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vilhelios · 2 months

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— IF YOU'RE THE SACRED SCRIPT, I AM THE HIEROPHANT.

( if you're the holy church, i'm gonna worship . ) ; the old, dusty tomes that amund gives you state that the lemurian gods are perfect, flawless beings. not a single scar or freckle adorns their skin, no emotion creases their hallowed faces.

cw: fluff !!! ; established relationship ! ; abysswalker!rafayel <3 + brief mentions of god of the sea rafayel; slight spoilers for rafayel's sea of golden sand and forgotten sea (?) myths + siren's song anecdote; i am the self-proclaimed ceo of lemuria world building (lemuria lore headcanons!) 💪 ; not beta-read !!!

" THE GODS ART PERFECT BEINGS — FLAWLESS IN FORM AND IN ESSENCE ; THEIR SKIN IS UNMARRED, NAY SCAR OR FRECKLE ADORNS THOSE DIVINE. NAY LINE OF EMOTION MARKS THEIR HALLOWED, PRISTINE VISAGE. "

"RAFAYEL?" you ask, your voice so loud in the quiet dark of night. a hum, a shift in the arms that hold you. "i heard that the gods are perfect."

“they are supposed to be, yes.” rafayel murmurs, hands gently carding through the strands of your hair. the desert is quiet tonight, not a single howl of wind, or a curious fennec fox or gerbil, race across the expanse of sand. the only sounds in your ears are the mingled breaths and synchronised heartbeats of you and your dear abysswalker, tangled beneath the sheets in your shared tent.

his blue-pink eyes stare, searching your gaze. the dark circles beneath them are prominent in the shadows cast by the silvery moonlight. you watch as he takes in a deep breath, and then exhales: "... what books did amund give you today, my love?"

"you know very well that all amund gives me are books and scrolls about lemuria," you huff, thinking of the stack of dusty old books the old man had shoved into your hands at noon, "which would not bother me, if he did not sneer so condescendingly while he gave them to me."

"alright, alright." he sighs, there will be things to discuss with amund in the morning, if the slight exasperation in his tone is anything to go off of. and then, he asks, voice gentle: "what did you learn about the gods, my heart?"

" OUR GOD OF THE TIDES HATH BEEN TAINTED. HIS SKIN HATH BECOMETH SPECKLED. HIS HEART HATH BEEN SURRENDERED. NAY LONGER PERFECT IS HE, WHO IS'T HATH, IN LOVESICK FOLLY, GIVEN BOTH LIFE & DOMAIN. "

"they say you are no longer perfect." you murmur, brushing your lips against his jawline, "using their definition, perhaps they are right. you have scars, and little beauty marks."

"the scars are inevitable. you should know it yourself, my heart." he sighs, solemn, "but they dissolve with us during each seamoon ceremony — i am not reborn with the scars of my past."

"and the beauty marks?"

he hesitates, a bit. there's a far-away look in his eyes that you've grown used to seeing. "they persist and accumulate." rafayel states eventually, as if it's fact, "new ones appear, but i never lose them."

"you never lose them?" you echo, and he nods.

leaning into him, you inspect his face as best as you can in the moonlight. your lips graze his cheek, right above where one lies below his eye. another lies at the tip of his nose, and you repeat the action, rafayel's breath hitching beneath your touch. another sits at the bridge of his nose, and you feel his eyelashes flutter against your skin as you continue.

"there is something about them, in the books." you start, a hand coming up to cup his cheek. rafayel leans into the warmth of your touch (after all, you think, grimly, a stray dog will take all the food it is offered, afraid to go hungry again), and you continue with a smile against his skin, "they say that they represent where your lover loved to kiss you, in your past lives."

rafayel hums, holds you ever closer in his arms, considers the thought. when he falls silent, you know he is aeons away; somewhere below the waves, somewhere thirty thousand years away—you patiently wait for his return, like the shore that welcomes a weary sailor home. a gentle kiss is pressed to right above where his heart should be, and another in the middle of his collarbone. it's instinct, second nature, as natural as the way waves lap at the shoreline and leave seafoam in their wake.

"perhaps there is some truth in that." he finally says, returned to your side from his reverie. he presses a kiss to your temple, a gentle smile against your skin, "after all, it seems you still do as you used to, even now. determined to uphold tradition, are you?"

( & aeons ago, beneath the waves, lies the first mark; the first bearer of sin in eden. a young god of the sea laughs, a rumble in his chest, as his beloved kisses right above where his heart should be. every touch is reverent, like tending to an altar. it is no wonder, then, that he entrusted his heart to such a devout worshipper — after all, it will be in loving hands. )

a/n : hi hi hi i think lnd needs to CALM DOWN with all the rafayel banners or i'm gonna intervene. quite rushed and not as deep symbolism woooo as the last one because i was in a haze.... abysswalker my beloved is as odd to write as usual but i think it's not too ooc... also this is just a little manifesting/tribute thing for my god of the sea rafa myth pulls today i want him to come home !!! i'm so so excited for the myth story !!!! good luck to anyone pulling! may the god of the sea give us his heart without us needing to open our wallets 🫧💕 if you sent in a request recently for the follower event, thank you! it'll still be a bit until i can answer them, but it shall be done !!! <3 will be crossposted to my ao3 if you prefer the fic being in actual capitalisation and in normal text!

update: i had to drag him home with 130 pulls ,,,, i also spedran the myth,,, guh buh,,, whadahell,,, someone please talk to me about them,,,,

#love and deepspace headcanons #love and deepspace x reader #rafayel x reader #rafayel fluff #rafayel headcanons #love and deepspace fluff #qi yu headcanons #qi yu x reader

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dragonagecompanions · 9 months

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DAI romances react to Inquisitor’s "death" in "here lies the abyss". Like, he/she supposedly left them behind, to not to endanger them. So, the siege begins, they get inside Adamant, but the inquisitor is nowhere to be found. They run to the bridge where he/she was supposed to be and see it collapsed. One of agents says that and Inquisitor, along with the Warden and Hawke, fell into a cliff. What would they do while the siege of the fortress continues? And how would they react to the return? tnx

Cassandra: She does not want to believe it, at first. It has taken so long for her to open her heart to this man, and somehow over these long months the last Seeker has convinced herself that he is untouchable. Haven, the Conclave, the Anchor-- nothing can stop him for long. It was the same mistake she made with Anthony, and the same terrible grief threatens not only her soul but in battle her safety as well. There is enough distraction at least that the fear and the grief do not have long to hold onto her before he returns.

But later, when the screams of battle have ended and he is safe in her arms again, she will let the fear pull unwelcome tears-- and be soothed that he is still there to comfort her.

Solas: It is a judgement blow to the world, that it is the Gray Wardens and their folly that have stolen his Vhenan from him. She was a touchstone in a world so shattered from its proper place-- and her abscence destroys any chance of mercy from the Dread Wolf. He remains at the battle only because he must - and oh it tears at him- disinter her from the rocks to reclaim the power of the Anchor and that is a process best left to the Inquisition. The anger that wells up in him is vented at those who still oppose the Herald's forces, and there is no mercy from the soft spoken apostate until news reaches them that their fearless leader yet lives.

To hold her again, even for the few moments he can allow them, is a paradise. Even if he someday must betray her, even unto the ending of all she has known, it will at least be with a proper farewell and apology.

It is not enough, and yet as he holds her close at the end of the battle, it is enough for the momoent.

Blackwall: It staggers him. To lose her at all is devastating, but for her to fall while trying to help the Wardens is...

Is like standing in the rain and knowing the Warden who saw good in a disgraced captain wasn't coming back from the Deep Roads. The guilt and the shame are like a knife, but knowing that his lies might well have driven her on burn like poison. There is no antidote for his agony, and he can only turn himself to the battle; he can save at least those who were truly brave enough to take the oath and fight the corruption in their ranks.

When she comes back to him, whole and hale and as beautiful as ever, it breaks something in him. When they return to Skyhold he will tell her everything, and there will be no more lies between them.

Dorian: This was always a chance. That was a given going in, an acceptable risk to this whole arrangement, and while it hurts of course at least there is the comfort that the Herald fell...the Inquisitor died doing his...

Maker, he can't even lie to himself. It's devastating, and the moment the Tevinter mage hears the world seems to jolt on his axis. Of course the man he was beginning to love could not survive; there is no destiny kind enough to give Dorian Pavus a chance at the kind of love that last the ages. And so he will give it a story to shake the heavens instead. Those who fight alongside the Inquisition's necromancer will never forget how their foes rose in legions to attack former allies, nor the panic that sprung up in the ranks of their enemies. There are none brave enough to comment on the tears that stream down the mage's face for the battle either, and few willing to stare at him long enough to notice it besides.

But when it is all settled and the Herald is of course miraculously fine again, Dorian...can't. He can't go to him right away, can't hold him close until the shaking has finally stopped. There is tenderness on the road, the gentle touches that assure them both that the other is still alive, but Dorian waits until Skyhold is safe around them before he can truly believe his amatus is safe.

Then they will have words.

Iron Bull: Katoh. There are demons and mages and all manner of magicky....things trying to kill them. If he has failed as a front line body guard to his Kadan, he will not fail their inquisition. The gaping wound deep in his soul will have to wait until...

Until later. Katoh.

(Later, of course, he brings out the good rope and spends plenty of time explaining exactly why they will never do this again.)

Cullen: He wants to weep of course, to throw his sword away and scream, but there is simply no time. Thousands of souls rely on their commander to see them through, and no matter his own grief he will not abandon them. He gives orders and directs soldiers and fights on until the bitter end. When that is done he pushes onward, pushing himself to hold the line and trying to strike down his inner demons by slaughtering outer ones. There is nothing else left.

When she returns to him, there is not even an attempt to hide their reunion as some sort of debrief or meeting. The soldiers might cheer and whistle as their commander carries the Herald to his tent (not for that, lay abouts!) but as it is for their love of both commander and Inquisitor neither very much mind.

Josephine: The hours between one missive and the next are some of the most desolate she has ever known. Leliana and Cullen and all of those persons she has grown close to in the Inquisitors inner circle are gone, and so she can take only a few moments in the stairwell to that dark and hidden library to sob out her grief. If the inquisitor is indeed fallen it will require all of her acumen to keep their allies close, and that is not something that can be done in the early pain of her grief.

If she is there longer than she intended, her wails and sobs swallowed by the silent stone, no one need ever know. And blessed Andraste surely has a hand over her herald, as the next missive is jubilant in the news that her love indeed lives. Her tears are joyful now, but that does not mean she will not have words when their beloved Inquisitor returns.

Mod Fereldone

#dragon age inquisition #cassandra pentaghast #varric tethras #solas #warden blackwall #dorian pavus #the iron bull #romance #adamant fortress #gray warden

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mind-travel-er · 10 months

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The Sun's Course [Part 1]

the empire's slumber

— Pairing: Brother Day (13th) x Female reader

— Synopsis: A story in which a Genetic Engineer is recruited by Brother Darkness, in secrecy. At the wake of his death and the rebirth of his Dynasty, Cleon The Painter dares to ask questions. However, Brother Day (12th) won’t tolerate to bring those matters into the light, and especially by the one person capable of understanding its ramifications. You.

— Warning/Content: Hurt/Comfort, Cleon 13th, Touch-Starved Cleons, Character Study, inspired by S01E03.

— Word Count: 2.7 k

[read me on AO3] · [PART 2]

12,086 Era Imperial | 19 years after the fall of Star Bridge | Rule of Cleon the 12th; The Ruthless “It is treason,” you say. “I know,” answers Brother Darkness, gazing at the glass separating him from his younger self. There, in a tint of sky blue that only Surfacers had seen, was floating a little cloud. The fetus of Cleon the 14th. “That’s precisely why you are here.

You look at the rumpled traits of the third brother, in his simple linen gown made of ocean. If his younger counterparts were wrapped in royal blues, it seemed that with age, the specter of the color was sinking deeper and deeper, like his melancholy. But it’s not only age that shrivels the face of Brother Darkness. There is a glint in his eyes that only comes with the dread of one’s end. The glint falls on you. “Will you do as I ask?” Your ears have to devote themselves to truly understand his words. “Of course, Empire,” you respond before your next heartbeat. One should not refuse Empire. No one dares. And you have to close the parting of your lips and compose yourself; rewinding his request in your head. As if he were asking permission. Hands clasping the strap of your medical kit crossing your chest, you turn yourself completely towards him, making sure your eyes don’t falter when looking into his own: “I will do as you ask.” A small smile brightens his face for a moment; like a meek, flickering flame. He turns himself towards you, putting his hands behind his back, and your memories echo Brother Day and Brother Dawn with the same mannerism. Countless times, you have seen his holograms do the same ritual during public speeches. You just hadn’t pictured seeing it one day in front of you. As if we had only collectively dreamed of the Empire’s presence, never experiencing it for ourselves. “Call me Brother Darkness, Engineer. It is my place in the shadows that allows me such folly.” And it is. Terribly so. But you can’t say that, of course. You swallow, but no saliva comes. You respond nothing, your lips cautiously sealed. “Surely, you have questions. No one has come here for four thousand years, except for Demerzel and some of the Genetic Dynasty. I myself was not allowed.” He turns his head again, slowly, towards the glass. And one of his hands, gnarled and speckled, comes to rest on the barrier. If only for this obstacle, death and birth would be reunited at last. You dare to look at him, and it tames the slight freeze response gripping your body. He’s not as harsh as you imagined. There’s a softness about him that you could never hope to find in his other versions. At least, that’s your hypothesis.

Then you look around. Even for an artificial womb, with water coming up to the ground, it feels methodical and emotionless. The artificial tranquility of the sound of the fountain mixes with the harsh lines of the brutalist concrete. Even at the heart of the Dynasty, you find no warmth. You wonder if it’s perhaps one of the reasons that led to the destiny of Thespis and Anacreon. The day the only heat to be felt was fire raining down on two planets. You have to remind yourself that this Brother too has the potential to make those same decisions. No one likes doubts, and it could be argued that the foundation of all nations is stability. And stability requires certainty, not questions we do not dare ask. You think of your teachers and colleagues. Friends. Almost family for some. Streeling University suddenly seems like another planet altogether at this very moment. So, you hope this Brother can stomach uncertainty. And you ask: “Why weren’t you allowed here?” “We had rules,” he responds, perhaps not to you specifically. “Apparently, witnessing one’s own origin can lead to madness.” His head bows, and his thin, white hair acts like a blinding shield. “Perhaps…” He lifts himself again and scrutinizes the cords floating from the little body, attached to no mother and no belly. “Perhaps the same fate awaits me. Perhaps I’ve seen too much already.” You don’t comment on that last confession either. But you still have questions. “What do you hope to find, once all the samples are collected?” The white shield goes away, and a mix of blues and greens observes you. Do his younger versions have the same nuances in their eyes? “Two things, Engineer,” he says now, truly focused on you. “First, if we are indeed all the same, just as Cleon the First dreamed. I fear time and experiences change us all, despite our … common bases.” He smiles, but there are no crinkles around his eyes. “An egotistical search, no doubt. To answer if I’ll be remembered for my particularities… and if they even exist on a genetic level.”

Brother Darkness makes a few small steps towards you. Palms behind his rounded back now coming before him, opened. “Second, I want to know. Will this one be different?” You can see how wide his eyes are and how the rim of white around his iris tends to take up more space than it should. The last time you saw such a display was from a sub-level worker at the weekly market. An orange in his stained hand, crossing eyes with the Imperial Guards. You look briefly at the fetus of Cleon the 14th, brows frowning. “How so? I thought the replication was flawless. Aren’t such tests conducted again and again?” “No anymore,” he answers. “Do Luminists open the Script every time they apply their beliefs? The raw genetical code has remained untouched for centuries.” “You fear that corruption of the original material might be an issue?” You articulate. Again, his feet valiantly pace forward despite the smallness of their steps. His hands, slow and gentle, take yours. They can only feel the cold of the Aura separating the two of you. How could such a little thing prevent the most basic human interaction? “Something’s wrong. I can feel it.” “Brother Darkness?“ “Like the Sun behind the horizon just before it rises. I cannot see it. But, it’s here. Do you understand? You must conduct the tests.“ Maybe someone else wouldn’t notice the faint tremors of his fingers while he let them slip from yours. But you’re a researcher, and paying attention to details is the core of your practice. All speaks of Cleon the Painter and how he recorded history, producing the most exquisite murals ever made in Trantor. Masterful techniques that you had studied at school; moving patterns embedded in your digital manual. The cold is gone, but something much warmer stays with you. He rolls one of his navy sleeves with application, just as a child might have done during a medical exam. And suddenly, the knot in the pit of your stomach relaxes. The realization blooms in you as this version of Empire folds his linen tunic to offer the veins of his arm. Decades had reduced him to a frail figure that could barely walk without the help of a simple stick. If the man before you was responsible for an entire Galaxy, he was a man nonetheless. You examine how his bent and rigid fingers fail to grasp the unyielding fabric. How the sides of his index and major, the same ones used to sign peace, are still covered with nano-pigments that swirl and curl on themselves. Your heart tightens. And memories flow from your grandfather, usually tucked away for rainy days. Perhaps you could join and help? But the Aura is there, hanging on his wrist, guarding him jealously. You don’t want to feel the cold again. Instead, you say:

“There’s no need for blood. A simple lock of hair will do.” He stops. And his brows arch themselves. “Or… saliva, if you prefer. But I doubt that spitting in a tube would be dignified.” You feel yourself lightly chuckling. He notices your hands; coiled and away. And he’s letting out a small scoff as his eyes wrinkle. The tips of his fingers come to press on the silver bracelet, and in response, a low hum raises the hair on your forearms as it does when a summer thunderstorm is ready to burst with lightning. “You’re quite right. We can’t let that be my last contribution to this world, can we?” Empire has a sense of humor. It seems that not only color but the kindness of Brother Day would someday deepen as well. Or was it always there? Lingering just under the surface and waiting to take a breath? While searching for a more comfortable place to rest your equipment, only the sound of rippling water comes to you. The room is barren. There’s nothing to sit on. A far cry from the nursery of your little brothers, all in pale shades of apricot. Twins and twice as many teddy bears to fill the space. But here, nothing is soft or comforting. There are only three grey steps at the feet of the tanks. This will have to do. When the heat of Trantor was settling down, long walks at the end of the day were your favorite moments with your grandfather. Habits die hard and survive many, so without a second thought, your arm treads around the old man next to you, offering to slowly sit down. For a brief moment, he looks at you with something holds you in his green and blue eyes. Something you cannot quite pinpoint as you’re focused on opening your medical kit. There, amongst scalpels and test tubes, was hidden a reminder of your mother’s love. A wooden comb carved into the shape of a Ghillie raptor. “Wood,” he comments with a whisper, now looking attentively at the relic between your hands. “I thought only the Palace had that privilege.” All objects made of organic matter were indeed banned on Trantor. Those kinds of primary resources were too scarce to be transformed into commodities. The comb was a paradox: priceless because of its essence, and unsellable because no one was wealthy enough to buy it. It was just meant to exist. “My mother was a horticulturist here. She was in charge of the wild woods before her retirement.” “I know.” A smile blooms on your lips. Of course he knows. “Even wild woods on this planet are painstakingly crafted and engineered, aren’t they?” he says with a low tone. “Nature and Human-made don't have to be opposites. My mother guided life, and so am I. Tweak it and make it better. Not with trees and branches, but with threads of DNA.” Holding the warm woods between your palms, your eyes are called by the creature deep asleep. Naked and unprotected by any womb. Devoid of touch. And as you follow the invisible link between the dormant unborn baby and Brother Darkness, you observe the carefully crafted bracelet. A protection that had continued the tradition born in this tank. “Shall we?” At your question, Brother Darkness releases the gentle hold in his gaze and turns himself to offer his spine. While the carved comb brushes his hair, strings of snow intertwine briefly with your fingers, weaving unintentional caresses. A sniffle is all you hear in response; the sound that someone makes when tears are at the brim, ready to tumble. If they do, you cannot see. But a life without true touch must be a lonely one. Some scars are invisible. Time stretches itself.

True, you could have gotten the scalpel out of your kit some time ago. Instead, you comb strings after strings until there’s nothing else to do but take the surgical blade into the palm of your hand. Your fingers select a lock of hair at the base of his neck, one where the disappearance is susceptible to going unnoticed. An unsettling thought grows in your mind, whispering that you could take advantage of the inactive Aura. Make the blue linen red. Nothing to stop your surgical tool, and, no doubt, countless people had dreamed of such an opportunity. Thespis, Anacreon… And how many worlds have been wounded in 400 years? How many mothers crying out after their sons and daughters? How many deaths at the hand of his three fingers signing peace? However, in front of you, stooped and patient, there’s only an old painter. And he’s a dead man walking anyway, isn’t he? So you tuck away the intrusive thought. The blade glints, and the lock falls. “You’ll soon ascend.” You speak softly, with a simple observation at the tip of your tongue that you don’t dare quite make. Your hand clasps the genetic material into darkness. “Ah,” he rasps, “yes.” And he sighs shortly, like filling his lungs might be difficult. “Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful… It's the transition that's troublesome, you see.” “Aren’t you afraid that the end of the week will come too soon?” “That is just the thing, Engineer. Despite your best efforts and those of your kind, it will always come too soon. Even for those like me.” You wanted to ask if he could promise that your own time, and the life span of your family and friends, wouldn’t be shortened. That he would make sure, even guarantee, their safety and well-being; only for you to focus on the research. Your underfunded Faculty could receive a substantial donation for the risks you were taking. All of this was possible… if unsanctioned studies on the Genetic Dynasty was not considered treason. More so, you fear that betrayal amongst Brothers will steepen the price of your involvement in it. You don’t dare speak because answers will give you neither assurance nor security.

Instead, you place the milky lock in one of your sterile containers. From tank to test tube. Who would have thought that the time in between those two moments would be so defining for the whole galaxy? “I’ll always leave. But I fear one day I might not return.” Science is supposed to be the heart of your work; devoid of political influences or subjectivity. There’s no loyalty toward Streeling University. But it would be foolish to assume you can afford a lack of allegiance towards Empire or its lesser versions. So, you respond: “That’s why I’m here, Brother Darkness. Rest your worries on me.” Saying there’s only the obligation to help him would even be a lie, you realize gradually as your eyes fall on the wooden comb back in your pouch. There’s something more: you want to. “In the meantime, maybe you should hold on to this …” A faint blush warms the surface of your cheek. You hadn't planned on this. Yet, between your hands lies the little Ghillie raptor, waiting to be gifted. “I know it has no monetary value. Especially to the only person on Trantor that has access to timber.” He turns himself as far as his old bones might allow, wincing at the twist. You can immediately tell the waves are back in the ocean of his eyes as soon as he sees what you hold. “That’s perhaps the most precious thing someone has ever offered.” “It’s worthless wood,” you comment with a slight smile to lighten the exchange. His voice stifles, and it breaks. “It’s priceless comfort, Engineer.” Silence lingers for a few minutes as he grazes his thumb over the ridges of the wings. Then, it disappears into the abyss of his linen wear. The procedure is done, yet he doesn’t get back up. As if he was maybe waiting for the ghost of the comb to come back in his white hair. Instead, with shivering fingers still stained by swirling pigments, he touches the bracelet, and a warm light embraces him. How many times had he put this armor back on? Had he ever had the liberty to truly take it off? “I have one final question concerning your endeavor.” He only inclines his head slightly towards you, but you know he listens attentively. This is the one question you didn’t dare ask all along, until now. “Brother Darkness… What will Empire do when he finds out?”

#foundation #lee pace #cleon xiii #emperor cleon #brother day #brother day x reader #brother day x you #Cleon 13th #Cleon 13th x reader #Cleon 13th x you #ao3 #foundation apple tv

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huramuna · 5 months

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a maid's folly - chapter 7.

dark aemond x maid ofc minor aemond x floris baratheon work is 18+, minors do not interact, lest ye be smited.

previous | next

summary: a new maid from the Vale arrives at the Red Keep during a tumultuous time and becomes ensnared in the One-Eyed prince's web.

word count: 4.7k

this chapter took so long to do, so sorry for the delay. after this, we have one chapter and the epilogue. we are approaching the end!

i don't do taglists any more unfortunately, its mostly because i never remember and then feel bad about it so i've made a second blog just for reblogging my fics! @huramuna-fics -- follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings!

warnings: smut (details below cut), power imbalance, religious guilt, dark Aemond, canon typical misogyny, canon typical violence (details under the cut), Aemond being a touch starved weirdo, possessiveness, jealousy, this is going to be ANGSTY

the dog days are over - florence + the machine • am i dreaming - metro boomin, a$ap rocky, roisee

content: p in v, oral (m receiving), creampie, aemond has a breeding kink. attempted forced abortion, threats of mutilation.

They had stayed together that night and every night for a fortnight. Aemond made a point to the serving staff that he was not to be disturbed under any circumstance during the night after dinner or the morning before he broke his fast. He had shown Rosemary the tunnels connecting through the keep– her first experience with it being when he rescued her from certain death and brought her into his bedroom– and they became their haven to get to one another.

After their first coupling, Rosemary fell asleep in his bed, sprawled out next to him. She murmured in her sleep quite a lot, he noted, as he had watched her for a few hours before finally sleeping himself– but not before barring his door, just in case. When the morning light strewn from the half-drawn blinds, Rosemary’s eyes fluttered open and it took her a moment to realize where she was exactly.

Turning over, vision still blurry, her hands ran through Aemond’s hair, interweaving it between her fingers, his scent filling her nostrils and making her snuggle up closer to him. It felt very dream-like, and she wondered if she was still dreaming. Poking her nose against his head, she slipped her arms to his waist, effectively spooning him, clinging to him like a leech. The events of the previous day exhausted her, physically and mentally– she knew that her current position, to be clear, her position being naked, skin to skin with the prince in his bed, was likely a precarious one– but with the brush of death just the day before, she decided for the time being that she didn’t care. She wanted the illusion of happiness, even if only for a few hours.

Aemond gave a little grunt in response to her shifting movements, effectively dislodging her from his back, then turning over. His one violet eye was bleary with sleep, the puckered skin around his other socket twitching– he had taken out the sapphire some time during the night. His hand came up, fingertips brushing against the soft skin of her chin, then trailing up her jawline, committing the slope of her bones to memory. His lips were pursed slightly, his tongue darting out to wet them as he leaned forward, kissing her forehead slowly.

Rosemary let out a sigh of contentment, followed by a soft giggle. “Your whiskers,” she whispered, tugging his chin down in turn, her thumb rasping over his skin where the very beginnings of unshaved stubble tickled against the bridge of her nose, “Tickles.”

“Whiskers? Am I a cat now?” he grinned, letting her tug his head all she liked.

“Mmm, yes,” she responded, “A contemptuous tom cat.”

“Contemptuous,” he echoed, notching their noses together, lips ghosting over one another. “Such sophisticated vocabulary for so early in the morn.” he closed the gap and kissed her softly. It was intended to be short, sweet and chaste.

But the smallest of moans escaped her throat. He pulled back, brow perked. Her face was christened with red, eyes half-lidded as she settled against his lips again, their mouths moving fervently against one another. Aemond found it quite amusing, his mouth curved into a sly grin as he moved his hand up her bare thigh, fondling the soft, doughy flesh near her bottom.

She responded immediately, her body contorting into his, her nipples brushing against his chest. They parted momentarily, to which she was hastily whispering, “T-teach me,” she quivered, “How to please you– I want… I want you to feel like I did last night when,” Rosemary looked slightly bashful, “When you put your… mouth on me.”

“You please me just fine,” he hummed back, supplanting his mouth against her throat, leaving trails of kisses and bites.

“Please, Aemond,” she whimpered, tugging on his hair to pull his head back so they could lock gazes. “... I want to make you fall apart like you did I.”

Aemond gave a puff of acquiescence. “There are many things– but you are still injured, I don’t wish to push you,” he laid flat on his back, pushing hair out of his face. His length was standing at attention, leaking at the tip. “Use your mouth.”

She shifted her body to lay across his chest, her heart pounding in her chest. Her hand grasped at the base of his shaft, giving it an experimental tug. She felt his fingers lace themselves into her hair.

“That isn’t your mouth, little lamb,” he chastised, “Turn this way– need to see your face.”

Letting him guide her head and position her body, she was laying on her side, strewn across his legs.

“Open,” he murmured, and as she did so, he took his free hand, prodding two fingers into her mouth, suppressing her tongue. The act caused her mouth to fill with saliva, the wetness pooling just before her lip. “Keep it open.” Aemond grunted as he lowered her slowly by the hair, fixating the head of his cock into her mouth, nestling between her lips and she gave a hum of satisfaction at the salty taste. The saliva spilled over, dripping down his length and onto the patch of dark hair at the base.

Slowly, he rocked her head up and down, hardly moving down his length, but just to exemplify the motion. Loosening his hold on her hair, he let her take the lead. She gave a few kitten licks before copying the bobbing motion, eventually making her way past the tip. Her eyes, now wide open, watched his face carefully to try and catch any change of emotion. The scent of him— warm and all consuming— filled her nostrils, encouraging her further. She managed to make it more than half way down his cock before faltering, a tiny mewl escaping her as it prodded the back of her throat, a few tears spilling down her cheeks.

Aemond was good at suppressing his expressions normally, able to hide his contempt, glee or any other emotion he may be feeling within him, keeping a stone-faced facade. However– all of his premonitions and his usual well-schooled features fell apart as he watched Rosemary suck him off, those pretty, huge brown eyes wide, tears forming at her lash line from her exertions– she made little whimpering noises, similar to the ones from the night before when he was fucking her that made him go insane. This was true madness, wasn’t it? Seeing the woman you love drooling on your cock– wait. Love? Love. The notion caught him off guard, the feeling going straight to his core. He fucking loved her. He felt the tightening of his balls and knew he needed more– he reached quickly and pulled Rosemary off of his length, earning him a confused whine.

“Did I do something wrong?” she whimpered.

“No- you were perfect,” he breathed heavily, the heights of his cheeks tinged with rose, “Just… come here,” he leaned forward, picking her up easily and placating her atop his length– not inside yet, but horizontally between her folds. She was soaked, the cheeky woman. “Want to… spend inside of you.” he hummed, his stomach twisting slightly at his admission, feeling the smallest tinge of bashfulness at it. His hands squeezed her bottom, giving it a tiny smack. He was trying to hold back and not be too rough with her– she was still recovering from the ordeal– but damn the Gods if he didn’t want to take her right now, fast and hard. He wanted her on every surface of the room, every place in the Red Keep, his little cockdrunk lamb.

“Mmm,” she nodded slowly, biting her lip. Her thighs quivered as his slicked cock brushed against her clit, sending jolts throughout her. “Please.”

“I’ll do the work,” he leaned up, whispering in her ear, “Just sit back and look pretty, sweet lamb.” he kissed at her neck as he positioned her, sliding her down his length and slotting into her. He nestled nicely in her, giving her another moment to adjust.

“A-ah,” she mewled, her previously wide eyes back to their half-lidded stupor, “Feels different.”

He hummed in response, moving his hips and her body in tandem as he fucked into her, hitting that sweet spot more easily from his angle, bullying against it. His fingers left red marks on her thighs and he hoped, prayed that when she would look at them later in the mirror, she would feel him all over again– think of him. Her sweet little noises spurred him on like a call to action, his hands moving to flatten against her spine, letting her lay back on them, her nails sinking into his thighs as she tried to find purchase to stay aloft.

Even with him doing all of the work, she still looked exhausted, her face reddened, a bead of sweat forming at her brow. Her walls clenched around him as she neared her end, he guessed. His thumb grazed down from her spine to between her legs, sliding against her clit in tandem with his bucking. “C’mon,” he growled in her ear, biting on her lobe gently, “Come undone for me, my sweet girl.”

“Aemond, Aemon-d-... !” her voice came in hazy, feverish whines as she barrelled towards her end, taking him with her.

Rosemary clenched around him like a vice, burying her face into his shoulder, descending into a panting mess.

His climax followed soon after, his movements stilling as he came inside of her, grunting like a besotted dragon. “Mine, fucking mine, mine,” he growled, his nose pressed to her neck as they both caught their breaths. “Mine.”

Their days started and ended much the same way– Aemond did well on his promise to himself to have her on every surface in his chambers. On the bed, over his desk, on the floor in front of the fire. They coupled like a pair of newly-weds, unable to keep their hands to themselves for the majority of the day.

They still had to be careful, though– extremely so. Aemond did his best to investigate the man that had attacked her in the city, but by the time he returned to where the body was, all evidence was washed away. Some carefully laid questions to the City Watch turned up nothing– it was as if it never happened, the man that he killed never existed. They were also extremely careful with the possible repercussions from their pairings– Lady Jeyne had taught Rosemary the recipe for moon tea many years prior, so she made sure to have a stockpile of herbs for such occasions, although her memorization of the exact recipe was teetering on hazy. She felt much sickness throughout the day, attributing it to the tea, as it was known to upset stomachs and the like.

A full two moons after their affair began, Rosemary was in Helaena’s solar, folding clothes. She was perched on the settee while Helaena and the children were out, tidying up around the chambers. A knock at the door interrupted her focused reverie, her head lifting up. She hadn’t the faintest idea who it could be.

Opening the heavy door, Floris Baratheon was on the other side. Her features were schooled into a neutral pleasant smile. “Ah,” she started, her hands placed neatly over one another, “Is my good-sister to be here?” she asked.

Rosemary blinked. She hadn’t totally forgotten about Aemond’s impending marriage to Floris– in fact, it was one of her sources of ire. As unenthused as Aemond seemed with the match, Rosemary couldn’t help but be fearful of what it meant for them once he and Floris wed. She straightened her dress, putting on her best open-minded and objective face– trying not to think about the fact that Floris’ husband-to-be was breeding her practically every night. “Lady Baratheon,” she smiled softly, “I’m sorry, but Princess Helaena isn’t here– she is out with the children and the Queen at the moment. Is it an urgent matter, my lady? I’d be happy to take a message for her grace.”

Floris shifted slightly, inclining her neck into the chambers. “Ah– well, mayhaps you can help me, then,” she gave a saccharine sweet smile, “I am trying to embroider a gift for the princess– we are to be sisters, after all– and you should know her better than most, as her handmaiden. Would you say that would be a correct presumption?”

“Oh– yes. I am quite close with Princess Helaena and know her quite well,” she hummed, “What are you trying to embroider for her?”

“I haven’t quite started yet, I am looking for the right subject to portray. Could I interest you in tea later this afternoon, Lady Rosemary? We can talk about Helaena’s favorite things in my chambers– if it would interest you.”

Rosemary cocked her head slightly, her guard going up. She was a servant– mayhaps not as lowly as others in the Keep, but subservient nonetheless. She wasn’t entirely sure why Floris would be inviting her to tea to talk about the princess. “That is… a most gracious offer, my lady. I would love to sit with you for tea but I have much to do once Helaena and the children return– and I am not a Lady, just Rosemary is fine.” she gave a lopsided smile, fiddling with the hem of her dress as her anxiety rose.

“Please– I insist,” Floris continued, leaning forward slightly, “It will only be… fifteen minutes of your time. How about at high noon?”

Rosemary’s stomach churned as Floris stared her down. She was a servant, and was to be subservient to the others in the Keep, especially a high-ranking Lady such as Floris. She couldn’t exactly say no. Slowly, she nodded.

Floris was overjoyed immediately. “Oh, perfect! I will see you then.” she curtsied and jotted off.

High noon rode around quite quickly and Rosemary was pacing around all the while– she wore a small hole in her sleeve from her incessant picking. She knocked on Floris’ door, down the way from the main gathering of chambers in the Holdfast. “My lady? It’s… ehm, Rosemary.”

“Come in, come in,” Floris called. She was sitting at the tea table, two additional seats pulled up. “Help yourself.” she waved over her personal maid, whispering something in the young girl’s ear. The maid nodded and left right away, closing the double doors to the chamber, as well as the doors to the adjoining room they were to sit in.

“… thank you for your most gracious invitation, my lady,” Rosemary murmured, sitting down on one of the pulled out chairs, glancing at the empty one next to her. “You wished to speak of Princess Helaena?”

“Mm, yes,” Floris smiled, swirling her tea with her spoon, continuing to motion for Rosemary to drink her own. “Tell me, what does the princess fancy?”

Rosemary swallowed, staring down at her tea. The smell was oddly familiar, and yet she couldn’t quite place it at the moment, the rest of her senses overwhelmed. She didn’t take a sip, just stirred it errantly, mimicking Floris. “Oh, well, she loves bugs. It caught me off guard at first as well but you get used to it, and it becomes quite endearing. Right now she is set on procuring a Dornish Horned beetle, which is apparently exceedingly rare.”

Floris’ spoon scraped the side of her cup as she listened to Rosemary prattle on about Helaena. With each breath leaving the handmaiden’s mouth, she became more and more irritable, like flecks of porcelain breaking off of a shattering vase. “I hope you don’t mind, but I invited a friend to dine with us.”

Her mouth went dry, the alarm bells going off in her head. Turning back, she heard the hollowed thump of a cane. A slightly hunched over man approached, an unnerving smile plastered on his face. Larys Strong. “Good afternoon ladies,” he hummed, taking a seat right next to Rosemary. “How is the tea?”

Floris shifted in her seat, her eye line casted downward, away from Larys, as if afraid to meet his gaze.

“Ehm,” Rosemary started, “I hadn’t… tried any yet, truthfully.”

“Hm,” Larys leaned back in his seat, hands steepled on the top of his cane. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting, my lady. You may know me— Lord Larys Strong.” he pried a hand from his cane, offering it to Rosemary.

“Rosemary Stone, my lord,” she shook his hand— it was clammy and made her skin crawl— forcing herself to smile. “I’m no lady, my lord, just Rosemary is alright.”

“Ah? Not a lady?” he inquired, pouring himself tea, but just like Floris, not actually drinking it. “I find that quite odd, with the company you keep, rubbing elbows with the royal family.”

Her grip on her spoon tightened and she used every ounce of willpower in her body to keep a cool head. “I beg your pardon, my lord— I don’t quite understand your notion. I am Princess Helaena’s handmaiden and caretaker to her three children, but I assure you, it’s nothing more than professional obligation.” she kept her voice steady, even if it was a blatant lie.

“Ah? Ever dutiful you must be. To be requested specifically by Prince Aemond, then handed off to the princess and promoted to handmaiden so quickly– if Princess Helaena ever tires of you, mayhaps you would serve well as my handmaiden?” Larys gave a small smile, but there was no warmth behind it.

Rosemary shifted uncomfortably in her chair, feeling very much like a cornered animal. “... that is a kind offer, my lord, thank you.” she spoke methodically, staring into the expanse of her tea. She raised it to her lips, drinking in the scent. It was strong and herbal, but nothing like the usual herbs used for tea. The sticky scent lingered in her nose and churned her stomach– she didn’t wish to drink it. She knew the scent from somewhere– it smelled of resin and balsam and she could practically feel the clinging of sap to her nose. Glancing up, she looked at Floris, who was leaning forward in her chair intently, waiting for Rosemary to drink it. The scent finally registered in her mind. Tansy. Sticky, medicinal tansy. This was tansy tea– more commonly known as moon tea.

Rosemary’s demeanor and facade had been strong throughout– but her heart stopped momentarily, her eyes going wide. They know, they know. They fucking know– they know– her face told all as she placed the cup down with shaky hands. “I-I… I should really get back to the princess, she will worry if I am gone for long.” she hadn’t really thought of the possibility of her being pregnant with the prince’s child– she had taken her moontea, right?

The waft of strong mint perforated her nose then. She recognized it as wormwood– another ingredient in moontea. The one that she had forgotten. Moon tea was a very specific recipe, needed to be made with specific herbs in terribly accurate amounts, any of the amounts left out may result in the brew not doing its intended purpose: preventing a child. Drinking the wrong tea for the two moons that she and Aemond had been together– her hand clutched her stomach. Her illness she experienced throughout the day wasn’t an effect of the tea. She was pregnant– she’d missed her monthly bloods, stupidly attributing it to the tea.

Bile rose in the back of her throat as she stared down at the tea. They knew; Floris and Larys. They knew she was in bed with the prince every night, filled to the brim with his seed and then some. They meant to rid her of the child growing inside of her. Moon tea was meant to be drunk the morning after coupling, or within two days. There was no telling the effect it would have this far into a pregnancy– it would likely kill her trying to induce miscarriage.

Floris clenched the table. “Drink your tea, maid. It’s rude to not drink it.”

“P-please– I… I must… I must go– Helaena… the children.”

“What are children– but a weakness,” Larys said then, “A folly, a futility. You know the right thing must be done here, dear Rosemary. But you are hesitant, love stays the hand. Love is a downfall. We shall give you two options to choose from, Rosemary Stone. First, you shall drink the tea and leave the keep, leave the city. Second, you choose not to drink the tea– that is truly the wrong choice, I’m afraid– and you will be shipped to the Silk Street where I know of a woman whose speciality is cutting out bastard babies from the mother. She has a surprisingly high survival rate, truly. Then, you shall join the Silent sisters and become a handmaiden of the dead– a vow of silence written in blood, the wagging appendage in your mouth snuffed out, cut out, ripped out, it matters naught.”

Floris, all the while, was simmering. “You’re ruining everything– I don’t understand his obsession with you, truly! You’re a maid, a bastard at that. What is so special about you?” she stood up now, flinging her own cup to the ground. “Drink the fucking tea!”

Rosemary felt like she was floating outside of her body, her ears ringing. Her fingers felt numb as she still held the tea to her lips, trembling like a leaf. “It… it’s too late– the tea,” she croaked, “It… would kill me if I drank it–”

“All the better, then!” Floris leaned across the table, pushing the cup towards Rosemary’s mouth.

She didn’t want to drink it– she didn’t. Letting go of the cup, she pushed back against Floris’ hand, shoving her backwards, along with her tea. It all happened so fast, Floris suddenly atop Rosemary on the ground, smacking and slapping her. “You’re ruining it, ruining everything! Why can’t you just go away?!” the tablecloth came down in a crash, sending all of the porcelain to the ground.

Rosemary put her arms up once again, shielding her face from Floris’ demented assault. “St-Stop!” she was screaming now.

The doors to the solar flew open. “Ah, my good-sister to be!” it was Aegon. Aegon? Wha– “Goodness, what’s going on here?” he walked around the room, Ser Arryk behind him. “Ah, Rosemary. Helaena is looking for you, no time to be… hm, what are you two doing? Quite a precarious position, Lady Baratheon, seemingly beating my poor lady wife’s favorite handmaiden.”

Floris froze, letting up her grip on Rosemary, sliding off of her. She was silent.

“And Larys Strong– didn’t know you were an enjoyer of two women with one another, hm? Ah, but we all have our own odd proclivities, don’t we?” Aegon sauntered over to Rosemary, scooping her up into his arms. Her face was reddened from the slaps that Floris managed to get in, her nose bleeding. “I’ll be taking her, Helaena is distraught, you must understand. I’ll be sure not to mention this… indiscretion to my mother, grandsire, or brother, as a favor. Good day to you both.” he gave a wobbly bow, obviously not used to holding the weight of a woman in his arms. He walked out of the solar and into the hallway, cautiously looking side-to-side. “Ser Arryk, make sure they don’t follow.”

The knight nodded, standing at the door.

Aegon huffed, adjusting Rosemary in his arms. “I’m not cut out for this saving maidens in distress business, truly. Though, I suppose you aren’t a maiden anymore.”

“... out of all of the people, I expected you least, Aegon.”

“You underestimate the power of Helaena when she is… in her moods. Usually she’s quiet, despondent,” he slunk close to the wall, prying open a door behind a statue and descending into the tunnels, “But this time– she was incorrigible, crying, squawking– it was giving me a headache. Consider this my good act of the decade,” Aegon shrugged, walking through the tunnels with ease, he’d obviously traipsed through them frequently. “... may it be my moment of sobriety, but… you make my sister and brother happy. You’re good with my children– I may be a fucking idiot but I’m not blind.”

“... thank you, Aegon.” she murmured as he shouldered his way through another opening, leading them out to Helaena’s solar.

She was there, distraught and pacing. When the doorway hinged, she descended upon them like a swarm of butterflies. “Oh, Rosemary, are you alright? Oh, that horrible woman has bloodied up your nose!” Helaena sniffed, her eyes rimmed red. She glanced at Aegon then, nodding to him. “Thank you, brother.”

“Don’t mention it– please. I can’t have my reputation as a lecher ruined by my acts of goodness.” he laid Rosemary down on the settee, nodding to her and Helaena before retreating back into the tunnels.

Helaena stooped down next to Rosemary. “I… I saw it– they were going to hurt you, even more than that silly doe hoofing you,” she swallowed, putting her hand on her friend’s cheek, “... you must leave.”

“Leave?”

“It’s not safe. You must leave, you must. I hate to get you up after just sitting down but we must leave now.”

“N-now? But… Aemond,” Rosemary murmured, her eyes stinging. “He doesn’t know anything that’s happened– he… he could protect me… us.”

“You know as well as I that if Aemond found out, Larys nor Floris would be leaving this keep alive, charred to the bone and sinew. That would be… complicated for a number of reasons– politics are… delicate. It wouldn’t do well for him to kill his betrothed, especially the daughter of a hothead like Borros.”

“I can’t just leave him, Helaena– I’m… pregnant.”

“I know,” she hummed softly, pressing their noses together, “You are now my sweet sister, in blood and heart. But… we must go. Come.” she pulled Rosemary up from the settee, wrapping a plain cloak around her and pulling up the hood, leading her to the tunnels again. “Aegon told me the way out.” she held Rosemary’s hand in her own, the other skimming the wrought stone. “Made to choose, but they choose for me,” Helaena muttered under her breath, “We must have these tunnels guarded more carefully, I think.”

They approached the end, cracking the wooden door open. “... I will miss you. I have not seen if we will meet again, but I sorely hope we do. But if not… you are the greatest friend I’ve known, the kindest– you are my sister, truly. We are but two butterflies that met on the breeze, but not meant for eternity, I fear,” Helaena let go of her hand, pressing a heavy sack in her hand, the jingling of coins heard, “Make a new life far from here, a place with lots of nectar for you, beautiful flowers,” she leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together, “Take care of my nephew.”

“Two butterflies,” Rosemary responded, tears flowing down her face, “I quite like that,” she paused for a moment, “I fear Aemond would disagree. He thinks me a lamb. Helaena– tell him… tell him I love him– tell… tell him something.”

“You shall tell him yourself one day, I hope. Now, be free, woolen butterfly, flitting on the breeze…” she kissed Rosemary’s cheek and parted from her, descending back into the tunnels, walking back to her solar. “The thread weaves once more, mending opened wounds… herbs shall turn to flowers, blooming.”

–

It was past dinner time, well past it. And yet, she wasn’t here. His Rosemary was nothing if not punctual.

It must be something with the twins, or Maelor– mayhaps Helaena needed her help with something– she wouldn’t be late on purpose. Aemond paced, stopping at his wardrobe and opening it, pushing through a false-back and pulling out a soft silken garment, Rosemary’s nightwear. It smelled of her, so sweet and warm, lavender and that scented soapberry brew she bathed in.

The unlatching of a lock was heard towards the bookshelf, where his room connected to the tunnels, she must be here, surely. “Rosemary, love. You’re a bit late.” he admonished softly, the pads of his fingers rasping against the fabric absentmindedly.

It was a crop of blonde hair that passed through the threshold of the tunnels– but not Rosemary.

“Helaena? Where is Rosemary?”

“Brother,” she murmured, her voice solemn, “There’s… been an accident.

#aemond fic #aemond x oc #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #house of the dragon aemond #aemond x fem!reader #prince aemond #aemond one eye #hotd x reader #hotd fanfic #aemond fanfic #aemond fandom #my writing #the maid's folly #aemond x servant

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