitress about to walk away and tugs her back into his lap, wrapping a possessive arm around her. His gaze never leaves you, even as his head tilts down to press his lips to the girl's shoulder.

Asshole.

Tears well in your eyes before you can stop them. He’s being a prick on purpose and you simply hate him in this moment. Dave York was a lot of things, but you’d never known him to be mean. Until now.

Not able to look at him another second you hastily push back from the table, your chair screeching across the hardwood loud enough to stop the idle chit-chat amongst your table of coworkers as they all stop to stare at you, having no clue what’s going on.

“I’ll be right back, just… need some air,” you explain curtly, not offering anything further or waiting for anyone to offer to accompany you.

You vaguely hear one of them calling your name questioningly as you stand up from the table and storm off towards the exit, passing Dave who’s now downing the entire tray of shots like they’re water.

Good, drink yourself half to death, you fucking idiot.

When the cool evening air hits you the moment you step outside it's like a brief reprieve and you take a deep breath, tears freely spilling down your cheeks now that you hastily try wiping away with the back of your hand. There’s a small crowd standing outside the front doors smoking cigarettes and vape pens but the chatter amongst them halts to a dead silence when the door slams shut behind you in your haste to get outside. Not in the mood for any onlookers, you quickly head off in the opposite direction and take the left turn down the alley at the side of the building for some privacy until you can catch your breath and, god willing, get your body to stop trembling. You realize too that you’d left your purse and your phone inside and you can’t possibly go back in there right now, not like this.

“Fuck,” you sigh into the desolate alley, stopping to lean your back against the cool brick and hanging your head, burying your face in your hands. The emotions of it all, of seeing him again, hits you like a ton of bricks and you let out a loud sob, your legs practically buckling from underneath you causing you to slide down the wall and squat down, elbows resting on your knees and face still buried in your hands as the now quieter sobs continue to rack your body.

You’re feeling just about every emotion under the sun right now and they’re all pouring out of you at once. You’re angry, jealous, sad, irritated, but maybe worst of all you’re reminded of just how fucking badly you still miss him. How badly you weren’t over him. And you hate yourself for it.

“Gotta light?”

That voice… of course you recognize it the second you hear it, even with his words slightly slurred and your face practically buried between your knees, and of course he had to follow you out here. The moment your head raises to look at his smug smirk with the cigarette dangling between his perfect lips you scowl, quickly rising to your feet and taking the two short strides over to where he stands in the middle of the alley and you snatch white stick from his mouth and immediately snap it in two, tossing it carelessly to the ground between you.

“Hey!” Dave barks at you, his voice sharp and loud as it echoes off the walls of the tight alleyway.

As if he has any right to be the one pissed off right now.

“Oh you don’t even smoke,” you argue back immediately, not in any type of mood to be taking shit from this man.

“I’m a social smoker,” he shrugs and you doubt even that’s the truth, he just wanted a reason to follow after you.

“You’re an asshole,” you bite back, not missing a beat.

He scoffs. “Somebody’s in a mood. Maybe you need that cigarette more than I do.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

He’s on you before the last syllable even leaves your lips, both his large hands on your shoulders shoving you backwards until your back hits the wall and he’s crowding your space, leaving barely an inch of space between your two bodies that are now breathing heavily with adrenaline. You can smell the alcohol on him and you know he’s had a lot to drink. If you weren’t half buzzed already you could probably get there just by the smell wafting off of him.

“Think you’d rather I fuck you, hmm? That where all this attitude is coming from Baby?”

His hips force yours further into the unforgiving brick behind you as his hands leave your shoulders to grip your waist instead and you can feel the hard outline of his obvious desire pressing against you. You bite your lip to suppress the moan that’s begging to escape your throat but it slips through anyway; barely registering but he hears it. Of course he does. You can see the way the corner of his lip turns upward into a sly grin.

“There’s my girl.”

“I’m not your anything! You fucking left Dave. You left!” You raise your hands up to shove hard at his chest but he’s like an immovable wall.

“I know.”

His voice is suddenly soft, dare you say, remorseful sounding. You hate how your resolve and anger instantly starts to wane the moment he lets his guard down even the slightest bit.

“I know,” he repeats it again, softer, quieter, his forehead coming down to rest against yours where he slightly shakes his head back and forth. One hand lets go of the grip on your waist and he gently rubs the back of his knuckles up and down the top of your arm, just a barely-there touch that’s already causing goosebumps to raise on your flesh.

“What do you want?” you ask, trying to sound stronger than what you know you’re actually capable of right now. “Why did you follow me out here?”

“I want what you want”. His voice is suddenly at your ear and an involuntary shiver runs through your entire body. “Come home with me,” he tries, his voice slurring just slightly and you roll your eyes and attempt to put space between the two of you again. This time he’s not expecting it and you do manage to push him back a few inches and he wobbles on his feet.

“A drunk fuck so you can disappear again the minute it’s over, you think that’s what I want?” You’re practically screaming at him now, but you don’t care, he deserves it.

“C’mon,” he huffs, sounding annoyed as he quickly crowds your space once more, this time he manages to grab your hands and hoist them above your head, pressing them into the wall so you can’t push him off you again. “One last time for old times sake, huh? Let me fuck this attitude right out of you”

“I’m married, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Hasn’t exactly stopped us before,” he smirks and then lowers his face down so he can nuzzle into you, his nose grazing your ear and his smooth cheek brushing against yours and for a moment you feel yourself melting into his soft touch.

Your voice lacks the conviction you know it should when you rasp out a quiet "Dave, stop”. You won’t go home with him, you know you won’t. You’d never hurt Marcus like that (again), but the smell of his familiar cologne on his shirt collar, the way his warm skin feels pressed against yours and how your body seemingly just fits into the contours of his own you can’t find it in you to immediately try and push him away again either. It’s been so long, you want to just feel him. Just for a moment.

“Kiss me,” he tries, voice suddenly at your ear before he moves just slightly until his lips hover on yours. He doesn’t force it on you, waiting for you to make that final move and close the distance between you. It takes everything in you, but you manage to turn your face away and you hear his desolate sigh in response, hot breath fanning your cheek.

“Take a hint buddy,” a deep voice suddenly interrupts and both your heads snap to the side where you see an enormous man standing at the opening of the alley, an unlit cigarette between his lips. He must be a good six inches shorter than Dave but easily has over 100lbs on him. He’s a very wide, stocky man with a long ponytail and a studded leather vest over top of a faded t-shirt and covered in tattoos, looking like he belongs in some type of biker gang. You immediately recognize him as the man from earlier who tried to summon the waitress from Dave.

He fishes a lighter from his pocket and brings the flame up to light the cigarette and takes a long drag before breathing a large cloud of smoke out.

“She’s not interested,” he repeats when Dave doesn’t loosen his hold on you. “And you’re paying for those six shots by the way, prick.”

“What, you think she’s saving herself for you?” Dave laughs, incredulous. His hands suddenly leave yours, allowing your arms to drop down to your sides and he takes a step back from you, fully turning towards the man who’s now taken a few tentative steps into the alley. Dave reaches a hand into his back pocket fishing out his wallet. He pulls what looks to be a fifty from the bill fold, scrunches it up to a ball and throws it in the direction of the man standing in front of him before closing his wallet and returning it to his pants.

“There, now fuck off.”

“What’s your problem man?” The bystander asks, flicking his cigarette away and taking two long strides forward, the fifty note left crumpled and forgotten on the ground.

“My problem? My problem is fucking assholes who can’t mind their own business. Go fuck off and get your micro dick sucked somewhere else.”

Your brow furrows as you listen to Dave seemingly intentionally picking a fight with this complete stranger. This was not the calm, cool, collected Dave that you’re used to.

You didn’t like whoever this Dave was.

“Wanna try saying that to my face, shithead?” The shorter man challenges, taking another step towards Dave.

“Dave, just leave it,” you try but he waves a flippant hand at you, not even bothering to look in your direction.

“How bout I get you a stepstool and you say it to mine, small fry.”

“Don’t need a stool to lay you out right here on the pavement,” he challenges right back, taking yet another step closer until they’re just inches apart, the shorter man apparently not intimidated whatsoever and likely rather comfortable in a fight, you assume. What he doesn’t know, however, and what you do, is Dave’s extensive military training. Even drunk you have no doubt he could easily kill this man and barely break a sweat, if he wanted to.

“Leave it alone Dave, c’mon, I mean it!” You try again but you might as well be talking to the wall behind you, as neither of the men are paying you any attention any longer. Ironic, since you’re half the reason the fight started in the first place. Men.

“Tell you what,” Dave begins, voice smug. “First one’s free,” he finishes, raising his arms up in the air, defenseless.

Before you even have a chance to plead with them once more the other man swings, clocking Dave right in the gut that has him doubling over for a few brief seconds before he quickly rights himself again, and, to your astonishment, starts laughing.

“That it?” Dave laughs, back to his full height again. “C’mon, again,” he goads.

This time the stranger's fist connects with Dave’s face, causing his head to swing left with the impact he puts behind it. You quickly scramble over to Dave who lets out another chuckle as he wipes the blood from his lip with the back of his hand and turns back to face his foe.

“Pussy,” Dave taunts before spitting blood to the ground at the man's feet. “Why don’t we call the waitress out from inside, she probably hits harder than you do.”

“Dave!”

You watch it happening like it’s in slow motion, how the man grabs Dave’s head with both hands and smashes it into the brick wall and Dave, for whatever reason, doesn’t even fight it. It makes you think of those videos you had to watch in Drivers Ed as a teenager, how the drunk driver in the scenario is typically the one to survive a collision because their response time is so slow their body just lets go and goes with the flow rather than bracing for impact. The part that really tears you up inside though is you don’t even think it’s the alcohol, you think he’s doing it on purpose, wanting to get hurt. You hear the loud smack as his forehead hits the brick and you instantly surge forward, taking the brunt of his weight as he collapses into you and you both slowly slide down to the ground with him in your arms because you can’t hold his weight.

“Get up, you piece of shit!” the stranger yells, furious, and you scream, covering Dave’s body with your own where he lays in your lap as the man winds up to kick Dave while he’s down.

“Enough!” A third man’s voice shouts and relief floods your whole system as you recognize it’s Marcus. In a flash he’s crossing the alley, grabbing the stranger by his shirt and shoving him into the brick and holding him there. Marcus was definitely ‘a lover not a fighter’, but he could certainly hold his own when it came down to it if need be. You’re not scared any longer.

“You alright Honey?” he asks, quickly chancing a glance over to where you’re kneeled on the ground with Dave’s head in your lap, surveying the laceration above his eyebrow.

The man in Marcus’ grasp looks at the two of you confused, then when he notices Marcus’ wedding ring where his fists are cuffed in his shirt, his eyes widen in disbelief.

“Holy shit, is this your wife? I just did you a favour pal,” he scoffs, lightly shoving at Marcus and Marcus backs off just slightly, letting go but staying close in case the man wants to go at Dave again who’s practically unconscious at this point.

“Look it's fine just… go back inside please,” Marcus huffs before he turns back to you and frowns. “Think we can get him up?”

Between the two of you and Dave’s slight cooperation (as much as he can manage with not only how intoxicated he is but how he surely just got few screws knocked loose thanks to that brick wall) you manage to get him up and he looks around a little disoriented, shaking his head while you and Marcus flank either side of him and hold him up.

“Marcus? You’re here,” Dave slurs and then turns his entire body into him and practically collapses into his arms in what you think was meant to be a hug. Marcus manages to hold Dave upright, both his arms holding under Dave’s armpits to keep him on his feet.

“I’m here,” Marcus croaks out. “I’ve got you.”

“The fuck?” the stranger mutters, shaking his head as he watches what must surely be a very strange reaction to a husband finding another man hitting on his wife in a dark alley. “Good luck with… well, all of that pal,” he says with a wave of his hand in the direction of the three of you before he turns on his heel, bends down to pick up the discarded fifty and heads back out of the alley and presumably back toward the bar.

“I’m drunk,” Dave suddenly breaks the silence, pushing back slightly from Marcus and wavering on his feet. His brows furrow in confusion and he wipes at his forehead. When his hand comes into his eyeline and he sees blood smeared on it, his features scrunch up again. “And I think I hit my head?”

“It’s ok, do you think you can help us get you to the car? It’s close,” Marcus tries to explain to Dave who manages a small nod. You get behind Dave and lift one of his arms up and turn him slightly, draping his arm over your shoulders as you move with him to stand at his side, Marcus now holding up the other. Thankfully Marcus had hastily just parked the car in a loading zone directly in front of the bar after you failed to answer any of his texts or calls so the walk was quick and you managed to get Dave shoved into the front passenger seat. You quickly run back inside to grab your purse and phone and say a quick goodnight to your coworkers and then hurry back out to the car. Dave mumbles off his address once Marcus slides into the driver’s seat and Marcus gives a non-commital grunt of acknowledgement before he pulls away from the curb and drives away. Barely two minutes later Dave’s head is tilted all the way back into the headrest and he’s passed out. You lean forward from the backseat to address Marcus.

“We can’t take him home like that. What if he has a concussion or something?”

“I’m not taking him home” Marcus quickly responds, shaking his head.

With a satisfied sigh you lean back into your seat.

What a fucking disaster.

Barely ten minutes later Marcus pulls into your driveway, hitting the button clipped to the sun visor to open the garage. The last thing he needs is for his neighbors to see the two of you dragging a bloodied half unconscious man into your home in the middle of the night.

You only manage to get him as far as the couch on the main floor, an upstairs bedroom too harrowing of a feat to attempt you presume with Dave’s inability to offer much of his own assistance. With a loud grunt you manage to drop him down to a seated position on the sofa and he immediately falls back into the soft cushions.

“Stay with him, I’ll get some water and something for his head,” Marcus says and you nod your head.

He’s only gone a minute or so, taking a little longer because he couldn’t find the Aspirin bottle right away, but when he returns with two extra strength tablets and a full glass of water he stops in his tracks just inside the living room.

Dave is flopped on his side, face resting on your lap facing where Marcus stands while your hands delicately card through his hair.

He’s murmuring quiet little ramblings with his eyes closed, something about “fucked up” and “so sorry” and you just gently hush him, running your fingers through his sweat damp hair.

“We need to clean him up” you tell Marcus when you notice him standing there. There’s blood still smeared across his forehead but thankfully not very much, he hadn’t been actively bleeding for very long. At least you know he doesn’t require any stitches.

Marcus sighs and crosses the room, getting down on his haunches in front of the couch in Dave’s direct eye line.

“Hey Buddy,” he tries softly. “Need you to sit up for me, have some water and take these.”

Dave grunts, noncommittally, but ultimately does try and push himself up. You both help until he’s back into a seated position and Marcus hands him the two white tablets. Dave stares at them for several seconds before tossing them back into his throat and swallowing without water. You tisk at him and shove the water glass into his hand.

“Drink,” you order. He does. He finishes near the entire glass in one go and your eyes widen in surprise.

“There,” he sighs, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Can I go now?”

You’re so frustrated you could smack him. One second he’s being a total asshole, the next he’s trying to kiss you, then he’s purposely getting the shit beat out of him, then practically crying in your lap, and now he’s back to being obstinate again.

He was right about one thing. He is fucked up. And you don’t think it’s just the booze.

“I’m sorry, no,” you shake your head, trying to sound less angry than you feel. The last thing you need is to pick another fight with this unpredictable man right now. “Baby, you’re bleeding”

The endearment slips out completely by accident. You don’t even notice you’ve said it but both Dave and Marcus do, their widened gazes turning to you at the exact same moment.

“Dave,” you quickly try to correct, shaking your head.

He lets out a little snort and nods his head, like he’s willing to let you get away with your little slip up.

“You hit your head really hard, you can’t be alone tonight. If you can make it upstairs you can have the guest room, if not, we can make up the couch. In the morning you’re free to go, I promise.”

“Fine,” he relents, shoulders dropping.

“Think you can help us get you upstairs?” you ask and he nods his head. Both you and Marcus throw one of his arms around your shoulders and help him up, taking each of the steps up the staircase slowly. Dave seems to be somewhat coming out of his fog and much more helpful this time, thankfully. You’re pretty sure it’s just the alcohol working against him now, his brain mostly cleared from the fog of the head trauma. Once you reach the top of the stairs you go to turn towards the guest room but Dave plants his feet and attempts to twist his body away from it, toward the direction he knows your and Marcus’ master bedroom is instead. You and Marcus both share a look behind Dave’s back where you’re holding him and after a moment Marcus gives you one solitary nod, acquiescing to Dave's wishes.

Once inside the room you unravel yourself from Dave as Marcus sits down on the edge of the mattress, bringing Dave with him to sit next to him. You head off to the bathroom to wet a washcloth and come back into the room to gently wipe away the blood and dirt at Dave’s forehead.

“What the fuck were you thinking,” you mutter as you clean him up best you can, shaking your head slightly. He doesn’t answer and you don’t expect him to, nor do you really even want him to in his condition. He needs to sleep it off, maybe you’ll get some clarity in the morning.

Once he’s cleaned up Marcus lifts Dave’s arm off of him and puts it into his lap. He isn’t sure what to do next so he leaves Dave there and wanders off to the bathroom to find you where you’re rinsing off the washcloth in the sink.

“What do we do with him?” he asks quietly.

“Well… honestly it’s probably better we’re in the same room anyway, that way if something happens in the middle of the night we’re there,” you reason and Marcus nods.

“Ok…” he sighs, following after you as you exit the bathroom and flick off its light.

You stop just outside the bathroom when you see Dave passed out in the middle of your bed, all his clothes - including his shoes - still on and you sigh.

“I got it,” Marcus says, going to the end of the bed and untying the laces of Dave’s shoes before placing them on the ground. That’s all you undress of him though, he’ll be fine sleeping in the rest of his clothes. Marcus was already in sweats and a t-shirt but you were still in work clothes so go over to your dresser and fish out a pair of pajamas and quickly change. Once you’re ready for bed you turn out the lights and both you and Marcus crawl in on either side of Dave. You can’t help but reach a hand out and brush it through his hair as his light snores fill the quiet, darkened room.

Fuck, you really missed him.

Taglist (if you want to be added - or removed!, lmk!) @senaar-ika @suzdin @boliv-jenta @prolix-yuy @vabeachazn @seasonalobession @pedroshotwifey @nerdieforpedro @chronically-ghosted @macabremads @survivingandenduring @theywhowriteandknowthings @axshadows @iamasaddie @vickywallace @lincolndjarin @its-nebuleuse @janaispunk @missladym1981 @heareball @staywildflowahchild @guelyury @anotherpedrolover @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @runningmom94 @yorksgirl @harrington-thedad @missyorkswhore @disassociation-daydreams

#dave york #marcus pike #ppcu fanfiction #dave york x marcus pike x reader #dave york x reader #dave york fanfiction #pedro pascal cinematic universe #pedro pascal characters #dave york x you #dave york smut #marcus p #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike fanfiction #ppcu #pedro pascal character fanfiction

[starsoftheeye]

TMAGP Live Reaction - Ep 13

This probably won't be a regular thing since I usually listen to the new episodes on my way home from school, but I wanted to do it today and no-one can stop me

Pre-Episode

Aw this dedication is so nice, reminds me of how I used to sign off on social media when I was younger

Pre-Statement

omg samcelia date samcelia date

they're so cute omg

"she also said that you dont know how cute you are" alice dyer youre not fooling anyone

i wanna hear what this interaction sounded like between alice and celia

"nobody, i'm mysterious" this isnt gonna come back to haunt us im sure

omg samcelia dating reveal already

JACKS HER SON OMG

"wild couple of years after i moved here" does this mean that celias way of coping with being dropped in a different universe was to just fuck... iconic

either that or jack got brought along with her and shes just covering it up. or jack has some mysterious origins that we dont know about

omg a horror protagonists with loving, alive parents wow

i was not expecting sam to be this relatable oh no

sam :(

oh no an "incident"

alice :(

i love celia just being "i know we're on a date and thats great and all but what do you think about the Horrors"

ofc you know theyre real you lived through the apocalypse

ah hello lena and gwen

ah gwen is learning about the consequences of delivering a random address to a living mr blobby knockoff

ooh are we gonna get some exposition

yes we are

these are our Fears i presume

you work in the government responsible for discarding peoples experiences and traumas gwen you werent exactly one of the good guys to begin with

guys i dont think shes gonna sort it

Statement

hold music?? hello?? do we recognise this voice?? needles??

i cannot understand what the name of this company is but i do not like them

the autoresponder sounds so cunty who are they i must know

oooh a scottish guy we love a scottish guy

"i pay your wages" sounding ass. telling the autoresponder that youre the highest investor in a gambling app isnt the flex you think it is dude

i think if a website that directly involves the handling of your money does "weird background checks" and has a "janky interface", staying is less of a feat of loyalty and more a feat of stupidity

oh this guy does nfts for sure

are you allowed to blame the warning you didnt listen to for the consequences?

oh his friends suck too

damn all jokes aside i feel bad for this dude

ohhh so is this like the dice where things can only get so good before they go terribly? or is it like a "when your life gets bad your money goes up" thing

ah its the second option

tbf if its not against the law its not against the law

this guy is the definition of "20 pounds is 20 pounds"

suddenly i dont feel as sorry for this guy

i have a sneaking suspicion that this guy did not get his money

oh nevermind

OOOOOOH NEVERMIND THAT NEVERMIND

huh

HUH

DID THEY SEND A CREATURE TO GET HIM WHAT

Post-Statement

Alice!!

Ooooh he got pished

Alice really out here dissing every kind of date I've ever been on

oh no :(

sam no :(

sam apologise please

shes right tho youre in the wrong place if you don't want weird

alice :(

this is why a polycule would fix everything

alice i love you

sam i love you but you deserved that

#tmagp #the magnus protocol #samama khalid #celia ripley #alice dyer #gwendolyn bouchard #lena kelley #tmagp spoilers #tmagp reaction

[jude-shotto]

Pride Kisses: Day 4 - Lipstick Colors

Small kisses littered across the other’s face.

Ah, the joys of deviancy. They went into a store to buy lipstick and came back out with a bagful of different colors to try on!

Anyways I love them, lookit them showering each other with love 🥺

Early access to Day 1-7 are up on Patreon!

#dbh #dbh luther #dbh kara #dbh alice #luthara #judeshottoart #detroit: become human #pride kisses #I love them so much #Kara's story is actually my fav! #also #the lipstick marks on Kara is a Bi flag ;) #And Luther deserves more love #Alice having the life she deserves and more

[dirtytransmasc]

I'm sorry but the moment Alicent decided to obey her father she knew what was going to happen she knew she would have to have sex with him and have heirs. It's the only reason viserys remarried

"decided"????

what else was she meant to do? this was a day and age where women, especially young girls were controlled by their fathers, to some if not a great extent until they were married off (children of nobles typically betrothed for political reasons not love, these betrothals arranged by their fathers to whoever they pleased and saw fit, no matter what it could mean for the daughter). was she supposed to say no? was she supposed to disobey? what could have happened to her if she did? there was no point in which she could say no, when she could disagree. she was a girl, a child, all she could do was bite her tongue and pray for a miracle, pray for Viserys to not take to her, that at the very least he would wait to get her pregnant (the fact a 14 year old had to worry about that is sickening)

she was 14, she was grieving Aemma and reliving the pain of the loss of her mother, her father gave her an order, though disguised as a suggestion, one she could not deny. it didn't mean she wanted to, it didn't mean she wanted him to marry her, it doesn't mean she would have been forced to bear heirs as a child herself (especially because Aemma died because Viserys tried to get her pregnant to young and cause long lasting health issues that eventually lead to her fatal pregnancy), it doesn't mean she wanted any of it. but she didn't have any other choice, she didn't have a choice when her father sent her to his chambers, when Viserys claimed her hand, when Viserys assumed her consent and raped her in their marital bed, when she bore multiple children before she was 18, when she had to take care of him in his illness, when she had to practically rule in his stead. women didn't have choices at the time, nine of it was s choice she could have said no to, she just had to take it, all of it, cause her father told her to and it's her duty to obey him, and then Viserys married her and it was her duty to serve him.

y'all are so quick to blame a CHILD for the actions of her father and the king himself and forgetting the time and place she was in. nothing she could have done would have spared her fate, if not bringing her a worse one.

#I swear to god #I need people to think critically #“oh yes the 14 year old girl who lives in a patriarchal society that actively harms women who dont obey should have disobeyed her father #and king. all her pain and trauma is her fault cause she did what was expected of her and obeyed the men in her life so now she deserves no #pity whats so ever. this is a sane take to have“ #I actually can't #even if she wasnt a child. she was a somewhat powerful mans daughter. she had to fill his expectations of her that was her duty. #she was in danger otherwise #being a child just makes it even more depressing #and just because she knew what was going to happen to her doesn't make it ok nor does it equal consent #it was still forced marriage with dubcon to straight up rape #you can't deny that #alicent hightower #pro alicent hightower #pro team green #hotd #house of the dragon #lets see how long it takes to get hate for this post #the audacity #“well she knew what was gonna happen” #actually never speak again #this anon picked the wrong god damned day #I wanna commit a felony #why do people think what happened to her was ok?

[maplesyrupsainz]

˖⁺｡˚⋆˙private, not a secret | MV1˖⁺｡˚⋆˙

pairing: max verstappen x wife!reader y/n (she/her)

genre: social media au, established/secret relationship

warnings: very fluffy :))

summary: in which you and your husband like to keep things on the low so much so that none of his fans know about the family you have together

a/n: i luv this req tbh i lowkey luv writing kids in it's sooo cute im lowkey broody af atm too 😭 helllll

request!!!: Hi!! Could I request an smau with max where he has a secret family or something idk I just think it could be really cute !

my masterlist

twitter ->

instagram ->

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, carlossainz55, and others

yourusername my beautiful life

view all comments

maxverstappen1 my girls

yourusername 💓

carlossainz55 god i look so cool

yourusername hahahhh yeaaa

carlossainz55 ???

yourusername nothing mate😄

yourbff aww i need to come see you guys

yourusername yes please omg 😧 alice said she misses her fav aunt !

only accounts that follow yourusername may see this post

messages ->

instagram ->

maxverstappen1

liked by yourusername, danielricciardo, and 88,928 others

maxverstappen1 beach day

view all 14,283 comments

user7 omg hi y/n

user8 YES A Y/N FEATURE

user9 omg he let her out of the basement

user10 💀

danielricciardo go off

maxverstappen1 yessss!!! whatever that means

user11 lol

charles_leclerc tell y/n we want her at the next race please

maxverstappen1 she will come if the babysitter is free 👍

*comment deleted by maxverstappen1*

maxverstappen1 she said she'll think about it 🧠

user12 WHAT

user13 Urmmmmmmm did you guys see the deleted comment

user14 do max & y/n have children?

twitter ->

instagram ->

yourusername

liked by oscarpiastri, maxverstappen1, and others

yourusername let's ignore max's deleted comment slip up shall we

view all comments

charles_leclerc i am sorry on his behalf y/n 🙏

yourusername hahah dont worry about it charlie

oscarpiastri get him on a time out asap

liked by yourusername

yourbff aww the world deserves to know about little alice

yourusername they will soon we're keeping her childhood safe for now

maxverstappen1 you already know she's gonna come watch her dad race soon 😎

yourbff im sure she'll find that very fun max

yourusername hahah that's what i said

maxverstappen1 😒

only accounts that follow yourusername may see this post

interview ->

transcript (sorry if it's hard to read😭) ->

there is always going to be rumours ahout my relationship considering we keep things to ourselves, neither of us find it necessary to comment on them very often. *laughs* i've never heard anyone say i'm hiding y/n, no. we have always been private but never ever a secret and that's how it will remain for the most part

twitter ->

instagram ->

maxverstappen1

liked by yourusername, charles_leclerc, and 1,124,293 others

maxverstappen1 a small insight into our (family) life

tagged: yourusername

view all 27,283 comments

user21 NOOOO WAYYYYY

user22 this is so so so so precious

user23 omg i feel so honoured that this is being shared with us even tho it's only a small piece of their lives 🫶

user24 max being a girl dad JUST MAKES SENSE

liked by yourusername

yourusername i love you!!

maxverstappen1 i love you more ❤️

user25 this is so special

charles_leclerc love you guys

liked by maxverstappen1, yourusername

danielricciardo congratulations again bro you have a such a beautiful family

maxverstappen1 thank you daniel 😄

twitter ->

instagram ->

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri, and others

yourusername this account will never go public gang dont worry!! especially because im pregnant again 🤫

view all comments

oscarpiastri omg congratulations y/n

maxverstappen1 and me?

oscarpiastri oh right yea sorry max forgot, congratulations mate

danielricciardo congratulations guys 🫶

liked by yourusername, maxverstappen1

charles_leclerc so so happy for you guys

yourusername ❤️❤️❤️

yourbff 🤰 ur glowing

yourusername i heart you

maxverstappen1 you are so beautiful

yourusername stop it you im blushing

maxverstappen1 i love making you blush

yourusername i love you

maxverstappen1 i love you my girl 💗

only accounts that follow yourusername may see this post

THE END ❤️

#f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 smau #f1 fic #f1 x reader #smau #f1 imagine #max verstappen #mv33 #mv1 #mv1 imagine #mv1 x reader #mv33 x reader #mv33 imagine #mv33 fic #mv1 fic #maddie's smau

[agentrouka-blog]

"I will never be a son."

Viserys made Rhaenyra feel second-rate to an imaginary son all her life growing up, until the one moment he had no choice and made er his heir. Suddenly she herself mattered.

Then he immediately went and took it away, made it conditional on his whims, created several spares that could displace her. He made the initial trauma worse by seemingly repenting only to double down on the message that she herself can never be enough.

It's entirely logical that she would spend the rest of her life both clinging to that title that proves daddy loves her and testing the boundaries to which Viserys will defend her by deliberately flaunting all limitations this title imposes on her life choices. If she gave up that title, even if it would make her both safer and happier in the long term, those imaginary-turned-real sons win and Rhaenyra will truly only be second best forever. And she can't work for it, can't prove herself worthy of it, because that means accepting the title (and his regard) is conditional. She has to have it specifically in spite of every outrageous transgression.

Viserys trapped her in chasing after his love the same way he trapped his children by Alicent into a life of conflict. They exist to put pressure on Rhaenrya as rival spares, and they exist to prove he loves her by choosing her over them at every opportunity. There is no option where they can ever be at peace, ever be safe.

I kind of hate that the show didn't lean into that more. Viserys is such a slithering slime of a father and he deserved the worst.

#hotd #anti viserys i targaryen

[mhsdatgo]

By the way, you can say you hate characters and STILL admit that they were abused or harassed. There's literally nothing wrong. Denying it or romanticizing it because of a strange kink of yours won't make your hate any less evident, trust me.

Rhaenyra was abused. She's continuously taken advantage of, and brushed away the moment she isn't needed anymore. And she experiences this first hand with her own father, who completely ruins motherhood for her when she grows up watching Aemma get impregnated and either miscarry or have the baby be stillborn or die in the cradle. If Viserys had been by her side as a supporter to her claim since the start, he wouldn't have gotten Aemma pregnant again and again in the pursuit of a male child. He wouldn't have married Alicent for the same reason. Even after, the only reason why he still stands by her side, and it's time the fandom accepts this, it's solely because of his grief and guilt, because Rhae is the only remnant of Aemma.

And there it starts. Firstly, groomed and left alone naked and alone by her uncle in a brothel. Secondly, slept with Criston Cole (although she did coerce him, that's still a literal TEENAGER) then she's married to a gay man and still approached super young by her new bodyguard and just one year later she's started giving birth to his children. (Side note: FUCK Rhaenyra x Harwin. FUCK with reverb. With hard K.)

And up to this point, most fan agree that she's had a shitty life, although I don't agree with some of her choices. (like her treatment of Criston Cole and the bastards, not because I'm some kind of bigot, but because passing bastards as trueborn in THAT precise world sets them up for failure, not being legally deserving of a thone DOES NOT mean me hating them. That's for another post.)

To top it all off, she meets her uncle again, and there starts the fanfic self insert. They have sex on a beach the day of Laena's funeral, the only one of the three wives he's ever been canonically loyal to (FUCK you writers) and fans think it's soulmates meeting again or sum shit. They subtly threaten Laenor to fake his death or actually die (that's what they were trying to do, cope harder) and marry mere days after the death of Laena.

Yes, all cute and romantic (for Dumbnyras twats) but literally, has it done anything good? For Rhaenyra or like, anyone else? It just brought Daemon closer to the line of succession. Literally. That's all the good it has done.

Fast forward to ep 10. How do I even start with this? Only Jace seems to be on Rhaenyra's side. It's clear he only obeys to Daemon out of fear and is scared to talk back to him. Meanwhile, he COMPLETELY disregards his wife's, and by his faction's loyalties, QUEEN's, orders, he ignores her wails of pain as she miscarries their daughter out of pure shock and grief for her father's death. He lashes out and chokes her on the same day and people still see him as the malewife to Rhaenyra's girlboss. They're always ready to do award-deserving mental gymnastic to justify this man.

"He was planning war because he wanted to distract himself!!!!" "He only choked Rhae because he was mad at Viserys, he'd never hurt her!!!!!!"

Fuck off. Coming from probably Rhaenyra's #1 hater. Fuck. Off. Don't say you care about her place in the view of men when you're ready to justify shit like this.

This is the same man who runs off and has an affair with a teenager, and then prefers going on and having a badass death instead of joining his wife and children who need him in King's Landing.

Do I like Rhaenyra? No. Do I think that, because of this, she's never been abused, or exploited in any way, in her life? ALSO no. My distaste for her character has NOTHING to do with Viserys, Criston, Daemon, Harwin or literally ANYONE ELSE in her life.

Alicent Hightower time, baby.

My mother, my aunt, my grandmother, my entire bloodline, my Roman Empire. And more. To anyone who thinks of her as nothing but a bitter/jealous girl, go read @feretrumdulcia 's post about this matter cuz there's literally no one I've seen that words it better. (And bub if you're reading, long live you and the way you think.)

https://www.tumblr.com/feretrumdulcia/720746371814195200/i-have-seen-quite-often-that-many-people-consider

Anyone who can read this and argue that Alicent is envious/jealous or bitter, honestly needs to take the heart shaped sunglasses off, get off tumblr and Ao3, learn what media literacy is and start learning how to possess a crumble of it. To us it makes sense to synpathize with both, because we've seen the big picture. To Alicent, Rhaenyra gave her virtue to the man that almost killed her brother, and chose to believe she did not out of trust and maybe nostalgia for her friendship and easier times, only to have her father be blamed and taken away from her as a result.

She has four kids in the span of, how much? Five, six years? Seven at best? Helaena and Aemond are NINE MONTHS APART. Viserys didn't even let her rest after she gave birth to her daughter. And I'm convinced 100% that he kept her as Idk some whore he didn't need to pay for because it's stated that he never wanted Aegon but the son he butchered Aemma for. Why keep on bedding her and forcing children on her when you'd never get what you want from her?

Throughout the series she's called bitter and downright a c*nt for this and that reason. She tries convincing Viserys that Rhae's children are CLEARLY bastards and she's setting herself and them up for failure by committing treason and putting them on the throne? Nah, power hungry, jealous, bitter. She marries Helaena to Aegon as a last resort because she's Valyrian and probably would've received proposals worse than the ones Rhaenyra made that would eventually convince Viserys to give her away? Hates her daughter, abuser, shitty mom. Rhae's sons slit her son's eye out instead of running when they had the chance and she rightfully lashes out? Nah, crazy ass, for the dungeons. She gives money and moon tea to her son's rape victim to ensure she gets a way out and isn't forced to have a baby she doesn't want? Bruh, rape apologist. She goes to Aegon and RIGHTFULLY disciplines him? Abuser. Forced to show her feet to a rancid filthy man to know where her son is? Upholds the patriarchy, hypocrite. She convinces Aegon to start fighting for her family because it's either them or the Blacks and he needs to start putting his life together and fight for them, so she crowns him and makes him King? Treason, deserves death, long live the brothel queens.

Somehow, it is ALWAYS HER FAULT. And those few that admit how wronged she was make fun of her.

CAN SHE FUCKING WIN?! Or y'all just hate her because she isn't Valyrian?

Btw almost all of these arguments are the same for Book!Alicent who I personally believe to be FAR MORE than just a bitter stepmom that hates her stepdaughter. She arguably has more reasons to start a coup against her in the books without that prophecy shit.

TLDR; It's OKAY to hate characters and admit they're abused and taken advantage of at the same time. You don't have a moral high-ground on no one because you hate or love a character instead of the other.

#rhaenyra targaryen #alicent hightower #anti daemyra #anti daemon targaryen #anti daemyra stans #team green #team black #anti viserys i targaryen #anti larys strong

[ystrike1]

Betrayal of Dignity - By KIMPA (8.5/10)

Sometimes, bad men make great Kings. This particular Duke is absolutely a yandere, but he's also after the throne. He's also one of the few obsessive male characters I can actually imagine in power. He knows how to plan ahead. He's horrible. She's a good and forthright woman. The drama is killer.

Two sisters.

The pretty pink one and the disabled one.

What do you think their relationship is like?

You're wrong.

Chloe is disabled, yes, but she is a capable older sister. Her father, servants, and her sister all treat her with respect. Even when those who discriminate do not.

Alice is a romantic girl, with no brains in her skull. She's supposed to save her family from debt by wedding a wealthy Count....but she cheats on him. Her lover impregnates her, and they run away together...happily? Yes, Alice was never cut out for life as a noble wife. Her husband treats her well. They're passionately in love. Chloe loves her too much to force her to do anything. Their father feels the same.

The spoiled, beautiful daughter leaves the picture.

What about the debt?

There's only one child left. Chloe. She is respected in the walls of her mansion, but nowhere else.

No sane man would marry a woman with a crippled leg.

(This setting is painfully realistic. A couple hundred years ago disabled people had little to no rights. Chloe is a rare exception as a noble daughter who is loved and protected by her father.)

Chloe has no idea, but she does have an admirer.

His name is Duke Daimien Thisse. He fell in love with her three years ago, but she has no clue. He bullied her. He called her naive. Arrogant. He ripped her cane from her hands to show her how weak she was. She naturally assumed he's just another man who dislikes disabled people.

She met the Duke when he was at war. His men camped in her forest, behind her home. She nursed some of his fghters back to health.

Naive Chloe was unaware. As she treated the men they ridiculed her, and they tossed more inappropriate comments on top. They did not deserve her help, but she gave it.

Duke Thisse stole her cane because he was frustrated. He hated watching her care for the boorish men in his army, who whispered behind her back. So, he insulted her to her face to test her true character.

Chloe was too perfect. He suspected she was acting, as an excuse to get close to him and seduce him. He does know about her monetary situation after all.

She rejects him and proves that kindness isn't a weakness. She didn’t know the men were insulting her, but it doesn’t matter to her. They were protecting her country. Her land. She felt obligated to help, as an upstanding noble lady.

Duke Thisse is smitten.

He does get worse though. This guy is every single red flag. His fascination with Chloe stays a secret. A real one. Nobody knows he loves her. Chloe thinks he's marrying her to weaken his position on purpose, because he wants the Crown Prince to look stronger. She thinks she's a tool and she's half right. Marrying Chloe does give the Duke camouflage. He looks like a loyal dog...but he's been planning this marriage and a rebellion for three years.

Chloe won't be his Duchess.

She will be his Queen.

Daimien is also the most jealous and vindictive man on earth. He does bully and plot against his own wife when she pays attention to other men. He's un-fucking-unbearable. He threatens to kill her and her family more than once. She thinks it's because of his honor or something but no. He just does that when she mentions another man too many times.

He even throws a hissy fit when she tries to visit her own father.

This handsome servant, Gillies, figures out how twisted the Duke is. He's purely in love with his kind lady, and the persistent hero actually succeeds in exposing the rot.

Chloe finds out how deep the corruption goes far too late.

Duke Thisse doesn't tell Chloe anything. This mistress??? Fake. She's a royal spy and he feels nothing for her, but he uses this fake lover to torment Chloe. To test her and embarrass her. To see her pure true self once more. Chloe maintains her dignity, even when she must invite said mistress to a tea party.

Duke Thisse uses the death of this fake mistress to trick Chloe into loving him. He frames Chloe. He makes it look like she murdered the other woman out of jealousy, and then he saves her from life in jail.

That "selfless deed" earns her love.

Chloe earnestly lavishes love on the monster that has been tormenting her for years.

Even the Crown Prince is a pawn.

Duke Thisse needs him to to die at the right time, in the right place.

The mad prince realizes that Daimien married Chloe for love, and he gets more suspicious.

His feelings mess with the plan.

The rebellion will come regardless.

Romance begins to blossom when the Duke actually says I love you. It's not cheesy. It makes perfect sense. Chloe doesn't want money or promises. She wants to know if he saved her from a murder charge out of love.

(If only she knew)

He says yes.

It would have been so romantic if we, the readers, didn't know what was going on in his head.

By the way they don't consumate their marriage until they confirm their love. The Duke gets some points with that. He only wanted to lay with her if she felt the same way. He avoided all intimacy until that day. Now she does reciprocate....but he's been planting those feelings for almost four years.

Their love blossoms into something beautiful.

Chloe is pregnant and they all live happily...

The Crown Prince is a mentally deranged maniac. The people are turning against him.

The Duke wants more than love.

He wants to protect the nation he fought for in war.

He wants power. He wants to be King, and he has chosen a Queen.

Side note he only wants Chloe to have one baby, because he's familiar with the dangers of childbirth. I'll give him points for that one...again. He sucks but he's not the worst husband to have.

They don't live happily ever after.

Duke Thisse has more goals to strive for beyond happiness, and that's awesome. He's not a nice man, but he's obsessive and he's not bland. He's not boring on screen. That's for sure.

Chloe is an extremely cool woman, without superpowers. There is no secret ingredient. She's just a hard worker. One of her legs doesn't freaking work, and she's still more imposing than most.

Lots of people hate this one.

I think they need to read the fine print. Maybe one or two more times. On the surface this is a tale of abuse and manipulation...but remember there's no magic. Chloe never wanted to marry for love. She has no lover waiting for her.

Being the wife of a Duke isn't supposed to be easy. It's extra hard if he's ambitious.

That's conveyed very well.

#yandere #male yandere #yandere male #yandere boy #recommendations #recs #rec #recommended #webtoon #Betrayal of Dignity

[dwellordream]

"she's patriarchy-pilled" and why it doesn't apply to fictious pseudo-medieval women

a pretty common meta commentary leveled at certain female characters in ASOIAF is that you can divide the women of the setting into two groups.

the first group is full of strong feminist women who resist the patriarchy in all corners, and who refuse to submit to victimhood. the second group is full of placid, smug sheep, who enjoy being weak and condescended to by men.

reasons why this is bullshit:

comparisons between modern day 'trad wives' or 'red pilled women' who advocate for rejecting feminism and returning to lives of happy homemaking and female submission and fictional characters living in a pseudo medieval world just... don't work well.

Westeros has never had a feminist movement. there is no sense of 'getting back to tradition' because they are still living in a feudal patriarchy. while internalized misogyny can still be displayed in the books, and women certainly judge other women, these characters aren't actually 'rejecting their own freedom', because they quite literally have no choice in the matter.

for example, while a woman in 21st century America might willingly quit her job or drop out of school for a relationship with a man, a female character like Catelyn or Alicent or Cersei... isn't actually sacrificing hopes of a career or an education. they are being shunted down a path with little to no alternatives.

sometimes fans go "well, they could have run away! they could have joined the Faith?" how? with what money and resources? who is going to protect them on the road? how are they going to subvert the will of their fathers/brothers/etc?

don't get me wrong. there are absolutely unironic examples of internalized misogyny in ASOIAF. Cersei, for example, spends much of her time sneering at and degrading other women for being victims or weak-willed. HOWEVER, what many fans don't seem to grasp, is that being sexist towards other women doesn't magically make Cersei 'win' at the patriarchy. she herself is still abused, demeaned, and used as a political pawn, well into her tenure as Queen Regent.

in the endless battle of Sansa versus Arya stans, for example, Sansa stans will often claim that Arya is 'not a victim' and 'deserves less sympathy than Sansa', because Arya for a time is treated as a young boy and has training with a sword. yet this ignores the fact that Arya is still constantly threatened with or exposed to sexual violence, even while masquerading as a boy, and while she can defend herself in some instances, is far from this super-powered action chick on a 'fun road trip in the Riverlands'.

conversely, Arya stans will insinuate that Sansa 'deserves less sympathy than Arya' because 'being at court is what she always wanted' and 'the patriarchy favors her due to her self-serving, submissive ways'. yet this ignores the fact that while Sansa has more material privileges than Arya, being afforded regular meals, a soft place to sleep, and the veneer of civility, she is still regularly viciously abused by Joffrey and his Kingsguard, and ostracized and isolated from the rest of the court. Sansa's not winning any competition here.

to move on to Catelyn, many of Catelyn's proud 'antis' will claim that Catelyn is a woman who willingly and knowingly profits off the patriarchy while condemning women who do not fit that mold. yet while Catelyn and Arya's relationship is complex, we also see Catelyn treat Brienne and the Mormont women, all female warriors, with warmth and kindness, and there is an underlying current of resentment and anger in her chapters towards the men in her life, even though she is in many ways the 'ideal Westeros wife'.

finally, to dabble briefly in HOTD, Rhaenyra and Alicent's different reactions to the prospect of marriage and motherhood are often compared to triumph Rhaenyra's strong will and sense of rebellion. while Rhaenyra's determination to choose her own spouse and her disregard for the ridiculous notion of 'virginity' should be admired, she is also actively groomed by her uncle, a man thrice her age, and she ultimately does agree to an arranged marriage with Laenor.

meanwhile, Alicent is often derided by fans for 'allowing herself to be used as a pawn', yet this ignores the fact that Alicent is a 14/15 year old girl with no incomes or property of her own, who does not even have the threat of a dragon to demand respect. what was Alicent meant to do? kick and scream as she was dragged down the aisle? defy her father and the King, and be, best case scenario, permanently ostracized from court and her family for it? this sort of blatant victim-blaming dominates in the tumblr HOTD fandom.

in conclusion: to claim that women play no role in promulgating patriarchal and misogynistic views is silly.

women do play an active role in shaming and abusing other women, and this is often handed down from mothers to daughters. it allows patriarchs the veneer of genteel nature, in that the 'dirty work' of berating young girls for not conforming is passed off on mothers, sisters, and aunts.

however, in fandom discussions, the the woobification of male characters is so strong that we spend most of our time blaming women alone for patriarchal restrictions and values, as if it were something girls developed in their free time, purely for their own amusement.

to imply that a character in a fictional feudal patriarchy has the same range of choices and autonomy as modern day women do is absurd. the trad-wife movement is defined by its knowing, pseudo-intellectual rejection of second and third wave feminism. the entire point is to turn away from abortion, from birth control, from reproductive and LGBT rights, to leave behind women's suffrage, sex positivity, and criticism of gender roles.

but what do Westerosi women have to 'reject', exactly? they're not playing with the same full deck.

#valyrianscrolls #hotd #gender

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

darilaros (princess) │ Chapter 8: Birthright

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: As the second daughter of King Viserys, you experience firsthand what it means to belong to the House of the Dragon. Your wish comes true.

Hello! Welcome to the FINAL CHAPTER of this instalment, another 8000+ word chapter! Everyone's long-anticipated 'claiming scene' is here, so please give a round of applause to our angryboi, the Cannibal! Keep in mind that I've officially retconned Luke and Daeron's ages (they're 8 and 9 in gevivys now, not 5 and 6 like they were originally - please let me know if I've missed any instances so far!), Thank you to my boobear @ewanmitchellcrumbs for beta-ing this thingo!

TRIGGERS: more abandonment issues, reference to pervy suitors.

Scarcely any time passes between that eve and the arrival of Rhaenyra’s firstborn son, Jacaerys.

’Nyra’s world changes when her baby comes. She is as perfect a mother as you think any woman could be, spending nearly all the hours of the day looking at him or holding him or caring for him. Having a babe has changed her, softened her hard edges and given her a calmness she had once lacked. All she wants to talk about is him. When she is not talking about him or being with him, she is in Council meetings, or she is with Papa performing whatever tasks the heir to the Throne is expected to do. She tries to find moments to spare for you, though it is far less often than it used to be, and she always brings her boy with her.

Jace is a pretty babe, dark-haired and dark-eyed, so unlike either of his parents, and he always seems quite serious in expression—but there is something that holds you back with him. Even though you love him—and he is one half of ’Nyra, so of course you love him—it is like a wall exists between you and him. His mother is your sister, and his father is your cousin, and you… you have no place there. You are on the outside looking in at a life you cannot have.

A part of you wants to stare down at the babe and tell him that you were here first. That you will always have known his mama for longer than he ever shall, that nothing can take away the fact that she belonged to you before she belonged to him. But you don’t. ’Nyra is a new mother, and her child should be all that matters. If you were her babe, that is what you would want. She does not need the petty jealousy of her little sister to ruin things. It is better for you, for her, for him that you find other ways to fill your days.

Daeron’s birth makes it easier.

It is almost like Alicent barely even notices the arrival of her third son, though you do not blame her. She had screamed so loud that even you had heard her in your own chambers. It was not like that with Aegon or Helaena or Aemond. The commotion had been enough to rouse you from your bed to creep toward the Queen’s apartments, to hear Grand Maester Mellos tell Papa that her belly might need to be laid open like—

No. No. The throb of nausea is so vile just thinking of it. You put it out of your mind, doing your best to ignore the prickle of an old hurt and the word ‘Mama’ on the tip of your tongue, hushed and afraid.

Alicent is weak after the birth, and so you take it upon yourself to visit your new little brother, to keep him company where everyone else would have left him to attendants. He is so, so quiet, as though he is ashamed of the way he had entered the world, the way he had hurt his mother coming out. It is like he is an apology for the pain she was made to go through. He is sweet, barely crying though he goes for times without the attention he deserves, and he never fusses when you reach into the cradle to lift him up. You are not quite strong enough to carry him around places, but it is relatively easy to take him to the chair to prop him on your lap in the nursery while Helaena plays.

When Alicent heals, she makes no attempt to disturb your routine, and it is like you have your very own baby to match ’Nyra’s. Sometimes, you imagine that Daeron is yours like Jace is hers and that you are ’El’s mama too, and that you have the important task of being their whole world. Even though the idea of having babies is beginning to scare you a great deal, being a mama is nice. Playing pretend is nice.

But then, the wet nurses come or Alicent comes, and your brother and sister are taken away. It reminds you that you really are alone, after all. ’Nyra giving birth to her next son, Lucerys—Luke—only worsens that feeling. Her family is growingand growing while yours seems to only exist on borrowed moments. Still, you take what love you can and bury the rest of it—the despair, the resentment, the soft tender parts of you that cry out for someone, anyone at all to really, truly see you—far, far below the surface, so deep that no one can touch it, not even you.

You seek solace in knowledge.

Books become your very best friends. The older you get, the easier reading becomes—you leave behind folktales and children’s myths to begin browsing through tomes with smaller letters and larger, more difficult words. Stories turn into histories and treatises on all manner of topics, with dragons, direwolves, men, and the fall of Old Valyria being but some of your preferred subjects of study. You learn the names of the Lannister kings before the Conquest; you gather as many legends on the Age of Heroes as you can; you peruse chronicles detailing the first coming of the Andals to Westerosi shores. Through books, the very land you live upon seems to unfold like a map through time itself, all the secrets of the continent opening themselves up to you through tooled leather and yellowed pages.

It makes Papa immensely proud. “If a woman is to sit the Iron Throne after I am gone,” he says, “then perhaps a woman ought to be her right hand!”

You can tell this makes his other Councilmen nervous by the way they share glances. For all that Rhaenyra has been heir for years now, there are still many among the court who believe your brother ought to succeed him. But Papa does not seem to want to change his mind, for he is as determined to see your sister continue to attend Small Council as he always has been.

Still, you take it to heart. Being Hand of the Queen someday means that you will get to stay with your sister even if you are made to be married. It means you will be important in a way that you haven’t really been so far. But a good Hand has to know so so much about all the lands and people a King or Queen might encounter during the years of their reign. You outgrew Septa’s lessons moons ago, and the more you read, the more it becomes apparent that books aren’t enough to teach you all you need to know. There is no one and nothing that can help you become the cleverest possible version of yourself in King’s Landing—at least, not one willing to do such a task. The maesters would not abide by schooling a girl in the higher arts.

Thus, you firmly decide upon the gift you would like for your name day. Standing in the King’s solar two moons before the occasion is to take place, you impart your desire to your audience of one.

“I wish for a tutor, please,” you tell Papa. “Someone who can teach me anything I wish to know.”

Papa laughs. “And what is it you wish to know, my girl?” he asks. You are unsure if he is amused or delighted by your request.

His question makes you think. What do I want to know? There is no single answer you can produce. How do you describe the feeling of wanting to know something you don’t know enough about to be sure you want to learn it?

“Anything,” is what you reply with. “Everything.”

“Anything and everything.” Papa takes a drink from his cup, his nose scrunching when the liquid inside hits his tongue. You do not think it is wine. He returns the cup to the table beside him, reaching his hand out to you. You move forward to take it. “A lofty request. But you are soon to be ten summers!” He grins. A scab at his temple cracks with the motion. “That, I think, is a milestone worthy of celebration. Very well, daughter,” he says with a grunt. “If a tutor is what you want, then a tutor we shall find.”

He stays true to his word. Not long after you make your appeal to him, all manner of strangers the Realm over make their way to King’s Landing to seek an audience with you and Papa. It is the first time you are allowed to remain by his side in the Great Hall, though it means you must balance atop a twist of melted-together swords to rest your rear against the edge of the armrest, one of the few places upon the Throne that cannot cut you should you make contact with it. Papa insists, however, for these people have gathered to seek employment with you, and so you must be the one to approve them.

There is frightfully little to approve. Several of those who come to answer Papa’s ravens ignore you wholly, their eyes sliding over you as though you are not even there. One of them, a man named Robert, outright refuses to answer your query as to what would make cyvasse lessons so appealing to a girl of your station. It is enough to put you off the game entirely. But his conduct is by no means the worst. There are younger lads who possess no more skill than the average knight’s squire, clearly hastened to the Red Keep by the promise of a lucrative wage and companionship with the King’s daughter. More than one Septon shuffles in to lecture you and Papa on the merits of providing a holy education to the female mind, sinful as it is. Even noblemen like Lord Rosby come to offer to take wardship of you, suggesting that growing up with another girl your age is more than enough learning for a Princess. You suspect his proposal has more to do with the large sum he owes over East.

You and Papa reject them all, sending them away with nary a further glance. Those who grow angered by the refusal are easily frightened off by Ser Criston’s hand coming to rest on his pommel at the foot of the steps. Since Alicent had appointed him your sworn shield some moons after Rhaenyra’s wedding, he has taken to his task with a dedication that would worry you if not for the fact that he is made to take breaks. You think that if he were allowed, he would set up a pallet beside the door to your rooms to keep constant guard over you.

Four days after your tenth name day, someone different arrives. Someone new.

“Presenting Ser Lysan Marios of… er… the Free Cities!” the guard announces.

You crane your neck in curiosity as this Ser Lysan makes his way into the hall. He is dark-skinned, light-haired, and his robes are an odd assortment of various fabrics stitched together. It appears well-made, if unusual, and the colours are bright. Reds, blues, yellows, greens, oranges—it seems as though every shade is represented in the patches making up his attire, though you note that purple is missing. Not a noble, then. The man ambles slowly inside, helped by the use of a cane.

“I am from Volantis, Your Grace,” he says when he is finally within earshot, bowing lowly. His voice is deep and rich; if a hug were to have a sound, you think this would be the closest you might come to finding it. “But I do suppose ‘of the Free Cities’ works just as well as any other epithet.”

“You have come a long way, Ser,” Papa says. He is smiling like he always does when these visits begin. You wonder how long it will take for it to fade this time. “You are welcome here in King’s Landing.”

Ser Lysan laughs. “I certainly feel welcome! Such pleasant people you have here, Your Grace. Not a single one has attempted to steal my books thus far—and I confess I have brought plenty!”

This is what spurs you to finally speak up. “Books?” you ask. “What kind?”

When his eyes meet yours, it is like they twinkle, like stars. His mouth widens, exposing pearl-white teeth. “And this must be the young Princess to whom I would be most glad to embark upon the journey of erudition with! Salutations to you, Your Highness!”

He bows again, attempting to cast his arm wide in a flourish—but it appears he had forgotten he was carrying one of his aforementioned books in hand, for it promptly clatters to the floor when he flings his hand out. You giggle, charmed. You cannot help it. He seems so kindly.

“Oh! Oh dear,” he mutters, crouching to the ground to collect his quarry. “My apologies, Your Grace, Your Highness. Oh dear…”

Ser Criston darts forward as if to help, but the man has already taken hold of his prized tome by the time he is close enough.

“Ah—might I ask what areas you are learned in, Ser Lysan?” Papa asks, clearing his throat. His brow has furrowed ever-so-slightly, which means he finds the man before him a little confusing. It is more than a little funny. “My daughter has yet to decide upon an avenue of study.”

The embarrassment slides straight off Ser Lysan’s face. It is as though a bolt of lightning courses through him, such is the sudden shift of his expression into one of sparking joy. “Oh! What am I not a scholar of? I have studied in the physicians’ arts with the Healer’s Guild of Lorath; I have attended the great histories of Westeros and Essos with the esteemed intellectuals of Braavos; I have amassed a more-than-considerable lexicon of tongues across the known world—”

For a reason unknown to you, this piques your interest. “Languages? You know different languages?”

He nods. “Oh, yes! I am quite proficient in your ancestral tongue, Princess. Valyrio Eglio udrir jaehenka issa.” High Valyrian is the language of the godly. He winks. “I am also well-versed in the Eastern dialects of Valyrian, though admittedly they have not the lyricism of their originator. But I must confess, it is my particular interest to devote my academic prowess to the Lekh Dothraki, the tongue of those who ride.”

Papa’s knee twitches beside you. “The Dothraki? How have you come to make dealings with them?”

Ser Lysan waves him off. “Oh, I would not profess to be so grand as to make dealings with the horse-riders of the East! Ah, but mine wife was a Dothraki woman, who gave herself to me in payment for preventing a Volantene herbalist from poisoning her brother. A strange and alarming custom, I once thought. She was the most marvellous of creatures.” He sighs. For a moment, he is silent—then he jerks nearly full-bodied, as though he is awakening from some reverie. “The Dothraki are a misunderstood civilisation, Your Grace,” he says to Papa. “It is my hope that, in time, I am able to repay my wife’s goodness and bring knowledge to those who are ignorant of their ways.”

“I see,” Papa says. He coughs awkwardly. I don’t think he has ever met someone so inclined to talking, you muse. “And… what of your wife now? I had thought the Dothraki were opposed to crossing the sea.”

“They are.” Ser Lysan’s expression becomes shadowed, drawn. “It is my great sorrow that she has passed on to the nightlands, to roam the skies among the starry khalasar of her people.”

“My condolences.” This sounds more genuine; you know that Papa too still mourns your mother, even though he has Alicent now.

“My gratitude, Your Grace. But”—at this, he lightens, forcing a smile to his face once more—“that is not what I have come to discuss, is it?” He turns to you. “My apologies, Princess! If I am so fortunate as to be deemed worthy by you, you may well find such tangents a price to pay for the lessons I have to impart. I am not well known for brevity, I am afraid.”

He’s the one. He’s my tutor. You know it. The way he speaks so happily about all the things he has learned; the way he cares so much about showing that some people are not always what everyone else thinks of them; the way he talks to you as though you are a person rather than just a means of earning coin or living in a palace. You want to know what it is like to be surrounded by that happiness, to spend your days learning from a person such as he rather than continue to quail under the yoke of Septa Marlow.

You readjust to curl into Papa, to lean forward and whisper into the shell of his ear. “I like Ser Lysan, Papa.”

“You do?” He exhales, a long-suffering sigh of resignation. His stare narrows at you as though irritated, though it slowly morphs into a grudging sort of smile. “Naturally.” If he were ’Nyra, he would be rolling his eyes by now. To Ser Lysan, he projects his voice far louder and says, “It appears my daughter has no taste for brevity, Ser. If you wish to take up this post, we would be… honoured… to accommodate you.”

Ser Lysan’s brows raise in surprise. “Oh! No, Your Grace! The honour is mine!” He bows a third time, and it really ought to be excessive, but you cannot help how amiable you find him. “I pray I will not disappoint you, Princess.”

“I am very glad to meet you, Ser Lysan,” you say, fighting the urge to leave Papa’s side and go forth to follow the man before you wherever he might go, to let yourself be enthralled by his tales and his rambling, half-formed thoughts. “I hope we shall have a very good time together.”

You are not to know it at this precise moment—but you will.

“We have made our introductions, Princess, and I have learned the lay of the land as best I can, so to speak.”

Ser Lysan is settled in the chair opposite you, having just completed his surveyance of the room around him. You have been granted a solar for the very first time, a whole new chamber to fill with the tools necessary to begin your education. It is empty for now, though the bare necessities are present—namely, the considerable size of the bookshelves just waiting for their occupants to rest safely upon their surfaces. These will, in time, be filled by both your own and your tutor’s collections, or so he has assured you.

The crinkle of a page rouses you from your thoughts. Ser Lysan has unrolled a scroll of parchment, the nib of his quill already inked and prepared for some unknown purpose. He stares assessingly at you.

“What is it you wish to know?” he asks, hand poised to write.

It blurts out of you before you can think to stop it. “You can only be called ‘Ser’ if you are a knight, but you have said you are a scholar. How is it that you have come to be called ‘Ser’, then?”

You wince. Your question is far ruder than you had intended it to be. Thankfully, Septa is not here—she has begun spending more time with Helaena as of late. She would surely have reprimanded you. The query only serves to make the man smile indulgently at you, though. He lays the quill to the side upon his blotting paper. The ink pools dark across the fibres.

“If you must know, Princess… I was a soldier in the Battle of the Borderland. The triarchs sent us in to attempt to wrest control of the Disputed Lands from Lys, Tyrosh and Myr. They were once under Volantene rule, did you know?”

Ser Lysan gazes at a spot on the wall just past you, and it is like he is seeing something altogether different. Something from another time and place.

“At first, we were sure of victory. Volantis has long held dominion in the East for a reason, after all. Our armies were larger; our armour finer; our steel sharper. But then…” He sighs. “Those cities joined forces. Formed the Triarchy. No one saw it coming. We ought to have. Such is hindsight, is it not? We understand now the things we missed then.”

Ser Criston shifts by the door, clearly uncomfortable. You wonder when he will interrupt, when he will instruct Ser Lysan not to tell you such dark-natured stories. You can only hope it will not turn violent.

“One morn—the sun had barely risen—our garrison was set upon by the Triarchy’s forces,” the man continues. “It was… carnage. So few of us survived. Of those of us that did, even fewer still were able to stand. The alliance’s warriors enjoyed leaving a rather particular token behind on the battlefield, as we were to learn. Severed legs are quite effective deterrents, it turns out.”

“That’s enough,” Ser Criston barks, face set in a glare. Secretly, you are glad for the interruption. The tale had grown far too frightening for you.

“My apologies!” Ser Lysan says, coughing lightly. “I forget myself sometimes. To answer your question, Princess—I was able to make my way back to the main encampment, to warn the commanders just in time for our troops to pull back from the region. Many a life was lost; but thousands more were saved that day. I was knighted in the field.” A wan smile curves his lips. “That is where my title of ‘Ser’ comes from.”

“Thank you for telling me,” you say. “I… I am sure it is not a pleasant memory. I am sorry.”

“It is quite alright. I became stronger for it. I learned that if I wish to survive, I must fight for it with everything I have in me. The fires of adversity strengthen the spirit.” He pauses, eyes locked onto your own. They are dark, almost black, like all the light in the world has been quenched. “Let this be my first lesson unto you—if you want something, you must do whatever is in your power to achieve it.”

Silence lingers for one moment; two; three. All of a sudden, he is cheerful again, shuffling his papers like nothing of import has occurred. You share an uncertain look with Ser Criston, who looks positively bewildered by the shift. Ser Lysan is an eccentric man, you decide. This is no bad thing.

“Back to my previous question, Princess.” Ser Lysan picks up his quill once more, dipping it in the inkwell and tapping it against the rim to return the excess to the bottle. “I am knowledgeable in a great deal about the world in which we live. What is it that you would have me instruct you in? Histories, statecraft, linguistics?”

Before you is a man who has lived. He has come from a strange land bearing a strange name, learned in all manner of strange subjects. He fought for Volantis. His wife was a Dothraki woman. He bears the title ‘Ser’ and yet wears a patchwork robe. What you know of him is bleak and terrifying, and yet here he sits before you, as jovial as a young man in his cups. There is a steady peace to him despite all he has seen, all he has likely experienced.

How has he come to be so merry? You think about the manner in which he’d brightened at the talk of his learning. Could one achieve such simple tranquillity through knowledge alone? Can books, can foreign tongues and foreign disciplines empower you with that sense of fulfilment you crave, that sense of belonging you have felt absent all your life?

You want dearly to discover the answer. It is this that permits you to finally settle upon your response to him.

“Anything,” you breathe. “Everything.”

You are not as brave as your sister. She is able to stand face to face against even the staunchest of her detractors—as of late, this being your very own lady stepmother, determined to discover what she believes to be ‘the truth’ of Jacaerys’s parentage, for a boy so dark of hair cannot possibly be Laenor’s, by her reckoning—without so much as a quiver in her lip. She can endure shouting, the strike of a switch, the endless train of whispers that seep through every crack in the walls of the Keep with barely a pause in her breath to mark the ignominy of it. She can laugh in the face of humiliation and continue on her way with her head held high and some cutting remark poised on the tip of her tongue like a steel barb waiting to meet its target. These are not things you are capable of. But then, you are only a girl; younger than Rhaenyra was when she was made heir.

Yet old enough to finally—finally—claim your own dragon.

It had taken you years to wear down Papa, the scar on your arm serving as a perpetual reminder of the dangers that lie ahead in seeking out your birthright. Whenever you had made the request—“oh, please, Papa! I swear that I am ready!”—he had only to look upon the mark bisecting your flesh before his eyes hardened, the musculature of his neck clenched and poised to shake in refusal.

Once, his rejection had been sufficient to prevent your asking for several moons’ turns at the least; but Ser Lysan has been of great influence in his two years serving as your teacher, your companion, and your dear friend. If you want something, you must do whatever is in your power to achieve it. These words have remained as carvings in stone within your mind since that very first meeting. It is not within your power to unleash fire and fury the way your sister might—but you have come to learn that such a thing was never in your power. Your strength lay in other qualities. Your courtesy. Your placidity. Your modesty. These are strengths in their own way.

You had continued to ask. Over time, the nature of your appeals changed from churlish, infantile insistence to restrained, unaffected enquiry. Upon rebuff, you had smiled and said, “Very well, Papa. Thank you for listening.” You had repeated this same tactic over and over, sennight after sennight, until, at last, Papa had been worn down to his bones from weariness.

“You’ll not let up, will you, my girl?” he had asked, utterly fed up.

Instead of responding, you had simply maintained your carefully blank gaze, prepared to don your quiet acceptance like armour when his denial should strike. He had sighed; rubbed his eyes. The pull of his skin had cracked open another fissure in the lines of his face, red slowly beading up to the surface.

“Fine!” he had finally exclaimed, his hand thumping down upon the table so hard that you had wondered at his not feeling it. This was before the maesters agreed to remove it from his person, and so the flesh was mottled grey and black from rot. “Do as you will, daughter. Far be it from me to dissuade you.”

Thus, the ravens had been sent to the Dragonkeepers residing on the ancestral isle of House Targaryen; the ship had been made ready; your retinue arranged; and you had been sent off on your first great journey.

The moment you step foot upon the shore in the low light of early evening, you hear it. You feel it. Like a rattling in the core of your bones, or an unearthly siren song catching faintly on the wind. It is not a sound, though, nor a sensation that you can describe in any language you know. All that you are sure of is that there is something here, something… expecting you.

Come, it says. I am waiting.

The Keepers linger past the shoreline, scarcely a stone’s throw away. “Urnēbās, darilaros!” one says, eyes darting nervously about. Be watchful, Princess! “Va īlō Zōbrios issa.” The Dark One is near.

“The Dark One?” you ask, frowning. “Who is that?”

Septa Marlow’s face pales so starkly that she looks like she has applied paints to her skin. She seems entirely distasteful of the island itself, a curl to her lip that she only gets when seeing or hearing something she does not like. Meanwhile, Ser Criston’s fist tightens on the grip of his sheathed sword. He too glances around, tracking the skies like a shadowy shape will make its appearance at any moment. He seems familiar with the name.

It must be a dragon, you think. Very few living creatures reside upon the island, save for those that had been introduced by your blood long ago. Dragons are the only wild things that can weather such inhospitable climes.

The Keeper leans in. “The Cannibal.” He shivers. “He is most wroth as of late. Beware of the beaches—too many of our Order have been lost to his appetites.”

The Cannibal. It is a story you have heard only when one had sought to frighten you—that of a winged beast so monstrous that not even his own kind would endure him. A creature so malevolent that he found his joy through death and destruction, ripping apart the younger members of his species so thoroughly that, at times, it was as though blood rained down from the heavens. The Cannibal, a being so malignant that any man who attempted to ride him had vanished cleanly from the face of the earth, consumed whole or left to rot away in some deep, dank pit below the mountainous terrain.

And yet—for all his supposed cruelties—no cities, no villages, no lands have been brought to waste beneath his flames. It is the one part of those tales that had never made sense to you. If he were as awful as that, surely there would be no one and nothing safe from him?

“Let us not waste our time, then,” Ser Criston says firmly, hand pressed between your shoulders to spur you onward. The weight of it grounds you in the present. He turns to bark orders at the attendants making their way ashore. “To the Keep!”

You are taken past the Great Hall, catching a glimpse of the Painted Table on your way to a smaller chamber. You know the name of Aegon I’s table is not quite correct; that it is made mostly of wood and rock, and that the rock itself is what Ser Lysan has told you is thermoluminescent, ‘thermo’ meaning heat and ‘luminescent’ meaning light. The table glows like lava when you ignite the candles below it, casting the great map of Westeros into fire. You should very much like to see it. But this visit is not to take in the sights of your family’s seat.

Much to the Keepers’ confusion and consternation, you reject the offer to examine the eggs they have concealed within the hatchery. Or rather, you feel that the eggs would reject you if you should try to seek your companion in one. It is difficult to explain even in your own mind, so you make no attempt at voicing these thoughts—these almost-whispers at the back of your mind, like a soft brush of fingers at the base of your skull.

Septa Marlow huffs her displeasure. “This is most unbecoming of you, Princess. You ought to know better than to refuse a gift such as this.”

‘They are not for me,’ you want to say. ‘The thought of them does not rouse me.’

You know not why you feel certain of this—that the mere prospect should stir you beyond simple anticipation. But it is as though you have always known this, for you do not find yourself disappointed by the missed opportunity nor by the censure.

A faint recollection sparks from your earliest youth, an old fear of what should occur if an egg comes into your possession and refuses to hatch, turning to stone over years and years. You do not wish for such a future. No; it is for the best that the eggs are left for another. Another time, another day, another person. Perhaps when it comes time to have your own children, you will revisit the notion.

To make matters even more complicated, however, there are no hatchlings upon the isle. It is what you had counted on all this time, but it seems that this is not to be, either.

“Zōbrios pōnte iprattas,” Acolyte Zūgis tells you, wringing his hands for good measure. The Dark One ate them all.

What a nervous man, you think. Since meeting him on the beach, he has been continuously anxious, ready to jump clear out of his skin at the slightest disturbance. You wonder if his path is best suited to Dragonkeeping if he is so afraid of it.

“Pōntālosa sikagon kostis, yn jēdraro toliot dorolviktys se dorolviktys sittaksi.” His mouth twists. Sometimes they hatch by themselves… but that has become rarer and rarer over the years. Your stomach twists at this. There was once a time where dragons hatched aplenty upon the isle. No more, it seems. “Vermithor dārligon kostā, darilaros. Yn uēpys issa se zaldrīzāeksio bōso jēdo syt mijetas. Qopsa kessa, se avy hinikilāks.”

You can try to claim Vermithor, Princess, he concludes. But he is old and has long since been without a rider. It will be difficult, and dangerous.

Neither Septa Marlow nor Ser Criston understand High Valyrian—but the name Vermithor agitates them nonetheless.

“A dragon of such size and stature is not appropriate for a well-bred lady,” Septa exclaims, fingers like claws clasped together before her. “What of Silverwing? Good Queen Alysanne’s mount? Does it not reside here? ‘Tis far more suitable beast.”

The Keeper shakes his head. “We believe Silverwing is gravid. She has shown much aggression as of late. The last of us to attempt approach…” The silence that hangs at the end of the sentence leaves no mistaking his meaning. He clears his throat. “Well. It is far too perilous at present. Vermithor is the Princess’s best option.”

“The Princess is a child,” Ser Criston says, expression flat and eyes flinty. “Vermithor is a dragon of war. I am sorry, Princess”—he kneels before you, angling his head up so he can look directly at you, and one hand folds around your elbow—“but I cannot let you risk yourself so.”

You know what you are being told, albeit in a roundabout way. The despair renders you mute. What am I to do? What am I to do? You nod, an agreement to your sworn shield’s words, though your heart is scarcely in it.

“Perhaps on the morrow,” the Keeper says, “we may… reattempt with the eggs, then. We have several, though they have been kept for some years now.”

Ser Criston makes his agreements to Acolyte Zūgis, entering into discussion with him and Septa Marlow as to the following day’s schedule. None of them so much as turn their faces to include you, despite the fact that you are central to their plans.

While they talk, another thought comes to mind. You wonder why none have so much as dared to broach another possibility—that there are three wild dragons upon the isle. Silverwing and Vermithor are not your only options.

Sleep is hard to come by, that same, pulsing sensation tingling through your limbs and keeping you awake.

Come, it seems to say. I am waiting.

You rise before the sun comes up. Septa Marlow is likely to be awake at this time, but she will not venture your way until the skies are bathed in light. Ser Criston does not begin his shift until an hour after you rise; his replacement is usually whomever can be spared.

It is even easier than usual to make your escape.

Dragonstone is an old fortress, and so there are a great many secret passages winding between rooms. You need only to check behind the tapestry along the inner wall to determine that an opening has been concealed. Brandishing the candle from your bedside, you slip into the looming maw that awaits.

Inside, it smells of damp and salt, and you can hear a faint, steady drip. It continues no matter which direction your feet take you, and you feel your breath stream from your mouth and nose in a cloud of warmth that gives the skin of your face and neck momentary respite from the wintry chill. The walls are rough-hewn, made for function rather than appeal, so you are careful where you place your hands.

Because you are so unfamiliar with the layout, you wander for what seems an age before you finally surface upon the outdoors, a dim glow emanating from between metal grates at the end of a dark tunnel. The hinges squeak shrilly as you push them open, shutting behind you with a clang. Your slippered feet sink into the sand upon the beach.

You do not know where you are headed—to find Vermithor or Silverwing, to find one of the wild ones, or simply to wander. All you know is that one of them is calling to you through the magic of old, the magic that ’Nyra and Papa have always said lives in the blood of the Targaryen line. It is how Papa knew that he was destined to be Balerion’s last rider. It is how ’Nyra found the courage to mount Syrax when she was so young. You feel it now, singing in your blood as it has since you crossed into the shallows surrounding the island.

Come and find me, it says. I am waiting.

You trudge along the beach, allowing the sand to sink into the opening of your shoes, to fill the small spaces between shoe and skin with stinging grit that collects between your toes and rubs to rawness. The wind whips at your hair and your robe—you did not bother to change from your evening wear—and the sound of the waves crash like thunder.

You walk. And, as you walk, you wait for the purpose to reveal itself, a part of you hoping that whomever you are meant to claim will find you.

You ought to be more careful of what you wish.

A dark shape swoops across the sky above you, casting you even further into shadow, and you hear the rumble of something powerful. The beat of its wings is great enough to be heard from a distance, you think, and stirs up the sand before you into a cloud of dirt and dust. The beast growls, deep and terrifying, raising the hairs on the back of your neck.

It lands ahead.

Oh, no. Oh, no.

The Cannibal.

He is enormous, far greater in size than Syrax, than Caraxes, than any dragon you have ever seen or read about. His scales are black—no—blacker than black, the complete absence of colour or brightness, and each muscle honed from years upon years of eking out his existence ripple below the skin. His lips peel back, exposing at least two rows of sharp, jagged teeth. Perfect for tearing me to bits, your mind supplies in your panic. His stocky frame hunches low, claws sunk into the sand, as though poised to attack, and he hisses, a rattling threat that fills you with the urge to run.

His eyes glow green. You feel it again.

Come. I am waiting.

What is it Ser Lysan said, again? If you want something, you must do whatever is in your power to achieve it.

Come. I am waiting.

It may be courage, it may be madness, but you are moving onward before you realise it. The dragon hisses again as you approach, and any moment you expect to be bathed in dragonfire or snapped up in his almighty jaws, but your footsteps remain as rapid as your heartbeat.

The attack does not come. The fire does not come.

Something more is at play here. You may only be twelve summers, but this you know. A dragon as fierce as the Cannibal would never let a person so close as this under ordinary circumstances. Old magic thrums through the air, a tether forming between you and the form ahead. A bond. A claim.

You reach out a hand. Skin to scale. Heat that ought to burn courses through you, but you are safe. You feel his pulse, your pulse, pounding through dermis, reforming your own to match.

Your eyes well. “Gierior glaeson ñuhon avy rhaenagon jumptan,” you whisper. I have waited my whole life to meet you. In the rumble he releases, you think he must believe the same of you.

Dressed only in your nightgown, you make the climb up his wing. He lets you, chuffing irritably as you seek out the correct handholds and footholds to make your way up. It is entirely different from mounting Caraxes; this dragon is much, much larger, and so you are forced to actively coordinate your movements to ascend the perilous terrain. Still, there is enough of memory remaining to you of that day, years ago, that you can draw some reference from. You rely on those recollections to hoist yourself up. Finally, you are able to settle somewhat awkwardly between the blunted spikes below his neck.

From far off, you can hear faint voices. Atop the crest of the Cannibal’s shoulder, you look to the horizon. The sun has risen. The world is awake, which means that Ser Criston and Septa Marlow will be leading the search for their wayward princess.

It startles the dragon. Before you are ready—before you would even have dared to tell him to fly—he shifts, growling so deep that the vibrations buzz through your legs, your toes. You jostle where you have perched, gripping frantically to the spike in front of you as he sets off on a crawl that morphs to a run, building momentum to flap his wings up and up and up—

“Princess!” echoes through the breeze as you rise. Below, you see the forms of the guards, of Ser Criston, of Septa, growing smaller and smaller as the dragon—your dragon—takes to the air.

You keep hold of the Cannibal’s spike as he soars through the skies, letting the wind billow your hair about. It is both the same and so, so very different from your first flight. It is freezing up here, for one thing, and you can discern no sound but that of the air whistling so stridently in your ears that it is like a shriek, and the dragon below you is warm enough to keep the worst of the chill at bay. Your belly swoops and twists with each wingbeat, the momentum rocking you forward every time, but none of the discomfort is enough to tamp down the sheer exhilaration.

The Cannibal turns, revolving away from the distant line where sky and sea meet toward the island again. The change in direction gives you a momentary reprieve from the rush of air hindering all noise, and you hear something else.

Beneath your legs, beneath your skin, you feel it as the Cannibal bellows to the world, a roar that pierces the still of morning and announces to all that his wait is over. That he has claimed his rider, that you have claimed your mount—that you have done what no one else has been able to and emerged victorious.

That feeling—the one that has plagued you—has changed, you realise. You have found me, it seems to say.

Yes, you think, turning your head to admire the expanse of this creature, this being who is and was always meant to be yours. I have.

When you land, Ser Criston and Septa Marlow nearly shake you from your body with the force of their panic, their vexation, their “You do not ever run off like that, do you hear me, Princess?” and their “Just wait until your father hears of this!” They try to dissuade you from your course, but the Keepers wring their hands and mutter that the deed has been done; there is no unbinding what has been bound by the magic of old.

Still, their refrain is just as shocked, just as bewildered. “The Cannibal, Princess,” they say, shaking their heads. “The Cannibal…”

“No,” you reply. “His name is Athfiezar.”

Dothraki is fairly new to you, ‘tis true, for Ser Lysan did not agree to teach you until well into your acquaintance. And there is a certain irony in the choice; many a person will surely raise their brows in question of your use of such a savage tongue, which is rather best suited for a dragon of his reputation. But the word—the name, for he has long gone without one, and it seems only right that he should have something of his own, free of the censure of old—seems apt enough. Love. That pure, uncorrupted kind, the kind you think you have been searching for your whole life, the kind you find in small moments that are never, ever enough for the gaping maw that is your heart awaiting someone to fill it. You just know the Cannibal—Athfiezar—is a creature with a soul like yours. How long has he gone without love?

Never again, you think. Not with me.

You hold onto that thought as Papa rails at you upon seeing the hulking behemoth touch upon the top of the Dragonpit, heralding your return to King’s Landing.

“You could have died! What in the blazes were you thinking, girl?” he yells.

He has never yelled at you before, and perhaps you might have cried once, but you keep firm to the memory of Athfiezar’s eyes upon yours, the life palpitating through his immense form into yours like some sort of cycle, elemental, mysterious. No matter what Papa says, no matter how he says it, it is as the Keepers said. The deed is done.

The news spreads like wildfire, bringing with it a most unwelcome attention. For much of your life, you had been largely ignored by court and commons—now, with having claimed such a dragon for your own, many a considering eye falls upon you. Their thoughts are louder than if they spoke them: perhaps we have gotten the wrong measure of this one. Perhaps she is worth more notice than we had given her. Invitations to tea come to your door with a regularity that is almost predictable; and, maybe worse, many an enquiring lord approaches Papa with the pivotal question upon their lips: “When is she to be wed, Your Grace?”

Your mother was wed at eleven—it is not impossible that you should be given to some man to settle a treaty or forge an alliance in due course. It is your duty as Princess, after all. One day, yes; but not now. Besides, all they truly desire is the power you have suddenly amassed. They do not want you.

You retreat into yourself, using all the courtesies Septa had imbued into you like plate steel to shield yourself from the worst of it. Save for your two freedoms—your Ser Lysan and your boy, Athfiezar—you commit to being the most polite, the most recalcitrant, the most dull creature you can be. You help ’Nyra with her boys where you can, for a useful girl is best kept than discarded, and your sister is the heir which means her rule will someday be law. You take on two ladies, noblewomen from Houses in the Reach, in accordance with your stepmother’s wishes. You try your very best to devote time to each, spreading yourself between what is rapidly developing into entirely separate factions in the Keep—the Princess and the Queen, the Blacks and the Greens, or so they are called. Such silly names, you think. And, over time, it all becomes less performative and more intrinsic. Your propriety is your defence, and you use it well.

But it will not last forever. One day—one day soon—you will be called in by Papa. You will be told that your life is no longer to be your own, but passed on into the care of a man you will call husband. You will be asked to choose he who will be your master, he who will use your womb to give his House sons and daughters of royal blood, and you will be expected to be glad for the opportunity to make the decision, that it was not taken out of your hands entirely.

You wait for the day, spending what evening hours you can in the Sept entreating the gods for their intercession. Please, you think, on your knees before an effigy of the Maiden. Please. Deliver to me a husband who will love me as I am.

You wait, you hold your breath, and you pray.

“The claiming of the Cannibal came as a great shock to the Realm, not least because of she who had claimed him. King Viserys’s younger daughter by his late Queen Aemma Arryn was by all accounts a diffident, well-mannered girl most unlike her elder sister… Several parties were of the view that the Princess ought to be wed quickly to keep her mighty mount out of the hands of those considered less than desirable. However, it was not until the year of 126 A.C. that the King finally consented to the courtship of the girl, with many a man seeking her hand. Of those suitors, only three were truly deemed worthy—Lord Jason of House Lannister, Lord Denys of House Tyrell, and the Princess’s own half-brother, the Prince Aegon.”

- 'Fire & Blood, Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros' by Archmaester Gyldayn

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#terms of endearment │ daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x oc #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x you #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd #hotd fanfiction #asoiaf #asoiaf fanfiction #a song of ice and fire #a song of ice and fire fanfiction #game of thrones #game of thrones fanfiction #got #got fanfiction #matt smith #house targaryen #dance of dragons #fire and blood

[drakaripykiros130ac]

TG argument that doesn’t stand: “Alicent deserves to have her blood on the throne after all she’s been through.”

First of all, she hasn’t been through anything. She loves to victimize herself after she has been touched by the Gods and a crown was put on her undeserving head. She was not even the daughter of the Lord of Hightower, only of the second son of a non-Paramount House, and yet she became queen. Not to mention that she had children of royal blood who had been given many privileges: comfort, good food, riches, education, combat training, a secured future etc. She doesn’t have any right to complain.

Secondly, what about Queen Aemma Arryn? She has been through a lot. Unlike Alicent, she was a gracious and kind queen who never harmed anyone. Unlike Alicent, Aemma had class (a true child of Lord Rodrick Arryn and Princess Daella Targaryen).

She had many miscarriages and stillbirths throughout her life and her only child was the Realm’s Delight, Rhaenyra Targaryen, the most beautiful maiden in the Realm & the youngest dragonrider in history.

Who is more deserving to have her bloodline continue? The ungrateful and traitorous upstart who committed high treason and started a war by placing her son on the throne, or the gentle queen consort whose only crime was not giving the Realm a son?

GRRM answered that when he arranged for the demise of all of Alicent’s children and grandchildren, while the bloodline of the Realm’s Delight/the Dragon Queen prevailed.

#Queen Aemma deserves the world 💙🖤 #team black #pro team black #anti alicent hightower #anti alicent stans #anti team green #aemma arryn #queen aemma #rhaenyra targaryen #the realms delight #queen rhaenyra #asoiaf #the dragon queen #the black queen #asoiaf meta #house of the dragon #hotd #anti greens #pro rhaenyra targaryen #team rhaenyra #rhaenyra i #hotd rhaenyra #pro rhaenyra #the blacks

[gulnarsultan]

May I request for yan House of the dragon platonic like everyone is platonic yandere for reader? And basically, the reader is Rhaenyras little sister, who was born when Aemma died. Rhaenyra hates readers because she thinks reader killed her mother. So, while Rhaenyra isn't there, Alicent is and comforts/mothers reader. The reader is close to all her siblings ( minus Rhaenyra) and her niece and nephew. Timeskip to the night in Driftmark,. The reader walks in and sees Aemond and asks what happens, somewhere along everyone fighting Rhaenyra snarkily says "don't think I didn't notice you ran to their defense" and reader snaps back and is like "when have you done anything kind to me? Why should I stand by you when your cruel to me" Alicent smirks as Rhaenyra realizes how much of a bad sister she was. The reader ends the big argument by saying "while my nephews do deserve some punishment, taking their eyes is far too extreme" and after, while reader was in their room, Rhaenyra came in a begged for forgiveness

Hello.  Everyone is a platonic yandere for the Princess.  Did I understand the question correctly?  I hope you liked it.

   The birth of Queen Aemma begins and her first Princess is born. There is no problem at the moment.  However, Baelon's birth causes the death of Queen Aemma.  Prince Baelon dies a few hours later.  Rhaenyra blames her father Viserys and her younger siblings for her mother's death.  Rhaenyra never approaches or cares for her sister.  King Viserys is very angry with Rhaenyra for her behavior.  King Viserys spends most of his free time with his newborn daughter.  He tries to be the best father he can for the little princess.  Alicent takes the little princess under her wing.  Because she knows what it's like to be without a mother.  Moreover, Hand of the King Otto and the Velaryons are determined to play a role in the Princess's upbringing.  They will do anything to make sure the princess has a good life.  Over the years, the Princess turns into a very beautiful and intelligent young lady.  The Princess becomes a good big sister to all the children Alicent and Viserys have.  The princess is devastated by the loss of Laena.  She is in grief with the Velaryons.  When the princess arrives in the throne room, she is shocked to see her brother Aemond's face.  She immediately hugs her brother and tries to comfort him.  Rhaenyra's impudent behavior angers the Princess.  The anger of the Princess, who did not even raise her voice until this age, surprises everyone.

   "Sufficient."

   Everyone was quiet and attention was focused on the Princess.

   "What could be more normal than to be with them? Why should I be with you and your children? You have treated me like an enemy until this age. I will be with my family who love and protect me. You cannot be a family by blood. I hate and detest you. You are not worthy to be a princess. You are the disgrace of our house."

   Rhaenyra was shocked by the words she heard.  Her sister, whom she had been an enemy to for years, had put her in her place.  The princess turned to face her father.

   "How can you remain silent while Aemond's questioning is demanded? Do not try to do such a wrong, Father. I want justice for Aemond right now. Lucerys will be swept away. Or he will be stripped of all his privileges and titles. And he will never appear in court again."

   King Viserys could see the fire in his daughter's eyes.  The princess finally stood up after so many years of silence.  King Viserys had chosen the second option.  Everyone but Rhaenyra supports the Princess' decision.  The princess turns to Aemond with a triumphant smile.

   "Justice has been served, brother, don't worry. No one can harm our family anymore."

   Alicent tearfully hugs the Princess.  Aemond admires his older sister, who literally fights for her like a dragon.  Perhaps the innocent admiration in little Aemond's heart will turn into a dark obsession in the future.

#yandere hotd #yandere house of the dragon #yandere platonic #yandere family #rhaenyra targaryen x reader #house of targaryen #house targaryen

[r3starttt]

Don’t delete the kisses

a/n: I got my inspo from “See You In My 19th Life” also, felt too personal. Basically reader inspired on me lol

Pt 2. | Prt.3 | Prt.4

Warnings: mentions of bullying, suicide, lots of angst and fluff

“I see the signs of a lifetime, you ‘til I die”

You’ve had seventeen lives so far. You’ve been all kinds of people in all kinds of places, and you always remember each one of them. It always happens for different reasons, it could be a smell that reminded you of a perfume, a new dish that apparently you’ve already tried before, a face that felt familiar, a song that made you feel weirdly in love.

At first it was horrifying, it was so confusing and you made so many mistakes. You told people about it. You tried to find your loved ones, tried to approach to them again because your heart still missed them. But eventually you learned to handle it. Eventually the pain of past life losses disappeared and you just learned to ignore your not so nice gift.

You’ve also learned to adapt to every life, which was becoming easier every time because the knowledge, talents and hobbies from every life apparently stayed with you. Maybe it was your soul?

You stopped having complains and learned to value and enjoy everything. You appreciated every mistake you made because it helped you learn for a future life, you enjoyed feeling everything so deeply because it would help you remember the next time you reincarnate, you showed your love for everyone and did everything you wished so you wouldn’t have any regrets. You learned to be positive and take advantage of everything that was offered to you on each life.

Until now.

Ever since you were a child you’ve felt empty. Loved but not enough to fill your heart, admired but feeling like you’re not worth it, with friends that care for you and a lovely family that provides you all you need and all you could ever ask for but feeling like you don’t deserve them. Maybe you were born sad?

It seems like your whole life happened in the blink of an eye. Maybe it’s the sadness that hasn’t allowed you to enjoy this life properly, but where does that come from?

Maybe you’ve got used to sadness so much that you don’t know how to handle it on this life? It’s frustrating, not even all the knowledge in the world, all the abilities you’ve learned and your old soul can handle such feeling. It’s the first thing you’ve been unable to control, ever.

There is a reason why it got out of control though. When you were eleven you were bullied by your whole class, including some professors. And it didn’t matter how much privilege you had, neither you or your parents could do anything about it.

That’s the moment all the lonely, angry and sad in you became overwhelming, the moment you started to believe in god again just to beg him every day to kill you, to let you die.

And even if that was almost ten years ago it still haunts you. The humiliation, the anger, the loneliness. And you can’t handle it, not because you don’t know how to, but because your body doesn’t allow you to.

Your heart always reminds you of it, like it happens with your past lives, there’s always a smell, a word, an action. The way those kids made you feel, they things those adults said to you, the way your parents broke in tears when you first told them, the awkwardness at home whenever they tried to make you talk to them. It all stuck to you forever.

“What if it’s not meant for me? Love”

However there was someone that was worth trying to live. Her name is Ellie, and you’ve been dating her for some years now.

She’s your childhood best friend, the person you trust the most on this world and the only one that doesn’t make you feel overwhelmed. Your girlfriend and the lover you’ve feel more connected to or all your lives.

“Do you believe in soulmates?” You’re both laying on her bed, staring at the ceiling and talking about random stuff, whatever goes trough your minds “Or…. reincarnation”

“None of them, do you?” you could see her moving her head towards you from the corner of your eye “Yeah, I’d like us to be soulmates and find each other on each life” a chuckle came out of Ellie’s mouth “you’re so cheesy ughh” you laughed back, kicking her shoulder with your arm to which she complained.

“I know but, I’ve never loved someone this much el” you turned your head too, smiling at the look of Ellie’s shy smile and and her slightly tainted cheeks “you’ve really saved my life, you know it” Just as those words were spoken, her face changed completely.

“all good?”

You could see the worry on her face, in the way her eyes studied yours and on the pout that slowly appeared. You just sighed back, hesitating a bit and debating if you should tell her the truth or not.

“It’s probably my birthday, I’ll be fine” the reassurment in your voice didn’t seem to convince her, so you spoke again “el, things have been good in the past few years, it’s not gonna change suddenly”

“What if they do?” she’s right, what if they do?

“They won’t, I would already know and I would tell you, I promise” you do know, but you won’t tell her, not now.

“You tell me to get over it and to take you out, but I can’t and I’m too scared. “

You’ve tried to take your life some years ago, before Ellie and you started to date. Honestly, to this day you still don’t know how you managed to not die. It was late at night, right before your birthday, it always makes you feel extremely sad for some reason, you believe is the fear of growing up, of things getting harder.

“And here’s the night bus, I have to go. And the doors are closing and you’re waving”

You’ve had that feeling for over a month. All your healing process falling apart just for your birthday? you still feel ashamed about it. You just took some random blade you’d saved for this moment and started to practically stab your wrists.

All your thoughts mixed with the weirdly feeling of pain and satisfaction and the blood dripping down your arms blinded you, and in the blink of an eye you just loose the balance and fainted.

But you promised yourself that if you didn’t make it back then, you would try it again, no matter what. Or at least you tried to convince yourself.

“What if it’s not meant for me? Love”

“What are you gonna gift me?” you decided to better change the topic before your thoughts could overwhelm any of you “What do you want?” Her hands tangle with yours.

“You haven’t got me anything yet?” a laugh scapes your mouth “I do but…. I don’t know” Ellie loved handmade gifts, however she always does something different for you. “You know I love your gifts el, you can give me a rock and I would admire it forever”

Your hands slowly move from Ellie’s, cupping her face and making her look at you. She’s so pretty, with the light of the sun coming through the window snd hitting her freckles just perfect, making her eyes look shiny too.

“So you want a rock then?” of course she had to make jokes, she can’t handle romantic moments, gets to nervous. You just roll your eyes.

“You know, a perfect gift would be that you stopped using those crusty converse” she immediately groans, pushing your hands away from her face and leaning on her back

“What’s wrong with them?”

“They smell, they’re broken and they’re dirty as fuck because you never clean them”

“They don’t smell! and I glued them recently”

“Ellie, please”

“But don’t call me by my full name”

“I’m not! And I’ve always called you Ellie”

“No you haven’t, you call me El”

“El, please buy some new converse for my birthday”

“And what do I get for doing it?”

“Your girlfriends happiness”

“I think that’s a sign. I’m losing self control and it’s you”

And that’s how you it was for the rest of the day. Ellie pouting every time you teased her but calling you dramatic if you said anything about her teasing you. Also, Ellie suddenly telling you random facts about dinosaurs and space and just random stuff in general.

That was the las time you saw her, until your birthday. She’d come earlier than anyone else to have more time alone with you. It’s not that you had many friends but your family always came too so they’d keep you busy all day.

A day before you were looking through your closet, finding all the cute gifs Ellie had made you, admiring the details of all her drawings and reading the letters. Watching all the Polaroids your mom took of you two, the gift she made for you when she asked you to be her girlfriend, a bracelet she gifted you when you asked her to be her friend, a letter you made for her from when you first fought.

And it made you feel horrible, because the decision was already made, the letters for all the people you cared about were already written and saved in your desk. Your phone was already unlocked so everyone could have access to it, your room was tidy and your closet clean.

You were just waiting for her, for tomorrow, for all your family to be together when you left so it would be hopefully easier to everyone. For everyone to be there and get their letters, for Ellie to not be alone when she got the news, for your parents and your girlfriend to be comforted by each other’s presence.

You went downstairs, looking for Ellie since you heard your parents already speaking with her. They were all siting at the dining room.

It made your heart melt to see you happy she looked the moment she saw you. Her eyes, her pretty nose scrunching a little, her smile widening.

“Can I see my gift already?” Your parents laughed in disbelief, telling you to at lest greet her properly before asking her about a gift.

“Your parents told me you’ll open them later” she chuckled, looking at your parents and then back at you, you did the same.

You stepped closer to her, grabbing her hands and taking her to your room.

“Can you at least tell me what is it? I’ll act surprised I promise”

“A rock”

“Haha so funny el”

You closed the door behind you, watching Ellie sitting on your bed. She just stared at you, with puppy eyes of course. You really hoped you wouldn’t remember this when you reincarnated, or at least that It wouldn’t hurt as much as it does right now.

“What’s that box?” her finger pointed at the box you were just looking trough last night. You walked towards it and took it to the bed, sitting besides Ellie.

“All your gifts” she looked at you in pure shock “This is something I did for you when we were like…. Seven or something, why’d you still have it?”

“My mom saved all this things, it’s cute isn’t?”

“I feel exposed”

“What’s wrong with it? I love all of it”

“Your gift is not gonna fit in here”

“So it’s not a rock and defined not a new pair or converse” your eyes moved towards Ellie’s shoes, she just sighed

“Stop it, you’re the only one that notices them”

“My parents do, my mom asked my why you never changed them” that was a lie, but how could Ellie know?

You did the same thing as last nigh, take a final look to all the gifts that Ellie had made to you, not now with her. You’d made fun of her and she would just frown her eyebrows and eventually pout if she felt really ashamed of it. You’d make her read the letters out loud and ask her about the process of every draw she’d made of you.

“This letter is for me, why didn’t you give it to me?” Now you understood the feeling, karma. “We fought, I decided it was better to apologize in person” her hands leaned the letter towards you, making you read it out loud just as you’d made her do to you.

“January 13 2020” you stopped as she laughed “don’t laugh, you wanted me to read it I’ll read every detail then”

“I’m sorry for whatever I did to make you mad, I’m still not sure what it was- Ellie, you’re such a dramatic person”

“Me? You’re the one that’s dramatic for making a whole letter even though you hate writing just to randomly apologize”

“This just proves how much I love you, shut up”

“Right, keep reading”

“I’m still not sure what it was, but I feel like apologizing because Dina told me how much you’ve been crying and how awful I made you feel-“ you got interrupted by a loud gasp

“Why would Dina told you?” She slapped her hands on her face, groaning “only fucking fake friends these days” you laughed

“Hey don’t say that! I love Dina, she’s the sweetest and I bet she also tells you all I tell her about you, you’re overreacting for something that happened three years ago”

“You speak about me with her?” You nodded

“I want you to know that I’m so fucking grateful for having someone like you in my life. For a long time you were the only one that made me laugh, the only one that made me feel happy and loved and like life was worth it. You’re the reason I keep trying” you could feel the knot of tears forming in your throat, so painful “I feel like you got mad for what I said, but I want you to know that I didn’t mean it in a bad way, I wanted you to know how I truly felt about you and us and my life. I didn’t want to lie to you, I can’t. I was hoping you could understand that I didn’t tell you that before because I was afraid of how would you react, because I care for you snd I don’t want you to get hurt just for my weakness-“

The door of the room got opened after some small knocks were heard. Everyone had got there already. You didn’t realize how long you’ve been in your room with Ellie, totally worth it though.

You just saved the letter in the box again. You’ve purposely let it in your room for Ellie to take a look of it later that day, for her to have something left from you.

You both went downstairs again, Ellie went with your friends and you went to greet each family member, having some small talk with everyone and thanking them for being here.

And the time today felt extremely fast. Maybe this was the first birthday you’ve properly enjoyed, maybe you were excited or anxious, maybe it was the calm you’ve felt for the first time in years, maybe-

“I wanna eat the cake already, can’t you hurry them?” Ellie’s hands positioned around your waist, hugging you from behind and pulling you closer to her. You could see her pretty face resting on your shoulder, staring at you.

“You smell like gummies” you smiled without even realizing, now looking at Ellie. Her lips pressed in yours, the sour and sweet flavor invading your tongue “I ate gummies”.

“There’s tons of food El, why don’t you just eat something that’s not candy? Instead of asking for cake that by the way you won’t get to eat” she pinched your stomach slightly “why won’t I get to eat cake?” “I don’t think there’s enough for everyone

“I deserve it more than them, I’ve been with you, listening to your annoying voice every day” now you pinched her back “shut up or you really won’t get any”

“Do we really have to stay here with everyone? Your grandpa freaks me out” you chuckled “stop being rude to my family” “do we?” “let’s go outside”

And so you walked to the small garden behind your house, sitting on the cold grass with Ellie

“You seem happier this year…. do you feel happier?” you can see her toying with her fingers, staring at them to avoid eye contact “are you worried about me?” your gaze is now focused on your family, inside the house. You can see your friends almost eating each other on the closest window, it makes you laugh.

“The letter…. am I really that important to you?”

“You’re my best friend since forever el, you’re my girlfriend, why wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know, I thought I didn’t help you at all”

“You do”

You turned around again, facing Ellie. She was picking the grass. How were you supposed to leave her? How were you supposed to ever live without her?

You grabbed her face with your hands, pulling her closer for a kiss. Her lips felt just perfect for yours, her skin was so soft, her face just the right size for your hands to fit, her hair the right strength for you to feel it every time you two kissed. You couldn’t do this to her

You tried to break the kiss, but her hands moved behind your back, pulling you closer to her again and deepening the kiss. You could feel her smile trough the kiss, she’s so fucking pretty.

“I love you Ellie, I’ve always loved you, don’t ever doubt it” she laughs in confusion “I love you too” It was the third time you probably said it out loud, you really wished you would’ve told her sooner.

“I’m electric, a romantic cliché”

“Take this, I was planning on give it to you later but…. I guess it’s the right time” you looked confused at her, she was looking for something on her hoodie pockets. A rock

Maybe you should wait, just a little more, just for her.

The rock was painted with your favorite colors, it was your face. Why is she so lovely? Why can’t her love fill your heart? What’s wrong with you?

She slowly puts it on your hands, studying your face, looking for any reaction. You lean on her, hugging her as both of your bodies fall on the grass. You can’t see her but she’s definitely smiling.

“I can’t imagine a life without you Ellie, don’t ever dear to leave me” she thought you were just being romantic because of the gift, but you mean it, you hope you fin her always and forever. To hopefully have the life you won’t be able to enjoy with her this time.

Her hands rubbing your back, her nose smelling your perfume, nuzzling on your neck “I won’t, I promise”

“Let’s go for the cake, I can hear your stomach” you rest your arms on the grass, positioning each one besides Ellie’s face and giving her another kiss. Her eyes look so pretty.

The sky turns orange as you get inside the house again. You hate this part of the day because it means it’s almost over, and today specially you want everything but the day to end. You hope every smiley face in the house can forgive you for what you’re about to do, you hope they understand.

So now you’re siting in the middle of the table, with everyone you love around you as they sing happy birthday to you. Ellie is sitting besides you, taking pictures of you. And you can only thank her in a small whisper, and thank the universe in your mind for letting her have that picture as her last memory of you.

The minute the song is over everyone claps, watching you turn off the candle. You always wished for happiness, but today you’re just wishing for forgiveness. Your smile is wide, it hurts to lie to everyone there.

Before your mom cuts the cake for you as she usually did, you grab the knife and cut a big slice of cake for Ellie. “Can we open the gifts?” you ask loudly to everyone, knowing that way your parents wouldn’t make you wait more.

Everyone’s eating cake, sitting on the couches in the living room, most men in the room staring up, Ellie sitting besides you on the floor and offering you to open the gifts to “help you” but you know she’s just gossiping.

Whenever you didn’t like a gift you’d look at Ellie and she’s look back at you, like you could communicate with each other just with your eyes. She’d laugh and pass you another gift.

If you did like a gift then she’d take it from you and would stare at every detail of it. She’d separate discreetly the ones you liked from the ones you didn’t, she’d usually keep those or Insist you on selling them online.

However the more gifts you opened the more anxious you got. “Where’s your gift el?” you whispered as your mom passed you another gift, that seemed to be the last one. But it was way to small to be from Ellie “mine goes last, open that one, come on”

And so you did, it was a set of some pink pijamas, and the moment you opened them you turned your face at Ellie, she was already laughing “Shut up”

“Wait, there one more” you heard your mom speaking as she walked to the kitchen. Everyone looked at her, waiting to see what it was.

She returned with a big rectangular canvas. Did she just made a huge fucking painting for me? you thought, looking back at Ellie who seemed clearly nervous.

“I’ll give you the letter later, I didn’t want to get exposed in front of your whole family” she whispers

You take the canvas and turn it around. It was a portrait of a picture she took of you the day she asked you to date. It was so detailed, so colorful and just so right. You showed it proudly to your family. Everyone cheered Ellie and you couldn’t help but smile at the sight of her shy face, her cheeks covered in blush as she looked at her fingers, just as she did whenever she felt nervous. Your friends making fun of Ellie and you for being so “adorable” as you heard them say.

And the rest of the night Ellie just stood close to you, listening to everyone share all the fun memories and stories they had with you. She shared ridiculous things she’d lived with you, making you cover your face ashamed. But also making you laugh as she always did.

And you couldn’t be more grateful at the end of the day because finally, for one whole day you could finally be happy again, you didn’t felt pressured or anxious or sad or overwhelmed at all, and you were with everyone you loved. You could finally go, you were just waiting for living one happy moment in your life before you took such an important decision, and this was it. Today had been all you’ve ever wished for.

So when everyone left and your parents stayed cleaning you could only feel peacefulness overcoming your body. You went to your room and laid on your bed, Ellie was still there. She had to give you her letter and you couldn’t leave without reading it.

The big canvas was already in your room, right next to your bed. You were cuddling her as you read the letter.

“Happy birthday baby. I hope this year can be different, I hope you can get better, I hope you can be happier, and I hope I’m still here every day to see you smile more and more.

I remember starting the painting and regretting immediately because it was gonna take so long and I’m lazy as fuck. But I made it :)

I had to lie to you many times and tell you Joel needed my help with some stuff just so I could finish it, hope you didn’t get mad at it.

I’ve been noticing you off lately, but if I’m honest I’m too scared to ask. But you know you can always tell me anything, I’ll always understand and I’ll always listen, no judgment.

I’m proud of you for making it another year, and I’m the happiest person ever because I have you and I’m watching you try again and again. I know you’ll get better.

I still remember how nervous I was when I asked you to date, I can’t stop thinking about it lately, maybe it’s because of the painting? but I feel the same even after dating you for years, too cliche for you make me feel the butterflies on the stomach, a lot.

I’m glad we’ve got to grow up together, I can’t imagine this life without you. The other day you told me about this, about reincarnation and soulmates, I don’t believe on it, but if it’s real I’ll make sure I’m with you always. I promise.

I can’t wait for your birthday, I wanna see your reaction and I’m containing so much for not telling you already what it is. If you’re reading this then I didn’t regret writing you this or you found it without me noticing like you did last year, don’t do that again pls :(

Anyway, I want you to know that you’re the fucking best, the prettiest girl ever and I love you so fucking much.

Ellie :)”

She saw how you folded the letter, looking at your face for any response “I love you so fucking much too” you moved your head slightly up so you could properly kiss her. You’ve never kissed her so much in one day, you also wished you would.

She stares back at you, with those puppy eyes you love so much, and her dumb smile now a bit shiny due to the kiss.

Her hand moves to your neck, pressing your head on top of her chest. Her other hand moved to the puffy pink blanket that you had in your bed, moving it up to cover both of your bodies. Your hand moves on top of of her tattoo, caressing it softly with your thumb.

And before you realize you two fall asleep, not knowing how your life’s were about to change in less than twenty four hours.

Maybe it was the anxiety coming back but you woke up earlier than usual. You slowly removed Ellie’s arms from yours, placing them over your pillows.

You stood there for some minutes, just staring at her, at her gift next to your bed. Were you being selfish?

You slowly walked towards your desk, picking the letters and placing them on top of it so everyone could see them easily, you also placed your phone on top of them. This was it.

You hated yourself for not waiting for Ellie to leave, for making her see it and be there, but you had waited enough already.

You walked quietly and slowly to the bed, placing Ellie’s letter besides her. Then you walked to the bathroom, locking yourself in it just in case anyone woke up and went to look for you.

You regretted not taking your phone with you, maybe some music would help.

You slowly remove your clothes. You hear the water run. There’s so thoughts on your head right now.

You don’t even realize but the cuts are already there, making the blood run all over the tub and covering your body with it. Your eyes close and the only sound echoing in your ears is your own breathing.

This is nothing like what you’ve done before, this is it.

“Dear loved Ellie. El, Els

I love you so much, don’t ever forget it, don’t ever doubt it. I’m always gonna be with you and I promise, I swear that we’ll meet again. Please read this first before you do anything else. I’m probably not in bed right now, I knew you would stay, don’t panic.

Ever since you know me I’ve been sad, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I told you how I remember mas past lives when we were younger, remember? and you just laughed at me, but I want you to believe it this time. And I want you to never forget me, I want you to meet me again, in another universe where I’m happy and we can get to live anything we didn’t lived here.

I waited just for you, I tried my best, I promised myself I would only try once, and if I failed then I would take it as a signal to say, but I can’t.

Your jokes, your laugh, your pretty face, the songs you played for me with your guitar, you made me stay and try so many times, but I gave up.

I can’t live lifte this forever, and it hurts me deeply to leave you, because you don’t deserve this and I don’t want to leave, but the pain I feel every day is bigger than what I want.

It’s not your fault, it’s no one’s fault actually.

You told me that whenever I could say things out loud I should write them, but never keep them just for myself, and so I’m doing it right now, hoping you, Dina, Jesse, my mom, my dad, my family, you all understand. I know you will.

I want you to find someone else to make happy, some one that’s worth your fucking amazing and pretty self, someone else that truly deserves your time and your jokes, and your songs on your guitar. Someone that stays with you forever.

I feel so ashamed, I just couldn’t say to anyone out loud how tired I felt, how badly I wanted to die. How my first and kiss though if the day was death, how exhausted I feel every day for no reason. I can’t tell you that the moment you leave I feel overwhelmed again, I feel weak and alone. I just can’t.

I also wanna thank you for being with me every time, for teaching me how to live, for not giving up on me and for being always with me.

I remember the first time we kissed, the first time we slept with each other, how shy you got after that and how much you wanted to tell me but couldn’t so I found out by reading your diary. How mad you got for me reading it but how much you thanked me once we did it. I remember every single one of our dates. I remember the first time you talked to me and I talked to you, the first time you slept and my house and the first time I slept at yours. I never forgot anything, I won’t ever forget.

I remember how you told me you wanted to go to college just so you could work and make us my dreamed house, with an art studio for both of us and a room to have many cats. How you told me that you didn’t want any kids but since you dated me you could only think of having a cute baby that looked just like me. How you got mad when I told you I wanted my last name to go first.

And I want you to live that with someone that’s really worth it.

I’m so sorry for making you stay with me for so long, for making you waist your best years of adolescence and childhood trying to cure me and my sadness. And I’m sorry I’m leaving you like this. But I know you’ll understand.

Words cannot express how much I adore you, how happy you made me, how much I’m in love with you.

Please forgive me.

I swear we’ll meet again, I swear I won’t leave you again, I swear I’ll stay.”

She woke up your parents, your dad unlocked the door. They couldn’t take it.

Now they didn’t understand. Why would you do this? Why didn’t you tell anyone? Did you ever asked for help and they didn’t notice?

Why?

Ellie was too broken to cry. She wanted to look at you but her eyes could only stay at your wrists. She could never forget.

Your parents were on their knees, unable to think, unable to move, just crying.

And so was Ellie. She couldn’t believe just a couple of hours ago she was cuddling with you and now you were gone. How did that even work? There could never exist something more terrifying that your parents sobs. Should she leave? Should she stay?

Should she even try anymore?

She felt so much anger, so much desperation and anxiety in her body. She was so shocked she couldn’t do anything else than stare.

You were gone, forever.

It’s been just a month since you died. She’s been unable to move from her bed, not wanting to eat, not wanting to sleep, feeling dead. She’s been reading your letter nonstop, over and over again, almost memorizing it already.

And your parents? Your family? They’re all broken, how could any of this even happen?

Your funeral was shocking for everyone. Everything had happened so fast, in less then a week, just right after your birthday.

Did you really had to do this?

Everyone felt so sick, for not knowing, for not saying a proper last goodbye to you, for not giving you a proper gift, for not taking enough pictures and videos of you, for not speaking to you enough that last day. For not noticing snd for not helping you.

And Ellie could only hope that she’ll meet you again as you always assured her. That all this pain will disappear eventually. That the love she feel for you would actually help her.

“Me and you were meant to be in love. I see the signs of a lifetime, you ‘til I die”

#ellie tlou #don’t delete the kisses ִ ۫ ּ 💭 ֙⋆ • #ellie williams #ellie x y/n #ellie williams tlou2 #ellie tlou2 #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams tlou #ellie williams smut #ellie x reader #ellie the last of us #ellie x you #ellie x fem reader #ellie smut #ellie williams x y/n #ellie williams x female reader #ellie williams x you #ellie angst #ellie williams angst #Spotify #don’t delete the kisses #lesbian #ren masterlist ᵎᵎ ִ ۫ ּ ⊹ #ren moodboards ֗ ִ ۫ ˑ 𖥻

[last-herondale]

“Wintered”

Jacob Black x Fem-reader

Soulmates

Fluff, slight NSFW, mostly fluff 😊

A/N: This is similar to my previous Jacob x reader post. My head cannon is where the reader is part of the pack and imprints on Jacob, but he doesn’t immediately imprint on her back. Anyway, this scene takes place before the confrontation with the Voltori in BD pt 2. Jacob has finally imprinted on Y/N after you have a near death experience. (I refuse to accept the storyline of Jacob imprinting on Ratatouille 🤢) and the two of you station yourself out in the clearing to scout the area before the rest of the Cullens and wolves arrive. A blizzard comes in and forces the two of you to make camp within the woods. This allows for some fluffy conversations to occur. 😉

Might make a NSFW scene as a part 2 to this story. 🤷🏻‍♀️ Jacob Black has my heart so expect one 😉

Edit: I did make part 2 😬 here’s a link. Okay byeee

Part 2

Enjoy 🤘🏼

You had been careful. Maybe too careful these past few weeks after the birth of Bella’s daughter. It had been a chaotic period of your life. You had chosen to break apart from the pack in order to follow Jacob. Your new Alpha. Your imprint. Your soulmate. Even from the beginning it was never really a choice, but still, you were proud of his decision to leave.

He was fighting to save Bella, as he always did. And even though it broke your heart to see the man you loved more than anything in the world fight so hard for someone who would never love him like he deserved, you stood by his side through it all. Even when the fight became deadly.

It had been a risky plan. But the Cullens needed to feed. Distract the pack. Protect the Cullens. That was the plan that fateful night. But it turned sour real quick. Bella had gone into labor, and Sam’s pack had launched an attack on the remaining Cullens. Paul had the small vampire, Alice, in between his giant wolf mouth. She had been weak and hungry, and even her immortal strength began to give way. You couldn’t let her die. Despite knowing Paul’s size and strength over powered you every time you trained with the pack, you didn’t care.

You had launched yourself at Paul, your claws and teeth slashing at his neck, forcing him to release Alice, allowing her to escape. Paul was enraged with you then. You could feel the rumble of his growl deep in his chest as he set his sights on you and pounced.

“Y/N!” Jacob’s voice called, snapping you out of the memory.

The wind was whipping all around you. Flurries of snow bit at your face and clung in your hair. The sun was beginning to set and the landscape was quickly turning dark. Jacob came up from behind you, his bare chest unfazed by the chill weather. You stood unbothered as well, the warmth of your wolf blood fought against the cold, especially after shifting. You turned to look at him, and as always your chest tugged at you to close the space between you. But you fought yourself and stood your ground.

“The weather is getting worse,” he nearly had to yell over the wind. You nodded. Alice had said this would happen. A winter vortex would come in and blanket the clearing with snow and ice. Then, after the sun returned, the Volturi would arrive.

“Should we head back?” You asked. It would take no time at all to head back to the Cullen house, but Edward had wanted eyes on the clearing to make sure there were no surprises.

Jacob shook his head and pulled over the backpack he had been carrying. “This storm shouldn’t last too long. Alice said it would be over by tomorrow morning.” He looked at you with a strange sparkle in his eyes. “I brought us a tent,” he continued, “I mean only- if you want to.” You arched your brow at him in amusement. You had never seen him trip over his words before, and lately he seemed to be doing that a lot around you.

“Yeah, okay. Let’s find somewhere out of this wind.” You reply.

The two of you found a nice spot within the trees, up against a large rock that blocked out a great deal of wind. You helped him set up the tent between the trees and found yourself glad to take refuge within. Jacob was close behind you, taking great care to zip up the tent, securing the two of you inside.

You sat across from him in silence for a moment. There seemed to be an electric charge buzzing between the two of you. It sent a strange sensation down your spine when you noticed how he looked at you. His lips parted slightly, as if he was going to speak, but to break the tension you finally reached over and yanked his pack away.

“What else are you hiding in here?” You teased.

Amusement warmed his face. He leaned back and crossed his arms and you searched his pack. “Oh you know, stakes, cloves of garlic, usual leech killing gear.”

You snorted. “Oh that’s what that smell was? The whole run over here I thought it was your breath.”

Jacob let out a laugh, a real genuine laugh. It had been a while, it had been months, since you heard that laugh of his. It warmed your heart to hear his laugh again. You pulled out the contents of his backpack, and found that he had packed the two of you an extra set of clothes, in case transforming caused any wardrobe issues. There was a handmade quilt that you pulled out and set aside. And a few granola bars and a few waters.

You tossed him a bar and a bottle and let yourself stretch out across the tent as you ate. The two of you chatted mindlessly a bit as you tried to ignore the growing tension that seemed to build within the tent. It was as if you could reach out and touch the electric waves that buzzed between you. Finally, you let yourself stretch out on the tent floor, using the quilt as a pillow. Jacob hesitated a moment before joining you on the floor, your bodies inches apart from each other as the wind picked up outside of the tent.

You turned on your side to face him, and were shocked to find him already facing you. His eyes seemed deep in thought as they scanned your face. You felt your face redden slightly at the intensity of his gaze.

“Jake?” You ask softly. His eyes snapped up to look at yours. “Hmm” was all he answered. You couldn’t help but smile at him. “Are you okay?” You ask with a small chuckle, “You’ve been acting—different ever since Ness was born.” At that Jacob’s smile wavered a bit but his eyes kept roaming your face.

“I’ve just been thinking,” he murmured, “ a lot of things have changed since then. It’s an— adjustment.” You expected that in some capacity. You were prepared to help Jacob once Bella became a vampire, to help distract him from the pain of that, but it never came. He seemed to almost welcome Bella into her immortal life, taking satisfaction in the fact of her still being alive in some capacity anyway. It had shocked you how— calm he was about it all.

“Does it hurt being around her?” You nearly whispered. Normally would wouldn’t have dared asked such a question, but his silence these past few weeks had been maddening. Confusion swept Jacob’s face for a moment before he realized what you meant. And then he chuckled.

“Around Bella? No. Not anymore. That’s— not the change I meant, although it has been an adjustment getting used to her new life. But that isn’t what I meant. ” He said. You scrunched you brows at him in confusion and then abruptly sat up. Jacob propped himself up on one arm to meet your gaze, his eyes searching your face to see what he had done.

“Then what do you mean, Jacob? Why else have you been acting so weird lately?” Anger tipped on your words, but you found yourself unable to restrain your emotions. Jacob waited for you to continue, his lips pressed together as if he was holding back.

“For weeks now you’ve been so calm, so careful… I thought you would be upset or angry or something! Leah and Seth won’t tell me anything, but I know they know something. Even Edward seems to know what it is but for some reason you refuse to tell me? Jacob, you’ve just been so quiet around me lately and I can’t understand why. What changed? Did I do something to you?” At the last question you felt tears fall down your eyes.

Without hesitation, Jacob’s hand we on either side of your face, wiping the tears from your cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, “I was afraid that if I admitted the truth— that if I told you—“

“Told me what, Jacob?” You pleaded. You grabbed his hands that held your face.

“I—“ he struggled to say, “I imprinted.”

Suddenly you were back in that moment. You felt Paul’s teeth clamp down on your neck, the sharp crunching pain of his canines crunching down on bone. That pain was excruciating. But even then, the pain and shock allowed you to pass out from it. Death was a numbing relief to the pain, or so you imagined. But this pain had no relief. You dropped your hands from Jacob’s and felt your heart collapse.

“On who?” Your voice cracked. “When did you—?”

Jacob froze at your reaction. You could no longer hide the pain that radiated from your chest. You felt as if you might vomit. Would it be better to know? Who she was, how he now felt for her? His world now revolved around her. How would you survive?

“I need to leave,” you choke out. You tried to fumble with the zipper but Jacob’s strong hands gripped you and pulled you away.

“Y/N, please,” he voice was oddly strained, “let me explain—“

“I cant!” You cried, “i can’t do this anymore Jacob! I can’t keep pretending that everything is okay, when my heart is breaking! I can’t keep pretending that I don’t love you. That you are everything to me, my purpose, my entire existence! Please, let me go!”

The words you promised to never say were out. Your body heaved in violent sobs as the weight of your soul poured out before him. You expected him to release you. To be horrified by what you just said. But instead you felt him move closer, the space between you disappeared as he wrapped his large arms around you tightly and securely.

“Oh Y/N,” he murmured against your hair, “oh sweetheart, my love, my everything, no, no, no, no.” You stilled under him, his words piercing your body with every syllable. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Why didn’t you tell me you imprinted?”

You pushed yourself away from him far enough to look into his eyes. You searched his wildly waiting for him to explain. He ran a hand through your hair, pushing it away from your face. “That night, when Paul nearly killed you—“ his voice cracked at the memory, “ I thought I would lose you. Something snapped in me that night, something deep and primal in my blood. Suddenly, you were the only pull I felt. Everything in my heart, body, and soul was fighting for you.”

You weren’t sure if you were breathing then. Tears fell down your face as Jacob continued. “I knew it was the imprint, I felt it deep within my bones. When you finally woke up, I waited to see if maybe the bond had snapped into place for you too… but nothing had seemed to change for you. I wasn’t sure how to tell you— so I waited and kept my distance. I didn’t want to force this on you, or scare you away. But I never thought…” he trailed off. His thumb traced down the side of your face, stopping at the edge of your bottom lip.

“How long have you known?” He asked.

“I’ve always known,” you whispered.

And with those words alone, any restraint, and uncertainty Jacob had had vanished. In an instant his hand cupped the back of your neck as he pulled you closer and kissed you. The contact of him made stars dance in your vision, but immediately you found yourself melting against him. You threw your arms around his neck and anchored yourself to him. He growled against your mouth in reaction, and deepened the kiss.

His tongue explored your mouth, intoxicating your senses with the taste of him. Your fingers knotted up in his hair, and you pulled his head closer to yours, needing more of him in your reach. He reacted to your touch, a soft groan escaping his lips as he nipped your bottom lip. His free hand wrapped around your waist and pulled you closer. You gave out a small yelp in surprise and you couldn’t help but giggle.

Jacob moved his lips from your mouth to trace the line of your jaw, peppering you with kisses as he made his way down your neck. “Whats so funny?” He murmured against the nape of your neck. You tilted your head back to give him easier access, the warmth of his lips were inviting. “You have no idea—“ you said breathlessly, “how long I’ve wanted you to kiss me.”

You felt him smile against your neck, his teeth grazing you as he pulled away slowly. He looked at you, desire burning in his dark eyes, his face oddly flushed with red and warmth. “I’m sorry for not realizing sooner. I’m sorry I’ve kept you waiting. All this time,” he said, both of his arms slipped around you, pulling you as close to him as possible, “I thought it was friendship that made our relationship so strong.” He said the word as a curse. As if he realized now that what the two of you had was more than that. More than any word used to describe this feeling.

“I thought it was a different kind of love you felt for me,” he admitted, “I never imagined it was— this.” You slid one hand down from his neck and traced the line of his jaw. Gentle touches you had always restrained yourself from. He leaned into you, shivering at each touch. A smile spread across your face as you held your heart in your hands. All of the heartache these past few years had suddenly vanished from your mind. None of it mattered. Not anymore. “I suppose you have time to make up for then,” you challenged.

Jacob’s eyes bore into you, waiting for you to make the next move. He would bend to you, only you. Your thumb traced the outline of his lips. Two words. One command of him. The one thing you had sought after since you met him. A whisper within the wind.

“Kiss me.”

#fem reader #twilight #jacob black #jacob black x reader #team jacob #soulmates #imprint

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Eyes wide open (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: As you settle into life as a married woman in Westeros, you try to escape and outsmart Daemon. It goes as well as one could expect. 

Warnings: Kidnapping, forced marriage, violence, starvation, torturing (Not the reader, at least physically), gaslighting. Very much housewife kink. 

A/N: I think you are not going to like this. Might be too much. If you think I missed a TW, please tell me. 

Check the previous parts here. 

It's not a fun affair, your wedding. Nor does it have many guests. There is a Septon, and Viserys. You would like very much to claw his eyes out. You are not sure if he is a guest or acting as another officiant, but you despise him. 

Perhaps a witness. Who knows? Not you. You were not the most observant person on the planet, as the last few months had shown you. 

Daemon waves over to some people entering the throne room. There are two young girls, and as they approach, you realize one is Alicent and the other Rhaenyra. In between them, probably to ensure the peace, stands the man from before, the one that tried to help you. Not the young one, the other. The one who was Hand. 

Alicent carries a silver haired baby, perched on her hip. You wonder which one he is. The eldest? Maybe? The drunken one. 

How disgusting can men be? Really. As Alicent comes closer and closer, the more she looks like just a young girl. Rhaenyra it’s not much older, either. Viserys deserves every second spent in suffering from his illness, marrying hid child's friend. Alicent regards you with sad brown eyes, no doubt pitying you. There is nothing she can do for you, though. Not at this time. 

Perhaps you are judging him with modern morals, and she was not as shocked by it as you were. She probably expected it, considering medieval girls married young, and medieval men often did not. Yet, you cannot help but be angry in Alicent’s name. Here is another woman, like Rhea, like you. Trapped into marriage to a monster. 

You want to scream and scream and never stop. Until your throat is unable to make more sounds, until you cough up blood and choke on it because surely, it is a better fate than this. A world without Rhea. You open your mouth, turning towards Daemon. A hand on your shoulder it’s all it takes for you to shut up. 

Your experience in the throne room showed you all you needed to know. The more barbaric parts of Westeros, the ones that Rhea had shielded you from. In her castle, she did as she pleased. She was a married woman with an inattentive husband in the Middle Ages. Rhea had much more leeway than others. 

In the end, what you had liked about Rhea had been that life with her was similar to modern life. Or what you think life must be like for aristocrats in the twenty-first century, only without phones and the Internet. You wouldn't know, having been middle class all your life. But if you closed your eyes, you could pretend you were back where you belonged. Rhea was as free spirited as any woman from your time, if a bit conservative.  You never understood why she feared her husband. 

Now you did. 

Daemon had frightened you. It was just starting to sink in how much power he would have over you now. You were little more than property, and he had a right to discipline you as he saw fit. To take you as he saw fit. After all, marital rape here was no rape. 

No one questions that you are being hand fasted with still cuffed hands. Rhaenyra glares daggers at you and at her father, no doubt hurt because of her crush on Daemon. How you long to have access to Wikipedia to see when she falls for Harwin Strong and stops hurting. 

You can't make up your mind about if she is a victim too or not. Daemon has groomed her into wanting him. That doesn't seem right. There is no doubt in your mind about it. Her treatment of Alicent could be justified, too. In an internalized misogyny kind of way. But wouldn't that be taking away her agency?  But judging Alicent as a victim only… Isn't taking away her agency too? 

Can you truly judge them with modern standards? You never spent much time thinking about the ethics of fictional characters. You surely would have been more concerned if you knew what was going to happen.

Too in your head, you barely notice when it's time to say your vows. Daemon, ever dutiful, reminds you of it by unsheathing his sword. 

Someone, probably Alicent, gasps. Then, she goes quiet. You repeat your vows, glaring at Daemon the whole time. You would find a way to escape. This was only a temporary setback. And he would hurt, the asshole. 

You ignore the voice in your head that tells you it's no use. Not when you have already failed at step one. You have spent a year searching for a way to go back to your world, and have made zero progress. If you run from Daemon, what would you even do? If he found you, no Lord would deny the Prince his wife. He would just have to talk to the liege lord in charge of wherever you are hiding and ask you to be handed back. 

Daemon leans in to kiss you. As soon as he is close enough, you bite with all your might. The coppery taste of blood doesn't dissuade you. You keep at it. 

“Should have expected that.” He mutters, through a mouthful of blood. His lips don't leave yours. “You Royces are hostile environments.” 

Despite being hurt, Daemon keeps kissing you, moaning into your mouth. You are uncertain if it is pain or pleasure. Disgusted by the thought, and the hungry way he licks into your mouth, you stop. He gives you a big grin and kisses you again, biting into your lower lip until he draws blood, too. You yelp, trying to push him off. 

“A true Valyrian, this one.” He boasts, grabbing your waist. Viserys and Rhaenyra look transfixed by what just happened. Apparently, something on yours and Daemon's blood stained faces is of significance to them. 

Alicent and the man look at each other. Suddenly, baby Aegon gives a tiny, uncoordinated clap. The rest of the guests follow, and you beg to the skies for patience and fortitude. It seems you will need it, with these in–laws. 

The cuffs never come off. Daemon shoves you in a room. Feeling oddly like the ghost of the wife in the attic, you decide you need to plan. You have little to your advantage, here. Your hands remain bound, and there is nothing to use as a weapon. 

Your head hurts. You have cried too much. First, mourning Rhea, then pitying yourself. No more. You have read enough novels and watched enough awful movies to know how this might end if you succumb to weakness. This is not a love story, and you won’t develop Stockholm syndrome. You refuse. 

You will keep repeating this phrase to yourself in the days to come. Feeding your anger, your treatment is not bad. It’s probably a bad idea to alienate your captor, but you decide to go on a hunger strike. Despite how hungry you are, not having eaten since the day Daemon arrived at the Vale, you do not trust him to not drug you or poison you. 

He might think you valuable, but he is also known for being a rogue. He might change his mind at any moment. If it were up to you, you would not drink water, either, but you know you can’t survive without it. So you drink as little as you can. It also saves you from the indignities of not having the privacy of a bathroom. 

Daemon comes to you on day six of your hunger strike. You are weak as a kitten, and half delirious with thirst. You have lost quite a few pounds. Your head hurts, you are dizzy, you want to go home. Never had you been as starved as now, or as dehydrated. Modern life meant you went hungry to bed, sometimes. Either for your financial situation or because of diet culture. But you had never felt as weak. One thing was skipping a meal, another refusing food for six days. 

He enters the room with another man, one that wears noble clothes, but you have never seen before. 

“… Not eating. Nothing. And barely drinking water.” Daemon explains, approaching the bed. Too weak to really fight him, you conform yourself with sitting up. As you are, you cannot be any kind of serious resistance. It’s the first time he has seen you since the wedding and by the look in his face, you look terrible. “Cries in her sleep, too.” 

The other man approaches you. He reaches a hand towards you, and you scream, backing up quickly and nearly falling off the bed. You don’t know who he is, but you know you don’t want to be touched. Panic bubbles up in your throat. Bound hands. No escape, no way of fighting back. Is he here to hold you down? For Daemon to…? The thought is too horrible to finish. 

You scratch at the man’s face, trying to aim for his eyes. This close, you can tell he is older both than Daemon and you. He looks kind. But looks can be deceiving. You resume your efforts, as the man screams, and you feel blood under your fingers. 

Daemon grasps at your shoulders, but you only trash more. It’s a weak attempt. His arm wraps around your waist, firmly. 

“Seven Hells.” The older man mutters. You have managed to lift skin around his forehead, three clear impressions of scratches marrying his face. With Daemon holding you firmly down, the man presses down on your stomach. Then, over your womb. He examines your face attentively as he does so. You snarl at him and try to kick him off. Daemon’s grip gets harsher. 

Is he going to sell you now? Is the man checking you over because he is a potential buyer? You would rather not be sold, and so resume your trashing. People trafficking was bad in your time. It’s even worse now, with no laws to defend you. You could become a slave, or worse. 

The man, the slave trader, tries to check your teeth. You bite down on his fingers hard. 

“Your wife appears to be fine, physically.” The man finally says. A doctor? Healer. Physician. Whatever they call them here. 

“Fine?” Daemon asks, tone absolutely enraged. “Fine! She is starving to death.” 

“Her ailment is not physical. It’s grief and rage.” The healer, as you have now decided to call him, answers in a soothing tone. You wonder if he was chosen to visit you for that reason. Both you and Daemon must be maniacs in his eyes. You can’t bring yourself to care. 

“I see.” Daemon says, tone dangerously low. Then, he grabs you by the cheeks and forces you to look at him. “What do you think you are doing, refusing food? Are you trying to kill yourself?” 

You grin at him as best as you can with him squeezing your face. He makes a frustrated noise. 

“It’s called a hunger strike.” 

“Strike? Strike?” Daemon shouts, shaking you harshly. You let your body go lax, hoping it makes you less dizzy. You feel like you might pass out. “What in the world does that mean? You little…”

“My Prince…” The healer sounds concerned. “She looks like she is about to throw up.” 

“Hell if I care!” Oh, it seems like you really angered him, you think to yourself. The thought feels distant and cloudy. Your vision starts to blur. Are you about to pass out? A sharp sting to your cheek brings you back to your senses. You blink, trying hard to focus. What have you done to yourself? Daemon has his hand raised, as if about to slap you again. The healer is making distressed sounds. “Listen to me, little brat. You will drink your tea and eat, or else I will force food down your throat until you choke.” 

Your eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. You start shaking your head. 

“Broth. She will have to have broth, if you want her to be alright. Her stomach will be unable to handle more at first.  We can lace it with Milk of the Poppy.” The healer says, in a low voice. It’s clearly aimed at Daemon, but you sit up straighter. You recognize that name. It was something like an opioid, right?

“No, no. That's a sedative. No. I don’t want it. You will poison me.” You start tearing up in sheer terror.  Panic is choking you up, making you unable to think clearly. Daemon laughs, humorlessly. 

“That’s the problem?” Daemon’s voice is harsh and loud, making you wince. He grabs a carafe of water sitting on your table. He takes a big gulp, making sure you see. Then, he passes it to you.  His hand goes menacingly towards his sword. With no other choice, you drink. That’s how your hungry strike ends. Defeated not even a week in.

It takes you a few days to go back to your previous strength. Daemon’s visits become more frequent. He eats with you twice a day, always tasting before you the nutritious broths and milk glasses you are given. With no excuse and under his watchful eye, you have to eat. 

As you recover, you get the strength to explore. Your new rooms were not bad. It could even be called a vacation. You didn’t have this, with Rhea. You had had a nice room for a servant, which was in reality a normal room for a person of the twenty-first century. A bed, a small table and a chair. With a window because you had told Rhea you were unable to stand closed spaces. 

This room was not like it. There was one window, high enough for you to need a chair to reach it. You had no chair or table, only a bed. The bed was comfortable enough, the room spacious. It allowed you to pace a lot. You had books on Old Valyria, written in High Valyrian. If you thought Middle English was hard, it was because you had not met this terrible language. 

You were determined to crack it, though. If High Valyrian was the Westeros's equivalent of Latin, perhaps you could find something more about how to get back to your time. All books of greater knowledge had been written in Latin, that you knew. It had been the language of intellectuals. Perhaps High Valyrian was the same. 

It provided a good distraction, seeing as the room was bare aside from the bed and stack of books. And… Well. The candles. It looked more in here like the altar of a church, with how many there were. There was also incense, always burning. Perhaps as a way to amplify your powers because you had not seen anything like it during your year in Westeros. You wondered how much it had cost. 

Your powers. Good God, what a joke. You had tried telling Daemon and Viserys, but it was no use. At most, they patted your head and said the poor little dreamer was confused with so many visions of the future. No one would listen to you. 

Both of them seemed to think there was something sacred in you. Daemon had gotten you new clothes, thin white shifts. To you, it looked like a sluttier version of a roman toga. 

“As the priestess of Old Valyria used to wear.” Daemon had proclaimed, proudly. You had rolled your eyes, but you were soon wearing them. Your clothes just got too dirty to stay in them, and the silk felt cold and soft on your overheated skin. Allowed only one bath per week, there is not much you can do about your cleanliness apart from changing clothes.  

It takes time, getting used to your own skin again. After a year of nearly wearing as many layers as an onion, you were back to simpler clothes. No undergarments had been supplied, but you couldn’t stand the feel of your dirty ones, too worried about getting a UTI and dying because there were no antibiotics here. 

Daemon visits you daily. He sits there and stares, fascinated by you. As if you were an exotic animal. It’s one of those days when you speak your first word to him. It’s difficult to build the courage for another escape attempt. 

“I was wondering if I could have some ointment for my wrists.” You say, very quietly. He is sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring at you with absolute fascination. It’s a bit creepy. “My Prince.” 

That’s what you have heard other servants call him. You are uncertain if you should do as Rhea did and call him husband. Both of them had had rather creative nicknames for each other and so, whatever protocol they used might be incorrect. 

Rhea. Poor Rhea. You don’t want to share her fate, but you would rather not surrender to Daemon either. You feel guilty for even thinking about it. 

Rhea appears in your dreams, every night. Her laughter, her voice, her corpse. Did he cremate her? Bury her? You can’t remember, and no one has told you. You wish you could visit her resting place, perhaps leave her flowers. Maybe get her advice. You miss it dearly. 

“What's wrong with your wrists?” Daemon steps towards you, and you flinch. His past treatment of you is still too fresh. He is a ruthless man, you remind yourself. Play nice. 

"They are sore.” You try to look relaxed, forcing the tense line of your shoulders to drop. Relaxed. Nice and pliant, for your psycho husband. Polite, and just the slightest bit whiny. He fetishizes immaturity, you remember. Younger girls. Laena and Rhaenyra both were. “I have been chained up for days. I don't want the cuffs to cut my skin, I might get an infection." 

He takes your wrists in a very gentle grip. You don’t know why, but his hands on the cuffs make you start to tear up. Too much. You are overwhelmed, suddenly. It’s as if the grief has come crashing down all at once. 

“You hurt yourself.” Daemon says, looking at your wrists from all angles. There are raised lines on them, from all the tugging you and him had been doing. “I’ll get you softer ones.” 

He brushes a thumb over your cheek, and you sob even harder. Daemon does not seem bothered by your fear or your tears. No. He presses his wet thumb to his lips, as if he is barely conscious of it. It sparks an image in your mind. Under him, crying, his lips drinking up your tears. 

You shake your head, as if you could vanish the image from your mind. You need to be on your best game, tonight. Head clear and not scared anymore. Fear clouds the mind, and you can’t afford that if you hope to deceive him. 

“You don’t want softer cuffs, Dreamer?” 

You don’t answer. You give a tiny sniffle. 

“I… I miss my sister. I miss my home.” You look up at him, with a tear stained face and big sad eyes. Daemon brushes your cheek, again. “I want to go home.” 

“You have to be calm, little one.” He whispers, kissing your forehead. You feel cold all over, as if submerged in a pool of despair. Focus. You need to focus because you can tell he is close to breaking. You need to take a mile when he gives an inch if you want to survive. 

“I wish to go home.” You repeat, starting to pout. 

“This is your home now.” Daemon kisses your cheek, softly. You whine, low and sad. All bratty princess. You hope he falls for it. Daemon’s non-existent brows pinch together. Hook… Line…  “What about this? If you are good, and share a useful secret with Viserys, we can go back to Runestone.” 

Runestone! Finally, finally. To be near Rhea and perhaps the chance to escape. You have him. You have him by the balls, and he doesn’t know it yet. Fool.

“I’ll try, husband.” You force yourself to smile, as if you were the happiest girl in the world. He looks pleased. 

You wait a few days to drop the bomb on Viserys. It would do no good, if you share all your limited knowledge of the Dance and end up losing what little leverage you have. It wouldn’t be good, either, if Daemon thought you could summon visions at a whim. 

“Alicent will misunderstand your words, and Otto will take advantage of it to place Aegon on the throne. He will grow into a fine drunk.” 

As Otto Hightower falls, you rise. It feels like a dirty thing to do, but you want to go back to Runestone more than anything. You know the terrain there, you could have a chance at escaping. From what you remember, Otto’s only sin had been being too ambitious and pimping Alicent out. But he is Daemon’s enemy, and if you drag him down, it pleases him. A pleased Daemon is a better Daemon. He gets sloppy when he is smug. 

Daemon has no choice but to take you back. Dreamers must be kept calm and cared for. And you would be very upset if he goes back on his word. Your power could wane. You make sure this is clear to him. 

It’s back at Runestone he makes a mistake. He has had the guards that opposed him replaced. But he has given no thoughts to the servants. 

Mina is the one assigned to serve your food, out of all the kitchen girls. Perhaps Daemon handpicked her because he thought her easy to intimidate after their first meeting. Perhaps it’s just sheer luck. 

“He has ordered for you to have a special diet, milady.” She explains, as she places a tray down by your bed. You have yet to acquire a table, Daemon thinking it too much of a risk. He has no idea. 

“Mina, I’m not…” You hurry to correct her. You would never want to be called by Rhea’s title. It feels like disrespecting her memory. And it’s strange, too. To be treated with such deference. Not even in your time had anyone treated you as if you were royalty.

Had you pulled a similar stunt as you did with the healer with a doctor, you would have probably been institutionalized. If the doctor didn’t press charges for assault and battery first, of course. 

“Not a Lady? You own this castle. That man might be parading around like a peacock, but I much rather serve you.” Mina says, sitting on the edge of your bed. She is not meant to, but neither of you care. This is the only normal conversation you have had in nearly a month. 

“What’s all this about?” You point at the tray, when it’s clear you won’t be able to convince her. It’s filled with a strange array of food. Used to your broths and cups of milk, and light soups and bread, you wonder what this is all about. There is a cup with warm milk, as always, but this time smells of clover. There are also eggs, and seafood. 

“They are meant to stir desire and aid conception.” She points to each item. “It should all be eaten warm, or so Thea says. Else it will cool you.” 

“I think I will never…” You start saying, but Mina grasps your hands, urgently shushing you. Her jaw jutts towards the door, seemingly aware of something you are not. Heavy footsteps. Boots. They pause at your door, before resuming their path. 

“Don't say that. Don't. We might joke around about it, but he always gets his way. Men like him, they don't know how to lose.” She whispers, urgently. Trying to look out for you. You think of the possible consequences of saying such a thing in front of Daemon. It’s not a pretty picture. 

“They really don't.” You agree, sadly. 

Daemon does not know how to lose. That much is true. But neither do the two of you. It is only a week before Mina slips you the key to your room, taken from an unsuspecting guard. 

It’s not easy, waiting for the right time to use it. You have to do it before breakfast is served, so no one notices the key to be missing. Acting too soon means endangering Mina and you. 

The hour of the witch, then. Fitting. These people actually believe there might be ghosts roaming the halls at three am. With your white shifts and chains, you could pass as one if not looked at closely. 

When the sky looks dark enough, you open your door and run. Runestone is silent, in the quiet of the night. Servants would rise at the first rooster's crow, you know because you used to, the first days before meeting Rhea. You make sure to stick to their passages and corridors, and not the main ones, less some guard is still roaming the halls. 

It feels like an eternity, the time spent running as silently as you can. Your pulse pounds loudly in your ears. When you finally exit the castle, you nearly sob in relief. It’s astonishing that no one has caught you yet. 

Now comes the hard part. You have to find a way to get out of the Vale, fast. Somewhere far enough that Targaryen influence will not touch you.  And get rid of the cuffs while you are at it. 

Rhea had a hunting lodge, on the edge of the grounds. There she kept all sorts of weapons and knives to skin animals with. Perhaps something there can be useful to break your chains and protect yourself while on the road. You decide to head there, but do not dare take the path, afraid of discovery.

The moon shines brightly, the sky clear. It’s a good night to escape because you can actually see where you are going. You know the forest, having rode with her many times through it. Even if you found hunting disgusting, Rhea liked to take you with her. If you go through it, you could get where you need to be and avoid the path.  

You give yourself a silent pep talk, reminding yourself that at least the grass and moss will be gentler on your feet than the earth. You try to ignore your doubts about if you will actually be able to get there, reminding your way in the middle of the night. 

As soon as you could, you were so getting shoes. A sudden, shrill screech makes you rush into the forest, hoping the darkness conceals you. You know that sound. Caraxes. He shouldn’t be here. The dragonpit Daemon had ordered to build for him is on the opposite end of the grounds, to avoid him setting the whole forest aflame. 

It can only mean two things: He either escaped or Daemon took him out for a ride. Neither are good for you. 

You pray to whoever that’s listening to cloak you, let the darkness be enough to be kept unseen. Your heart beats even faster, muscles tense and ready to dart away. Ducking behind some bushes, you try to muffle your breath with your hands, silently starting to cry. 

It’s not quiet enough. The tree next to you catches fire, and you scream. You were so close! So close, you could almost taste freedom. And it was taken away from you, again. 

“Ah, Wife! Come to lure me back to bed?” 

You shiver. Daemon urges Caraxes to fly lower and extends a hand in silent demand. He can’t actually land here, not without ruining half the forest. But it’s clear what he wants. 

Is there something more terrible than being forced to climb back into your captor’s arms, with bound hands? You don’t dare ask. But probably. You don’t want to know what he will do to you in punishment. 

The scandal rises all the castle. Confused servants and guards pour out of the rooms to watch the ruckus occurring in the dining hall. You feel absolutely humiliated, in the sheer shift, barefooted and dirty, while Daemon scolds you as if you were a child. 

“What in the Seven Hells were you thinking?” He shakes you, roughly. For a moment, you fear he might kill you right there. You look at the crowd of servants and shrink into yourself. Daemon follows your gaze. 

“Ah.” He pulls out a chair and pushes you to sit there. You go meekly, too embarrassed to drag it further. You feel like you stink of failure. Slowly, with each thwarted escape attempt, hopelessness is starting to take hold of your heart.  “I suppose I can't blame you, for taking an opportunity when it arose. Question is…” Daemon pulls another chair and straddles it backwards, perching his chin on the backrest.  He glares at the servants. “Who allowed it?” 

The servants stay in silence. You close your eyes fearing giving Mina away. No one speaks for a long while, all of you frozen in the face of Daemon's rage. His chair creaks when he gets up. You keep your eyes firmly closed. 

There is a sudden weight in your lap. You open your eyes and there is Mina's terrified face, looking right into yours. 

“I have found a traitor. Do you know what happens to traitors here?” Daemon asks you. Your eyes widen. You shake your head. “Oh, I think you do, Lady Wife. But I will be merciful. After all, she is your little friend.” 

He gestures for a guard to approach. The man does, and Daemon whispers something in his ear. You look at Mina, still on your lap, whose lips are silently moving. Praying. You squeeze her hands. She squeezes yours back. She can't see that the guard has returned with a whip. 

You try to say something, but Daemon is faster. He cracks the whip against the back of her nightclothes, which do little to soften the blow. Mina's eyes widen, filled with tears, and she screams loud and shrill, nearly falling off from your lap. 

“I'm thinking… Fifty?” Daemon smirks, raising the whip again. 

“Daemon, please.” You beg, as Mina desperately clutches at your shoulders. 

“I'm not really in the mood to listen to you.” Daemon brings the whip down again, making Mina scream. Oh, how you regret now trying to escape. You should have never tried. “Next time, do not be so familiar with the help.” 

The next time he hits her, it's you who starts crying. Mina shakes her head and pinches you, but you still beg. 

“Daemon, please. Please, no more.” 

He ignores you, cracking the whip again. You scream with her. The coppery scent of blood fills your nostrils, and you know he has to be hitting the same spot on purpose because there is no way he is drawing blood this soon without being cruel. The next time the whip goes down, you throw both of you on the ground, trying to protect her from more hits. The whip hits you around the shoulder. 

“You just never learn, do you?” Daemon pulls you off Mina, kicking and screaming. “Willing to do anything to protect this whore who has done nothing to help you.” 

“Please, please. I will take it for her. Please, she only got me the key, surely that's not…” You keep on pleading because while you might not have known Mina a lot, it was a horrid thing, watching someone be whipped because they tried helping you. Her only crime was trying to do the right thing, when no one else dared to. Bravery. 

“Oh? You wish to trade places? As if you were some worthless little whore?”  Daemon taunts, still holding you in his arms. 

“Daemon, please.” 

“You are my wife. Perhaps once you were to be a worthless little whore. But you are mine, now.” His hand brushes the curve of your neck. A threat and a caress, all rolled into one. 

“Something else! Something else! We can negotiate, please.” At this point, you would agree to anything, desperate as you are to save Mina’s life. 

His eyes glimmer. He has what he wanted. 

“Put the girl in the cells. I will see to her in the morning. Right now… I have to tend to my wife.” 

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[two-white-butterflies]

coaxed you into paradise - c. 30

Description: The life of Saera Targaryen told in four acts. She was her father's forgotten daughter, cast aside as she looked nothing like her mother. Her younger days were spent beside her uncle. Years following her marriage with Ser Harwin Strong, she catches him in an affair with her older sister. She returns to seek solace in the arms of her uncle, that she's loved all her life.

TW: death, murder, sexual assault, assault in general.

(Coaxed You Into Paradise and High Infidelity Rewrite.)

masterlist for this series

Chapter Thirty: Blood and Cheese II

The Dragons descended into Westeros with avarice, and with avarice their dynasty continues onwards. Blood against blood, dragons against dragons. The Targaryens have conquered the six-kingdoms, yet their their biggest enemy is themselves.

Alyssa, the princess was always drawn to the ocean. She liked the feel of the waves on her knees, the rough sand on her barefoot. She holds her son, Aelor, close to her bosom. "Where could your father have trailed off to?" she mused, staring deep into her son's eyes.

Aemond days ago.

Alicent would not provide her a clear answer.

Cordelia peeks through the small curtain that hid Alyssa's body. "The Queen calls for you, princess." she bowed. Alyssa's eyebrows merged into each other. "It is far too early in the morning for conversation," she smiled, hoping to dismiss the handmaiden.

"I-I, well the Queen was very firm. It would be best to follow her, princess." the handmaiden stuttered, knowing something that her lady did not. A creature of doubt builds inside of her ribcage. Alyssa was no stranger to war.

Her real father, Daemon Targaryen, fought thousands of them before she was whelped into the world. "Is it important?" her frown deepened and the handmaiden nods. "Very well, prepare my gown and take good care of Prince Aelor." she commanded while rising to her feet.

A dragon does not cower behind the four walls of her bedroom. She fights all her battles, the same.

Alyssa takes a step forward, entering the threshold of her good-mother's bedroom. There were pastries scattered on the table, a warm cup of tea waiting for her.

"Your grace." she curtsied, then licking her chapped lips. "Alyssa, how kind of you to join me." Alicent smiled with a knowing stare. There was something behind those brown irises that unnerved her. "Have you seen Prince Aemond?" she inquired with a cautious tone.

"Your grandfather is dead and the soldiers march for war against Rhaenyra." Alicent says frankly, no longer interested in sugar-coating her words. A gasp escapes her mouth. King Viserys was dead? "I have sent my son away to make negotiations with House Baratheon." she adds, her eyes filled with much more sorrow than usual.

Alyssa tries to calm herself down, but her heart was filled with anger.

"You thought it would be fit to usurp the rightful Queen?" she questioned, still trying to keep her tone soft.

"King Viserys told me before he died, that he changed his mind."

"- thought that Aegon was deserving of his titles." Alicent lied.

Alyssa clenches her fists. "- but that isn't the truth, isn't it?" she argued, wanting nothing more than to jump into the arms of her beloved husband. If Aemond was beside her, she'd convince him - they'd defect and crown the rightful Queen.

"You need not lie to me. If I had been in your shoes, I would've done the very same. It is not everyday that a woman's son becomes King - but even the blind could see that Prince Aegon is not a worthy heir." she presented clear, and offense strikes the Queen Mother's face.

"He is greater than his father. He listens to his advisors." Alicent grits her teeth, unamused at Alyssa's defiance. "- and I assume that you believe yourself to be his advisor." she antagonized. "You were the King's advisor too, but that did not save you. My Queen, I apologize for my brashness, but you do not wish to be free, you merely wish to create a window of your prison." Alyssa scoffed.

Queen Alicent was about to respond, but a knock halts their argument. Her uncle, Lord Larys Strong, marches inside of the chambers. "Queen Alicent, Princess Alyssa." he curtsies, quickly sashaying to Alicent's side.

He leans forward, whispering a few strings of words, but the premise was clear enough for Alyssa.

Prince Lucerys Velaryon was dead, and Aemond had been the one to butcher him.

Saera takes a deep breath, in fear of what Rhaenyra was capable of. "One cannot even imagine the pain she's feeling right now, I fear that she'll do something. She'll want to get even." the White Princess breathes, playing with the bracelet on her wrist.

"- that means that Alyssa and Aelor are in danger?" Daegon inquires, his eyebrows merging into each other. He couldn't bare the thought of harm coming to his twin sister.

Daemon presses his fingers to his lips.

"Rhaenyra will not harm them. We are her strongest allies, losing us could mean losing the war." he gave his informed opinion. "- still, you are right, love. Alyssa and Aelor will not be safe in Kingslanding."

"We are caught in a limbo, then?" her eyes narrowed. "We must get our daughter back, yet we are stuck here - and the mere sound of our arrival could mean death." she takes a sip of her wine.

She was trying to keep up her stone-cold facade, so that her son wouldn't be rattled, but all she wanted to do was cry. Her mind couldn't help but drift off to Alyssa. She must be scared.

Daemon places a tender hand on her shoulder, already aware of the inner workings of her mind. He gives her stare, promising her that everything would be fine in the end. "I have spies in Kingslanding. I'll attempt to have Alyssa back - Aelor, I believe will be safer there."

"We shouldn't involve ourselves in this war, muña. It is between Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Aegon. Let us flee to the Free Cities, take everyone and never return." Daegon suggests.

Daemon glares at his son.

"Dragons do not run with their tails in between their legs. We fight our battles, and Rhaenyra's battle is our own. The same blood flows through our veins." he corrected, wholly understanding of his son's cowardice. "Viserra and Daelon are children, in times of war, horrible things happen to children." Daegon defends.

"But we are here, all of us to protect them. A house united, is a house unbreakable." Saera breathed, and only then did Daegon's eyes softened. "- and when war is over, the dragon feeds."

Aelor's face was soft - almost the same visage as his grandmother. There was a smile on his face, oblivious of the torment that was to ensue, Ser Criston takes a seat beside Alyssa. "He is safe, but not for long." he whispered, so only Alyssa could hear his opinion. "He is guarded by four walls, and a dozen guards. Surely Princess Rhaenyra will not harm us? Not Aelor?" Alyssa frowns, the knight shakes his head. "She may not harm you, but she will harm Prince Aemond's son. She will seek revenge." he scowled.

Alyssa couldn't do anything but blame her husband - her good-mother, and everyone involved in supplanting Princess Rhaenyra. "Then you must make it your personal goal to protect Prince Aelor." she pleaded, staring deep into his honeyed eyes.

"I shall do my best, but it is not a guarantee." Criston bows.

Rhaenyra takes a deep breath, staring at the men in front of her. “Mysaria mustn’t know of this,” she asserted - knowing that the whore was on her sister’s side. “- I want you to execute Prince Aelor.” she commanded, dropping a few gold coins on the table. 

“It will be done, my lady.” the older man replies with a smirk. 

“What’s your name again?” She raised her eyebrows. 

“My name’s Blood.” 

“And I’m Cheese.”

Saera wasn't one to wait for the proper timing. She had her mind set on one goal, and she'd exert all of her efforts into getting it.

"Lady Mysaria, what are you doing here?" Alyssa frowns, holding Aelor close to her chest once more. "There is a clear passage back to Dragonstone, your mother intends for you back within a fortnight." Mysaria informs, taking a step forward.

"What about Bluefyre? Aemond? Aelor?" Alyssa asks.

"You may take Aelor, but the dragon and your husband must remain." Mysaria made a decision of her own. "I cannot leave without them." Alyssa says clearly, hoping to provide salvation for the ones to be left behind. "You forget that it was your husband who betrayed you first." Mysaria articulated, her voice suddenly becoming cold.

Alyssa's heart breaks, recognizing that the woman wasn't lying. "He murdered a child, your cousin." Mysaria attempts to sway the Princess. "- I have not spoken to him since before that night. I'm sure that if we were to have a conversation, things would be clearer." Alyssa defended, it was her right and oath.

When she vowed to marry the One-Eyed Prince, she also vowed to be understanding, to always present alibis when it came to him, and to always be loyal, even when the circumstance proved to be difficult. "I wish that it was that easy, but we do not have much time. We cannot leave right now, but tomorrow - use the secret passages that your uncle taught you. Meet me in Princess Saera's solars, and we shall leave for Dragonstone."

Princess Alyssa couldn't sleep. Her heart was beating rapidly, threatening to come out of her chest. She was tossing and turning, unable to find even a blink of rest. Today, she was a spoil of war - a prisoner in her own home, but tomorrow, mayhaps, she'll be free.

Why must it all come down to this? A year of marriage with her much beloved husband was turning into another tragic tale. Alyssa wished nothing more than to be free of the narrative, to live somewhere where these - things couldn't come near her family.

An object falls loudly on the floor, Alyssa reaches for the dagger underneath her pillow. "Aemond?" she cleared her throat, "Princess," a gruff voice replies, and another man steps into the light. It was not her husband - it was a different man.

He was broad and tall, he had a stubble on his chin. "Who are you?" she pointed the dagger at him. "I'm Blood, and my brother is Cheese. We were sent here to murder your son." he says casually.

"Not him," she shielded her son away from their view. Aelor, was unfortunate enough to be laying beside her on the bed, instead of his own room with the handmaidens. Blood and Cheese must've known, but who could've sent them?

"A son for a son," Blood grins.

A chill ran down her spine.

Princess Rhaenyra?

"What did she pay you, I shall double it?" Alyssa pleaded, vulnerable in her thin nightgown, her body almost bare to the eyes of the intruders. It made her feel dirty, tainted almost.

"Gold does little to deter us, Alyssa." Blood takes a step forward, only a few inches away from her. "Then you'll have to go through me." Alyssa bravely defends. "That will not be hard."

She stands up from the bed, remembering all her lessons with Prince Daemon. Even when she's standing on the bed, her head barely reaches Blood and Cheese's forehead. He tries to move his hand forward, but Alyssa manages to sever his little finger.

"Cunt," Blood mumbled, anger pumping through his veins. He raises his free hand, slapping Alyssa across the face, sending her on her knees. "You are still a little girl eh'. You can't defeat me." he antagonized, commanding his brother to pull her back.

Cheese carries her with ease, dragging her on the floor. "Please I beg of you, if Prince Daemon or my mother finds out about this - no god shall save you." she cursed at them, fighting through Cheese's malevolent hold. "Take me instead, please!" she screamed, in shock that no one has heard yet.

"Do whatever you want with me, but not my son." she cried.

Cheese chuckles, pressing her back to his chest. "Whoring yourself out to us? Desperate." he teased, and Aelor cries loudly.

Blood carries Aelor by the neck, muffling his cries of agony. "Maybe when we're done with this little runt, we'll fuck a bastard inside of you." he chuckled, opening a window and threatening to let go of Aelor. Tears began to flow harder from her eyes, Valyrian whispers of revenge, until Blood lets go.

And her son falls to his death.

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