#order of the sword is hard on witches

[revasserium]

Zoro and the hunter's heart (as, you know, he's a former pirate hunter... nudge nudge)

send me one + a character and i'll write u a drabble

a hunter's heart

opla!zoro; 6,553 words; fairytale retelling!au, fem!reader, no "y/n", hunter!zoro, fluff and angst (only a bit), hurt/comfort (kinda), mentions of witches and magic and curses

summary: there are some stories that the world can't stop telling

a/n: i should know better by now than to think an opla zoro fic could be anything but too involved... ╮(￣▽￣"")╭ tagging @dira333 bc its ur request and @bby-deerling bc u were kind enough to ask <3

It is a sordid tale, to hear the villager’s old witch tell it — one near and dear as the rise of the sun in the east, the set of the moon in the west, old as time itself. Because you see, there are some stories so ancient and so integral to the world that it bears, nay demands, retelling, reliving. Stories so stanch and certain that they wear groves into the truth of the world by the tracks they trail, over and over and over again. Stories that the world can never stop telling, no matter how hard it might want to or try.

This is one such tale.

“Take her into the forest — and bring me back her heart,” commanded the Queen.

The hunter had knelt before his queen and bowed his head, his swords heavy at his side. Inside his chest, his own heart was thundering, thundering. A storm brewing within the depths of his soul. But he’d schooled his expression straight and taken his orders.

You were nothing more than a kitchen maid, but you had the most beautiful voice he’d ever heard. All morning, he could hear it echoing through the cool stone halls as you went about your baking of the day’s fresh bread, your churning of the week’s soft butter. He’d lean against the wall just outside the kitchens to listen, to let the music of your voice wash over the ragged edges of his soul, to soothe his frayed ends, to mend what parts might have been broken.

Sometimes, he’d find himself wandering toward the gardens in the back of the castle grounds just to catch an echo of your voice near the wells, where he knows you’ll be in the early afternoons, collecting water for the day’s dinner service. Sometimes, he thinks he can hear it over the clink and clash of swords as he spars with his fellow knights and hunters, and he’d catch himself slowing, almost stilling, and those are the only times anyone’s ever managed to get the upper hand on him.

“C’mon doll, give us another tune.”

“Yeah, sweetheart, sing us a sea shanty! Or another one of your show tunes!”

Zoro frowns as he rounds the corner one day to find a few young knights leaning against the castle wall, towering over where you’re standing, a half-filled bucket of water clutched in your hands. He’s about to intervene when he hears the sound of splashing water, and a second later, the young knights are stumbling back, squawking with indignation as you huff, wiping your hands daintily on your apron.

“So sorry, seems like my hand’s slipped —” you drop into a rather sardonic curtsy before marching passed the stunned young men, leaving them blinking and drenched in your wake. Zoro chuckles, the sound making both of them whirl around, color rising ruddy into their cheeks. They sober immediately as they meet Zoro’s eyes.

He cocks an eyebrow, looking them over.

“S-sorry sir… we just — we were uh —”

“Just leaving,” the second knight supplies as he grabs the first by the arm and tugs him back out into the courtyard.

Zoro watches them go with a muted amusement twisting his lips before turning back to find you peering up at him with a bright, steely light in your eyes. Your shoulder is pressed to the edge of the wall, your body half-hidden behind it as if you’re uncertain of what he might do. As if you’re uncertain of him.

“Sorry about them…” Zoro dips his head, suddenly very aware of how he must seem to you — just another one of the Queen’s toy soldiers, gilded in gold, touched by the sly silver of her cool, slithering magic. Would you think he’d be like them — like those bumbling idiots who couldn’t tell a board sword from a longsword? Who thought braveness and bravado one and the same? And suddenly, the thought that you might sickens him, and he swallows hard, hurrying to explain.

“Not all of us are…” Zoro’s voice trails off as he casts about for the right word — idiots? “Like them”? Neither seems to do it all justice.

He watches as you take half a step out from behind the stone wall’s cover and drop into a slight curtsey.

“I know.” And there’s a bright sheen to the soft whisper of your voice, a certainty that Zoro can’t quite place. And he knew then as he knows now that you — you are just a bit different. Just a bit more than he’d ever given you thought or credit for. Perhaps that was his mistake — he makes a mental note not to make it again.

“I know you’re not…” you wave a light hand towards where the other two knights had stumbled away, and the pinkness in your cheeks makes Zoro’s stomach do a few choice flips he’d never remembered his own stomach capable of till now.

There’s a moment’s pause, and then — you both break into laughter at the same time — him, a tad self-conscious, you, unbidden and bright as birdsong.

“You have a beautiful voice.”

“Your sparring form is really nice.”

You both speak at the same time, and in the startled quiet that stretches right after, Zoro finds himself held still by the weight of your eyes, the heaviness of your gaze as it rests on him, wide and startled and… almost pleased. He clears his throat and tries again —

“I hear you all the time —”

“I see you sometimes —”

It happens again, and when you both pause this time, he can see the burgeoning smile threatening to spill over your petal-pink lips; he can feel his own smile breaking like ice in spring’s first thaw.

“I don’t know much about music but —”

“It looks like you’re dancing —”

By the third time, Zoro’s starting to wonder if you’re doing this on purpose, or perhaps he is — because what wouldn’t he do to keep on basking in the sunshine of your laughter, to soak in the brilliance of your smile? What stars and moons and planets wouldn’t conspire to align just for another chance to glance into the midnight dark of your eyes, as depthless as any sea, as wide as any self-respecting night?

“Well —” Zoro clears his throat; you purse your lips and wait for him to finish, “I’ve never danced…”

Mischief hinges on the edge of your smile as you peer up at him through your lashes, “You should try it sometime. I hear it’s quite the workout.”

And there’s something singing beneath the sweetness of your voice that hints at a darker, more intimate meaning to the word dance, but Zoro stops himself before his mind can unspool entirely. He sucks in a breath and chews over the words now sitting solid and unwieldy on his tongue —

“I’ve always thought dancing… required music and —” he swallows and forces his sentence onward like shepherding a stubborn and reluctant bull, “a partner.”

You let your held lilt sideways, watching him like a bird on a branch might consider a squirrel on the ground.

“It’s just… I’ve never quite had either before,” he hurries to explain, feeling heat creeping into his cheeks and finally, he forces his eyes away from you, glancing up towards the piercingly blue sky, completely devoid of clouds. He curses inwardly, his eyes wandering for something — anything — to latch onto that’s not you and your mesmerizing eyes, with the universe caught behind them, or your lips, shaped so much like the answer to a question he hadn’t realized he’d been asking for his whole, entire life.

He watches as you square your shoulders and take a half-step into his personal space, just the tips of your toes grazing into the proximity of too close and at the same time not nearly close enough — then, you dip into a curtsey, lowering your eyes so he has nothing to ground himself on except for the brief breath of your skin, the waft of your hair sweeping down over your shoulders, smelling so much like cotton and milk, salt and honey.

“But now, from where I’m standing…” you look up, and your smile is so much poisoned apples and cyanide, “you’ve got both, don’t you?”

Zoro sucks in a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, his head spinning for a second too long and he almost stumbles. Almost. But he catches himself, and when he does, his body moves as a marionette on a string — as if his arms and legs already knew what his mind had for so long kept from him —

He dips into a bow, sweeping one arm over his stomach, the other out to the side. And there’s no dull, discordant clank of armor because hunters and soldiers are made different. Fighters, both, but hunters require a different kind of bloodlust, are a different strain of heartless.

You let out a soft laugh and Zoro wonders if there’s any better music in the world as he offers you his hand. You take it, and he draws your body near with reverent palms, exhaltant fingers — he can almost feel the wild birdwing beat of your heart fluttering in your chest, supplemented by the thundering of his own much more well-trained heartbeat, but even so, the dull pulse of it makes him feel heady with excitement — thump, thump, thump.

And slowly, ever so slowly, the pair of you begin to dance. At first, just to the soft inhale and exhale of your breaths and his. And then, you smile up at him, a startling, chest-piercing, swan-song thing — as you begin to sing.

His first step is hesitant, and the second less so. By the third, Zoro feels his shoulders flattening out and his chest rising as he clasps your palms against his and takes the lead. You let him, with a tinkling laugh, your smile light and bright as daybreak. Your feet skip like pebbles across a mirror lake, and by the time he lets you go, the midday sun is beating down over the castle grounds and the lunch bell is ringing off in the distance. You skip out of his reach and drop into another curtsey —

“Seems like it’s past time for me to go.”

“But —” Zoro bites back the urge to chase after you, his body surging forward to try and stay within the warmth of your orbit.

“Tomorrow,” you breathe, your cheeks a bit too pink, grinning up at him with mischief in your eyes, “after the morning meal… I think I might have some more water to collect.”

You shoot him a meaningful wink as you sweep by him, humming beneath your breath as you go. You brush by him with a sweep of skirt-tails, and it’s a full minute before Zoro can form a coherent thought, whipping around to see the shadow of you disappearing around the corner of the long corridor that leads down to the kitchens.

Up above, neither of you sees the Queen with her blood-red nails clicking against the wide windowsill, her eyes trailing the shape of Zoro as he sucks in a long breath, and shakes himself, before heading back to the training grounds, his earrings catching the afternoon light in a series of gold-gilded sparks.

The next day, Zoro finds you dancing to a two-step by yourself, a bucket of water propped on your hip, the late morning sun caressing your skin like a lover’s fingers. And he finds himself held still by the sight of you, your eyes closed, your body swaying to the rhythm and breath of the earth, the sound of your voice filling the air as water might an already-full glass — spilling over and over till it soaks the earth between you both.

He clears his throat, and you open your eyes. You smile.

Almost sheepishly, he offers you a hand. You take it, and the half-filled bucket is left to teeter precariously on the well’s stone-worn edge as you laugh, letting Zoro pull you in, his palm pressing to the bend of your waist, fingers skimming the small of your back.

Three days, you dance. Three days of blissful mornings and sun-soaked afternoons. Three nights of moonlit walks and roses dipped in starlight.

Because the best things in the world always come in threes — but it just so happens that so do the worst.

Zoro feels his skin crawling when he receives the summons from the Queen. There is only one reason the Queen would summon a hunter like him — she’s found something (or someone) worthy of being hunted. He prays it will not take him away for long.

“Zoro…” the Queen purrs, barely turning to look at him as he bows his head, holding the pose for three beats before straightening. She reaches up to grace her fingers over the edges of an ornate mirror hanging on her wall — a mirror she covets. Zoro has seen its magic, the dull, rough-edged ache thrumming through the earth and the air like poison. He schools his expression into one of flat disinterest as he squares his shoulders.

“Your Highness.”

“I trust you’re familiar with my mirror?”

Zoro makes a soft noise of consent, cold slipping down his spine like cool fingers.

“Then… I trust you know what it does?” the Queen asks, peering at him through it’s dark, onyx reflection.

Zoro glances down, “I can’t say I do, Your Highness.”

“Well then, I’d say you’re in for a treat today —” she chuckles, the sound soft and slithering, her painted lips twisting up in a cruel smirk, “this is a magic mirror, you see… and it’s magic… tells the truth —”

Zoro remains quiet, waiting, waiting.

“Mirror, mirror…”

Zoro feels the air around him condensing, the temperature dropping as the heat siphons from the room into the mirror. The darkened surface swirls with a sickly, purple light before a pallid face appears, empty eye sockets and a hollow mouth. The skeletal reflection peers imperiously back up at the image of the Queen standing before it.

“… tell me, who is the fairest in all the land?”

The Queen preens in front of the mirror, and Zoro feels his stomach filling with lead weight at her question.

Once upon a time, he’d met a kindly old witch in the woods. Her hut had been made of something that looked curiously like gingerbread, and the flowers that decorated her windowsill had glimmered with the shine of tempered sugar. He had offered to help her carry a basket of waxy red apples from the market to her hut and in return, she’d offered him the answer to one question.

“What… exactly is magic?” he’d asked, young and uncertain.

She’d laughed a laugh that might’ve once been high and imperious but then had only sounded like an amused old woman faced with a question she hadn’t quite expected.

“Magic… well — I’ll tell you this — magic is always more than meets the eye, and never what it promises.”

Zoro had blinked, frowning as she’d peered up at him with a pair of mismatched eyes — one milky and filmed over, the other dark as crow’s feathers.

“What does… that mean?”

“It means… that sometimes, magic lies. Sometimes… magic only tells you what you want to hear. Sometimes, magic is more about what you think is true because in the end… that’s the only truth that matters.”

The magic mirror contemplates the Queen’s question as Zoro stands behind her, holding his breath.

“There is but one fairer than Your Highness —”

Zoro’s vision tunnels, the voice of the mirror thickening around him as if his head were suddenly submerged in water. Heat creeps up the back of his neck like spider’s legs, quick and skittering, and he knows the answer before the mirror says your name.

“I see…” the Queen muses, though Zoro can hear the hard edge in her voice, the light catching on it like a twisting blade as she turns back around to face him. And she is beautiful, there’s no denying — the Queen’s face was, up until very recently, what Zoro had thought true beauty must be like.

He’d understood it only in the most abstract, academic sense — beauty — had only ever nodded when the other knights and hunters had wolf-whistled at the rosy-cheeked maids that dotted the castle, scattered along the halls like handfuls of sugar.

The first time he saw the Queen, he’d wondered at the perfect proportions of her eyes and nose, the dark, certain arch of her brows, the cruel tug at the ends of her painted lips and he’d thought — ah, is this what all the fuss is about?

But then he’d seen you, hadn’t he? And your face — he knows it is not perfect, he’s leaned in close enough to see the texture that mars your cheeks, the way one side of your mouth always lilts up first in a smile, the flecks that adorn your eyes like lost shards of sunlight caught beneath your lashes —

Beautiful, he’d thought.

Later, he wonders if that moment might’ve been your doom.

“Take her into the forest,” the Queen says, smiling her cruel, cruel smile as she watches Zoro lower his head, “and bring me back her heart.”

Zoro swallows hard as he bows.

You are waiting for him the next morning, just after breakfast, your hands laced behind your back, an empty bucket resting precariously along the edge of the well.

“No dancing today,” Zoro says, his voice clipped and low, his gaze darting away toward the darkness of the forest behind you. You blink up at him before following his gaze.

“Then… will you accompany me on a walk?”

Zoro frowns, nearly wincing away from you as you lean in, grinning your sly fox’s grin.

“But…”

“Oh, don’t tell me a hunter like you’s scared of the forest.” You dance away from him before he can protest, reaching for the bucket and propping it on your right hip, “C’mon, I promised the head cook I’d pick some berries for the feast tonight. Didn’t you hear? The Queen’s finally found a spell for eternal youth and beauty.”

Zoro stares after you as you pick your way across the garden, making for the wrought-iron gates that separate the castle grounds from the wilderness beyond.

“A spell for…” Zoro’s frown deepens as you glance at him over your shoulder with a sad little smile.

“They say the Queen was cursed by a powerful witch to always search for that which she can never have.”

Zoro keeps behind you as you meander into the shadow of the trees, seemingly following a trail only you can see, occasionally stopping to bend over a burst of bright red berries, picking a few and tossing them into your bucket before pressing one to your lips. He watches as berry juice dark as blood tints your lips and trickles down the edge of your mouth.

“Did you know… that there are only three ways to break a witch’s curse? One is for the witch herself to lift the curse.”

Here in the darkness of the forest, your eyes shine like twin stars.

“Another is to kill the witch and all those who cared for her.”

Here in the darkness of the forest, the lopsided lilt of your smile flashes white, and sharp, dripping dark red —

Zoro’s sword is in his hand before he realizes, and suddenly, every twig-snap and leaf-rustle sets his bones on edge. The wind tastes sweet on his tongue, swirls thick with magic as he whirls around, searching for the silhouette of you and finding nothing but endless, pressing dark.

“Zoro?” your voice nearly makes him stumble as he twists around, eyes wide, chest heaving, only to find the tip of his sword resting against the delicate hyphen of your clavicle. Your breath hitches, soft as he’d always remembered it, but you don’t pull away; you don’t even flinch as you stare up at him, as if waiting for him to do something.

“Are you going to kill me?” your voice is low and smooth, without a single flicker of fear.

Zoro’s grip loosens as he forces himself to pull back. He hisses out a breath and shakes loose his shoulders.

“No,” he says, his own voice coarse, clipped, “I’m not. But —”

“Oh good — that would’ve made things rather awkward for our date.”

Zoro gapes as you laugh, twirling around to continue on your way through the forest. He hastens after you a few seconds later, brushing aside low-hanging branches and shouldering passed thicker bits of underbrush.

“D-date?”

“Mhm,” you hum, sounding very pleased as you lead him on, and on, and on, “you wouldn’t want to miss it — grandma’s baking pie.”

“What… ” but his words trail off once more as you turn and make towards a clearing that he’s certain wasn’t there a moment ago — a clearing with a tiny hut that looks as if it’s made of gingerbread. The flowers on the windowsill glitter jewel-bright and candy-hard.

“My grandma’s house,” you say, smiling as you push through the door with your bucket of blood-red berries still perched on your hip.

Zoro’s frown carves ever harder into his brows as he follows after you on hesitant feet, though he can’t help the way his muscles loosen the second he steps over the small hut’s threshold and catches a whiff of something wonderful in the air — cinnamon and sugar and apples.

“Ah, you’ve made it just in time!” the old witch looks up from where she’s tending a vast fire that casts the entire hut in a warm, ethereal glow. Zoro glances back at the open patch of cloudless blue sky somehow visible in a small gap between the trees before stepping in.

“Apple pie again, grandma?”

“Your favorite,” the old witch replies with a grin as you set the bucket on the small wooden table, “And I see you’ve brought a guest, though…” the old witch’s single black eye catches the firelight as she peers are Zoro, still standing just inside the doorway.

“It’s nice to see you again, young man.”

Zoro bows, rather awkwardly, and though it’s been many years since he’d helped the old woman with her apples, she looks exactly the same. He can’t say quite the same for himself.

“Come, sit! Have some berry wine,” you say, ushering Zoro towards the table, where you’ve somehow replaced the bucket with two jars of red liquid that glimmers like garnets in the flickering firelight. You pour a glass and nudge it towards Zoro, who simply stares, trying very hard to wrap his head around what must be happening.

A dull, thrumming ache is gathering at the base of his skull, but the pie smells so sweet and the wine looks ever so tantalizing.

He reaches out and takes a sip, letting the cool liquid slip down his throat. He feels it slither through him, sending tiny pin-pricks of heat trailing along his limbs as he swallows.

“Ah… so he’s not like the rest of them.”

He blinks down at the wine in his cup for a second more before you reach out and tug it from his hand. A soft palm cups his cheek and forces his face up. He meets your eyes and finds them searching.

“You weren’t lying… you really hadn’t planned on killing me.”

You sound almost surprised as your grandma chuckles behind you, the noise like the clack of old stones against one another.

“I told you he was different,” the old witch says, slowly slicing a bit of pie and putting it on a plate.

“All men think they’re different,” you say, your voice resigned as you take the slice of pie and set it in front of Zoro, “Right, now eat — it’ll make you feel better. I’m sorry about that… just… you can never be sure.”

The old witch tuts, shaking her head, “A broken heart is it’s own kind of curse, you know.”

Zoro blearily takes a bite of cake and feels his senses returning to him one by one; he takes stock of them as if he’d forgotten entirely that he’d lost them in the first place. As he chews and swallows once, twice — by the third time he can feel the tightness in his muscles returning as panic and confusion flood his system.

He jerks up from the table and reaches for his sword.

“Please, there’s no need for that,” you say, though you sound hesitant as you hold up a hand, your expression earnest as you take half a step back.

“What the hell did you do to me?” he seethes, looking between you and the old witch, uncertain of who to aim his anger at.

“I had to be sure,” you say again, your voice imploring as you inch forward, “Please, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Yeah well —” Zoro gulps past the dryness in his mouth as he narrows his eyes, “You’ve got a funny way of showing it.”

You wince ever so slightly, looking away, “No, you’re right but… please,” you say again, and the word works like magic as it settles over Zoro’s shoulders. He wonders if it’s actual magic, but no — there’s no strange sweetness in the air, no thick fog threatening to cloud over his judgment.

“It might be quicker to show him,” the old witch suggests, still watching the pair of you with her one oil-black eye, sounding pleasant and entirely unfazed.

“Right… yes —” you sigh, motioning for the door, “The sty is just out behind the hut — you can go out first if you’d like,” you offer.

Zoro looks between you and the door before inching back and edging open the door with his foot, keeping his eyes fixed on you as you follow him with light, muted movements.

The air outside is crisp and cool and Zoro can’t help sucking in a breath as he steps out from the halo of the firelit hut. Grass crunches beneath his feet, birds sing overhead. There’s the lingering heat of magic still crackling in the air, but when his gaze falls back onto you, he finds you no less lovely than he’d done the first time.

“This way,” you say, rounding the edge of the hut and leading him towards a sizeable pigsty that he’d completely failed to notice the first time he’d been here as a young boy.

A looming sense of dread calcifies in the base of his stomach as he approaches the pigsty on heavy feet. The pigs all jostle against one another, snorting and snuffling with their noses pressed into the long feeding pen. From the pockets of your skirt, you produce a handful of bright red berries and toss it into the pen. Zoro watches with mixed fascination and mounting horror as the pigs tumble over each other to forage for the fruit in the dried hay and mud.

“Have you ever heard the saying that… there are some stories the world never stops telling?” your voice is quiet and sad as you reach over to skim your knuckles along the pale pink snout of a snorting pig.

And suddenly, Zoro understands — he doesn’t know if it was a trick of the light or perhaps the magic still working its way through his system but the understanding comes like a rainstorm, a few tiny droplets before the downpour. And were he a weaker man, he might’ve back and tried to make a run for it. But instead, he stands and stares with a strange pity welling up inside him at the lolling tongues and flopping ears.

“These were all men — hunters,” he says, his words slow at first, but picking up speed as he continues to speak, “Who tried to lure you into the wood to —”

“To kill me, yes, so that they could give the Queen my heart. Because you see, the heart of a witch would give her what she so desperately desires —”

“Eternal youth,” Zoro breathes.

“And the first time, I was heartbroken,” you turn away from him, pressing a hand to your heart, “But I managed to get away. And instead of going back empty-handed to face the Queen’s wrath, the hunter caught a wild boar in the forest and cut out its heart instead. Only — an old she-wolf had been hunting the boar for days, and was robbed of a meal. She and I… we came across each other and I was so — so hurt that I offered her my heart in return for putting me out of my misery.”

Zoro presses his lips as your words rush from you in a great wave, pieces of truths crystalizing before him even as they continue to shatter the world he thought he’d known.

“She told me then that… no man is worth dying for, especially not one who would lie to you just to steal your heart. And she offered to teach me —” you wave a hand at the pigsty, “And the rest…”

The soft silence that stretches between you is thin and pained. You cradle your hands to your chest as if trying to stem the hurt of some unspeakable heartbreak.

“And… the wine?” he asks.

Your face lifts and a strike of that familiar, mischievous light returns to your eyes as you grin.

“That was something I brewed up on my own — if the drinker bears me any ill intentions, then it’ll turn them into something a bit more… fitting of their true hearts. But if not then…” you grace him with a soft smile, “Then it’ll only ever just be wine, though a bit on the stronger side.”

“Yeah, a bit.”

A brief silence falls between the pair of you as the sky above begins to shift from blue to a soft lavender.

“You said… the first time,” Zoro says, curiosity now burgeoning from beneath the receding shock of the day, “Do you make a habit of luring men into the woods, then?”

You scoff, “Luring? Hardly. Magic can only do so much, and though the odd enchanted trinket will sell well at the monthly market, people still tend to be wary around witches.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Zoro says dryly, his eyes flickering toward the sty where the pigs, finally satisfied that there are no more berries to be found, have settled into the thick stacks of hay, grumbling and snorting.

You allow him a derisive smile, “Yes well — a girl and her grandmother still have to eat and bathe, and you can only stand so much apple pie before it starts to get a little old. So… I keep a job at the castle. Believe it or not, serving a self-obsessed Queen pays well. And all those… men —” you force out the word like spitting out poison, “Had seemed… good. At least at first.”

Zoro remains quiet as you pause, looking down at your own hands. It’s the first time he notices the light calluses that mar your palms, not so different from his own. He wonders at the smoothness of the handles on the wooden bucket you’d carried so easily through the woods, at how long it must’ve taken for a pair of hands like yours to wear them down so. The old witch’s words echo in his mind — a broken heart is it’s own kind of curse.

“Is that how you got so good at dancing?” he asks.

You grin, giving him a sidelong glance, “Perhaps.”

Zoro sighs, tilting his head back to look at the small patch of visible sky, now a deep, bruising purple.

“So. Now what?”

You echo his sigh, looking up as well, “You can go back, if you’d like.”

“And what? Tell the Queen that you got away?”

Your smile hardens ever so slightly, “Or, you could kill something else in the forest and offer her it’s heart instead.”

“But wouldn’t she know? After she ate it and doesn’t gain eternal youth?”

You shrug, looking away, “You’d be surprised what a person can trick themselves into believing, if they just try hard enough.”

Zoro nods, letting his eyes fall back down to his hand, resting idle against the hilt of his sword.

“Or, I could stay.”

He doesn’t know what makes him say it — and perhaps it was the darkness of the forest, the close, flustered whisper of the leaves, or perhaps it was the lingering sweetness of your home-brewed wine and the tantalizing smell of magic and cinnamon still in the air. But he says it, and he finds that even the strange, still shocked moment after, he doesn’t regret it.

“You… you want to stay?”

He doesn’t think he’s ever heard you sound so uncertain before.

“Why not? I can’t go back and…” he motions at the hut and the soft ring of warm firelight seeping out from the tiny windows, “The wine’s not bad.”

And perhaps for the first time, Zoro thinks, he sees you smile — a smile that isn’t sharp and full of hidden teeth. A smile that’s helpless and hopeful and just a little bit pained. He smiles back and hopes —

“C’mon then… you can help with the fire. And carry the water.”

“Hn. But you seemed so good at it.”

You shoot him a slight pout as the pair of you duck back into the hut to the smell of roasting vegetables.

There are some stories the world can never stop telling, stories so old that the sing harmony to the very tuning of the universe.

Once upon a time, there was a wolf, a grandmother, and a girl in the woods. Once upon a time, an old witch built a house of gingerbread to lure in the lives of unheedful children. Once upon a time, there was a Queen with a magic mirror. Once upon a time, a witch lived alone in a secluded hut and lured men to her table only to turn them into the pigs they’d always been inside.

Once upon a time, a boy asked a girl to dance.

Once, a boy told the truth and the girl didn’t believe him, because all the boys who’d broken her heart before had given her no reason not to. And a heart can only be broken so many times before it, too, gets tired.

Once, she thought that broken hearts could never be mended.

But she should’ve known that stories, like the magic they hold, very rarely tell the truth. Or perhaps, they too only tell the truths that the listener wants to hear, or is ready to hear. Never more, never less.

So, here is another story — one that’s not so frequently told, but is just as true as the others —

Once, there was a boy who was born with a sword in his hand, who had never know that his body could hold so much music or laughter. Then, he met a girl with the most beautiful voice in all the land, and he, like so many before him, fell in love. Only, the girl had been hurt by all those before him, and no longer trusted the words of boys with sword-hilt smiles and rough, callused fingers. But when he asked her to dance, she agreed anyway, and when she introduced him to her grandmother and offered him wine, he did not hesitate. Instead, he asked if he could stay the night.

That was a long, long time ago.

There will always be another girl with a pretty voice and a viper’s smile at the castle beyond the woods, and always another young knight too eager to please his Queen. There will always be apples at the morning market and magic in the air. But perhaps the pieces don’t fall right where they ought to; perhaps they never did. Perhaps the stories we tell are only ever stories.

“You told me once that there were three ways to lift a curse,” Zoro asks one day, a wooden bucket in one hand, three swords strapped to his opposite hip.

“Mhm,” you hum, not looking up from the large pot of soup bubbling over the fire, a song threading beneath your breath as you sway back and forth.

Zoro grunts as he puts the bucket on the worn wooden table, walking over to slip an around your middle and hook his chin over your shoulder. You laugh as you let yourself be pulled back into his embrace.

“You only ever told me two.”

“Ah… right —” you smile, a smile that is no longer jagged but worn soft around the edges, as if all the sharpness has been smoothed over by years and years of tenderness, years and years of trust, of love.

“So?”

“So…” you place down the wooden spoon and turn to face him, placing your hands on his shoulders as his large, callused palms settle around your waist. The pair of you sway to a song that only the two of you can hear, a song that sings harmony to the very tuning of the universe.

“The third way to break a curse is the easiest… but also the hardest way, depending on who you are,” you say, smiling and swaying in Zoro’s arms. Like this, you can see the late afternoon light as it pours through the small window and catches on the dull gold of his triplet earrings.

“It’s a simple thing, really,” you say, as Zoro leans down to press his forehead to yours, your breaths dancing in the negative space between your bodies. Outside, an old witch sits on a rocking chair and admires the sunset. Occasionally, she reaches into her skirt pockets for a handful of berries to toss into the pigsty to her right.

“Oh yeah? How simple?” Zoro asks.

“Why…” you lean up on your tiptoes, your nose brushing his, your lips mere inches apart. Behind you, bottles and bottles of home-brewed wine sit along the mantle of the great stone fireplace, the color bright and true and freshly spilled blood.

“It’s as simple as a kiss from your one true love, of course.”

#one piece #one piece x reader #one piece live action #one piece scenarios #opla zoro #roronoa zoro #roronoa zoro x reader #roronoa zoro x you #x reader #opla #one piece netflix #opla zoro x reader #one piece live action x you #one piece live action x reader #roronoa zoro fluff #one piece fluff #roronoa zoro imagines #roronoa zoro scenarios #floofy floof floof #angst mcgee #this took a long time to write and it totally took on a life of its own as i was writing it but i actually really like it #i felt like i was writing a fable or something lmao

[moonshynecybin]

what. do you mean. there were orders to dismantle the bikes, take the wheels off. so Marc wouldn't jump on one during physio and ruin his shoulder further.

it really is like. fantasy au where marc gets injured and is laid up for WEEKS in bed sweating and pale and feverish and vale (the KING!!) sends for his personal royal physician to attend to him even though marc is just a lowly guard (the BEST on the battlefield. a vision with a sword, blessed by the gods on a horse) and it’s awful, NOTHING is working, marc is still sick— and vale makes SACRIFICES TO THE GODS and is distracted in meetings and has his most trusted lieutenants (pecco and luca) keep watch and inform him of any changes to marc’s condition… vigil at his bedside at night. sets up a cot in his room.

and marc eventually comes to, fights off the infection... asks if the king is alright FIRST THING upon waking (shades of the braking moment in his documentary…) and then with a smile that is fragile but still too-large, he asks if vale came to see him. and UCCIO is there because vale was called away to settle a grain storage dispute in the south (he is anxiously awaiting hourly ravens as to marc’s health) and UCCIO SAYS NO ! HES BEEN BUSY ! and marc’s smile drops a little. gets more breakable. tired. and the lines on his face (new, the past few weeks) set. and he asks for his sword.

and so when vale comes back marc is basically throwing himself at training dummies (vale only loves me if i’m USEFUL ! marc thinks) and vale FREAKS. remembers how marc got a few years ago after this shoulder injury (where vale had to send for a WITCH HEALER and LIE to marc about the cost). and he basically bans marc from carrying a sword or riding a horse for six months or until entirely healed. which marc does not appreciate ! but it’s not like marc is gonna let anyone ELSE guard vale, so he’s a slightly belligerent smiley shadow for the next few months… tailing after vale in meetings (LEARNING THE ROPES TO BECOME CONSORT. THOUGH HE IS NOT AWARE OF THIS LOL). learning about the political nuances of vale’s job. taxes, troop movements, enemies. COURT DANCES ! attempting to bribe bezz into letting him into the training grounds. getting PHYSICALLY removed from the back of his horse by santi. like everyone has to work reallyyyy hard to keep marc from re-injuring himself and is VERY aware that vale will literally kill then if they let marc do that. but GOD he tries his best

#rubik is a dragon in this au i think. #motogp #callie speaks #asks #rosquez

[supercap2319]

Scarlet witch m reader and peter being teamed together in a fight to defend earth against two alien rogues,if Yn and Peter lose earth will be destroyed if they win earth is free to go,how would it go?

"You ready for this?" Peter asked. He gripped his mask hard as he and Y/N stood in front of warlike alien race from another planet called Excaliburians. They've come to earth to destroy it, but not if Peter and Y/N can stop them first. They hope.

"No. This was something that Steve and Tony would have to deal with. Now we're on our own." Y/N said. They were both now the next generation of heroes. The age of the old Avengers was gone forever. In their place was the Young Avengers. Now that Tony and Steve were both retired, it was up to Y/N and Peter to pick up the slack.

Peter nods. "I just hope we don't mess it up."

Two figures beamed down from the ships above, dressed in silverish armor and swords at their sides. About 8 feet tall. They walked towards them and looked down. "Are you the ones who speak for this wretched planet?"

"Hey, buddy, who are you calling 'wretched'? Show some rest for Queens." Peter said.

"You two are but children. Do you honestly think you stand up to the likes of the Excaliburian army?"

"That depends. If you're in the mood to get your asses kicked by said children. Do us all a favor and vacate this system. And we'll all go home and call it a day." Y/N said.

"I think not Terran. This planet is scheduled for immediate destruction as orders of our supreme leader."

"I don't think you idiots understood me." Y/N's eyes glowed red and a crown appeared on top of his head. "We're not trapped here with you. You're trapped in here with us. Final warning. Leave this planet and never return."

"Stupid Terrans. So proud." One of the warriors unsheathes his sword and swung down as Y/N held it back with telekinesis. The warrior pushed down as Y/N's knees buckled underneath the weight. The Excaliburians looked smug. This was too easy.

Y/N tiles his head and smiled as he raised a hand and swung up into an uppercut. The sword broke in half as the aliens looked shocked. "Impossible!"

"We warned you." Peter said as Y/N flicked his head and snapped the neck of the Excaliburian whose sword he broke. "Next?"

#x male reader #male reader insert #male x male #peter parker #tom holland #Spiderman

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 74

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

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

Chapter 74: Salt and Smoke

AO3 - Masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where is he sailing?” 

“That much is unclear, my prince.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daemon set off towards the stronghold with Jace in tow. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Until you defeated them.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are–”

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

Jace ventured a guess, “Staunton? Massey?”

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s Meraxes!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The young prince bristled. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And if her staying was her own choice?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How different would it have been then? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But he would still be raping her!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The child was not… formed correctly. It seems unlikely it would have survived, even under different circumstances, and the maester believes that the child was lost before the princess even commenced her labor,” Elinda explained, her voice wavering, her hands clasping tightly together. “The princess is deeply affected by the loss. She refuses any form of care from us, and I am concerned that if she continues to remain in her current state, she’s at risk of falling ill with fever.”

Daemon’s gaze hardened into an icy stare, concealing his emotions beneath an even expression. The notion that his child was no longer of this world seemed unfathomable. He vividly recalled the gentle thumps against his palms, the unmistakable signs of life from within his wife’s womb. Those moments of quiet connection, his head bowing against her, feeling the stirrings of their unborn child, were too real, too filled with life to end this way.

Attempting to shift the focus, Elinda started, “Maybe if you–”

“Jace,” Daemon interrupted sharply, diverting his focus to the young prince, “have Baela land before the gale hits us, and inform Ser Brandon about Lord Massey’s imminent arrival. Ensure a contingent of guards is sent out for their reception.”

Jace’s response was a silent stare, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, a frown etching deeper into his expression as disbelief and shock took hold upon hearing Daemon’s commands. Daemon sensed the scorn radiating from Jace, its intensity almost tangible, pressing down on him with the force of silent condemnation. Jace’s eyes sharpened with censure, echoing unvoiced reproaches that seemed to reverberate through the charged atmosphere between them–accusations of absence and neglect that hung unspoken yet palpable: You should have been by her side. You ought to be with her now. Why weren’t you?

Without another word, Daemon pivoted, his steps firm and unyielding as she moved along the battlements. Jace’s voice trailed after him, “Daemon! Where are you going? She needs you! Come back!”

Yet, Daemon continued forward, undeterred.

Daemon walked along the battlements, each step echoing against the ancient stones, before entering one of the towering structures that pierced the skyline. Inside, he descended the spiral staircase, its steps worn by centuries of use, coiling downwards like the innards of some great beast. Crossing the open expanse of the courtyard, his silhouette cut a solitary figure against the backdrop of the castle’s imposing walls. Without hesitation, he veered towards an internal staircase, embarking on a descent into the deeper, shadow-laden recesses of the keep, where light of day scarcely touched. The further he ventured, the more pronounced the scent of the ocean became, mingling with the chill that seemed to cling to the cavernous walls. 

He found himself drawn towards the sea, facing the brunt of the wind as it lashed against him, and listening to the ceaseless rhythm of the waves that shattered the stifling silence enveloping Dragonstone. 

The horizon was as dark and foreboding as the stone walls of the castle, heavy with the promise of an impending gale as it rolled in from the sea. The last rays of sunlight fought their way through the thickening cloud cover in streaks of gold. The sun, in its slow descent, painted a faint glow across the landscape, its light waning but still casting a soft illumination against the encroaching darkness that threatened to envelop Dragonstone and everything within.

With each step on the sandy beach, his progress slowed, the grains clinging to his boots, seeming to anchor him with their weight, and in a fluid motion, Daemon drew his sword and planted it firmly into the sand, the blade flashing briefly. The leather belt and sheath were quickly shed, left to reside beside the sword embedded in the sand.

As though compelled by an unseen force, he waded into the churning waters, advancing until the waves lashed against his knees. A primal scream tore from his throat, raw and guttural–full of loss and rage, the sound carried away by the sea’s own roar. Overwhelmed, he succumbed to his knees, the sodden weight of his garments dragging him downwards as the ocean encircled him, indifferent to his mourning as it embraced him. 

The waves battered against Daemon’s sunken form the same way it relentlessly crashed against the shore. The chill of the water penetrated him, sank into his bones and settled there, as his gaze fixed on the turbulent dance around him–dark, gray waters interspersed with relentless white froth. He had not even had the time or ability to mourn his brother before this–he felt the loss of him as only a brother could, but his death had not surprised him. His brother’s decline had been long, transforming him over the years into a distant, cherished memory rather than a constant presence, effectively estranged by Viserys’s actions long before his passing. 

Daemon would have gone to him, had he been called, but the Greens had robbed him of his brother long before death claimed him. 

And now, they had robbed him of his child as well. 

Daemon harbored a conviction that the turmoil surrounding her father’s death and the usurpation of her rightful claim had cast a shadow over the unborn child, corrupting it within the womb. 

Wave after wave battered him, the water’s force against his chest, his attire plastered to his form. Daemon mustered the strength to stand, to fight against the drag of his soaked clothes and the beach’s resistance, his boots heavy with sand and water. He managed only a few steps towards the shore’s boundary before the sand ensnared him once more, forcing him to his knees. 

The grief of losing a child was a familiar torment, yet the anguish over this particular loss carved through him with a raw, unprecedented intensity. It ignited a fierce, consuming blaze within his chest, a pain profound and uniquely agonizing. 

Amidst the relentless surge of waves, the solitude was pierced by Caraxes’ eerie call, a sound that resonated with the depth of Daemon’s despair. Perched high upon the cliffs, the dragon remained a silent witness to its rider’s grief, its gaze fixed upon him. 

In his torment, Daemon buried his fingers into the damp embrace of the sand, desperately seeking something tangible amidst his grief. The coarse grains, unyielding beneath his battle-hardened hands, clung to him as he clutched the fleeting solidity of the earth, even as the relentless waves washed over him. Each surge of water not only drenched him further but also rinsed the sand from his grasp, leaving his hands empty and washed clean.

A surge of rage overwhelmed him, and with a guttural cry, he released his sorrow into the vastness, his voice tearing through the quiet, a raw challenge to the ocean’s incessant din. 

Spent, he allowed himself to fall back against the saturated sand, the world tilting precariously as he stared up into the sky. The sun, which had been a beacon of light, now retreated behind the advancing army of clouds, reflecting the shadow that loomed over his soul. 

Daemon lingered on the sand, his eyes cast upward to the ever-darkening sky, surrendering to the relentless caress of the waves that leached the warmth from his body, leaving him hollow. He forced himself to sit upright, his eyes drawn to the line where the tumultuous sea kissed the stormy horizon. In his heart, he named the Hightowers makers of his misery–they who had poisoned his brother against him, who had conspired with the council to usurp them, and who had stolen the life of his child, corrupting it within the womb. Their treachery knew no bounds it would seem.

The anger within him surged and receded with the waves’ rhythm, engulfing him until he felt nothing but a chilling emptiness. That emptiness rang hollow, seemed to reverberate with a dark echo–a vow of retribution, a vow of vengeance. 

Inhaling deeply, Daemon collected his resolve. He stood and walked towards the cavern from which he came. With determined strides, he pulled the blade out of the sand and sheathed it, its weight a comforting presence in his hand. He walked back through the cave and up the steps towards the keep. 

The silence that pervaded the halls of Dragonstone was suffocating. This was not the serene quiet of peace but a dense, burdensome quietude steeped in grief, pervading every crevice and shadow with its sorrowful grasp. The echo of his footsteps in the empty halls rang out in the solitude. Each step towards their chambers, the quietude seemed to grow louder with its emptiness, his boots leaving a trail of his somber journey. The doors to their bedchambers, once a gateway to solace, now stood as a daunting threshold to a realm of sorrow and loss. 

Pausing at the threshold of the chamber he shared with his wife, Daemon found himself unable to move any further as his eyes settled on his wife. Positioned on the ground, she swayed gently, enveloping their lifeless child in her arms, her voice tenderly humming a lullaby. His heart seemed to cease beating for a moment as he watched her continue rocking their child, humming to it as though it could hear her. 

The surrounding midwives bore expressions mingled with pity and sorrow, yet Daemon’s attention remained on Rhaenyra–there was a devastation in her tenderness, and a despair in the way she mused to the child. 

Compelled by a strength he scarcely felt, Daemon took measured steps towards her and with deliberate care, he descended to his weary knees at her side. Extending a hand, he tenderly brushed her skin, which, though pale, felt warm against the cold that had entrenched itself within him. Her acknowledgement of his presence was fleeting; her gaze lifted to his before it was drawn back to the silent figure she cradled. 

As Daemon looked over her shoulder, his gaze fell upon the tragic form nestled within his wife’s arms: a tiny being, grievously misshapen and sightless, with scales and strangely reptilian features. 

The sight clenched Daemon’s heart with a cold grip. The child, marked by such profound deformities, bore the unmistakable sign of a life that would have been mercilessly brief, had it even begun. The child was an abomination. With this harsh acknowledgement, Daemon found a sliver of mercy in the fact that it had not endured the cruelty of life.

Rhaenyra continued her gentle, rhythmic sway with the child, lost in a world of grief and silent contemplation–a wordless lament that filled the air with an unbearable weight of unspoken sorrow.

“We must burn it,” she finally uttered, her voice a broken whisper.

In response, Daemon closed the distance between them, offering a kiss to her temple and resting his head against hers. 

“It was a girl,” she whispered into the silence.

A girl. Another daughter. Their daughter–their only daughter.

“Visenya,” Rhaenyra breathed out, her fingers lightly caressing the lifeless form swaddled in a thick blanket. “I’ve always dreamed of a Visenya–Daenera nearly bore that name, but I named her after you…”

Daemon closed his eyes, a knot forming in his throat. “Visenya, second of her name. She would have been as fierce as her namesake.”

Rhaenyra lamented in a low murmur, “So much has been taken from us. My right to rule, Daenera, and now, our daughter–our Visenya.”

In response, Daemon’s embrace tightened, his lips brushing her temple in a whisper of a kiss. “We will rescue your daughter and we will reclaim what is rightfully ours. They will rue the day they set their eyes upon the throne.”

Rhaenyra’s voice was laden with exhaustion as she spoke, barely a whisper, “I don’t wish to talk of war and succession.”

The vibrant spark that once lit in her eyes now seemed extinguished, replaced by a profound weariness and the sheen of sorrow. She glared up at him in silent reproach, before returning her eyes to the babe.

“Princess,” came Elinda Massey’s gentle interjection, her expression one of deep sympathy. “The Silent Sisters should tend to her preparations.”

“No, I shall see to it myself,” Rhaenyra answered, determination weaving into her expression. Her voice lowered to a soft murmur. “She is mine to care for.”

“You should rest, Princess,” Elinda said, attempting to coax the princess to hand over the child, but a firm look from Rhaenyra stifled her efforts. 

Rhaenyra’s imploring eyes met Daemons, seeking his support. Daemon drew in a measured breath, then acknowledged her wish with a nod. He helped her to stand, his hand supporting her as they prepared to make their way through the halls.

Their progress was measured and painstakingly slow, with Rhaenyra’s every movement betraying her fragility, each step accompanied by a faint exhalation of discomfort. Perspiration coated her pallid skin, which had lost the warmth it once held, now replaced by a cold that matched the air around them. Daemon’s arms encircled her, providing her a steadying presence, ensuring she remained upright as they moved forward, while she cradled their child close to her chest.

Nestled deep within the castle, the Silent Sister’s chambers exuded a bone-deep chill that seemed impervious to the flickering warmth of the heart that burned brightly. The room’s dimly lit corners appeared to cradle the cold, as if the ghostly presences lurked just beyond sight, their icy fingers trailing whispers of unease.  

Upon their entrance, the Sisters, with their faces partially obscured by veils, turned their attention to Daemon and Rhaenyra as they entered. Each of them carried a banner of the Seven-pointed star. The Silent Sisters carried themselves with an air of solemnity, sworn to a life of silence and keeping vigil over those who had passed. This aspect, their pervasive silence coupled with an air of implicit judgment, unsettled Daemon profoundly. They seemed spectral, akin to phantoms themselves–shifting shadows that dwelled in the liminal space between life and death, their presence an ever-present whisper of mortality.

Daemon released Rhaenyra’s hand, stepping back to meld with the chamber’s shadows, observing as she moved towards the table. Each step seemed to carry the weight of her loss, her form outlined against the slender beams of light that managed to pierce through the room’s tall, narrow windows–the last slivers before disappearing entirely. Rain began to plet the windows and a low rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance. 

The chamber was permeated with  heavy, lingering dampness, the air tainted with the unmistakable, pervasive scent of mortality. Attempts to mask this grim reality with dried herbs and burning incense only succeeded in creating a thick, almost suffocating atmosphere that seemed to stick in the throat. 

Daemon’s damp clothes clung to him, a discomfort magnified by the bone-deep cold that seemed to seize the very air around him. He watched in silence, a solemn observer, as his wife gently unwrapped their child from its swaddling. Each of her breaths was a battle against the surge of grief that threatened to overcome her. The sorrow that marred her countenance seemed to cast a heavy, dark veil over her, aging her with its profound shadow. 

Rhaenyra dipped the sponge into a bowl filled with water, subsequently caressing the infant’s skin with it. Her movements were gentle and deliberate, imbued with a tenderness that spoke of the love she held for the child. In her actions, there seemed to be a silent hope, a desperate wish that this act of cleansing might undo the finality of their loss, erase the marks of their child’s brief existence. The spine, dragging up the remnants of birth, gradually tainted the water in the bowl, muddying the clarity with a silent testament to what was and what might have been. 

Daemon swallowed thickly, a knot forming in his throat as his heart contorted with pain as he silently observed his wife’s solemn rites for their child. The pressure of his fingernails against his palm served as a grim reminder, anchoring him to the moment as he stared at her with a sharp form of detachment.

After Rhaenyra had meticulously cleansed their child, delicately erasing any traces of birth, she tenderly wrapped the infant in cloth. With a gentleness that belied the tragedy of the moment, she cradled the still form, wrapping it securely before placing it back on the table, now enveloped in the soft embrace of cloth, hidden from the cruel gaze of the world. 

It was at this moment that Rhaenyra seemed to allow her grief to surge forth unbridled. Tears cascaded down her cheeks, her visage crumbling under the weight of her sorrow, a visual echo of her heart fracturing anew. 

Leaning heavily against the table, a sob wracked her body, the sound raw and heartrending. She then sank to her knees in a posture of utter desolation before their swaddled child. Her hands, shaking with the force of her sorrow, lingered in the air before tenderly enveloping the tiny form. In a final act of maternal love, she brushed a kiss across the covered feet of their daughter, a gesture of farewell steeped in anguish and love. 

The sight of his wife crumbling cut through Daemon–a profound despair sharp as a blade sinking between his ribs, leaving an indelible mark of sorrow on his heart. 

Rhaenyra rested her forehead against the table’s edge, her hand pressed firmly over her mouth in a futile attempt to silence her sobs. Daemon crossed the room then, in quiet determination and knelt beside his wife. He wrapped his arms around her, offering the support she needed. Her fingers grasped desperately at the damp material of his doublet, clinging to him as if he were the last thread that kept her from falling into the depths of her despair. He held her close, his lips finding the crown of her head in a soft, reassuring gesture as he swallowed the pain of his own grief. 

“We must get you to bed,” he whispered softly. “I refuse to lose you as well.”

Daemon carefully positioned her arm around his neck while sliding his own arm under her knees, preparing to lift her. As he raised her from the cold, hard floor, the weight of her form pressed heavily against his fatigued muscles, each movement stiff with the chill that had seeped into his bones. Yet, he held her securely, transporting her with unwavering resolve along the shadowed corridors of Dragonstone. 

Upon reaching their room, he gently lowered her onto the bed with a care that belied his own physical discomfort. 

“The midwives will look after you now,” Daemon told Rhaenyra, his voice a mixture of reassurance and command as he gestured subtly to the waiting attendants, signaling them to proceed with their duties. 

Rhaenyra did not respond, she merely stared out into emptiness, a weary expression on her face.

“I’ll return soon, my love,” Daemon softly promised, sealing his vow with a gentle kiss upon her forehead before stepping back to allow the attendants to care for her. 

Once he had shed the cling of his wet garments for dry attire, Daemon made his way back to their shared quarters, meeting maester Gerardys at the doors. 

“My condolences for your loss, my prince.”

“Has lord Massey arrived yet?” Daemon asked pointedly, disregarding the condolences. 

“Yes, Lord Massey has arrived, as has Lord Staunton,” the maester informed him. “They’ve been accommodated in the west wing of the keep and have been notified of the recent events… “

Daemon’s response was a gaze of steely resolve. “Inform everyone that the funeral for our daughter will be held on the morrow.”

“Understood, my prince,” Maester Gerardys acquiesced. 

“And what of King’s Landing? Any word?” Daemon inquired, his voice carrying a hint of underlying tension. 

“No news, my prince,” came the reply.

With a sharp nod, Daemon dismissed the maester, his expression unreadable as he turned towards the bedchambers. There, he found Rhaenyra enveloped in the bedding, her hair spilling across the pillow in waves of silver, her gaze lost to the gale raging beyond their window. The relentless downpour and the mournful wail of the wind created a symphony of sorrow that mirrored the turmoil within. 

Silently, Daemon joined her on the bed, enveloping her in his embrace. He kissed her temple, sharing the heat of his own body in a silent offering of comfort. Rhaenyra remained still, her reaction to his closeness imperceptible, but he did not press for acknowledgement. Instead, he chose simply to be there, a steadfast presence in the midst of their shared desolation. 

Tears began to fall from the corner of her eye, like the rain pouring down outside, as if the gods themselves grieved with them.

And heres for Next chapter: It's not done yet, and so far its around fucking 19K words as we follow the funeral, the green envoy, the black council pt2+pt3, a Rhaenys/Corlys scene and the deleted Jace/Rhaenyra scene. So... It will likely be cut into 2 parts, and I will update one on Fridays and hopefully again Monday, and then Friday again--depending on how far I've gotten with editing the chapter after 75 (which is then 75-76, and then 78 as a new chapter)

#a vow of blood #hotd #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen x oc

[songwings]

Deaf AU, or: Why Miriam Is Deaf and How This Changes Very Little

(Shard) Ok so! We've only posted art of this AU thus far but i feel compelled to ramble about it, so here we go. Also disclaimer that while this could be any sign language, we're more familiar with American Sign Language and the deaf culture in the United States, so that's what I'll say for this post.

The basic premise is that Miriam is deaf (born that way) - and not much else changes, besides a few things:

The mode of communication between her and Kiwi, and later Audrey (sign language.)

Kiwi already knows some ASL, there be deaf and hard of hearing residents in Langtree!

Audrey loses her hearing and becomes deaf over the course of the game's story, thanks to her very loud sword.

This AU manifested as a result of us seeing Miriam's loneliness and the isolation that seems to be inherent to being a Scary Witch - that's the same for deafness! You might not believe it, but many people see deafness as something horrifying and look away and ignore it. Witches seem to have this exclusive, closed-off culture in Chaandesh - particularly Mohabumi, where Miriam barely feels at home despite being around what should be her own people. That's a very familiar feeling to us and we felt like it'd be nice to explore in her character.

Act 1:

The AU centers around Miriam being deaf and Kiwi is annoying by singing to her until she notices them and tells them she's deaf. Funny doodles from Rostrum.

Here's how Rostrum thought it'd go in Acts 2-5.

Act 2:

The introduction goes just the same, with everyone fingerspelling their names first, then Miriam and Saphy giving their sign names. Kiwi doesn't have one yet - they know enough ASL to communicate well with the witches but they weren't given a sign name back in Langtree. Art and sign names by Kyka.

In the caves, Miriam will warn Kiwi about the trolls, but doesn't hear the troll when he jumps up right behind her and roars. Kiwi is bowled over, but I thought it'd be funny if Miriam just stayed right there, completely immune to the troll's auditory screaming.

"i can explode him right here"

"NO MIRIAM!!! let me try singing!"

"i have magical powers and i'm not the one getting bowled over by some screeching kiwi."

She just narrowly misses the troll's attack with a visual warning from Kiwi and lets the bard sing to him.

Later into Act 2, Miriam does everything just the same - yes, even getting a ride with the Coffee Pirates. Just because she's deaf doesn't mean she can't communicate with like, a pen and paper, or basic gestures recognizable to the Delphi locals.

Act 3:

Not much changes, either. (Miriam in regular Wandersong is always annoyed with singing in this act, anyways.) Though for ease's sake, the mermaids would know sign language, so they could teach Miriam the Overseer song in order for her to reach Kiwi in the collapsed Chaoscape. We haven't exactly decided yet what the songs would look like if they aren't exclusively spoken songs, but the mermaids would teach Miriam a different version that doesn't involve singing.

Also she'd shake Kiwi by the shoulders instead of yelling at them to wake up. This is just how deaf people wake up :)

Act 4:

Essentially the same. If we go with characterizing Peter as a nice guy, he'd know some ASL already and would sign to her on that date as opposed to playing music. Ooooor depending on how a balalaika works, he might show her how the instrument feels to play, and that might be Miriam's first introduction (in-game) to instrumental music.

(The deafness doesn't really make her feel any worse than she already does in-game. I imagine Ira, Kiwi's mother, would be very curious about her deafness and ask her to teach the old lady a few signs.)

She would definitely enjoy playing the drums in the factory strike.

Meanwhile, Queen Order's castle. We meet Audrey. She's losing a little of her hearing at this point and is angry at the two for blocking her way. I haven't decided yet if she already has prior knowledge of ASL or not (leaning towards "no" but learns after she sees Miriam). She fights Miriam and actually can't speak to her, if she doesn't know ASL, but at least recognizes that she is deaf. After they finish fighting she yells and storms off - Kiwi would interpret for her after, I think.

Act 5:

Part One - Rulle

Night Sky

(Shard) I realized from this point onwards (after watching a playthrough) there's dialogue on the broom. I'm pretty sure you need at least one hand to steer a broom, but you can also sign with one hand, so let me just draw how I think that conversation would go.

...yeah, this wouldn't work with ASL. For so many reasons. It's akin to being in the driver's seat and turning your head around to see the other person signing in the backseat. While balancing precariously on a broom that you yourself are steering. While the other person has to practically lean sideways so you can see them. While you are less than a foot apart. In the dark moonlit night or while the sun is glaring at you.

Talking on the broom is a no-go.

...but I really don't want these conversations to be missed out on, so I'll say Kiwi convinces Miriam to land a little sooner so they can talk while walking to their destinations. Also, maybe a flame or light spell so they can actually see each other. Though it'd still be hard to talk.

Frontier Inn

(Shard) My wingmate skipped over the border towns part in hir earlier notes! I'll fill in this part.

The deaf witch would gesture for a pen and paper, but the innkeeper would be confused and speak to Kiwi first. They would interpret for Miriam and redirect the talking to her and it should go on the same from there, albeit with that bit of inaccessibility in mind.

Also, she has to be shaken awake after sleeping on the floor.

Lumber Town

In the forest just before, Miriam wouldn't notice the quietness - but she would notice the absence of the animals. Just pointing out how this is kind of a trope in horror, that something is going to be silent before it's scary, but it would not be scary to Miriam. Until she sees the ghosts.

Xiatian

(Rostrum) Lightning strikes are LOUD.

At this point, Audrey's hearing loss becomes noticeable to her and she finds that she struggles to understand people. She remembers the silly bard and witch using those weird flappy hands during her fight. Out of sheer spite she tries to learn the local sign language, but has to ask Eyala to basically give her the knowledge the same way the Dream King did for Kiwi, so she's ready and actually excited to sign with Kiwi and Miriam when they arrive in Xiatian.

and next time they see her in Rulle Miriam is like "wait YOU know how to sign??? HOW MUCH TIME DID WE SPEND IN CHISMEST"

Audrey's like heheh it's no biggie i want to be accessible to everyone <3

But in truth she's losing her hearing - and is half freaking out about it - and that is possibly why she trusts them to get the Potion of Power then and there. She sympathizes with Miriam. she's still arrogant though lol At the King's palace, the King might be a little suspicious of Kiwi interpreting for Miriam, but not as suspicious as he is of the witch herself. Interpreters can't be at all that uncommon in royal settings as they do need to negotiate with other countries. But Miriam would feel a little left out by the ghost singing through Kiwi - it depends on how the Spirit Language manifests and whether or not that's visible to deaf people. (I like to think it might be. But if Kiwi is the medium for the ghosts to speak through...)

... For a long time, we struggled to write this part where both Audrey and Miriam would learn the song. In the end, Vesta said this is how it would go:

(Vesta) Audrey is losing her hearing and tells the King to sing louder. He does. She says there has to be another way. The King sends her away and she's like RAAAUGHHH! Miriam follows her still, evading the palace guards.

Audrey stomps and Eyala appears. "Bestie, there IS another way!" She teaches her a different version of the song, with sign language, maybe, or a dance, but I like sign language better. It should be ASL poetry.

(Rostrum) And Miriam is able to memorize this after following her! Again, and unfortunately, the sunset sky scene doesn't happen. Though there might be a different scene where Miriam flew up to that "???" place Mask was at, with all of the butterflies, and is found tending to Kiwi when Kiwi wakes up and Miriam explains to her what's going on.

It's two days now.

Sky Temple (Sun Overseer's Song)

Instead of using a piccolo at all, Miriam has to sign the song that was given to Audrey. And instead of telling Kiwi to not listen too closely, she'd ask Kiwi to turn away so they can't see her awkward signing. Whether or not Kiwi actually does this is up to your imagination.

Part Two - Chaandesh

Before I go on ahead, a reminder. Chaandesh - and especially Mohabumi, and Miriam's reactions to feeling left out as a witch - that's the part that made us relate so strongly to her. And that is what inspired this AU.

One major difference in Chaandesh in this AU - though I don't think it changes the game very much - is that many witches do know ASL there, so some of the NPCs would sign to Kiwi! There would be a sizeable Deaf community in the city of witches especially. This isn't to say that all witches are deaf, but I wanted to point that aspect out as large Deaf communities do exist in most cities in reality.

And it'd also contribute to how left out Miriam feels, out of both the witch and deaf communities. It's difficult to get information about either if you just aren't part of them.

Mystery Forest

I'll say Vivian and Sandra know sign language, and would recognize that Miriam is deaf and sign normally to her. Everyone fights the monster and things go on as usual.

In the following sky ride scene where the Spell Squad flies them to the ferry... this IS the one scene where they could sign because someone else is flying the broom! Unfortunately there's very little dialogue in this scene.

The Ferry

I just want to point out this huge nugget of dialogue:

"This whole kingdom… feels like a big club, that I was never invited to."

The inspiration for this whole AU. This one line sparked all this. I'll explain more because I'm actually watching a playthrough just so I can get this AU as accurate as possible, so...

When Audrey appears, she'd probably talk in simcom, which is essentially a variant of ASL where you both sign and speak at the same time. Some might consider it offputting, but she'd be skilled enough at it - and she'd sign SO dramatically!

Mohabumi

Only going to speak on scenes where I think Miriam's dialogue OR actions would change.

In the academy, when Kiwi sees her struggling on the broom... I mean, there's no way she can both sign AND re-learn how to fly on the broom. For hilarity, I say she falls the first time Kiwi gets her attention, and more sensibly, hops off the broom every other time Kiwi talks to her there. I don't think the conversation about music would change at all.

The Crater...

... we've thought about this so many times but it's only now that I actually see the conversation that I realize we don't need to rewrite this at all. It's strange, because before this game, and ESPECIALLY before this part, we just didn't like music. We didn't know what it meant. We didn't know how it could motivate people and be compelling. It felt like a big club that we weren't invited to. Sound familiar?

It's hard to describe how the game changed our feelings on music. In some ways they stayed the same - it's still a little exclusive, but it felt like it opened our eyes to how influential it really could be. The emotions behind playing an instrument, or singing, or dancing. And dancing is a physical form of music! It reacts to vibrations! So Miriam would feel right at home here no matter what her hearing status is. The drumbeats of Manny's music, and potentially the speakers amplifying the music in general, would reach Miriam if this was a loud enough space. In that moment she'd feel like she belonged, being brought back to home where music too was played with drumbeats.

Broom Ride

This necessitates its own section because it's an important conversation and it breaks my heart that, again, in this AU it can't be had on the broom. But I want to give this conversation justice because it hit close to home for us.

Miriam: "It was weird being in a city of other witches. I thought it'd be a place where i fit in. But I didn't."

Kiwi: "That just means you're special!"

Miriam: "Well. Maybe... I don't want to be so special. I've been special my whole life. Around Delphi, me and Saphy were the only witches. I never knew someone else like me. And I guess I still don't.

It doesn't feel good to be different like this. I feel like I'm just messed up. And I'll never fit in anywhere."

Exactly what being deaf or any kind of disabled feels like. It feels like a very specific part of being autistic, too... we're autistic so we know this well.

Kiwi: "We're outsiders... together!"

Sky Temple (Eclipse Duet)

Another strange part of this AU we've thought about for a while! We imagined them dancing, or signing together, or such... but if the order of events demands that Miriam learned the signed version of the Sun Overseer's song, and Kiwi learned the spoken version of the Moon's...

I think the way Kiwi sings by pointing their hand, Miriam could see it visually and perhaps her own hand movements would even mirror Kiwi's. Or the other way around. I think Kiwi would make an effort to visually convey the nature of their half of the song to Miriam, strengthening the harmony... the same way the moon reflects the sun.

The Eclipse

Miriam gets hurt. She obviously can't hear or see Kiwi, so Kiwi would shake her in a desperate attempt to wake her as Audrey walks up - and Audrey at this point has lost a lot of her hearing, but I guess if Miriam is unconscious, there would be no reason for her to sign as she's only talking to the bard. Albeit by now, her speech is inflected with numerous gestures to emphasize her points.

Kiwi is angry enough to raise their voice. It's not enough for Audrey. Either she doesn't hear them and turns around to pay attention to them, or she never does because she never picked up the habit to pay attention to the things around her. When you grow up as a deaf person, your senses overcompensate for the one you never had or lost - this AU's Audrey doesn't have that advantage just yet.

When they carry Miriam down from the Sky Temple... there's no way you can sign to someone while carrying them at the same time. So that little snippet of conversation doesn't happen.

No other changes. Also, this part breaks my heart, I want you to know this.

Act 6:

Audrey's Introspection

Miriam isn't here, and technically this AU is all about her and how her deafness affects small details in the game. So if this AU was only about that we'd stop here and skip ahead to Act 7.

However, Audrey is deaf by this point. And she has to contend with that while ALSO dealing with a singing bard.

In her first appearance in this act, I think she'd monologue with her voice. She wouldn't hear Kiwi's complaints as she drinks the false Potion of Power and collapses in that same hilarious way. When they're in the cave, she continues speaking with her voice until she falls to her knees contending with her mortality.

The bard tries speaking to her at first. Then they sign to her. Audrey looks up and signs back. "Not without my sword. And hearing."

(Brief author's note: I gave Eyala the sign name of "EYE-la." This is a very fun sign name and she would introduce herself with it when she discovered Audrey was losing her hearing and taught her sign language.)

The conversation in the cave goes roughly the same... Audrey seems like the sort of person to shrug off even losing her hearing, thinking that's what she has to do to be the hero. It matters a LOT to her, deep down inside - Eyala told her it was necessary, that she wouldn't need her hearing in the end anyways - but it stings to gain a disability in exchange for being the hero, doesn't it?

Is it a blessing or a curse that she doesn't hear the wails of the Overseers and monsters she slays? That she can't hear the Bard's songs anymore?

But then, Miriam simply being there disproves all of that. She's another person who doesn't necessarily connect with music in the traditional sense. It took her a long time to truly feel comfortable with music as a foundation of the world. Being deaf doesn't make you ignorant to the world, after all... it makes the world ignorant to you. Being deaf her whole life means Miriam's had to grow up fighting to feel like she fits into the world at all. She carved out her own path in life.

The Beast

Theoretically, the Hero and Bard could sign to each other even at that distance where Kiwi is on the cliff and Audrey is down on the platform above lava. If you have good sight, ASL goes a long way.

Act 7:

I like to think this is when Miriam gives Kiwi a sign name after they both return to Langtree. Unfortunately, I still haven't thought of a sign name for the bard, so that's on hold for a while.

Kiwi wouldn't have to interpret for the fairies, I think they can speak any language they need to communicate in. And that includes sign language.

We neglected to say what the spirit language would look like to Miriam who has been trained to understand it, but I think it'd be symbols. Literal visual symbols. Up in the air. Since it's mentioned that Kiwi speaks in strange symbols, which is a visual element, I think Miriam can see or sense the symbols and understand. Which also means she understands what the Dream King says as his last words.

The boss fight goes on as usual. Audrey signs VERY angrily to them after having her sword taken - with aggressive body language, faster signs that the bard and witch just barely pick up.

The Choir

... I'll be honest with you, we agonized over this particular scene for a long time. In the original game, the highlight is Miriam singing in front of everyone.

A singing Miriam would undermine this AU. It isn't vocal chords that deaf people most naturally turn to for communication - it's hands. I don't think a deaf Miriam has any reason to use her voice to sing here, even when she can use her voice.

So a change I'm making here in order to make myself feel more comfortable with this scene is that more of the crowd would dance - in fact, I think all of the people of the world would harmonize in their own way, be it with their voice, an instrument, dancing, or whatever other funky way they like. Thusly, Miriam dances in the end. It shouldn't be only singing that saves the world.

It's sad that the creators of this game didn't put in other means of singing, or explain how deaf people would harmonize with a worldwide auditory song, but that's okay. I know how we can harmonize in our way.

...

And that's the end of this long-winded post about how Miriam could be deaf and that'd change very little about the story. Also, I'm very tired from writing half this dang post and I hope it makes sense to people who aren't deaf.

I hope you enjoyed reading! And don't be afraid to ask questions if you're curious about this AU!

- Rostrum

#shardposts #deaf au #wandersong #wandersong au #miriam wandersong #rostrumposts #vestaposts #long post #asl #we have too many complicated feelings about music #and this au is kind of a love letter to that

[shadowdaddies]

💓💓HEllooo!!💓💓 I love Hunt, that big cute angel, could you write something about him? Soft and smut?? You are a witch who needs protection due to threats and he is hired as a bodyguard. One night things get complicated at your house and he saves you, you don't want to be alone + online one bed 😈❤️‍🔥 THANKS FOR YOUR WRITING GOODDES✨

Hi honey!! I love this, needed some Hunt on this blog. And this prompt is so fun! Please enjoy the ✨iconic✨ one bed trope😈💜

Witch Hunt

Hunt Athalar x Reader

Warnings: smut below the cut, oral f!receiving, lightning usage in bed??, p in v sex, lil canon typical violence, minors dni

As one of the few Valbaran witches with seer abilities, Hypaxia asked you to come to Crescent City to aid her in an ongoing investigation. She was working with the 33rd Legion on the case, and you’d come to Lunathion to offer your help. 

On your first night, you were headed back to the studio apartment where you were staying when two large males jumped from the shadows. You tried to use your wind magic to fend them off, but it didn’t last long. One made a lunging sweep with a knife, making a long cut on your arm. You fell to your knees, head bowed as you accepted this was a fight you would not win. But rather than being met by another blade, you were met with the sounds of swords slashing, and a hand reaching out to you. 

You looked up to see a stunning angel with dark hair and grey wings, wiping sweat from his brow as he gave you a soft smile. “I’m with the 33rd. You can trust me, my name is Hunt.” You stared at the gorgeous male, tempted by the offer, but scarred by what just happened. Refusing his hand, you stood up and brushed the dirt off of your knees. “Well, Hunt, why did you just happen to be around when I was being attacked?”

He smirked at you with a mischievous glint in his eye that you knew would land you in trouble at some point. “I’m not on duty, but I heard the commotion and came to look into it. Luckily for you.” You scoffed, refusing to let him have the upper hand. After calling Hypaxia and alerting her of the situation, she informed you that she knew Hunt and would be working with the 33rd on assigning him to protect you. That was the opposite of what you hoped for. Waving goodbye to Hunt and hoping you could make it far enough away before he received his orders, you set off back towards where you were staying.

You sighed a breath of relief as you closed the door to the apartment behind you, thankful to be back safe and alone. Headed towards the kitchen for a drink, you turned the corner to find Hunt sitting at your breakfast table, looking smug while drinking a beer. “I hope you don’t mind that I helped myself, little witch. Thought I’d enjoy a drink since I’m stuck here for the foreseeable future.” He’d changed clothes since you saw him, now wearing a backwards sunball cap with a muscle tank that showed off his muscular arms. You swallowed, trying to maintain your composure as you grabbed a beer for yourself from the fridge. “Well, you can enjoy that beer now since you’ll be sleeping on the floor,” you said, nodding to the space beside the bed, the only spot in the tiny studio that such a large angel would fit. He let out a soft laugh, “yes, I figured that.” 

You took a shower, changing into a nightgown before slipping into the bed. As you closed your eyes to try to sleep, you couldn’t help but notice how Hunt’s beautiful wings were crumpled as he twisted and turned on the hard floor. You told yourself it was the decent thing to do, to invite him to sleep in the bed with you. Nudging him with your foot, you nodded. “Get up here,” you sighed, as you scooted over to make room for him. You didn’t account for his extremely large frame, however, or the fact that this beautiful angel was now shirtless in bed with you, his warm skin brushing against yours. “I’m sorry, I can move back to the floor if that’s more comfortable for you,” Hunt whispered, seemingly more nervous than you were.

You huffed, twisting in an attempt to get away from his warm body, instead accidentally brushing against something hard. You froze for a moment as he softly groaned, registering that Hunt was in your bed, and visibly aroused. “Fuck it,” you murmured, turning over to face him, cupping the angel’s face as you looked to him for consent. Hunt’s eyes frantically searched yours for any hesitation before grabbing the back of your neck, kissing you fiercely. You hooked a leg over his waist, pulling your hips against his, grinding against him as he moaned into your mouth, allowing you to slip your tongue inside. Your tongues battled for dominance as Hunt rolled you onto your back, kneading your breasts through your nightgown as you looped your other leg around his waist. 

Hunt pulled away, kissing down your body as his hands lifted your nightgown over your head, baring you to him. He kissed his way down your body, roughly spreading your legs as he wasted no time diving into your heat. He thrust his tongue into you, lapping at your wet folds before moving up to suck your clit while pressing his tongue against the bud. You felt a zap of electricity jolt through you, sending you over the edge with a scream as Hunt continued to work you through your orgasm before pulling back with a smug look.

Hooking your feet on his sweatpants, you pushed them down his legs, Hunt helping you as he kicked them off. You reached down to grab his length, and your eyes widened at the size of him. He was by far the biggest man you’d been with, and he looked at you like he knew that. “Just fuck me, angel,” you demanded, lining him up with your entrance. Hunt leaned down to kiss you as he slid halfway in. “I’ll give you some time to adjust. Wouldn’t want to hurt you, little witch.” You huffed out a breath. He was a stretch, but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Using your wind control abilities, you pushed a gust of air against his back, causing him to sink all the way into you. You both let out loud moans at the feeling, Hunt resting his forehead against yours while you both adjusted. He slowly started thrusting into you, but you needed more. “Fuck me harder, please, Hunt,” you whispered, kissing his neck as you used your legs to meet his thrusts. “As you wish, little witch,” Hunt said before he lifted one of your legs over his shoulder, pounding into you at a relentless pace. You were writhing beneath him, a moaning mess as you neared your orgasm once again. 

Hunt could tell he was close too, bringing his thumb to rub circles against your clit as he continued his thrusts. He came with a loud groan, letting another little shock flow from his thumb to your clit, sending you over the edge again with him. You both panted for air, laughing at the situation as you laid next to each other. This would prove to be an interesting job, after all.

#crescent city x reader #crescent city #hunt athalar #crescent city fanfic #hunt athalar x reader #crescent city smut #hunt athalar x reader smut #hunt athalar smut #crescent city imagine #crescent city hunt #hunt crescent city #hunt athalar x you #acotar smut #crescent city fic #hunt x reader #hunt x reader smut #hunt x you #hunt x you smut #hosab #hoeab #cc hunt #cc hunt athalar #cc hunt x reader #cc hunt x you #cc hunt smut #sjm fanfic

[annie-creates]

Desperately by her side

Pairing: Queen Ravenna x reader

Genre: fluff (basically)

Words: 1400

Note: Right when I thought noone reads Ravenna fics anymore, I got such an amazing request! Thank you so much, I hope I didn't let you down.

The situation was slightly getting out of hand. Queen Ravenna was desperately trying to hunt Snow White down for weeks, even months at this point. And it was successfully getting her nowhere. Her guard always came empty handed, soldiers returning with nothing but dumb excuses for their incompetence. If she didn’t need to stay here and rule, she was starting to believe that even she herself would have a better success finding the girl. She needed for someone to finally get her and her patience was running thin.

“Finn!” She ordered for like the tenth time that day. “Why does everyone fail! It’s not that hard to catch a little girl, it’s not like she’s some witch!”

“Well she knows the land way better than our soldiers do…” the man was scared facing his sister’s anger.

“Then find me someone who does!” The queen orders and he scrambles away to execute it.

However unsuccessful they were trying to find Snow White herself, it didn’t take long to fins Y/n. Her reputation preceded her, Finn hearing all about the mighty warrior on his road. Apparently she knew the craft of swordwielding like no one else, and could track down her pray from weeks old tracks. Following precisely all the directions he was given from people in the village, he must have had the wrong house. Sure a woman that magnificent and skilled wouldn’t live in a small cottage in the middle of nowhere? He knocked non the less, asking your name.

“I’m looking for miss Y/n.” He barks, not wanting to waste any of his precious time.

“Yes, that’s me. What can I do for you?” You question with hands folded over your chest, leaning lazily on the doorframe.

“You?” His reaction didn’t offend you anymore, given your reputation no one ever expected the seemingly fragile girl of small stature.

“Yes, me.” You assure him, waiting for him to register the information.

“Then why do you..?” He critically eyed your small home with hardly three rooms, decorated cheaply but warmly.

“Did you come visit me to discuss my living choices?” You cut his train of thoughts, trying to get back to the topic.

“No, excuse me madam, I was just surprised.” He fixed his language and attitude back to someone who needs to employ you. “I come at the behalf of her majesty the Queen. Would you please accompany me back to the castle so she can discuss her offer with you?”

Judging by the few guards standing behind him at the forest road it wasn’t really a question, so you take your knitted sweater, place your sword by your hip and with a shrug of your shoulders you get into his carriage. The road wasn’t long, taking you straight to the capital city. Finn wasn’t one of the most talkative people you’ve ever met, honestly he wasn’t talkative at all. You thought maybe it was because of the knights riding with you, but maybe he was just like that. Quiet and intimidated by everything and everyone.

You stop at the courtyard and with just a quiet ‘follow me’ he takes you straight to the queen’s throne room. The walls are lined with pillars and guards, tall windows let in colored light and in the middle her throne stands, tall and cold, ruthless and strong as his lady appears to be. She wears a metal crown that makes you wonder if her head doesn’t hurt from the weight after a long day wearing it, her golden hair flowing down her shoulders. She’s mesmerizing, coldly gorgeous and mercilessly splendid.

You watch her as Finn runs to her side, whispering about you to her ear and she watches you intently. Her face changes facades from surprise to disbelief and it finally settles on something close to villainous satisfaction, an expression that leaves an unsettling feeling in your gut and makes your spine shiver in cold sweat. You have never seen a person of such angelic appearance with such an evil soul. It was like even the air around her was scared of her malice.

“My brother tells me you are an excellent fighter.” She states, her sight burying deep into your soul.

You stand in front of her stiff as one of the columns, mesmerized yet petrified at the same time. Now you understood why people spoke so highly but warily about her, maybe they were scared she’ll actually hear them. Her beauty had no comparison, but her presence put people on notice and her piercing eyes seemed to look right into the essence of your being.

“And you can track people?” her patience was clearly running thin, forcing you to answer her.

“Yes, your majesty.” Gaining up some of your courage and shaking her bewitching spell from your shoulders you step from foot to foot.

“Excellent. I have a little someone I need to find, yet my soldiers always return empty handed. You think you can find her?” She challenges you.

“I can find anyone.” You answer confidently this time. “What is their crime madam?”

“Let’s say she took something dear from me.” She plays with her words, charmed by your curiosity. “Say your price, I’ll give you anything you want if you bring me the girl alive.”

“You need to tell me who this lady is first, my queen.” Remaining polite you state your terms.

“Are you familiar with the girl named Snow White? I need her to come back here.” Of course you were, everyone knew the princess.

“No.” You shake your head shocking everyone in the room with your impudence.

“No?” Ravenna repeats in shocked disbelieve that someone had the audacity to oppose her.

“No. I know Snow White, and I know she wouldn’t have done anything to deserve your wrath.” Squeezing the handle of your sword for confidence you explain.

Before the queen could even register your determined resistance, Finn himself gave a silent order to the guards along the room. They all closed on you so fast you had hardly the time to even draw your sword, but your training and skill proved itself in a fight against the queen’s soldiers. Being pushed by Finn to leave the room and flee for safety, she couldn’t take her eyes off of you, gracefully moving between the armed men like in your own kind of dance, effortlessly cutting their limbs and piercing their bodies like it was nothing but a piece of fruit, your hidden muscles showing off now in a combat of death.

As she looses the sight of you, she’s not angry, she’s enamored. She didn’t care for the lives of her knights, they were nothing but her pawns in the great scheme of things. But you, you were truly something. As she paces the throne room now bathing in blood with her bare feet, lifeless bodies laying around like nothing but ragdolls, she admired your talent and skill, and adored your unrestrained personality. You were long gone, the guard watching you run out the city gates, and suddenly a feeling of longing settled in her chest.

For a moment she forgot all about Snow White and her petty disputes, remembering your pretty eyes instead. She couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to have such a strong, uncompromising woman by her side, mighty yet compassionate and gracious. She used to be like that herself, a long time ago before the world hardened her smooth skin and sharpened her warm eyes. How you managed to keep your pure righteous heart in this cruel place and time was an enigma to her.

“Finn!” She calls again as he crawls to her presence more frightened than ever before. “Find her. You did it once, do it again. Find me that girl.”

This time it wasn’t to threaten or execute you for your actions. She wasn’t mad at you, she wanted you desperately by her side. Not only would you be a perfect protector for a hated figure in her position of power, you seemed to have a wit many people could only dream about. You were determined, strongminded and you weren’t scared to disagree with her, yet you did so politely and non-judgmentally. Maybe protection of her life wasn’t the only reason she wanted to keep you close after such a short encounter. Maybe she would be able to see you as her equal friend and partner.

#charlize theron #queen ravenna #queen ravenna x reader #queen ravenna x you #queen ravenna fluff #ravenna #ravenna x reader #ravenna x you #charlize theron x reader #charlize theron x you #snow white and the huntsman #snow white #fanfic #fanfiction

[five-rivers]

Checkerboard

Will add an AO3 link once the ddos attack is over. In the meantime, please enjoy this Gen Rex fic! It's whump. :)

Edit: AO3 Link!

.

One moment, Rex was breaking free of the control collar, as planned.  The next– 

Caesar hadn't realized that witch could move that fast.  

The fight was, in a word, brutal.  Rex was good, very good, even Caesar could see that, but against both an equal opponent and the relentless black pawns, even he had limits.  Especially when he was avoiding lethal blows.  It appeared he hadn't, quite, realized that the black pawns were robots.  

That was an oversight on Caesar's part, he'd admit.  He knew that Rex had the ability to detect nearby nanites, but he didn't know if that ability was behind the consciousness partition his parents had set up in the onboard AI, and even if it wasn't, well, having the ability to perceive something and understanding the information it gave you were two very different things.  Especially under stress.  

Black Knight crushed Rex's latest set of smack hands with a nanite-generated hammer, then tipped him over, wrapping him with her whip.  He hit the floor hard, but it was obvious he was going to break free momentarily, and possibly even counter with his own whip build, but Black Knight's hammer shifted into a sword, and she brought it down through Rex's shoulder.

"Stop!  Stop!  What are you doing?" demanded Caesar.  

The black pawns moved in, aiming at Rex from point blank range.

"Kill or control," said Black Knight.  "That's Providence's current protocol.  If we get your brother back under control, we can put ‘cure’ back on the table, but until then… What will it be?"  The ultimatum, because that's what it was, was delivered in the same falsely pleasant tone Black Knight gave all her orders in.  

Caesar clenched his jaw.  Some people might think he was cold and disconnected, that he lacked empathy, feelings, care for anything that wasn’t one of his experiments.  Dr. Holiday, for example, had, shortly after Rex’s disappearance, accused Caesar of being a psychopath.

Well.  Caesar knew there was something not quite right about him.  Never had felt like getting a diagnosis.  But he hadn’t cried over his parents’ deaths, and he hadn’t cried over Rex’s disappearance.  He certainly hadn’t gotten as emotional as Holiday, or even Six. 

But he did love his brother.  He knew that love was just the result of neural connections in the brain, coupled with certain chemical reactions, but that didn’t make it less real.  He wanted his brother to be healthy and happy.  That was love, yes?  

But for Rex to be healthy and happy, he also had to be alive.  

He met Rex’s eyes.  Rex, unlike Caesar, was emotional.  Caesar could easily read the pain, fury, and fear on Rex’s face.  Fear that quickly slid into terror as Rex realized what Caesar was going to do.

“Dr. Salazar, your decision.  You can stop stalling.  We neutralized the robot monkey, and even all the Numbers working together couldn’t break into this facility fast enough to keep me and my pawns from terminating this EVO.”

“He-ahhhh!”  Rex’s protest was cut off with a sideways jerk of Black Knights blade, ending with a high-pitched whine.  There was no blood - Rex, as a rule, didn’t bleed.  His nanites had instructions about that.  But even so…

“Alright, alright!” said Caesar.  “I’ll do it!  I’ll just.  This isn’t something I can do immediately.  I told you Rex’s nanites were different.”  He had.  Multiple times.  Some of those times were even after his six-years-in-fifteen-minutes trip.  

“I’d think it’d be a simple matter, considering you worked on him before.  And your control of the Omega-1 during your… reappearance.”

“I’d think,” said Caesar, retrieving a set of new control collars and checking their serial numbers, “you’d appreciate the difficulty, considering anything that could easily be done to Rex could easily be done to you.”  

Black Knight’s smile grew sharper, showing teeth.  “Careful.  Dr. Salazar.”

Caesar made sure his tablet computer was synchronized with the main control computer and walked towards Rex.  The pawns who weren’t aiming at him were now aiming at Caesar.  He held up the collars and his tablet.  “I’ve got to start somewhere, right?”

“Let him by,” said Black Knight in an almost magnanimous tone.  She had a lot of practice with that one.  

“Okay, mijo,” said Caesar, with false cheer, “let’s get started.”

“Don’t do thi–”

His protest was cut off as Black Knight changed the angle of her sword, enlarging the wound.  Rex gasp, breath hitching, and Caesar decided the best way to handle this was fast, like ripping off a bandaid.  He wrapped the first collar around Rex’s neck.  

Predictably, because Rex could be predictable, sometimes, (it was, Caesar thought, probably a result of many of his subconscious thought processes and actions being directed by nanite programs) the skin on his neck lit up with blue lines that crossed over onto the collar and took it apart.  

“Don’t–” said Caesar, quickly.  “Don’t.  There’s a reason I brought more than one, yes?”

“You have fifteen minutes.  My arm is getting tired.”

“Please, Rex, just… Let it happen.”

Rex bit his lower lip and glared up at him.  Caesar swallowed and checked his tablet, looked at what, exactly, Rex had done to the collar, and made a few adjustments.  He had to - he had to get this right.  

Despite the whip and despite the sword, Rex still tried to twitch away from the collar.  This time, Caesar could hear the activation tone of the nanites.  They’d intended to remove some of the audio cues after the nanites got out of the prototype phase, but since things had turned out the way they did, they’d never gotten around to it.  

He kept an eye on the tablet, watching the feedback and already making adjustments to the next collar.  When the second - or should he count it as the third? - one broke, it was ready to slide into place.  

And…  There!  He’d need some more changes.  Just a little more.  But this time… Yes!  He could stop Rex from breaking this one for long enough to get his foot in the door, at least.  And Rex was wearing out.  

He had limits.  And Caesar wasn’t exactly fighting fair.  

He snapped the next collar - hopefully the last one - into place.  The program, a construction command for the Omega-1, started running immediately, relaying its results to the tablet.  Caesar watched them anxiously, but he didn’t have much faith in that particular program as anything but a delaying tactic.  Rex’s self-programming capabilities had taken care of that particular backdoor within the first week of Caesar’s return.  

But the program he was loading up now was a bit different.  Simple, yes, there wasn’t time for anything complex, but hopefully effective, given Caesar’s special permissions and privileges in the nanite system.  

The second program worked like this: it sent a request for access to Rex’s code interface, tagged with Caesar’s administrator codes.  For various ethical and practical reasons (their parents didn’t quite trust Caesar not to use higher-level access for pranks) Caesar had never been given full, unimpeded access to Rex’s nanite programming.  But… the admin codes meant that he got a response.  A little popup that said nothing but ‘request denied.’  Rex also could accept the request, but, well…

Caesar looked at Rex, whose face was screwed up into an expression of pained but determined confusion.  That just didn’t seem likely.  Even if the request was handled entirely behind the consciousness partition.  

The program didn’t just send one request, though.  It sent repeated requests.  As many as it could, on a code loop only a few lines long.  

The whirr of the nanites became more stressed as they worked on endless access requests.  The nanites were tiny, brilliant computers, but they were, in the end, still computers.  Computers (and everything, really), as a rule, generated heat when they were working.  They’d managed to break physics in so many ways working on the nanite project, but not that one.  

Rex began to sweat and pant as his body tried to regulate its internal temperature.  Every inhale hitched and every exhale was accompanied by a pained whine.  As a rule, Caesar didn’t experience empathy, didn’t feel with other people.  Probably a mirror neuron problem.  But this?  This hurt.  

He didn't want to do this.  

His tablet beeped.  

Their parents hadn’t trusted Caesar not to play pranks on his little brother, but they did trust him to look after Rex’s wellbeing in an emergency.  An emergency like a significantly elevated body temperature and a huge hole in his body.  

The popup now read, ‘access granted.’

The first thing Caesar did was make a new back door.  He was confident that this one, the one he used to get in just now, would be patched within a week.  Probably some limit on access-requests-per-minute, even for admins.  

Rex’s code was a mess.  Six years of unregulated self-modification would do that.  Few of the new programs were instantly understandable, even to Caesar.  Builds, wifi hacking tools, a series of ‘handshakes’ for various systems, dormant EVO-originating code, probably copied from people and animals he’d cured, active EVO code, from the same, a rather ingenious fix for a problem they’d never solved, back in the nanite project days.  But buried underneath all that was the original code for Rex’s nanites.  Even the Omega-1.  

He brought up the set of programs they’d written after the first time Rex had forgotten everything.  It was just a little something to help him recognize them, trust them, in case it happened again.  It was why it had been so easy to convince Rex to come with him, when they had met again.  

But family wasn’t the only thing on the list anymore.  Dr. Holiday, Six, Noah, and even Bobo were there, primarily identified through their nanite loci, rather than the facial, vocal, and code recognition that identified the Salazars.  Although, now that he looked, he could see that Rex had appended Caesar’s nanite locus to his ID data.  

He went to the part of the code that dictated how much and how the nanites could influence Rex’s thoughts about a given person, and changed a few variables and permissions.  He went back to the main list, added in Black Knight, and generated variables for her, too.  

There.  Rex was controlled.  Not, perhaps, the same way all the other EVOs were, but with the values Caesar had just assigned, saying ‘no’ to him or Black Knight would be given roughly the same avoidance priority as self harm, and just being around them should feel vaguely pleasant.  

Rex made a tiny noise of protest, but judging by how glazed over his eyes were, and how clammy his skin looked, Caesar doubted he was really aware of what Caesar had just done.  He would be, though.  

Caesar went back to the main list one more time, and told Rex’s nanites that Rafael and Violeta Salazar were dead.  The effect of this was immediate and far more dramatic.  Rex started sobbing.  

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”  He really was.  But this was the fastest way to get to the other thing he wanted.  The consciousness partition.  Without their parents, Caesar was now recognized as having the highest level of admin access.  

He… hesitated before he deleted it.  There were a vast number of reasons it existed.  The primary one being to keep ten-year-old Rex from accidentally deleting his liver, but also because the nanite project’s… well, Caesar’s… track record with AIs was not good, and even if this was more of an integrated intelligence, than an artificial one…

But Rex needed this.  For that matter, if Caesar’s original plan had worked, and Rex had escaped, and he got Providence to restart the project, and, and, and…  Eventually, the partition would have been removed anyway, was the point.  

He hit the button and moved on.  Medical options.  He brought up a list of prearranged medically-related voice commands - it was short, for emergency use only, in case Rex lost control of his nanites while he was ill.  He interdicted Rex’s builds, put them behind a voice authorization from a ‘person of trust’ and he desperately hoped Rex would figure out that particular loophole.  He told the nanites to take over Rex’s breathing reflex for the moment, because the way he was currently breathing had to be cutting him up on Black Knight’s sword.  He–

“That’s been fifteen minutes, Dr. Salazar.”

“Rex,” said Caesar, clearly, “go to sleep.”

Rex’s eyes fluttered closed.  

“There you go!” said Caesar, a horrible approximation of a smile on his face.  “All under control!”

"Dr. Donevsky," said Black Knight. 

Caesar flinched as the doctor approached from the side of the room.  He hadn't noticed anyone else come in.  

“It won’t be the same as with the other EVOs, his base programming is too different,” said Caesar, now anxious as Donevsky checked Rex’s pulse and reflexes.  “You won’t be able to– To puppet him around.  There are only a few voice commands he has to follow, but–”

Black Knight raised an eyebrow.  “That doesn’t sound like under control.”

“I’ve made him trust us,” said Caesar.  “Even more than he trusts Holiday or Six.  I’ve made it– You are familiar with Pavlov’s experiments with dogs, aren’t you?”  It wasn’t quite what was going on, but, honestly, he didn’t want to explain it to Black Knight.  

“He’s really asleep, ma’am,” said Donevsky, stepping back.  

“Hm,” said Black Knight.  She withdrew her builds.  “How long does this last for?”

“Eight hours,” said Caesar.  “That’s the recommended amount, after all!”

“Interesting.  We’ll give this a trial run.”

Other medical staff, who had been standing at the periphery of the room, came forward.  They heaved Rex up onto a gurney and started taking more measurements and readings.  Rex stayed entirely limp throughout, like a rag doll.  The doctors conferred over their results for a moment, then started to wheel him out of the room.  Caesar began to follow.  

Black Knight’s hand on his shoulder stopped him.  

“I think we have some things to discuss, before you join your brother,” she said.  

.

It wasn’t as if Rex had never been stabbed before.  He had.  Mostly by Van Kleiss and his stupid, stabby, sucky fingers.  It sucked, but he could deal with it.  Maybe with some complaining and a bit of encouragement from Dr. Holiday or Six, or some well-timed snark from Bobo, but he could deal with it.  

On the other hand, the stuff that stabbed him usually wasn’t this big and usually didn’t stay stabbed in him for this long.  Benefit of having the most awesome nanites on the planet was that he could safely ignore the whole ‘don’t remove the thing stabbing you or else you might bleed out’ thing…  Which he totally hadn’t discovered by ignoring Holiday when she said ‘don’t remove the thing stabbing you or else you might bleed out.’  Good times.  

What wasn’t a good time?  The fact that the literal backstabbing he was dealing with had come after a metaphorical backstabbing.  

(He was pretty sure that when people said siblings were a pain, they didn’t mean like this.)

The whole ‘tied up with a dozen guns pointed at him’ thing was bad, also.  But it was kind of…  Expectedly bad?  Like, it wasn’t anything too out of the ordinary for his life, except for the when and where of it.  But Caesar trying to mind control him?  That was just…   

Well.  It sucked.  What else was he supposed to say?  He didn’t know what to say, which was, maybe, why he wasn’t saying anything while Black Knight was giving Caesar some kind of psycho speech about why he needed to be controlled.  

He didn’t know why she was bothering with that, honestly.  Caesar had already decided to control him.  With that stupidly easy to break collar… that Caesar had to know wouldn’t work on him.

Ughhhhh sometimes he hated being the kind of person who gave others the benefit of the doubt.  

He looked up and glared at Caesar, hard enough to hide any trace of hope.  Not that he really kept a lot of hope as Caesar’s expression went from ‘blank’ to ‘resigned.’  

A bunch of words that Dr. Holiday thought he didn’t know went through his brain so fast they sounded like static.  Caesar was a weirdo and a space case most of the time, but he also knew Rex, and his nanites, better than anyone else.  Caesar had gotten him to build that freaky containment machine on remote control, sans collar.  Caesar could screw him over so freaking much.  

“Dr. Salazar, your decision.  You can stop stalling.  We neutralized the robot monkey, and even all the Numbers working together couldn’t break into this facility fast enough to keep me and my pawns from terminating this EVO.”

Robot monkey?  Did that mean Bobo wasn’t under control?  And he hated it when people talked over him like he was some kind of object.  “He-ahhhh!” 

Black Knight must have moved her sword by, like, a foot, because Rex’s entire arm and back lit up like they were on fire.  In the back of his mind there was something with the general shape and texture of the few times his nanites had talked to him directly.  Not that any information got through to Rex.  It was probably just them trying to tell him how stabbed he was, so no biggie.  He could figure that out on his own.  He had this whole biological system called pain and more pain, oh, and get this, yet more pain, to help him figure it out!  Wasn’t that wonderful?

“Alright, alright!” said Caesar.  “I’ll do it!  I’ll just.  This isn’t something I can do immediately.  I told you Rex’s nanites were different.”

Yeah, no kidding.  He was sure Providence’s new evil overlord knew nothing about that at all.  It wasn’t like Providence hadn’t been studying them since Rex first got here.  

Caesar strode across the room and out of Rex’s immediate line of sight.  His attempt to shift his position resulted in a heel being dug into his spine, the whip tightening to the point of crushing the air out of his lungs, and the sword being twisted so viciously his vision whited out for a second.  

“....could easily be done to Rex could easily be done to you.”  

Okay, maybe more than a second.

“Careful.  Dr. Salazar.”

Rex blinked hard, still trying to follow what was going on around him.  It could be done to Black Knight, too?  All of this?  The mind control thing?  Something else?

“I’ve got to start somewhere, right?”

“Let him by,” said Black Knight in an almost magnanimous tone.  The agents between Caesar and Rex parted.  

“Okay, mijo,” said Caesar, with obvious false cheer, “let’s get started.”

Rex tried to catch Caesar’s eyes.  If Caesar didn't want to do this, maybe Rex could convince him not to.  Sure, he wasn’t at the point of things where he’d rather die than be mind controlled - he wasn’t that noble, and he remembered the follow-up interviews from the Meechum incident - but seriously injured?  Imprisoned?  Those both sounded way better.  

“Don’t do thi–”

Black Knight wrenched her sword to one side, and Rex’s argument was lost to agony.  For a split second, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, and when he could the collar was there.  He sent his nanites against it, first disabling the code that let it send messages to his nanites, then telling it to disassemble stuff.  

Not for the first time, Rex wondered why people didn’t make things more mechanical and less electronic.  If there wasn’t an electronic disassembly command, it would be way harder for him to do stuff like this.  

He wasn’t going to ask anyone that, though.  His life was hard enough as it was.  Case in point, his current situation (which was bad).

“Don’t–” said Caesar.  “Don’t.  There’s a reason I brought more than one, yes?”

What, was that some kind of threat?  Rex had heard better.  

“You have fifteen minutes.  My arm is getting tired.”

… or maybe he was talking to someone else.  Again.  

“Please, Rex, just… Let it happen.”

Like heck.  If Caesar and Black Knight were going to do this to him, he was going to make them work for it.  In the spirit of that - and not because he was scared - he tried to pull away when Caesar picked up the next collar and put it on.  Not that it did much good.  But it didn’t do Caesar any good, either, so there.  Ha.  

It had been harder, this time, though.  Not a lot harder, but enough to make him apprehensive.  

He really hoped Black Knight was wrong about that backup.  He didn’t think he’d be able to get out of this on his own, and he was liking his chances of holding out against mind control long term less and less.  

He broke the next collar, too.  That one had been hard, and Rex was starting to feel tired.  More tired.  His nanites were starting to protest being diverted from the giant gaping hole in his shoulder.  

But Caesar already had the next collar around Rex’s neck.  Rex told his nanites to take it apart, too, but… they were… busy?  He pushed through, overriding whatever was occupying them, and the collar fell off.  

Caesar put the next one on.  

For a second, Rex zoned out like he had when Caesar had been sending the Omega-1 instructions.  When he came back to himself, he felt hot.  

Well, he always felt hot.  He was hot.  Blisteringly good looking, even.  But he was physically hot right now.  Fever-level hot.  Best he could compare it to was when his nanites had been working overtime trying to counteract the chupacabra poison.  Except there was no chupacabra poison this time.  Probably.  What was Caesar doing to him? 

He closed his eyes, trying to focus on getting his nanites back under control.  There was a feeling like someone knocking, knocking, knocking on the back of his mind until the sound turned to jackhammer black noise.  It hurt, and he was rapidly approaching the temperatures where it was hard for him to think.  His skin felt slick and sticky, and he started to pant, even as the motion made Black Knight’s sword saw back and forth inside him.  

And then the building pressure against him disappeared all at once.  He didn’t exactly relax, but he did go limp, unable to maintain the state of tension from before.  He was going to pass out, soon, he could tell.  He hated passing out.  

With difficulty, he opened his eyes to glare blearily at Caesar.  He was hunched over his tablet, tapping away at the screen.  Traitor.  Backstabber.  Jerk.  It wasn’t as if Rex hadn’t been backstabbed by, like, everyone, except for Holiday, Bobo (except for really minor things), and Six (there had been that time with the Numbers, and the other thing with the memory loss, but, really, that was fine, water under the bridge and all), but family was supposed to be different.  You were supposed to be able to trust family.  Family wasn’t supposed to try to mind control you for creepy middle-aged women, which is why Rex had to trust that Caesar was doing this for a very good reason.  

Rex blinked slowly.  There was something wrong with that train of thought.  The people you…  Caesar wouldn’t mind control him just because.  Caesar had betrayed him– But Caesar wouldn’t do that.  Had Rex misunderstood something?  Somewhere?  Was he not working for Black Knight?  Except, Black Knight was a good person.  He knew that.  He trusted her.  Good people didn’t just mind control people for no reason.  Or stab people for no reason.  So, there had to be a reason.  But it was so hard to think of one.  

… Had he hurt someone?

A weak whine built in the back of his throat.  He didn’t remember hurting… But maybe he did?  He was so angry about the control collars, but Black Knight and Caesar said they were good, so…?  His thoughts felt so sticky and slow.  What had he been thinking about before?  Caesar and Black Knight had… They had been…?

He was hit with a wave of grief absolutely unlike anything he had ever experienced before.  Grief, like something he’d always had, something he’d held so close he couldn’t even see it, being ripped away from him without warning.  A piece of his world, just gone, and he didn’t even know what it was, just that he wanted it back, please, please, please.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Rex was sorry, too.  He didn’t know what he had done, but he wanted this to stop.  

And then, something in the back of Rex’s mind opened up, and his thoughts stopped being anything like coherent.  He watched, more or less passively, as Caesar turned on emergency medical controls, put his builds on lock, and made the nanites actively regulate his breathing.  Which actually did help, a little.  Rex may have been hyperventilating.  

Black Knight and Caesar started talking, but Rex couldn’t follow anything they were saying at all.  It was okay for him to just… zone out a bit, right?  He could… obviously, they could take care of things…

“Rex,” said Caesar, dragging Rex’s attention back into the real world, if only for a moment, “go to sleep.”

.

To be continued. :)

#generator rex #fic #checkerboard fic

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Morgana AU Pt 3

Morgana screams when the raiders haul her up, and not just in pain. She bucks and pulls against the men's hold, kicking until she stumbles free. Her uninjured arm flies up, and long tree roots erupt from the earth to echo her movements. They ensnare the two men who had held her, but another three take their place, tackling her back to the ground.

The fall drives the arrow in her shoulder tip first through her body, emerging out the other side. Morgana roars like a trapped animal, struggling against the bodies pressing her to cold ground.

"Tie her up, damn it!" the party leader commands. In moments a length of rope is produced. Kara lunges towards them, but her strength is tempered by this world's, this time's sun. Two men hold her easily.

The men ignore her and Gwen's pleadings to release them, their voices falling on deaf ears.

"Shut up, or we kill the lot of you!"

The raider snaps the point off the arrow in Morgana's shoulder, but leaves the shaft still buried in their friend's flesh.

"Take them back to camp!"

Gwen and Kara follow the raiders' orders and trudge obediently through the woods with the rest of the druids, their threats halting any escape plans they might have had. Morgana, however, struggles all the way with her hands bound behind her back. They drag her kicking and writhing through the trees, until they emerge on the plain, where an army host has set up camp.

Morgana only calms when she's thrown to her knees in the center of the camp, but heaves for breath as the druids huddle fearfully behind her. Gwen and Kara move towards Morgana, only to be driven back by swords and spears.

Activity around the camp stops as a beefy man clomps towards them. Morgana has told Kara details of her captivity and her captor only once, but Kara knows immediately that this is Sarrum.

"Hahahaha!" Sarrum laughs at the sight of Morgana, who glares balefully up at him. "Couldn't stay away from your gracious host, eh witch?"

Morgana only scowls in answer, and when Sarrum grips her by the chin she bites his hand, clamping on hard enough to force him to tug free with force. His retailatory backhand sends her careening to the ground, only to be jerked back up by the arms.

Sarrum leans in close, spittle visibly flecking from his lips. "I have no well for you this time, milady," he sneers, "but I'm sure we can find something just as comfortable for you."

Straightening he motions to his men. "Take her to the tent and chain the rest!"

Kara and Gwen attempt to resist as Morgana is dragged towards the massive command tent, even as spears prod them in the opposite direction with the others. But if they weren't outnumbered in the woods, they certainly are now, and soon find themselves coffled alongside their friends on the outskirts of the camp.

The night is long and quiet, though Kara strains to hear any sound from Morgana. When dawn breaks the troops break camp and start marching. They keep to the main roads, suggesting to Kara that they have no desire to keep their presence hidden. She and the rest of the prisoners are dragged in a line at the rear, forced to step through the mud and manure churned by the preceding host.

They catch no glimpse of Morgana.

For two days they walk, and as they push further along the road, Kara notices Gwen's features growing more and more grim.

"Where are we going?" she asks quietly.

Gwen's response is solemn.

"To Camelot."

#supercorp #morgana au #i am rapidly coming to the conclusion that i am effectively declawing kara #but the story isnt about her specifically so there #if i ever write this properly i may do things differently #but for now this is what im going with

[lunart-06]

I wonder what their witches will look like 👀 👀

WOOOAHWHWHHREH I WAS EXCITED ABOUT THAT ONE!! Witches in PMMM was one if the most interesting concept in the series to me. The style as well!! (I'll just list out the main casts from what I've already worked on). I can only provide concepts of them for now, as much as I love witches designs, it will be a pain TO design them as witches.

Took me a while to respond since I need to do some more reasearch on the names and such.

First things first we will start with Kyoko, her witch name will be Elvira; butterfly garden witch, her nature is "distrust". She only has one familiar on her and that is Holmes (get the reference?) Whose role is to only followed her instructions and look after her even when she never looked at their way.

Bio: The butterfly garden witch, her nature is distrusting. Living in her own world surrounded by injustice, her only purpose now is to getting rid of anyone- even her own minions- that disturbs her from seeking out the truth that will forever out of sight. Out of mind.

Second will be Nagito, his witch name will be Hyman; clover witch, his nature is "accepting". With two familiars on his side: Faust, whose role is to only bringing good luck. And Pechman, whose role is bringing bad lucks. Faust are annoying to handle, but be sure to avoid Pechman if possible!

Bio: The clover witch, accepting was his nature. With his body- frail and dying, that looks like it might fall apart and yet he never fell over like seasonal leaves. But he'll make sure to accept and leave all his regrets to the world that was left impurity.

Third comes next is Chiaki! Her witch name be Irene Von Adalwine; Knight witch, her nature is "attachment". With a few familiars to accompany her: Mel- whose role is to defend her world with their sword, Arvy- with a role to keep everything in place, and Ruth- as their role is to stay by her side.

Bio: The knight witch, where it is her nature to attachment. A witch that was pitiable, hiding her woe in entertainment that her familliars provide. In attempt to fill the empty void in her chest, humans that stumbles in her world will be captured by them to throw the victims inside the lonely void and piling them up.

Fourth came in will be Hajime/Kamukura, (why? Because if one of them doomed to fall in despair then both will become a witch! As they are connected) their witch name is Ikarus und Daedalus; fruitless witch, their nature being "vanity". Their Familiars are: nutcrackers- their jobs are to crack the impossible of things for the witch, they have the faces of those he held dear. Deacon- the bearer of bad news to him. Gottschalk- their roles are to carry out the witch's orders as they talk behind his back, their power almost match that to a magical warrior.

Bio: The fruitless witch, where Vanity is their nature. No matter how hard this two headed being cannot reach the warmth of the sun. As their familiars leads them both to the never-ending path towards the edge of the cliff, one must face death if being in their way. The fake seeks death, the failure seeks freedom.

The last one in the list is Makoto, his witch name being Gudrun Gretchen; witch of savior, his nature is "mercy". His familliar was called Useless; whose role is to be his wings that carries humanity to aid his process to cleanse the world. It is said that he is one of the strongest witch for he doesn't hide in his labirynth just like Walpurgisnacht.

Bio: The witch of savior, where his nature is merciful. Ti'll this day he still believes he is saving the universe, as he absorbed every last bit of humanity into his source of energy that led him to become bigger in size that could possibly destroy the galaxy. If everyone is gone, there is no need to feel despair, or even hope in that matter.

#ammm au #the mains as witches!! #danganronpa #ty for asking!!

[teamhook]

The Last Witch Hunter:: CSSNS

Hello. I know I shouldn’t start a new one but I couldn’t stop myself. I hope this will be incentive for the Muse.

Thanks to the @cssns

Thank you to my lovely beta that is a saint @ultraluckycatnd

AO3   FFN

Summary:            

Witches are among us. After centuries of conflict, a truce was forged. Only one strict rule, magicks could never be used against humans. Killian Jones is the last witch hunter; he serves The Order of Blazing Sword and Cross and protects humans. Now, though, he needs help from an unlikely ally to put an end to the darkness that is worse than any known threat, and has been lurking in the shadows, threatening to destroy humanity

The fallen tree branches intertwined with the overgrown roots that covered the ground. The humid air made it difficult to breathe. The valiant champions included a widowed Killian, his priest brother, and their father. They were amongst the last line of defense. They had all lost so much already. Wives, fathers, mothers, husbands and children; families torn apart. They were walking into a death trap knowingly as they split away from each other. Each falling prey to traps and illusions created to not only torment their minds but end their lives. The only hope left was to end the Queen Witch’s power and in her death, humanity would find their salvation at whatever the cost. The band of brave men made their way through the ice cold mountains to her lair. The darkness of the forest aided the evil hag and her minions as they killed the men one by one. The screams echoed within the trees. They needed to reach her nest; the Hexen dwelled within the tallest tree in the center. The giant sequoia stood in the middle of the field covered in shadows, the vines bulging from the ground across the path. The perfect abode for those who worshiped the darkness. Light had no place here.

 The temperature dropped as the brave man could see his breath in front of him while he struggled to keep his wits and focus on the task at hand. He stepped over his fallen brethren while making his way deeper into the nest. He knew there would be no surviving the quest but failure was not an option.  

 The ground shook abruptly and grumbled. His attention was drawn to the silhouettes in front of him. One was crouched on the ground, and the other was kneeling in front of the first one. He moved swiftly to get a closer look, and to his dismay, he could now see the witch had her hand inside the chest of a man. It was an older man whose features were enhanced by the flame of the fire surrounding them. It was his father.

 "Liam!!" He bellowed for his brother to help as he rushed to save their father.

 His father looked at him one last time as life was crushed out of his heart.

 The ground trembled again, and it became icier as the sudden snow flurries covered his body. He reached the crone as she stood up to face him with an evil smirk. She moved quickly in front of him, and reached for his heart. He was able to evade her hands with a spin; he swung his iron blade at her as she cackled, mocking him.

 Killian finally managed to do the unbelievable and get the upper hand. The witch struggled to stay upright and she shoved her hand inside his chest. "I curse you to eternal life. You will continue to live and see all those around you die. You will be left behind. Forever alone." She squeezed his heart one last time before taking her last breath.

***

 His eyes shot open at the violent yawing of the craft. This went beyond turbulence. It was freezing. It was an abnormal storm. He stood up to find the culprit but the flight attendant stopped him. "Sir, you need to go back to your seat," the woman said as she pressed her hand on his hard chest.

 Killian could see the interest in her eyes but right now was not the time. "I'm sorry, lass. I need to use the facilities," he said in a low voice while invading her space.

 She smiled in return. “You should return to your seat.”

 “I promise to do so after I’ve done my business.” He crossed his heart.

 She looked around and noticed no one was paying attention to them. “All right, but try to be quick.” She smiled, hoping her leniency will earn her a nice lay over.

 Killian walked past the restroom to the small flight attendant station. He grabbed a cup of water and pulled out a pouch from his wallet. It had a couple of small tools including a needle, which he quickly dropped in the water.

 The plane jerked violently due to what appeared to be turbulence. The other passengers were beginning to panic as the oxygen masks dropped.

 The needle guided him to the source, a redheaded young woman hugging a black bag. Luckily the seat next to her was empty, so Killian sat down. The girl looked up with wide eyes. He smiled and said, "Lass, hand it over." He extended his hand for her to place the bag in. She was about to object then she gasped as she realized his identity and placed the bag on his waiting hand. He opened it and noticed the runes were stuck. "Bloody hell, lass. Why did you think jamming weather controlling runes together was a good idea?" Killian scolded as he sped up his actions; he poured a potion to neutralize and separate the runes using tweezers. “I've been looking for these for a very long time. Lass, these tiny things manipulate the weather. Rain, cold, wind, heat... and you thought it was a good idea to put them together in your bag? Do you know what you get when you mix a thunderstorm with cool, moist air? You almost killed us all. We are lucky you didn't get them wet. You witches have no idea the power you possess." He shook his head in disbelief as he pulled out a case from his jacket pocket and placed each rune inside after covering it carefully with a cloth.

 “I know you are the witch hunter. Are you going to kill me?” the girl asked.

 “Why would I kill you, lass? I just saved your life,” Killian said. “I have a code.”

 “Are you going to turn me in to the witch council? I didn’t do it on purpose. I inherited those from my sister. I swear it was an accident.”

 “No need to fret. Enjoy your stay.” He winked at her and stood up, leaving her behind to go back to his seat.

 The flight attendant noticed him walking back to his seat while she finished providing some water to the passengers to help calm them down.

 "Excuse me sir, I thought I told you to go to your seat?" the flight attendant said, annoyed.

 "I'm sorry, love, but a young lass was in distress. I just wanted to make sure she wasn't anymore. My name is Killian Jones, I much prefer being called that.

 How about I buy you a drink to make up for my lack of listening skills?" he said with a sexy raised eyebrow.

 The woman tried to play it as if she wasn't tempted but the blushed cheeks gave her away. "Well, Killian, I suppose that would be all right."

 "We can meet at baggage claim and set sail from there," he said as he raised her hand to his lips.

 Witches are among us

 Descendants from an ancient race called Hexen

 Their magick diluted, half-forgotten but dangerously powerful

 After centuries of conflict, a truce was forged

 Witches would live freely if they followed one strict rule, magicks could never be used against humans

 A truce is a fragile thing…

 There are those who long for the dark days of the Witch Queen, Gothel.

 It is those whom Killian deals with.

 For centuries, he has

 served The Order of Blazing Sword and Cross.

 I serve The Order in a different manner.

  I write Killian's history.

 I am his handler, his confessor, and his friend.Together we have kept watch and kept the peace.

 I’m Dolan the 36th, Father Nemo

Father Nemo arrived at Killian’s place to take the report from the most recent mission.

 The doorman smiled at the older man. “Father Nemo. I’m sorry, but he is in a meeting. Could you please take a seat while you wait?”

 The elevator opened and a woman exited wearing a flight attendant uniform.

 “I think the meeting is over, my boy,” Father Nemo said as he rose from his seat to walk to the elevator.

 Killian opened his door with a wide satisfied smile on his face. "Hello, old friend."

 Father Nemo rolled his eyes. "You know you are older than me."

 Killian shrugged. "However, as you can see, I've maintained my youthful glow."

 "That doesn't explain why you have no sense of time," Father Nemo scolded him.

 Killian rolled his eyes fondly.

 Father Nemo smiled at the man in front of him. Killian was physically younger, but was actually much older than him. However, time stands still for no one.      We should get to business    , he thought as he pulled out his journal and pen from his bag to prepare for the details. "I assume the mission was a success and you were able to recover the weather runes without incident?"

 "Aye, they are safely put away in the vault," Killian replied. "Old man, really? You get upset at my teasing but I believe you secretly enjoy it. That is why you are not willing to use any of the tech I gift you with. Where's the iPad I gave you?"

 "If you must know, I regifted it. Besides, you will not need to worry after my retirement." Dolan the 36th, Father Nemo reaffirmed his decision it was time to move on.

 "Oh, you were serious. I thought you would reconsider but since you are set in retiring, I got you a small token." Killian smiled as he handed a box to his old friend.

 "You didn't have to do this." Father Nemo grabbed the box and opened it to find a very rare, expensive Waterman 402 pen. "Oh my. I thought you didn't get sentimental. This is lovely but truly too expensive."

 "We've had a good run. We took out many dangerous covens. I finally got used to you and now you want to find greener pastures."  

 "I'm going to miss you."

 "You know you can still keep the pen if you reconsider," Killian said with a hopeful smile.

 "I'm leaving you in modern hands. Besides, the vow was not til death but to face it at your side."

 "You do know there are only two Dolan's advice I have ever listened to: my brother Liam, the first Dolan, and you."

 "Fine company I'm in but wait a minute, you ignored it all the time!" Nemo said irritated.

 "Perhaps, but I always listened."

 "Killian, what if you could retire too? What would you do?"

 "Ah, but I can't."

 "Just humor me."

 "I'm not blind to the importance of my job. Every day I wake up, the world is safe."

 "I wish you could live. Truly. You are missing the best part. The one that goes beyond ships passing in the night. Flight attendants or whoever you found for the evening."

 "There's nothing wrong with a dalliance."

 "You need to find someone to trust and share your life with."

 "Old man, let's finish this then."

 After they finished the report they parted ways. Dolan the 36th, Father Nemo left to finalize his report and hand over the file on Killian Jones to his replacement, Dolan the 37th, Father Gideon.

 Father Nemo's words of advice for the young Father Gideon were to serve with distinction and to remember that Killian was more than a weapon as the elders of The Flaming Sword and Cross loved to refer to him as. He was beyond his success rate or the numbers of witches in detention or the ones that paid the ultimate price for breaking the law.

 The next day, Killian's phone rang. "Hello?"

 "Mr. Jones, this is Dolan the 37th, Father Gideon. I'm sorry to inform you that Dolan the 36th, Father Nemo passed away in his sleep peacefully. The ceremony will be tomorrow."

 Killian was alone now. His friend was gone and it served as a reminder to not allow anyone else to enter his heart.

 The unexpected death of his old friend had reopened the scars left behind by the loss of his wife Milah, their young daughter Alice, his father Brennan, and brother Liam months later. Killian had spent years protecting his heart and focusing on the job, claiming he had a right to seek vengeance for all the world had lost. Now he was grieving for the last person he allowed himself to care for. He truly would die alone. The Order hadn't even given a proper burial to his friend as they now pledged the new Dolan. Killian couldn't stomach the ceremony and stepped out. He sat down on a bench and contemplated his life.

 The young Dolan the 37th sat next to him.

 Killian's eyes stayed focused on an object as he spoke. "Do you see that cornerstone?"

 Dolan, the 37th, nodded. "Yes, Sir. I do. I'm-"

 Killian interrupted him. "I watched them lay it in when all that was there was a cornfield. That was long ago. Everything changes, only I remain." Killian finally faced the young man.

 "Sir, I'm sorry for your loss. I wanted to pledge my life and loyalty to you. Please, call me Gideon."

 "Father Gideon, there are levels of evil everywhere. However, I've never seen people get old, retire, and die on the same day."

 "Sir, I know this isn't the proper time but I need to sort you out with a new identity and all that comes with it." Father Gideon stated as he pulled an envelope from the briefcase.

 Killian rolled his eyes. "I understand all of you Dolans are fierce rule followers but I will be clear. First, I don't need a new identity. Second, there are more pressing matters. Something doesn't add up. You were the last one to see Father Nemo. I need to go to his place." Killian stood and walked towards his black super sport 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle.

     At least it's not red,     Father Gideon muttered as he opened the car door and slipped in. "Sir, I understand, but a low profile is important to keep. As for Father Nemo, what are you thinking?

 "I'll know when I see it."  With that he started the car and drove to Nemo's home.

 They entered and Killian looked around. "How do you know when there's magic in the vicinity? It comes from four elements; fire, water, earth, and air. The correct alchemical triggers will reveal its presence." Killian informed Father Gideon as he continued his inspection. "It appears there was no magic here. However, if the window hasn't been opened, how did this get in here?"

 Gideon looked at the dead flies on the floor.

 "One means nothing. Two perhaps a coincidence but three, that means trouble. He was killed by witches."

 Killian got his confirmation once the glamor spell was lifted. "This is a declaration of war."

  @allons-y-to-hogwarts-713 @caught-in-the-filter @andiirivera @anothersworld @apiratewhopines @artistic-writer @batana54 @beckettj @bethacaciakay @bixisarusher @branlovestowrite @brooke-to-broch @captainodonoghue @carpedzem @chasedancer17 @cocohook38 @courtorderedcake @darkcolinodonorgasm @deckerstarblanche @demisexualemmaswan @djlbg @donteattheappleshook @dovelyheart @elizabeethan @gingerchangeling @gingerpoliglot @holdingoutforapiratehero @hollyethecurious @hookedonapirate @hookedonaswanprincess @hookedonhiddles @ilovemesomekillianjones @imlaxdris71 @itsfabianadocarmo @jarienn972 @jennjenn615 @jonesfandomfanatic @jrob64 @justanother-unluckysoul @k-leemac @karlyfr13s @kday426 @killian-will-do @klynn-stormz @kmomof4 @kwistowee​ @kymbersmith-90​ @laschatzi​ @lassluna​ @let-it-raines​ @lfh1226-linda​ @lonelyspectator12​ @mariakov81​ @motherkatereloyshipper​ @officerrogers​ @ohmakemeahercules​ @onceratheart18​ @pirateherokillian​ @purplehawkcaptain​ @resident-of-storybrooke​ @revanmeetra87​ @sailtoafarawayland​ @sals86​ @scribomaniac @searchingwardrobes​ @seriouslyhooked​ @shardminds @shireness-says @snowbellewells​ @sotangledupinit​ @spacekrulesbians​ @spartanguard​ @stahlop​ @superchocovian​ @swanslieutenant​ @tehgreeneyes @the-darkdragonfly​ @thejollyroger-writer​ @thepirateandhisson​ @therealstartraveller776 @thislassishooked @thisonesatellite​ @tiganasummertree​ @tomeandflickcorner​ @ultraluckycatnd​ @veryverynotgoodwrites​ @wefoundloveunderthelight​ @wellhellotragic​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​ @winterbaby89​ @winterbythesea @xarandomdreamx​ @xsajx​ @zaharadessert​ @myfearless-love @cosette141 @grimmswan​ @fleurdepetite​ @hookmecaptain​ @once-upon-a-pirate-ship​ @undercaffinatednightmare​ @4getfulimaginator2022​ @nachocheese-itsmycheese​

#Captain Swan #cs ff au #cssns23

[brunossan]

RWBY: JAUNE WITCH HUNTER AU

In this World, Witches are the enemies of Humanity. Jaune Arc is a Witch Hunter (Apparently), member of an Order dedicated to eliminate The Witches. Today, Jaune is going after The mission of defeating The Red Witch Ruby...

*Jaune walks around The Forest, Sword on one Hand, a Shield in Another, and Aura surrounding its body. Suddenly, he hears something. Something moved in The Woods. He assumes a fighting instance when suddenly...*

Ruby: SURPRISE ATTACK! *She jumps in Jaune from The side, making him Fall and staying on top of his belly. She is a White skinned girl with short Dark hair, and she is wearing a red dress* Yay, i got you!

Jaune: Gah! *Looks at her, trying to get up* Its you! The Red Witch Ruby Rose!

Ruby: Yeah That's me. *Smiles* by your paladin armor i assume you are a Witch Hunter, right?

Jaune: Yes i am *points his Sword at her chest* Prepare to die, Witch!

Ruby: Wow, That's a Nice Sword! One-hand, leaf-shaped Blade... *She touches The Blade, her Smile fading a bit* wait a minute...

*with one swipe she Takes The Sword from Jaune's Hand. He is Surprised, because he was holding It Very fiercefully, and she Just took It off his Hand with Very simple easiness. With another look, she points his Sword at him.*

Ruby: You are not a Witch Hunter!

Jaune: I am!

Ruby: Liar! This is The Sword of a squire Witch Hunter! And look at your armor! Its... Rusty.

*Jaune Bite his underlip, taking off his helmet and revealing his beautiful Young face and short Blonde Hair. Ruby looks at him with a small light in her eyes, but Jaune is blushing in Shame.*

Jaune: Fine. Its True. Im still a Witch Hunter apprentice. I Heard that you were in these Woods so i came to find you. Maybe i could show Master Glynda that i am more than Just... A Clumsy Stupid Boy.

Ruby: Wow she is so cruel to you...

Jaune: Everyone is. Im trying so hard to prove myself but i cant even kill a Witch! End me Quick, Please.

*Ruby look at Jaune face with an Innocent expression. Then she throws his Sword away and lifts him above The ground, an impressive feat for someone so short in comparison to the young Witch Hunter apprentice.*

Ruby: Up and Go, and with me you Go.

Jaune: Hey Hey Hey put me down!

Ruby: Nope. You are now Mine. The Witch Hunters look like bad Guys. So im gonna be the good Guy in your life!

Jaune: But i dont want to be friends with a Witch! Im a Witch Hunter.

Ruby: Too bad that you are Very pretty for me to care~

Jaune: Somebody help me!

Ruby: Scream all you want. These Woods are so thick no one will Hear you.

*as They disappear in The Woods, 3 lights shine in The sky. One yellow, one White and one Black. Those 3 lights all Go for The same Direction in The Woods. Those are also 3 Witches, who dont know Their friend Ruby is bringing their mortal enemy with them...*

TO BE CONTINUED...

#rwby #rwby fanfiction #rwby au #Jaune au #jaune arc #romance #witches #ruby rose #Ruby Rose Witch #Witch AU #Rusty Knight

[samasmith23]

Kamala Khan's death in Amazing Spider-Man (2022) #26 leaked NOT once... but TWICE in a row!!!

It looks like someone at Marvel RRREEEAAALLLYYY wants this whole publicity stunt of killing off Ms. Marvel (aka, Kamala Khan) to FAIL super hard considering that the pages for tomorrow’s Amazing Spider-Man (2022) #26 have been leaked not once, but twice now! And now we sadly know exactly just how Kamala dies…

Umm… last time I checked, Kamala has a healing factor. Sure it’s nowhere as powerful as Wolverine’s (and it does require Kamala to eat a lot in order to replenish her energy reserves), but unless that sword is powered by some kind of magic bullcrap which completely shuts off her healing factor, this makes zero sense! Kamala literally healed from a bullet wound to the stomach in her opening arc, and even survived having an entire building collapse right on top of her (just barely, but still)!

Also, it feels so random and arbitrary to have Kamala randomly use her shape-shifting powers to pose as a body-double Mary Jane, especially since she’s not utilized them a lot due her opening arc centering around Kamala becoming comfortable in her own skin after previously trying and failing to resemble her idol Carol Danvers (therefore overcoming her personal insecurities and internalized Islamophobia).

Plus, last time I checked Kamala's only since then shape-shifted into a couch, James Rhodes, and a scary cartoon face.

While it does feel somewhat in character for Kamala to risk her life to save someone she barely knows as part of her characterization as a superhero, the actual execution of it feels incredibly at odds with her past character development (whether it be struggling with her fears of death and mortality in Magnificent Ms. Marvel, or already receiving validation from her family, friends, and dozens of other superheroes, including Peter Parker, so why does she need it from him again when she dies?!).

Based on these leaked pages, I get the general impression that Zeb Wells originally fully intended to kill off Mary Jane here since all throughout his Spider-Man run he’s heavily hinted at it and foreshadowed it with that Paul guy (seriously... WHO THE HECK IS PAUL?!) and their two kids (who are apparently actual mystical constructs or something…), and that mystical supervillain wanting “the Scarlet Woman’s blood” (I know the phrase "Scarlet Woman" is specifically meant to refer to MJ’s red hair, but it is also unfortunately a derogatory slang term for a sex-worker). But maybe Marvel editorial told him to rewrite his planned death of Mary Jane at the last minute as a desperate effort to promote the upcoming The Marvels movie (which Wells shares a co-writing credit for the screenplay of), or Wells wanted to subvert reader expectations but did so in a distasteful manner?

I honestly don’t know... but if I had to guess I’d probably say it’s the former option since Marvel previously killed off Doctor Strange and the Scarlet Witch before resurrecting them a few months later to hype up their upcoming MCU films, plus the Spider-Man offices in particular are notorious for their editorial mandates and interfering with writer’s plans at the last minute (just look at how they recently forced Nick Spencer to settle on retconning Sins Past out of existence instead of One More Day like he was originally building-up towards). And do I think that Zeb Wells himself is an Islamophobic misogynist because of this? Probably not... especially considering I don’t know the guy’s personal politics (maybe he's a swell person IRL) and editorial mandates are likely at play here. I do think that killing off Kamala in such a random and distasteful manner is still a bad look and does give off those unfortunate implications. However, based on what I know I feel that this is more a case of judging the actions as bigoted (whether they were intentional or not) instead of labeling the person themselves as a bigot.

But regardless of whether or not the decision to fridge Kamala Khan is the fault of Zeb Wells, or Nick Lowe or someone else over at Marvel Editorial, I do want to make one thing perfectly clear... DO NOT... I repeat... DO NOT SEND ANY OF THEM DEATH THREATS! Like, I've already lost count of how many people I've encountered on both Twitter and Tumblr who are seriously outright calling for both Wells and Lowe's blood in response to these leaks.

And since the issue is being released tommorow, I feel the need to reiterate that harassing creators and sending them death threats is NEVER acceptable under any circumstances, and that doing so makes you no better than the kinds of supervillains that Kamala regularly fights against! We can criticize a bad story WITHOUT becoming supervillains ourselves! Follow the advice of @atopfourthwall here for heavens sake people:

Now this is hopefully going to be the last time I discuss Amazing Spider-Man (2022) #26 here on Tumblr as I have zero plans on giving any actual money to the issue myself. I may consider reading the Fallen Friend: The Death of Ms. Marvel one-shot, if only because it's being written by several of Kamala's past creators G. Willow Wilson, Saladin Ahmed, and Mark Waid, so I trust them to be able to salvage something decent out of this whole fiasco. But that's it. I do plan on releasing a future post which provides an in-depth analysis about the ways in which Ms. Marvel comics have discussed themes of death in a much more nuanced and respectful manner, but I have no idea when it will be released.

Until then folks... vote with your wallets. Please do not cave into the outrage machine and feed into the publicity stunt that this whole mess so obviously is. Don’t give tomorrow's issue of Amazing Spider-Man any more attention than it's already received. Instead go support all of Kamala's past adventures to show your love and appreciation for the character if you do not own the graphic novel collections already. And most importantly... for the love of all that is holy, DO NOT attack the creators involved with this terrible decision and especially DO NOT send them death threats!

#ms marvel #kamala khan #amazing spider man #marvel comics #spider man #peter parker #women in refrigerators #zeb wells #john romita jr #g willow wilson #saladin ahmed #mark waid #nick lowe #editorial mandates #linkara #atop the fourth wall #R.I.P. Kamala Khan #invincible iron man #brian michael bendis #james rhodes #tony stark #muneba khan #nick spencer #the marvels 2023 #mary jane parker #who the hell is paul?! #Youtube

[dykesynthezoid]

I was thinking about how Gwen is so fundamentally a leader, and it’s clear that’s what she’s meant to do, but also as Queen she just seems so lonely, so isolated, and how more than anything she feels like a leader of the People, especially, for example, in that moment where she rouses the women of Ealdor to fight

And in my head I went yeah, like a Robin Hood figure. And then I thought: YEAH. LIKE ROBIN HOOD.

Just think— After her father is killed on Uther’s order, she has every reason to turn against him— And perhaps seeing what he did to Morgana after she came to Gwen’s defense is the last straw. She takes to the woods, consumed by grief and pain but most of all conviction, and vows to fight until she lives to see a Camelot that is free of Uther’s witch hunt.

Lancelot is the first to pledge himself to her cause; he’d always wished to be a knight, but in coming to Camelot he’s seen an injustice that must be undone, and Gwen’s cause is just, and there is no one he would rather have the honor of fighting for. (Also he’s a little in love with her but like. Who wouldn’t be)

Merlin, as always, is chiefly concerned with how it all affects Arthur, but Gwen is still his friend and he wants to help her; after all, what if this is part of Arthur’s destiny? What if this is how they bring magic back to the land? Gwen has no issue with Arthur, and she isn’t even really trying to depose Uther; she’s simply vowed to make trouble for him until the ban on magic is lifted. Merlin becomes her mole inside the castle, sneaking supplies and information back to her camp when he can.

Next to join her cause is Gwaine; he hears they’re giving the king a hard time and thinks, “Oh, fuck yes.” Percival joins as well. They find her brother, and of course Elyan would do anything for her— and anything to avenge their father— and pledges his sword.

Morgana is lonely without her maidservant, torn between missing Gwen and feeling understanding of why she left; until she hears exactly what Gwen’s been up to. She can’t help but be curious, and of course, sympathetic to her cause. It seems Gwen’s found herself her Maid Marian.

Arthur and Leon find themselves acting as (rather ineffectual) Sheriff(s) of Nottingham— After all, they don’t really want to catch Gwen. She’s causing trouble, yes, but she doesn’t truly mean any harm. Still, Uther wants her dead, something that’s starting to cause quite the dilemma for Arthur in particular. It doesn’t help that Merlin’s always in his ear advising him to see things from her point of view.

In the end, Arthur is swayed, Morgana has claimed her own magic, Merlin’s is revealed, and Gwen and her Merry Men have Uther in a bind. When Uther still refuses to lift the ban, Arthur does as Merlin has been not-so-subtly suggesting and usurps him. Magic is free and Camelot once again. And, best of all: Gwen gets the girl, of course.

#bbc merlin #guinevere #morgwen #arthur pendragon #uther pendragon #lancelot

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 32

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

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

Chapter 32: The Hunt

AO3 - Masterlist

Swinging his sword with controlled precision, Aemond cleaved through the air, the blade’s descent accompanied by a swift swooshing sound. With deft movement, he evaded an imagined adversary’s assault, seamlessly transitioning into another strike. The crunch of the gravel beneath his boots harmonized with his rhythmic motions. 

The maids in Daenera’s entourage had assembled, busily unloading the contents of a cart that bore the princess’s possessions. However, despite their presence, Daenera herself had yet to appear. 

Aemond’s jaw clenched, his grip on the sword’s hilt intensifying as he executed another spin, bringing the blade down upon a makeshift opponent crafted from wood and straw, the impact slicing into the dummy’s shoulder. 

Daenera’s return to King’s Landing left Aemond in a state of conflict. Part of him longed for her to remain distant, concealed from his thoughts and vision, granting him the illusion that she didn’t exist. But, such endeavors had always proven futile. She had become an inescapable presence, like a persistent specter haunting his thoughts. Despite his relentless efforts to sever these ties, they clung to him, a potent poison that seemed to course through his veins. And now, with her return, he felt as if that poison would only be reinforced, further entangling him in a web of emotions he had struggled to suppress.

Each swing of Aemond’s sword brought forth the sharp crack of wood splintering, the impact of metal against the strawman’s frame resounding in the air. His breath came in short, rapid bursts, as beads of sweat formed on his brow and trickled down his face. His every muscle seemed to tense and coil beneath his skin as he restlessly moved, the rhythmic thud of his heart synchronizing with the rhythm of his strikes.

“Princess!” A shrill gasp broke through the air. 

Aemond clenched his jaw, his grip on the sword firm as he extracted the blade from its target. 

“What happened? Are you hurt?” The eldest among Daenera’s maids inquired, her voice trembling with concern. 

The air in the courtyard seemed to shift, becoming thick and stifled. 

Aemond’s brow furrowed, and he pivoted slowly, his sword’s arch somewhat lackluster as his curiosity overpowered his focus on the practice. His movement halted abruptly when his gaze fell upon her figure. Blood streaked her face, tracing a dark path down her neck and collecting within the folds of her dress. The fabric was disheveled and marked by stains of both blood and dirt, ripped and ruined. 

What gripped his attention most keenly, however, was the distant look in her eyes, as though she were detached from her surroundings. 

Several guards, along with Ser Criston Cole in his pristine white cloak, converged around her. Aemond also moved closer, his face now a hard facade concealing the swell of emotion he felt–his heart seemed to falter within his chest. 

“We were set upon by a group of men,” Daenera spoke, her voice bearing a distant quality, as if it were an echo of itself. “Anthor and Byren… they’re dead.”

“And Fenrick?” The older servant inquired hastily. 

Daenera blinked, her gaze shimmering with tears that threatened to fall. “I don’t know. He ordered me to run, so I ran.”

“Ser Criston,” Aemond interjected sharply. “Assemble the gold cloaks and a contingent of the Kingsguard. Sweep the city.”

His gaze locked with hers, and he noted the spark in them. Aemond felt his fury burn within his chest, searing through his veins and out into his body. She looked so fragile, as if a touch could make her shatter. It didn’t suit her. 

Aemond tore his attention from her and brought it upon Ser Criston as the kingsguard spoke. “This is a matter for the gold cloaks, my prince, not for the Kingsguard.”

The older maid’s frown deepened, transitioning into a clear sneer. Her name came to him then; Joyce. 

“Princess Daenera is a member of the royal family,” Aemond growled at Ser Criston, his voice cutting off Joyce’s attempt to interject. “And a member of the royal family has been subjected to an attack.”

The expression on Ser Criston’s face tightened, his teeth visibly grinding and his eyes narrowing. After a curt nod at the prince’s order, he allowed a subtle, disdainful look to slide towards Daenera. If Aemond’s patience hadn’t been so precariously stretched, he might have been tempted to knock out Ser Criston’s teeth then and there. 

Taking a decisive step towards Daenera, Aemond met her gaze, her eyes wide yet wavering, still present despite her ordeal. He fought the urge to reach out to her, his hand lifting slightly from his side before falling again. “Rest assured, we will find your man and ensure those responsible are brought to justice.”

If it had been anyone else, he would not have cared to make such promises. In the back of his mind, he knew he should have stepped away and left the gold cloaks to sort this out, that if anyone looked too closely they might imagine there to be more between them. 

As he moved to continue on his way, his attention drawn to the task at hand, her arm shot out, her fingers gripping his bicep. He turned his head towards her, finding her gaze momentarily on the ground before it locked onto his. 

“Aegon is in one of the whorehouses,” she informed him, her voice carrying an urgency that made him pause. “The one with the blue door.”

Acknowledging her words with a curt nod, Aemond let her hand fall away from his arm. She turned from him, her maids enveloping her in a protective circle as they guided her back towards the Keep. A mix of emotions rumbled within his chest – annoyance at Aegon’s involvement, whatever it might be, concern for Daenera’s safety, and a gnawing sense of responsibility that he hadn’t asked for. 

With a terse exhale, Aemond reasserted his focus on the situation. He didn’t need the additional burden of worrying about Aegon’s wearabouts. 

“Fetch my armor,” he commanded a passing servant, the urgency in his tone mirrored by the servant’s hurried departure to fulfill his order. 

“My prince, I advise against–,” began Ser Criston, his tone cautious.

“We shall see how your teachings will hold up, Ser Criston,” Aemond curtly interrupted, cutting off Ser Criston with a determined and decisive voice. He wasn’t interested in Ser Criston’s advice. 

Aemond had no desire to be hidden away like some fragile trinket. He didn’t need to be shielded from the rough edges of the world, afraid of a few scrapes and cuts. What he needed was to exact justice upon those who dared to harm his family – no matter how loose the concept of family was between them. Regardless of the family’s internal divisions, an attack on any Targaryen could not go unanswered. 

Swift retribution, delivered without mercy, was essential. They had to set a precedent. 

And he couldn’t allow the men who had put their hands upon Daenera to continue breathing. 

As the servant returned, bearing his armor, Aemond’s focus shifted to the task of putting it on. He allowed the servant to help him into the breastplate and shoulder guards, the familiar weight of the armor settling upon him. His practice sword was exchanged for his true blade, the grip settling perfectly into his hand. 

All of Ser Criston’s efforts to dissuade him from participating in the search were futile. The gold cloaks had been organized into groups of fives and dispatched throughout the city to comb every corner and crevice for the culprits. Much to Aemond’s annoyance, Ser Criston and Ser Erryk insisted on shadowing his every step, like overprotective hounds. 

Their presence grated on him. He didn’t require their protection, nor their incessant scrutiny of his decisions. What he needed was to obliterate the ones who dared lay hands on a member of the royal family. 

News of the incident had evidently spread, casting an eerie stillness over the once-bustling streets. Now, only a few inebriated souls and the homeless roamed about. The feeble light from the streetlamps and windows merely accentuated the encroaching darkness, a fitting backdrop for the turmoil that had been unleashed. 

They turned onto the Street of Silk, where the atmosphere was oddly different from the rest of the city. Here, the air bore a sense of tension, and the locals seemed to shrink in the presence of the white cloaks, like vermin exposed to light. The air smelled sickly sweet, and it seemed to stick to the back of his throat. 

Aemond’s contempt for these wretches surged. Pathetic and frail, these men were weak, a slave to their own indulgences. And among them, the weakest of all was his own brother. 

“This is hardly a place for a prince,” Ser Criston grumbled, voicing the blatant truth. Nevertheless,  the halls of brothels had been tread upon by countless princes and kings, their secrets concealed in the dark corners of these very establishments. Some had left mere coins behind, while others left their reputation in shambles and bastards hiding in the shadows.

“My brother possesses a specific taste for depravity,” Aemond muttered as his mind involuntarily revisited the memory of the brothel his brother had brought him to during his more innocent years. 

“Too inexperienced,” Aegon had mocked, his tone dripping with a peculiar blend of mockery and brotherly love. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint your future bride, now, would you?” 

The barb from his brother’s past jest stung anew, fanning the embers of resentment that had long smoldered. 

His thoughts were jolted back to the present as they stood before the very brothel his brother had once dragged him into. It had seemed much more enticing to the young Aemond, even though he felt woefully out of place. The memory of Aegon’s chuckles and his own blush at the time still haunted him. 

Further down the street they found the blue door, an oddity amidst the more dazzling facades of the neighboring brothels. The contrast was not lost on Aemond; it was as if this place strived to stand apart, a bit more discreetly sinful. 

Rapping his knuckles against the door, Aemond couldn’t help but rest his hand on his sword’s hilt as restlessness gripped him. He despised having to extricate his brother from these sorts of escapades. If only Aemond could keep himself out of trouble for once. 

The peephole shifted, dark eyes sizing up Aemond and his companions before disappearing, the sound of locks being manipulated echoing from within. As the door creaked open, a somber-looking man of dark complexion stood before them. 

“We seek my brother,” Aemond’s voice was controlled, a barely veiled impatience running beneath it. He assumed the man recognized him, as most did in the city.

Guided by the dark-skinned man, they moved through the brothel’s opulent interior, a study in contrast. They passed a central courtyard adorned with a fountain where rose petals floated upon the water’s surface. The air carried the sounds of a band playing an overtly sensual tune, accompanied by lyrics that bore no subtlety.

Aemond’s slips twisted in disdain at the scene. 

They continued further, eventually reaching a secluded chamber concealed behind a billowing silk curtain. With a rudeness that seared into Aemond’s chest, he found Aegon balls deep in the mouth of a dark haired woman.

Aegon remained oblivious to his brother’s presence, engrossed in his own fleeting pleasure. A flagon of wine was tilted precariously, the liquid cascading down his throat like a reckless stream. The red rivulets painted a gruesome parallel to the streaks of blood on Daenera’s form – an image that ignited Aemond’s simmering anger. 

He wanted to be out on the streets hunting Daenera’s attackers, not forced to intervene in his brother’s vices. 

“Ah!” Aegon’s exuberant exclamation reverberated through the room, arms extended wide in a gesture of ostentatious welcome. “Brother! Have you finally deemed it necessary to extricate the stick from your ass and embrace a bit of revelry?”

Aemond’s jaw clenched, his annoyance underscored by the words flung carelessly. He gathered Aegon’s rumpled clothing, the fabric bearing the distinct odor of dirt. With a curt motion, he hurled the garments at his brother. “We’re leaving.”

Aegon’s laughter rippled like silk on the wind, his response teasingly melodious. He suppressed a grin, his lips forming an impish curve even as the whore continued her attentions. 

“Oh, come now,” he purred, his tone a dangerous mixture of playfulness and defiance. His teeth sunk into his lower lip, a fleeting reaction to the ministrations of the whore.”Surely we can find someone to your particular taste, dear brother.”

The flick of his fingers grazed the girl’s head, her mouth relinquishing the hold on his cock. She pivoted, her gaze now meeting Aemond’s own intense stare. Her features, youthful and innocent, seemed almost at odds with her chosen occupation – round cheeks, a pert button nose, and full lips. 

A storm of anger twisted within Aemond, its intensity coursing through his veins like liquid fire. It took immense self control to restrain himself.

As she reached for the fastening of his belt, his grip clamped down on her wrist, hoisting her upright. In a single motion, he propelled her towards the silk curtain that veiled the chamber, her collision with a stoic Ser Erryk punctuating her exit. The curtain fell back into place.

“Get dressed,” Aemond growled through gritted teeth, his patience hanging by a string. 

Aegon raised his hands in an exaggerated display of surrender, a grin twitching at the corner of his lips. He retreated a few steps, positioning himself nearer to a table, where he deposited the flagon before seizing another, pouring its contents into two glasses. 

“Still nursing the sting of hearing about your lover’s betrothal?” He quirked an eyebrow, sly amusement dancing in his eyes. “I’m certain we can locate a remedy for that.”

Aemond’s frustration simmered, urging him forward. He retrieved the clothes once more, purpose in every step as he approached his brother. He pressed the bundle firmly against Aegon’s chest, each word dripping with a quiet vehemence. “Put on your clothes, Aegon, or I shall have you escorted back to the Keep in nothing but your shame.”

Aegon’s eyes rolled, and instead of immediately taking the clothes, he drained both cups of wine. “Mother wouldn’t approve.”

“I find myself rather indifferent,” Aemond sneered, “Considering that a substantial portion of King’s Landing’s population has already been treated to the sight of your cock.”

Aegon begrudgingly accepted the clothes, tugging on his trousers and slipping into the shirt, a stain of blood smearing across the collar. His boots posed a challenge, an overt struggle with the right foot refusing to accommodate the left boot. The act held a tinge of deliberateness, a shade of defiance that Aemond could all too easily read. 

“Perhaps some gratitude would be in order,” Aegon muttered, annoyance evident as he wrestled with the wrong boot, his hair clinging in greasy strands to his face. “Had I not intervened, your precious little paramour might have met a less fortunate fate.”

“Aegon, I swear upon the gods, if those boots don’t find their proper place on your feet within your next breath, you’ll find yourself returning to the keep with nothing but bare soles. I haven’t the patience for your games,” Aemond snapped, his patient none existent at that point. 

“And would your devotion to the gods match your devotion to denying your dalliances with a certain prin–” Aegon’s words were abruptly halted as Aemond’s fist closed around his shirt, yanking him unceremoniously to his feet. Aegon’s laughter hung in the air for a brief moment before Aemond’s stern expression extinguished it. 

“Whatever fantasies you’ve concocted, I suggest you keep them to yourself,” Aemond warned, the weight of his threat underscoring his words. Aegon seemed to grasp the severity of the situation, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender. 

Aemond released him, exasperation tugging at his features as he watched Aegon easily slip into his boots. Without further delay, Aemond seized his brother’s arm, hauling him to his feet and dragging him towards the doorway. 

“Escort my brother back to the Keep and make sure he is well taken care of,” Aemond instructed Ser Erryk, his tone firm as he directed his gaze toward the knight. With a nod of understanding, Ser Erryk reached for Aegon’s arm, aiming to guide him out. Like a child, Aegon promptly withdrew his arm, leading the way himself in a show of stubborn independence. It did not stop him from stumbling on a crooked stone and almost colliding with the fountain.

“We should leave,” Ser Criston said, eyes running through the crowd in the brothel. “There are many eyes here, not all friendly.”

Aemond hummed in acknowledgment, his gaze shifting to take in the curious stares of the onlookers. 

His eye briefly caught a glimpse of a woman dressed in white, observing the unfolding spectacle from a balcony above. Aemond tore his eye away, landing on the girl who had been servicing his brother. He tossed a purse of coins at her feet before leaving the brothel. 

Navigating the bustling thoroughfare known as the street of silk, Aemond and Ser Criston found themselves in the company of the city's gold cloaks, the royal guards responsible for maintaining order amidst King's Landing's chaos. The street lived up to its reputation, teeming with life and intrigue that seemed to cling to every cobblestone and alleyway.

They wound their way through the city, combing through the street. Taking another turn, they ventured into a narrower alleyway, where the subdued moonlight struggled to breach the enveloping darkness. There, their gazes met the sight of a gold cloak, kneeling beside a lifeless figure. The soft flicker of torches ignited by the gold cloak illuminated the scene, the interplay of light and shadow dancing against the walls. 

The gold cloak lifted his gaze, the flickering flame casting a dance of orange across his somber features. “We found three men attempting to move the body.”

Aemond’s gaze followed the trajectory of the gold cloak’s eyes, tracing the direction to where three figures knelt, defeated and submissive, at the mouth of the alleyway. Yet, his attention soon reverted to the lifeless form before him. 

“It appears the princess put up quite a fight,” the gold cloak remarked, his words laden with an acknowledgement of Daenera’s resilience. 

“Indeed,” Aemond responded, with a sense of pride. 

The victim’s throat had been savagely slashed, the gaping wound snapping almost from ear to ear, the cruel cut severing both windpipe and jugular. A dark, viscous pool of blood marred the ground beneath the body, its inky hue contrasting starkly against the surroundings. The scene was a testament to the brutality of the attack.

Aemond’s emotions shifted, a complex mixture of grim satisfaction and a twisted sense of arousal at the evident ferocity with which Daenera had defended herself. It wasn’t just self defense, Daenera had been ruthless and brutal. Yet, he couldn’t erase the image of her disheveled appearance, bloodstained and seemingly disconnected from the world. He tightened his grip around the hilt of his sword. 

They had almost killed her. They had almost taken her from–

“And her guard?” Aemond inquired, his tone edged with an undercurrent of intensity.

“Alive,” the gold cloak replied, rising from his crouched position and motioning for Aemond to approach the row of subdued men. “He’s with the prisoners.”

Seated on the stone steps leading to a nearby house, Fenrick cradled his injured leg, leaning heavily against the intricately wrought iron railing. His appearance was a testament to the grueling struggle he had endured, with bloodied features, a broken nose, and a collection of bruises and lacerations that painted a portrait of what he had endured. Upon spotting the prince’s arrival, Fenrick laboriously pushed himself upright, relying on his uninjured leg and the railing for support. Despite the pain etched on his face, his greeting held a certain level of exasperation.

“Prince,” Fenrick acknowledged, the sentiment clearly less than enthusiastic.

The situation carried a tinge of irony that Aemond couldn’t help but find slightly amusing, were it not for the gravity of the circumstances. He turned his attention away from the battered guard, his interest waning. Meanwhile, the trio of captives on their knees cast furtive glances toward him – one tinged with fear, the others seemingly resigned to their fate.

“Is this the entirety of their group?” Aemond inquired, the question seemingly directed into the wind.

“No,” Fenrick grunted, adjusting his weight to approach the subdued trio. “There were more.”

Aemond’s gaze remained impassive, the scene before him underlining Fenrick’s limitations. “Were they all incapacitated, or did some escape?”

Fenrick’s scowl deepened, and a note of frustration laced his words. “I couldn't kill all of them.”

Aemond’s lips curved into a mirthless smile, a harsh observation poised on his tongue. 

“It appears that not only were you ineffective in thwarting the attack, but you also failed to eliminate the threat entirely. An interesting display of your capabilities as a sworn shield,” he remarked, with his words accompanied by the unsheathing of his sword. The mere movement made the captives instinctively recoil, granting the weapon a wide berth. Aemond’s gaze disregarded Fenrick – a man he now deemed incapable of fulfilling his duties as a sworn sword. 

“How many of you were there?” Aemond’s tone was unwavering, his scrutiny shifting to the trio before them. 

The captives exchanged wary glances, sealing their lips tightly. 

“Who gave the order?” 

A resolute silence met this inquiry. 

“My prince,” Ser Criston interjected, his voice measured and reasonable, “Perhaps it would be more prudent to transport them to the dungeons for more extensive interrogation.”

Aemond’s gaze held steady for a moment before he inclined his head, pursing his lips in thought. 

With unflinching coldness, he thrust his sword into the gut of the captive positioned at the center, the blade penetrating so forcefully that it emerged from the opposite side. The man’s eyes widened in sheer shock, his pained gasp cloaked by the rush of blood and agony. 

Blood spurted from the wound. A gurgled rasp escaped the man’s lips, the metallic scent mingling with the pungency of despair. Those wide eyes shifted, locking onto Aemond’s face as if seeking solace or understanding amidst the whirl of pain. 

In a swift motion, Aemond retracted his sword, the withdrawal accompanied by a torrent of viscera and gore that spewed forth, a gruesome offering to the ground. The dying captive clutched his own entrails for a moment, the gore slipping through his fingers as his body shuddered in its final throes. His breath grew increasingly ragged until they abruptly ceased, leaving behind only a vacant stare that seemed to look through Aemond. 

The macabre display seemed to unravel time itself, a grim spectacle that captured the horrified attention of all present. The remaining two prisoners recoiled in horror, their terror-stricken screams blending with the gruesome display before them. Yet, it wasn’t just the captives who stared in astonishment. 

Fenrick’s countenance twisted into an expression of disapproval, but he wisely shielded any retort, aware that this wasn't the time to voice his thoughts. Ser criston’s expression bore a heavy frown, a subtle shake of his head suggesting a belief that this method might have been better confined to the hidden depths of the dungeons, away from prying eyes. 

The gold cloaks – loyal, yet weary from the grim proceedings – maneuvered the surviving prisoners back into position, enforcing a relentless order amid the unsettling chaos that unfolded. 

Aemond regarded them with a flicker of amusement dancing in his eye. “If I were in your position, I would find my voice sooner rather than later.”

Tears mingled with dirt on the youngest captive’s cheeks as he pleaded for mercy, his desperation painting a pitiable image. His voice trembled as he spoke, pleading for his life. “Spare me, please! I have a family! They depend on me – Please .”

Aemond’s sword glistened with blood, its metallic sheen matching the intensity of his gaze as he pointed it at the trembling figure. “Talk.”

“I swear, I don’t know anything,” the young man blurted out, his words stumbling over each other in his haste. “I was just doing what I was told. He–” he nodded towards the lifeless body in the alley, “recruited us. Our job was to abduct the girl and return her to a ship. That’s all.”

Aemond’s single eye narrowed, the suspicion he felt echoing in his words. “That is all…?”

Contemplation danced in the depths of Aemond’s eyes as he absorbed the young man’s revelation. They intended to abduct Daenera, but why? The torn dress bore a tale of its own, evidence of a far darker plot. This wasn’t a simple abduction, there was more to it. 

His grip on the sword tightened, and he bore down on the blade, allowing it to cruelly dig into the young man’s flesh. Each flinch, each tremble, fueled Aemond’s anger and sense of justice. Was this a fraction of what they intended to inflict upon Daenera? The pool of blood around the lifeless body seemed a fitting reflection of the cruelty that had brought them to this grim scene. 

“Let us return to the Keep and continue this interrogation on the morrow,” Ser Criston’s voice broke through the charged atmosphere. “The gold cloaks can continue their search for the others.”

Aemond’s gaze shifted to the knight. 

“Agreed,” he purred, withdrawing the sword from the youth’s neck. He breathed a momentary sigh of relief. 

Aemond lifted his sword once more and slashed it across the young man’s throat, delivering a swift and decisive blow. Blood spurted in crimson arcs, and the young man gasped, his hand futilely clutching at the gaping wound. The light in his eyes dimmed rapidly, fading into the embrace of death. 

Turning his attention to the sole remainder of the attachers, Aemond’s voice carried an eerie coldness. “I only have need of one of you.”

With that declaration, he sheathed his blood-smeared sword, leaving the scene behind.

#aemond fanfiction #aemond x reader #hotd aemond #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #hotd #aemond one eye #aemond x oc #hotd fanfic #A Vow of Blood

[secondjulia]

Hob Gadling's Second Execution

WARNING: GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE

Hob had thought himself beyond any feeling, let alone one so great as terror. But when the strange men locked chains over his wrists and dragged him from his once-grand home, fear flooded back into him as fresh as when he’d first faced a charging army, sword trembling in his young hands.

He had no sword now.

Long after his years of fighting for his life in the blood and muck, he’d become something different. A soft, arrogant man, easily broken. Now he was unarmed, bound, and without his fellows to fight by his side. 

Only hostile faces surrounded him now. Lining the path, they watched the witch hunters drag him from his dark, neglected home. Hob looked into the eyes of his neighbors, some of whom he hadn’t seen for over a decade, but he saw no one who would fight by his side now. All that reflected back at him was shock and fear. Several crossed themselves. 

Apparently, years of neglect had still not aged his face. His beautiful stranger had not just made him undying, but forever young. Frozen as the fighter in his prime. Even though the fight had long left him.

“Please,” Hob begged uselessly, as if he’d completely forgotten that he’d already survived one execution. He had not, but the stubborn instinct of fear was too strong. Once upon a time, Hob had rushed into battle, laughing in the face of stupid Death. But without his sword and his fellows and a single fighting chance, he had no hope but to bow to the force of terror. Hob was no martyr, going defiantly to his death. He dug his heels in and twisted in the hands that had gripped his upper arms painfully, but the witch hunter just thrust him forward. “Please!” 

Unbelievably, inexcusable, Hob didn’t want to die.

Hatred for himself bubbled up. What sort of monster could want to live after losing a son, a wife, a barely-born babe? Hob had seen many give up after such losses. Those who kept on usually had someone to care for. But Hob had no one. He had only his own rotten skin to care for, little though he might deserve it.

“Please. Oh my dear lord,” he prayed, though he knew not whether his lord’s ears were near. “Save me!”

“Save your breath, witch!” one of the hunters ordered, slamming hard knuckles into the back of Hob’s head. “Our lord despises those who green gown Satan!”

But he wasn’t despised! He couldn’t be! Not by his lord! Yes, Hob had clearly displeased him in some way the last time they’d met. All Hob wealth and success, the fine wine and fine feast laid out for his lord had not been enough to tempt him away from that fool Shaxberd. But his stranger had left abruptly before and yet still returned one hundred years later. He had not broken their bargain.

In 1689, Hob would see his beautiful stranger again. He had to believe it. 

“Oh my pretty lord, I will make it to you,” Hob prayed. “I swear I will meet you again.”

The witch hunter threw Hob to his knees beside the river, growling in his ear. “You’ll meet your pretty demon lord tonight, witch!”

Oh, how Hob wished it were true!

#

Dream had watched many communities tear themselves apart. He knew the nightmares that had run rampant in this era, try as he might to contain them or turn them to something productive. There were many things to fear in this miserable world, bacteria and viruses that killed by the millions, the greed and arrogance of rulers that carved war into continents, and daily cruelties that bled people of their will to live, the deprivation of a harsh world. But try as he might to illuminate the real nightmares in the minds of humankind, they yet failed to ask the right questions, to ferret out the real sources of their suffering. In this part of the world, in this era, many still did not see the true dangers. 

Dream understood the fears of the witch hunters and the hostile faces in the crowd. He knew their worst nightmares and the darkest stories they concocted in their hearts. But he had also felt the fears of their victims, and his heart twisted to see Hob Gadling dragged from his home weeping. 

“Why are you here?” Death’s soft voice came from beside Dream.

He turned to her, fear striking at his heart. “Why are you here?” 

She smiled gently. “There is much work to do in this place.”

Dream turned back to Hob Gadling who was now praying at the river’s edge. He looked more wretched now than he had been even facing certain execution under the axe. The swimming of a witch was, after all, mainly a test and not an execution, though it could often turn out that way. A victim who sank could be hauled back and declared innocent — if the witch hunters did not wait too long. A victim who floated could be sent to the pyre.

Tears streamed down Hob’s face. He hung his head and murmured to the mud under his hands and knees. The witch hunters were proclaiming his imagined crimes while the townsfolk ogled. 

“Dream,” Death said. “You do not need to be here.”

Dream shot her a scathing look. “You think I fear these petty human cruelties? That I cannot bear the horrors of a place which no sane creature could wish to call home?”

“No,” Death said simply.

Dream looked away from her too-knowing glance and back at Hob. “I must bear witness. We had a wager.”

“It wasn’t really a wager. We didn’t actually bet anything. Well,” she paused, and Dream cast her a wary sidelong glance. “I suppose we bet him in a way. Though it’s a bit of a reverse gamble, isn’t it? If you are right, then I will get the pleasure of Hob Gadling’s company. But if I am right, then you get it.”

Dream scoffed. “Yes, such pleasurable company I have always yearned for,” he said, voice low with dry sarcasm. “A bandit, a pompous nobleman, and a praying wretch.”

“Listen to him, Dream.”

#

Mud squelched under Hob’s fists as his lungs gasped in great buckets of air, fearing the moment the flow would stop. 

“Merciful lord who has granted me life, I will tell you of the wrongs of good people and the cruelties of bad ones,” Hob prayed underneath the words of the witch hunters and the gasps and the jeers from the crowd, “and of the mistakes I’ve made and all the beautiful things I’ve lost. In our tavern of the White Horse, let us meet again, where everything I have is yours. Yours is every experience, every word from my lips, my beautiful stranger…”

His words faltered as he realized that the witch hunter’s voice had gone quiet. He was finished with the long recitation of the really quite fantastical things Hob was supposed to have done with the devil and his minions. Heavy steps closed in behind him.

Eleanor’s face smiled at Hob as vice-like grips closed once more on his arms. Little Robyn’s laugh. The babe’s weak cries, before they’d fallen silent forever.

But another face shone brighter. Pale eyes and smirking lips in a smokey tavern. His beautiful stranger’s face was again the sight that accompanied him to the end. Or, what should have been the end.

Hob truly was a monster. He was not a decent man who would at least go to Death with open arms, eager to see those who had passed on before him. He would not see his Eleanor. He wouldn’t see Robyn. He wouldn’t see the unnamed babe that had died in Eleanor’s arms. Because Hob still wanted to live.

“Forgive me, my lord. I am not worthy. I am not worthy,” but even as he repeated the words, chanting them like a monk as if trying to embed their meaning into his very soul and break the hold of his own greed for life, Hob still wanted to live. “I am not worthy.”

“Confessing already, devil-swiver?” the mean voice in his ear growled. The last words he heard before he was thrust into the cold river.

#

For a long moment, Dream could not speak. It was all he could do not to moan aloud in pain. Hob did not have his name, but still he invoked Dream as a stranger, as — for all Hob knew, despite Dream’s opaque answers — some kind of demon, at the very least an unknown creature who had shown Hob very little kindness. Indeed, whose interference had lead Hob to this wretched existence.

Hob had disappeared under the current. 

Now that he was truly paying attention, Dream could see the flickers of his own face in Hob’s daydreams, the visions that danced across the darkness of Hob’s mind as his eyes squeezed shut against the cold water. Even as the pain of suffocation invaded his mind, Hob was in the White Horse tavern, looking up at Dream, smiling, eyes glinting. 

“He cannot… he cannot wish to stay in this world,” Dream said in a somewhat stifled voice. “With these people. This… this kind of life. This whole place is a torment.”

Death squeezed his arm. 

As Hob fought against the water battering his senses, his dreams shifted beyond memory. In his mind, Dream’s hands reached out over the wooden table and drew Hob to his feet. The dream was so strong that Dream could feel the warm, calloused hands of the soldier on his own. He felt the rough beard against his neck. His arms moved as if to encircle Hob’s warm body, strong muscles flexing under his hands as they embraced. Warm lips met his jaw.

Sharp pains assaulted Hob’s nose and throat, and he twisted in Dream’s arm, crying out and thrashing against the assault of water.

Dream hugged himself and nearly fell to his knees.

“I’ve got to go,” Death said quietly.

“My sister!” Dream cried out, sorrow and desperation bursting through his better judgement. It was Hob’s choice. It had always been Hob’s choice. Dream had no right, no reason to beg for more—

“I’m needed elsewhere,” Death said. “But, Dream? You’re right. There is enough torment in this world. You don’t need to add your own. Take care of yourself, little brother.”

Dream kept his eyes on the river as Death disappeared.

#

Hob came back to consciousness in darkness and pain. Water pressed down on him, in him. It burned in his chest and his throat and his nose. His throat spasmed. His head pounded. He felt like he was crying, but the river swallowed his tears. 

Please. I don’t want to die. Please, my lord!

He was still bound, his head too fuzzy and desperate to save himself. To do anything but thrash against the river. After several torturous moments, he drowned again.

#

The townsfolk did not pull that Gadling out of the river when he failed to surface.

For several long minutes they watched the river flow past, it’s deep movements unbroken. Sinking should have meant the man was innocent, but many of the witnesses found this very hard to believe — especially those who had known him forty years ago and had looked upon his face utterly unchanged. 

It was better this way. If he were, by some distant chance, innocent, then the lord had already taken him to his eternal reward. But more than likely, as several murmured to each other, the lord had just been impatient. Perhaps their Heavenly Father had not wished to wait for them to build a pyre and do all that pesky paperwork for a proper execution. Maybe that Gadling’s devilish crimes had been so egregious, so obvious that He demanded judgement and punishment at once, reaching out through the hand of the river to take justice himself.

Gadling had sounded very guilty. They’d all heard him beg for forgiveness. And even he had said he was not worthy at the end. Well, it looked like the lord had decided so, too.

After a while, the witch hunters looked awkwardly at each other. One scribbled something in his book, and then they quietly made themselves scarce. The townsfolk lurked a little longer, gawking at the river and gossiping, but then they melted back into the their homes and their shops and their fields. Life went on.

The lord had taken Hob Gadling in the river; let the lord decide what to do with him now. 

#

When Dream pulled Hob from the river and into a sheltered grove of willows, Hob’s body was entirely limp. Dream unbound Hob’s hands, cleared the water from his lungs and repaired the damaged tissue. Hob’s body would have repaired itself on its own, but Dream did not want to think of Hob writhing in pain through the healing process. He brushed Hob’s hair back from his face. 

When Hob began to stir, Dream backed away. A part of him wished to stay, to take this man into his arms and be the dreams that Hob had held close in his darkest moments. 

But that was not their bargain. 

Dream could not assume that the desperate creations of Hob’s mind at the edge of Death were the true desires of his heart. And Endless love had never served mortals well. And Hob, well… Hob may not be mortal, but he was human. He wished to live because he love life, not because he loved Dream. He had to be left to live his life.

And, on top of that, it would do Hob no good to be seen with a stranger in these suspicious times.

So, assured that Hob was hale and whole, Dream left.

#

Hob dreamed of a pair of cool, pale hands ministering to him in his wretched state. And when he woke, their loss was a pain worse than drowning. Worse than the axe. Though he realized quickly this time that he was indeed still alive, Hob felt no joy on waking. He felt bereft and lost. 

For a long time he just stared up at the sky between the willow leaves trying to gather the strength to stand. Hob wanted to live. And that would mean that, sooner or later, he’d have to get back to the business of actually living. 

Eventually, Hob pushed himself up. He walked with his shoulders hunched and arms wrapped around himself. He turned his back on the town he’d called home for forty years, the home of his murderers, and walked away from his Death.

~The End~

(Sequel to Hob Gadling's First Execution. Gifs from The Whale — 2013 NOT 2022!)

#Ferdie Friday #WRETCHED HOB #Hob Gadling #Ferdinand Kingsley #Dream of the Endless #Sandman #Dreamling #fanfic #I am actually working on some more happy things too #my fanfic