Deleted Scenes From The Cruel Prince

For every parent, their children are the best in the world.

Criston: aren't they adorable? 😍🥰

I LOVE DAEMON <3 he's so silly

The shortest marriage tour

summary: requested; Your mother had decided that you must find a husband and so she set you out on a tour to go to the different regions of the kingdom and seek out a husband. Though nobody will approach you with your father looming not even two steps behind you. You fear there is no hope until you reach house blackwood and meet the only son of samwell blackwood.

fancast!benjicot blackwood x reader

w.c: 3.8k

c.w: fluff ! history of house blackwood (could be inaccurate based off wiki), crazy ben for like two seconds, father daemon, more fluff, not proofread

a.n: hbo you will never stop me from writing this man he may be dead to you but to me he is alive and well as my benjicot fancast !

benjicot taglist: @spider-stark

the carriage is silent. the only sounds are the wheels turning against the soil and the occasionally sounds fabric as the two of readjust in your seats.

It had only been the first stop and it had been awful. It was supposed to be a marriage tour, where you would meet every eligible man in the six kingdoms but it instead felt you a much too long father daughter trip. He breathed down your neck not a single man would approach you unless you, with your father not too far behind, approached them and even then it never went well.

You have no clue why your mother even allowed him to come, maybe she didnt he just forced himself on this trip. You had thought your brother jace would accompany you but you worried that might be even worse than daemon and you expressed that to your mother, you did not think that would mean your father would wiggle his way into leave dragonstone and trailing around westeros with you.

You look out the window and notice its dark, very dark out. You would certainly not make it to your next stop until morning. “I told you we should have just waited until the next morning.” You scoff and glare at him. “And have to watch for yet another evening as all those people shit themselves whenever you speak? i apologize for not wishing to stay.” “they were never going to shit them themselves, maybe pee a little.” “is that not the same?” “no shit is much worse.”

Your father sits up and knocks on the roof of the carriage. “What house is the closest to us now?” “House blackwood my prince.” Your father contemplates for a moment before he nods to himself. “then we shall head there, you shall run in and inform them of us staying for the night.” “Of course my prince.” you grip into the walls as the carriage harshly turns and glare at your fathers pleased look. “oh what now?” “you are annoying.” He laughs.

You knew next to nothing about the blackwoods other than their infamous hatred for the brackens. You cannot help but agree with them for when you once met one of the bracken men he had tried to hit on you and it did not go over well. You hoped tonight would be quick and easy so you can slip out easy in the morning and get on your marry way.

It is not that you wanted to marry some lord certainly not, you simply wished to return home and finding the first man to even so much as not make you grimace with every word he speaks will be good enough for you. Even if your visit home will be short lived as your sure a wedding is to come soon after and you would have to relocate to your forever home. The more you thought about it the sicker you got so you pushed down your thoughts as the carriage stops.

Your father walks out of the carriage and helps you out. You take a look around, there was so much greenery, a huge field of grass and when you take a couple steps closer you can see some barns out in the distance. The castle itself was much more impressive then you had been expecting, you find yourself unable to look away from the white branches of the weirwood tree. The guard ran back out to the two of you, “The blackwoods would be more than happy to host you.” “Of course they would.” You slap your father on the arm, “May you please be a little nicer this evening.” he pouts at you before strolling off towards the doors and you close your eyes and take a deep breath before you follow after him, hopeful he is not too much of a pain in your ass.

You are led in by a couple guards and you almost crash into a maid who is running by, she quickly apologizes to you before running away. “Why is everyone in a rush?” “Well when the fucking prince shows up and says he wishes to stay for the night well past the time any reasonable person would be awake whatever are they supposed to do.” your father flashes you a blank look but you just grin at him and continue moving about the hall until you are in the main room. .

You’re sure the older man is samwell blackwood lord of the house but the face that catches your attention is the boy standing next to him. He was very pretty, even in the darkness of the room you thought he was very handsome and cup your hands together in front of you as you look straight ahead with a small grin on your face. “Welcome, it is an honor to host you prince and princess.” You nod while you father merely looks around the room. Samwell gestures towards the boy next to him who meekly steps forward, “My son, benjicot.” The boy bows and his eyes find yours already looking at him and his face grows red, “Hello.” He scratches the back of his head as he lets out an awkward smile.

“What type of name is be-” your father does not get to finish his words as your heel slams down onto his foot and he curses as he turns around, leaning down to grab at his legs. You do not acknowledge him simply stepping forward while the two men look back and forth between you and daemon. “It is wonderful to meet you both. I apologize for my fathers sudden intrusion of your home,” You father turns back to hiss at you, “Did you have to do it with you heel?” You ignore him and continue to keep your eyes on the two men, “If only my father was a better planner.” “I think you cut off my toe.” You roll your eyes and cross your arms.

“Even if i did i would be doing you a favor your feet are horrendous.” “My feet are just fine.” “That is not what maid mary thinks. You had asked her to massage your feet one day and when she walked out of your chambers she gagged and held her hands far away from her as if she was holding horse shit.” You father looks at you horrified, “That is not true.” You shrug and chuckle to yourself as you think back on the day.

Samwell weakly laughs and claps his hands together before he speaks to you. “It is no issue princess do not fret. Please if there is anything i could do for either of you while you are here just let me know.” You can’t but glance at benjicot again and he is already looking at you. His eyes widen slightly as he sees you looking at him and he looks down at the ground, the tips of ears bright red. The grin on your face only grows, you wanted to talk to him but with your father by your side you are sure to not get anywhere.

“what about dinner?” you glare at your father, “do not listen to him it is far too late and he is terribly impolite,” samwell gestures to the maids who scurry off, “nonsense you must be starving, we shall cooking you up something.” An idea pops into your head and you grin to yourself. You look at your father who narrows his eyes at your face. “My father on the road was just telling me hes been dying for a good drink and a good drinking buddy.”

You slap your father on the back and he lets out a laugh as he tries to hide the confusion on his face. Samwell lights up at your words, “Well why dont we have a drink before dinner, our cellars are wonderful we have a dinning room just this way.” Daemon nods but he glares at you as he walks by and heads to samwell’s side who looks to benjicot, “Keep the princess company son.” Daemons eyes widen as he looks between the two of you, your plan becoming quite clear to him. Yet he gets the chance to say nothing as samwell basically drags him off and you send him away with a smile.

Letting out a sigh of relief you turn towards benjicot who smiles at you, “Gods i thought he would never leave.” He lets out an awkward laugh, unsure of what to say to you as you step closer to him. He rocks back and forth on his heels awkwardly but his eyes can seem to stray from your face for too long. You liked him you cant stop the real smile from growing on your face as you look at him.

You are however aware of the numerous eyes in the room that are on you, from maids to squires everyone is glancing at the two of you. “Could you show me around your lands? i know it is dark but i was so fascinated by it.” He eagerly nods, “Of course princess it would be an honor.” He offers you his arm and you take it, “Please call me something other than princess i cannot stand to hear it any longer.” “I could not princess.” You hum and bat your eyes at him and he turns away from you, “What about my lady then?” He smiles to himself and nods lightly. “If you say so, my lady.”

You like the way his words roll off his tongue too much and turn away from him as you feel your skin heat. The cools summer night air hits your skin and you admire the lands before you. You immediately stire the two of you to the weirwood tree and he chuckles. “i take it you like the weirwood tree my lady.” you look upon the crows resting on the tree in fascination. “not like i love it it is glorious. is there a reason they sit upon the tree?”

“not one that we know of my lady. they have been resting there every night for thousands of years now.” you hum as one of the ravens looks at you, you cant help your curiosity get the better of you ask you begin to ask him numerous questions about his family’s house, why had you never studied house blackwood before? “i thought weirwood was only in the north.” “house blackwood used to be in the north my lady until my ancestors were driven out of the wolfswood.”

“its fascinating. Does your family have any historical texts here?” He looks surprised at your question but nods, “of course my lady.” “will you allow me to borrow them? i shall return them of course.” its also an excuse to see you again. the words die on your tongue as much as your throat itches to release it. “You are free to keep them my lady.” “no no i could never.” he opens his mouth to argue but with a pointed look from you he turns away and his face grows red again. “Then you are free to borrow them my lady.”

You turn away from the tree pleased and the two of you walk out to the long field of grass, you look and see the small river that lines the land. Your eyes drift off to the windmill in the distance. The land was so peaceful with little firefly's lighting the land before you. “it’s beautiful.” “yes…” you turn to him and he is not looking at the view but his staring at you. you raise a brow at him, “you are not even looking at it.” a small smirk grows on his face, “i am actually. quite the view in front of me.”

You huff and turn away again your eyes catch the large rocks that draw a line between the two huge fields of grass. “is there a reason those rocks are there?” He stiffens and his voice is a lot more stiff when he speaks, “the other side is bracken land.” you tilt your head, “why do you not just, build a fence or something.” He laughs and shakes his head, “it is not so simply my lady, that requires material and funds we do not have.” “you have not brought it up with the king?” he shrugs, “my grandfather tried many years ago but they dismissed the matter to lord tully who turns a blind eye too it. pricks.” the last words is only muttered from his lips but you catch it anyway. “do you really need such a thing?” “maybe we would not if the brackens were not such-“ he stops himself as if remembering whos hes speaking to and composes himself, “They eat our grass, their cows”

You laugh out loud, so loudly you cover your mouth to hold in the sound. “it is no laughing matter my lady.” he says but he laughs while he speaks. You compose yourself and wipe your eye. “and what is the difference between the two grasses.” he looks at you as if you had said something scandalous, maybe you had. “our grass is much better than theres my lady.” “it does not look any different to me.”

He laughs but the smile slowly slips off his face as he continues to think. You take the moment to admire his face as he stares off into the distance, keeping every freckle and every mark in your memory. “they poisoned the tree.” you almost ask him what tree hes referring to until it clicks. “the weirwood tree.” He nods but does not look at you, continuing to glance out into the distance.

Everything suddenly makes sense, the generational rivalry stems from the tree. from the looks of it it looks as if the tree has been dead for a very long time. They hated them because they poisoned the weirwood tree.

“i shall bring it up with my grandsire.” he turns to you in confusion. “there shall be a wall built. I will see to it myself if i have to.” “you do not need to go to such lengths my lady-“ “consider it already done.”

you are already formulating in your head the letters you will send out to the tullys and your grandsire. Maybe it is better you see them in person, your father would not argue if you wish to head to house tully if anything you believe it to be a stop on your tour.

The look on his face is unreadable, but the two of you hold each others gaze for a while before he speaks. “you are very kind my lady.” His words are soft and you suddenly find yourself wanting to be closer to him if that was even possible. He eyes trail down to your lips and he looks back up at you.

The clanging of a bell suddenly snaps the two of you out of whatever trance you had been in and your head whip towards the castle. “dinner,,,” He turns to you and your stomach rumbles. You were not even thinking about food two seconds ago but he walks you back to the castle in silence and you cannot help but keep your mind on him.

He sits across from you at dinner though he does not eat anything while you sit next to your father who is as drunk as ever. Perfect. He was certainly not going to wake up until late into the afternoon especially since you would be going to bed late you even think he may not wake until the sun begins to set tomorrow.

You say nothing more to benjicot that night but the glances you steal say more than enough words.

You awake the next day much earlier than you had expected thought it is certainly still late normally you would be eating lunch by now. As if on que a maid walks into the room and brings you some lunch, you ask of your father and she states he still asleep, quickly shaking your head when she asks if you would like to wake him and tell her if anything nobody is to disturb him before being dismissed.

After lunch you roam around the halls a bit mindlessly looking for benjicot yet you happen to stumble upon his father instead who happily greets you. “good day lord blackwood, if you do not mind informing me where you son is?” A large knowing grin finds its way onto his face as he gestures outside. “he is out training princess. You should see him in the field.” You nod and say a quick goodbye before rushing outside. Samwell turns to one of his squires, “what did you say they were traveling around for again?” “the princesses marriage tour my lord.” samwell leans back into his seat, “well lets pray to the gods she likes my son.”

You find him rather quickly but freeze as you come upon him. You had no clue who the other boys were but you find yourself unable to take your eyes off benjicot. Was this truly the boy who could barely look you in the eye yesterday? He looked more like a rabid wolf, a feral grin on his face as he bested his peers with ease.

You have never seen a man act like him before and you liked it, maybe a little too much. Unable to stop the churning of your stomach as you can faint hear him laugh and it sounds a little sadistic. You should not be as, whatever you were feeling, right now as you are.

“i like him.” You jump as your father suddenly stands next to you and watches the boys with a devious grin. “what?” “pick that one i like him, he’ll fit right in.” You shakily laugh though the thought had crossed your mind in the couple hours youve been here more than once. “you’re crazy.”

The two of you stand in silence for a bit watching the boys practice but you cant even focus on them as your mind races. “would it truly be alright?” your father turns to you but you keep your gaze on benjicot. “if i picked him.”

a comforting hand is places on your shoulder “you are free to do whatever you wish to, it is your choice to make.”

One of the boys suddenly turns to you and his eyes widen as he quickly whispers in benjicot ear who whips around to look at you. “looks like weve been caught.”

The boys make their way over to you two and bow, “good day princess, my prince, we are so sorry we did not see you.” daemon laughs, “oh do not stop on our account please.”

You ignore your father and greet them anyway, you face hot from your earlier thoughts as you come face to face with benjicot. “good day benjicot and,, company?” The men at his sides introduce themselves as tully’s oscar and kermit, who you greet with a nod. “and please, call me ben, benny, benji, just not benjicot whatever you wish.” he stumbles over his words and you smile and let our a small laugh. “alright ben.” He smiles happily and kermit slaps his back causing ben to glare at him.

“does that offer extend to me or does it only apply to the pretty pretty princess.” Ben stumbles as he assures daemon he could do the same and daemon looks to you with raised brows pleased ben folds to his words, “i told you i like this one.” You roll your eyes as the three boys look amongst themselves with confusion but oscar grins.

You suddenly grow confident with you choices and turn back to walk into the castle, “i will be back.” The four men watch you walk away. Daemons smile grows on his face as he places a hand on benjicots shoulder. “good job boy.” Ben is more confused than ever but nods anyways and lets out a small thank you that ends with a question mark. Daemon suddenly starts asking him about his training and that easily distracts ben who spurs on about his youth.

You find samwell again rather easily who perks up at your arrival. “Did you need something princess?” He looks eager for your words, like he is on the edge of his seat but you do not notice. “would you accept if i asked for your sons hand?”

He quickly stands and you take a step back in surprise, “of course! yes yes i mean absolutely i would be more than happy for you to marry my son!” he grabs your hands and shakes your hand wildly. You did not think such a thing would be so simple as that and watch as he asks for a maid to fetch his son.

You cant help but laugh at the ridiculousness of this all. The way he was rambling off to his squire asking for letters to be sent out to his sister and the tullys. The way the maids can only watch this all go down in amazement. Benjicot soon comes into the room and is shocked when samwell walks over and grabs his face pressing a big kiss into his sons forehead. “what is going on?” You see your father walk into the room and he looks more than pleased as you roll your eyes at him.

samwell does not answer his son as he speaks, “i knew you were destined for greatness my son this is a joyous day. His eyes find yours and they widen as samwell walks off towards your father and the two of them begin discussing things you’re sure are about a wedding. “my lady?” you turn back to ben and smile at him. “i apologize for not asking you first but,,” you trail off and it suddenly clicks in his head. His face grows bright red and he opens and closes his mouth like a fish unable to speak. “my lady,,” His friends suddenly clap him on the back, “good work benny.” He looks down at the ground as a grin grows on his face and he looks back up at you.

“truly?” you shrug and walk closer to him, placing a kiss on his cheek. “truly. if it pleases you.”

He laughs as if you had said the funniest joke, “it more than pleases me my lady.” you did not think this would truly go so well. What would your mother think? you had heard her tour lasted months and even then that was because she cut it short but you think she would be pleased knowing you had succeed in less than a months time.

HENRY WINTER X READER

LOVING AND SELFLESS WERE NOT TWO WORDS EVER USED TO DESCRIBE A MAN SUCH AS HENRY WINTER. When you entered Julian Morrow’s office, Henry looked at you with an amused look upon his face. Richard had only just recently joined the class, now you? Julian was feeling generous.

His cold gaze followed you to your seat before returning to whatever he was writing in his notebook. With little acknowledgment, Henry only lifted his head with Julian entered; a man he idolised and admired greatly.

Henry straightened his posture, closed his notebook and adjusted his already neat tie. He merely glanced at you.

As the class went on, Henry began to read out a passage from the Iliad.

"Early in the morning the gods of Olympus sent down the breezes, to fill the sails of our ships.” Henry recites, the words imprinted in his mind.

“It symbolises the human spirit.” He says, a knowing grin fighting to grace his lips.

“I disagree.” You speak up, almost regretting doing so as all heads turn towards you; Henry’s much slower than the rest. “It symbolises the life and death. They’re being led to death.”

Henry let’s out a stiff chuckle, completely insincere.

“You’re overlooking the larger symbolic value of the passage, which is the idea of the human spirit overcoming obstacles and adversity. The breezes represent their collective effort and resilience in the face of challenges, not death.”

You furrow your brows and notice Bunny’s eyes widen a little. “You're just trying to force your own interpretation on the passage to fit your narrative. Death and being led to it is a much more nuanced and accurate theme to the passage and it's the very essence of the human condition. It represents the truth about existence.”

Henry shakes his head and his jaw tightens once more. “The passage is a reminder that our collective effort and determination can overcome even the most difficult challenges and that is the core of the human spirit.”

You tear your eyes away from Henry’s for a moment before looking back and continuing to argue. “You see, that's exactly the problem. You keep glossing over death and try to replace it with some positive rhetoric but you can't escape the truth. Death is inevitable, inherent in life and the human spirit must confront it.”

Julian looks impressed, only leading to Henry’s blood boiling more. A hatred began to stir inside of him. Luckily for you it was the end of the class and Julian knew Henry could argue over this for hours.

“I believe both inferences are correct.” Julian attempts to disperse the flame yet there was no shaking Henry’s cold glare.

Henry is the first to leave the office after you’re all dismissed, his strides strong and determined. He pulled out the pack of Lucky Strikes from his breast pocket, dig for his lighter from his coat pocket and lit a cigarette up. He took a deep inhale.

You walked after him, attempting to keep up with Henry’s pace. Despite his leg he moved briskly.“Henry.” You called and his pace slowed before he came to a complete stop, exhaling the smoke from his cigarette. Henry turned around, his height towering over you. It was much easier when you were sat down; you would’ve never thought to speak up earlier if he was standing. “I didn’t mean to aggravate you before, I was just expressing my inference.” You manage to tell him.

“You didn’t aggravate me, your opinion wasn’t vital.” Henry responds simply in a selfish manner.

You couldn’t help but scoff a little. “Well neither was yours.” You say, your sudden distaste for Henry getting the better of you and making your words come out harsh.

Henry’s jaw tightened; a common occurrence that happened whenever your mouth opened you began to realise. “At least mine made sense.” Henry replies brutally before turning around once more and taking another deep drag of his cigarette.

Since then a rivalry blossomed — Henry’s mind challenging yours as you challenged Henry’s.

Despite Henry’s spewing hatred for you, Francis Abernathy, another peer, had taken a likeness to you. He invited you over to his aunt’s countryside estate, the group’s last visit before winter break yet your first visit.

It was grand and large, easy to get lost in the winding far hallways. You spent evenings in the living room, lay across the couches and indulging in the rich wine from the cellar.

Tonight was no different.

Your minds were fairly numbed and you gazed up at the ceiling as the others talked — unaware of Henry’s gaze upon you from the armchair close to the fireplace. It looked almost playful. Almost.

Bunny was bringing up a moment from the class in the previous term and you laughed, shaking your head. “Nope, that’s not how I remember it.” You say your laughter dying down. You then heard a faint stiff chuckle from Henry and all heads looked to him. He hadn’t spoken much all night.

“What?” You ask, a faint laugh in your voice. It was a nervous laugh, you never knew what Henry was going to say.

“Even when we aren’t in Julian’s office you still manage to argue with anything anyone says, it’s predictable.” Henry tells you, taking another sip of wine.

“Henry knock it off. It’s all in good fun.” Charles said with a scowl, pouring more wine into his glass.

“I’m just stating the obvious, you always have to know better than anyone. Come on, give it a rest for one night.” Henry tells you, his gaze more challenging than ever as he wore a satisfied grin at how your face dropped.

In Henry’s mind he was only being playful — to you he was nothing but cruel. The room suddenly felt warmer and you needed to leave the living area before smoke came out your fucking ears.

You left the estate and stood outside for a while, crossing your arms; a poor attempt to warm you from the cold.

A few moments later you heard footsteps wondering towards the front door; those familiar heavy footsteps.

You glanced over your shoulder and saw Henry, lighting up a lucky strike. Quickly, you looked away and kept your jaw tight in a similar fashion to how Henry’s usually had his whenever you were near.

Henry glanced to you, his eyes roving you up and down for a moment as he exhaled the smoke. His eyelids were droopy and he cleared his throat before glancing away, intoxication taking hold.

“I was only trying to joke, it was a joke.” Henry informs you. You laugh falsely and look over to him.

“Jokes are funny.” You tell him and he grins, perching the cigarette between his lips as he got his Lucky Strike packet from his coat pocket. “Touché.” He murmured and held out the packet to you.

You looked at it for a moment before shaking your head and looking forward to the field. He put the packet back in his coat pocket and looked out to the field with you that was covered by darkness.

“I envy your perseverance. At first I hated it, then I began to love the challenge, the thrill of proving you wrong.” Henry tells you.

Your eyes remained forward yet you could see Henry in the corner of your eye, drawing closer. His hand reached up to caress your face, his hand large enough to cup your cheek and ear with his fingers not once calloused by work but by the scribbling away of his pen over the years.

As his fingertips grazed your cheek you grabbed his hand and shoved it away before making your way back inside.

“You intrigue me.” You hear Henry’s voice slur as you continue to walk. He wanted you to stay out there with him, yet drunken words, or any word at all from Henry didn’t matter.

You left to your room after that encounter and didn’t come down for the rest of the night.

The next morning, you saw Henry in the kitchen, up first as usual. You wished he was hungover, enough to stay in his room for the rest of the day.

His usual slick back hair was messier and his eyes were more remorseful. His top blouse button was undone and he lacked a belt. For a moment Henry looked human.

As you put the kettle on he looked you up and down once more, taking a sip of his own lukewarm coffee.

You didn’t look his way and looked out the kitchen window that faced the fields.

“Whatever I said last night I apologise.” Henry told you with a soft tone you were unfamiliar with.

“It doesn’t matter.” You mutter dismissively and keep your eyes out the window. You hear Henry sigh and he removes his glasses and rubs his temple in annoyance.

“It does, it does. What I said was true. I am intrigued by you.” Henry admits.

You scoff and shake your head. “You have a funny way of showing it.” You tell him bitterly, still believing he was fucking with you.

“It intrigues me that you challenge me. I’m not used to it.” Henry tells you. Your shoulders relax a little as the sincerity of his words dripped from his lips.

“I regret how I’ve treated you, please. May we be friends?” Henry asks, standing up from his seat. You glance over to him and he extended his hand to you as if you were creating a pact.

Slowly and uncertainly, you shook his hand and watched his face relax. It was new, something other than a clenched jaw.

Henry was a man of is word, his attitude and behaviour towards you dissipating from anger to a fondness of you. Little did you know it ran much deeper, that fondness soon submerging into desire.

When you worked together, to study or work on assignments it was like clockwork and everything fell into place. Your minds worked as one and Henry felt immensely foolish for creating your rivalry in the first place.

You returned to Francis’ aunt’s countryside estate in the spring where the fields were flooded with vibrant green and the odd clumps of flowers sat across it.

Everyone was outside, Camilla walking by the stream with Richard while Charles, Francis, Bunny and Henry played tennis. You were settled under a tree, shading from the sun and reading while seated on a picnic blanket.

You only look up from your book you were annotating upon hearing the approach of heavy breathing and look up to see Henry, his blouse unkept and untucked from his pants, a few strands of hair falling over his forehead.

“Was tennis really that intense?” You ask with a slight grin. Henry chuckles and lays down on the picnic blanket beside you. He rubs his forehead.

“Bunny can be very competitive.” Henry replies and you roll your eyes in a playful manner.

“What are you annotating?” Henry inquired, sitting up. You held the book out to him. Henry took it from your grasp and suddenly much more aware of how close Henry was seated beside you.

He flicked through the pages, his eyes concentrated as he focused on every word you wrote on each page and marvelled at it.

“Ingenious as always.” He tells you with a subtle smile, holding the book back out to you. You’re still reeling from the proximity. Why was this so overwhelming?

Henry looked back to you upon noticing your gaze and slowly lowered the book onto your lap. His eyes flickered to your lips for a moment before back to your eyes, a silent ask for permission.

When your lips part a little, he takes the indication and cups your chin with his fingers, bringing his lips to your own in a deep tender kiss. Closing your eyes, your body relaxes and you let your lips get taken by his, attempting to kiss back with as much affection as he did. His arm slipped around your waist and pulled you closer to him if it was even humanly possible.

Henry wanted every part of you.

His tongue slipped over yours and nothing felt better before the grating sound of a whistle was heard from Bunny mouth.

“Hey! We’re starting another game!” He yelled, unable to see entirely what was happening as the sun caused his eyes to squint, disorienting his vision.

Henry’s lips grazed yours now and he sighed in annoyance. He looked over to Bunny. “I’ll be over in a moment!” Henry yells.

He leaves one last desired kiss upon your lips before returning to Charles, Francis and Bunny, acting as though nothing had happened despite his lingering glances to you throughout the next game.

Flower Faced

Aemond x wife female character

Summary: a series of diary entries written by Aemond Targaryen following his tumultuous marriage and the realm's descent into war | word count: 13k~ | warnings: angst, smut, infertility, chronic illness, war, character death, wife features is described briefly, spoilers for f&b

15th day of the 4th moon, 128

They have made me a husband. A prince wed to a flower plucked too soon.

She stood before me by the Septon, trembling in her silken gown, her face pale as the moon. I was told her beauty would make up for her lack of standing. That her delicate disposition was proof of her good breeding, a prize unfit for a mere second son. How fitting, then, that it was to me she was given. A scrap for a scrap.

I find myself wondering how she might have appeared in better health, had her frame not been so thin, her skin not so colourless. She is the image of a flower wilting in the frost. I cannot fathom what my father intended when he arranged this match. Did he think her weakness would breed strength in me? That I would look upon her frailty and find myself tempered by pity?

Perhaps it is too kind to assume that my father put any thought into the matter. The one of little importance.

I feel nothing but irritation. A prince needs heirs, and she is as likely to bear a child as a winter rose is to bloom.

She retired early tonight, her maids fretting over her as though she were a babe in swaddling clothes. Preparing her for the bedding no doubt. Several lords approached me thereafter asking for a ‘bedding ceremony’. I fear her gentle heart would have given out if such a thing were to actually happen.

They tell me her name means ‘grace’ in the ancient tongues of the Reach. Grace, indeed. She moves as though her bones might shatter beneath her weight, her steps feather light. I suppose if I were to be truthful and perhaps kind, which I do not know why I should, I would admit there is a beauty in her fragility. Such is the beauty of a fine layer of ice on water in the early winter, easily broken with a mere breath to its surface.

I have no need for beauty, and no patience for weakness. Yet weakness is what I was served, wrapped in lace and trembling upon the bedsheets.

When consummation was inevitable, I thought I might snap the poor thing in two when I fucked her. She is so slight, so frail, as though the gods built her of spun glass and good intentions alone. She did not cry, though I expected it. She lay beneath me as one might endure the bite of a leech, silent, resigned, and still.

I despised her for it.

Not for her fragility, but for her acceptance. For the way she stared at the canopy, her lips pressed into a pale line, her hands gripping the sheets as if she feared being swept away by my storm. I do not know what I wanted. A protest, perhaps. A tear. Something to remind me that she was alive, that I was not bedding a corpse.

When it was over, she whispered, “Thank you, my prince,” so softly that I nearly thought I imagined it.

Thank you. For what? For duty? For what she believed was kindness? She did not look at me as she said it, and yet those two words have haunted me since.

It has been three nights now, and I have not returned to her chamber. Mother, ever dutiful, had broken fast with me the next morning to ensure ‘the act’ had indeed taken place, of which I confirmed it had. But she pressed no further on the matter, as if that was all that was important.

I tell myself it is for her benefit, that I do not wish to worsen her condition. But the truth, if I am to be honest here, is that I do not know what to do with her. She is no adversary, no equal, no dragon. 

She is a flower pressed flat by the weight of its own stem.

2nd day of the 5th moon, 128

The rain has not ceased for a fortnight. King’s Landing reeks of soiled hay and wet stone. I've kept to my chambers to avoid the rancid air, but the storm intrudes all the same.

She has been ill again. The maesters tell me that her disposition is weakened, the damp worsening her condition. It grates on me relentlessly to think that something as simple as rain is enough to set my sickly wife abed for days on end. As if she is made of sugar and will dissolve if she steps outside for a single moment.

I half-expected to hear of her passing this morning when I visited her. Pale and fragile as she appeared when her maids opened the curtains. And when she rose out of bed to look out the window, it was painfully, like a stubborn plant forcing its way through frozen soil.

I asked her why she did not wish to rest.

Her smile was as weak as her body.

“Once these rains have washed away, the grass in the Reach will be as green as those in the Seven Heavens.”

She thought of her home even now. She did not consider King's Landing her home.

Since she uttered those words, I have tried to see it as she does. To see past the filth and shit of King's Landing and imagine the fertile fields and warm sun. As she hails from the Reach, she is drawn to flowers, hence why I noted that day that there were so many strewn about the room in various vases.

They wilt in the damp, just as she does.

Sometimes I find myself watching her more often than perhaps I should. I reason that as much as I loathe it, she is my wife. Whether she notices my watching her and says nothing or is ignorant to it, I do not know.

She moves slowly, as if not to shatter her fragile bones, but not out of fear I now see. She is afraid of little I have noticed, though she has every reason to be. A girl as sickly as her wed to a prince known for his temper, gods, she should tremble when I blink.

But she does not.

I regret I spoke harshly to her. Told her to rest. Save her strength. To let the flowers wilt if they must.

And before retreating back to her bedsheets at the will of her maid, she said.

“Even wilted flowers have worth, my prince.”

I had no reply for her.

11th day of the 6th moon, 128

She looks better today. Has done for several days in a row, much to the maesters relief.

The flush in her cheeks was neither from fever or strain, but life. And seeing her now as opposed to how I had often known her, she was beaming with it. Whether it was out riding or the gardens, she would routinely ignore the advice of those who cared for her health to bask in the sun, if only for a mere few hours.

Her breath was even, her voice was clear.

For the first time since our wedding, we spoke freely.

I had not meant to stay for long, truly. But we walked through the gardens on a warm early afternoon. Although I had to stop every few paces to allow her to bend to retrieve some half-wilted flowers so she might place them in her basket.

She said the maesters said she will likely never be strong enough to bear children. At least healthy ones, or ones who would draw breath once born. That feminine melancholy drifted over her face for a moment, as if she suspected I already knew that truth myself.

And truly I had. It was why I had made no attempt to bed her since our consummation.

I did not know how to respond. Usually women speak of such matters with carefully shielded delicacy, whereas she spoke plainly. But I could not bring myself to express the disappointment I should have felt, or the anger that had simmered beneath the surface for so long.

Anger, perhaps not. Weary, maybe.

My answer was not one she would have expected. That I never asked for children. But in my stupidity, I had in fact said, I never asked her for children.

It seems I have driven an already sheathed blade even deeper.

My words may have been misshapen but they were the truth and that is all I have to offer her, is it not? I hold no love for her, but I would never deny such a fragile creature as my wife what I would give any other.

She said nothing. She lowered her lashes and the silence that followed was so unbearable I considered leaving her altogether.

I never asked her for children.

True enough, I suppose. But even I can see how little truth matters in the face of what I’ve taken from her.

I know as well as anyone, what I have actually expressed is that I expect nothing from her.

And perhaps the latter is more cruel.

14th day of the 6th moon, 128

Tonight, we coupled for the second time in our long marriage.

I had avoided her bed for months, claiming duties, council matters and brief bouts of illness that she no doubt didn’t believe as reasoning for my absence. Though after a time, people were beginning to whisper, so I had no choice but to comply. And there was a time where I believed my own mistruth, that I was sparing her. But in truth, I did not wish to see her fragility laid bare again.

She never protested, and likely never would.

So I went to her.

Her chambers were lit by a single candle dotted at several points around the room. She sat at her vanity, pulling her hair free of tight braids and pins. Her hands were so small and pale, I wondered if this small action itself did not overwhelm her delicate nerves. 

It was she who broke the silence. 

“Have you come to pity me, my prince?”

I almost turned away then. 

She let me unlace her gown, let me bare her to the dim firelight. 

It was less frantic though no less awkward. She held me as though she feared I might vanish, and I let her. Perhaps it was the wine, or the quiet of the hour. When I touched her, she shivered. And when my lips accidentally brushed against her neck, she tilted her head back. The floral perfumes she had applied to her skin felt too much of a distraction.

When I finished she looked up at me. It has always unsettled me, her ability to look upon me without flinching. I am a dragon and she is a petal, and yet it is I who wilts beneath her gaze. 

Even the bloodiest of injuries had no such effect on me. 

- - the day of the 8th moon, 128

Aegon celebrated his nameday swiftly as he usually does. It is the third time in one month where he has had to be dragged from celebrations because he is unable to handle his wine. He had of course revelled in the attention, called for songs, dancers and yet more Dornish Red, as if he had not had enough.

The lords humoured him. The ladies pretended not to notice. Father was not even in attendance, it was mother and Helaena who sat diligently at the top table, faces sullen as if they held the weight of the Realm on their shoulders.

For my part, I watched from the shadows, as I often do. My appetite for such things is thin at best, and thinner still with the murmurs that reached my ears tonight.

They speak of her. My wife.

“Too weak to attend,” one said. “She’s been frail since the wedding,” said another.

I could feel their eyes upon me, their pity or curiosity or judgment, I could not say which was worse. It felt such a disservice for others to remark upon her the way I have. 

Nobody was as shocked as I to see her when the doors to the hall opened. There she stood, walking carefully into the light, bathed in a dress that was not crimson, not dark, never. But red all the same, as if she had thought of honouring the house she wed into but not yet willing to loosen the reins on herself entirely. The colour was pale, muted, a shade more suited to her, though it did little to disguise her frailty. Truth be told, she does look sickly in red.

I knew she had wanted to wear it, though. That was why she had chosen it.

For a moment, I thought she might collapse under the weight of the eyes and silence on her.

I thought to rise as she approached me, but for some reason I did not. She inclined her head to me so faintly I doubt anyone else saw, and I saw her locks were adorned with jewellery she had not usually worn.

She inquired as to the whereabouts of my brother, no doubt asking whether the celebrated prince was on his very own nameday, but she did not seem downtrodden when I informed her he had retired to his chambers. As if it were a mere formality.

“Shall we dance, husband?”

I thought to refuse her, to spare her the strain, but the look in her eyes silenced me. And I could not very well be seen to refuse my own wife. She extended her hand, pale and trembling, and I took it without a word.

I thought it would embarrass me, this spectacle before the court. Her weakness had done so before, and I had no doubt it would do it again. But I could not bear to say the words aloud, not when she had dressed in my house colours for me.

I led her to the centre of the hall, her small frame so light beneath my guiding hand that I wondered how she had summoned the strength to stand, let alone to dance. When I placed my hand at her waist and we began to move, I noticed almost immediately that she was struggling to keep pace with the beat. Her breaths were short, shallow, her fingers tightening on my shoulder as though holding herself upright by sheer force of will. Still, she did not stop.

“I hope I have not made a spectacle of us,” she whispered.

I only said there was no need for her to apologise.

When her steps faltered again, I acted without thinking. I lifted her slightly, guiding her feet onto mine so that she would not have to move. She blinked at me, startled, but did not protest. For the first time that evening, her breaths seemed to ease, her grip on my shoulder loosening ever so slightly.

I kept my gaze forward, refusing to meet the eyes of the court. If they found it amusing, I would not give them the satisfaction of seeing it bother me.

I told her that when I was born, it was said I was half the size of Aegon, but twice as fierce. He had cried louder, but they said I fought harder. That perhaps it was the cruelty of the gods to make those of us born weaker feel as though we must prove ourselves twice over.

She studied me, with her soft eyes, but I did not meet them. I regret that now.

When I lost my eye, I told her, they pitied me. Looked at me as if I were a thing to be mended, or worse, endured. And that is I imagine how she feels when they look at her.

She said nothing for a moment, but the faint pressure of her hand against my shoulder told me she had heard.

“Yet, you have made yourself strong. Where I have not.”

For a moment I could only stare at her. But when I found my voice, it was hushed, so that others dancing around us might not hear.

“Strength is not always shown through the sword.”

She replied with nothing.

Perhaps we are not so different, she and I.

19th day of the 10th moon, 128

She is with the maesters today. 

I knew this but I found myself in her chambers regardless.

Aegon, in his perpetual state of drunkenness, had the gall to make a joke of it. Saying that she was with child. The court laughed of course, unable to tell the difference between a joke and insult. I am grateful she was not present to hear it. And for the fact that I did not defend her.

Her desk was an array of papers and cuttings as if she had left in a hurry. Lately she was more tired than usual, and instead of chills and shakes, she was hot to the touch and feverish. Perhaps nobody will understand her condition truly, but I am told that she has been this way since birth.

Lately I have found that practicing with the sword does not steal my attention the way it used to, so there I found myself, looking through the smatterings of paper and flowers, and I doubt it will be the last time.

A leather bound notebook sat snugly atop everything else, the pages fanned out as though abandoned mid-turn. I thought perhaps it was a diary, not unlike the one I keep myself, somewhere to keep my thoughts and worries if they arise. But the little writing that was present was descriptive, brief, and so feminine in its curves and loops that I could barely read it. 

When we were first wed, and for several months since then, I had watched closely and from afar as well as she insisted on walks through the gardens, even despite the advice of the maesters. She could not be stopped. She would fill her basket slung over her elbow with wilted, near-dead flowers, the petals curling inward, their stems drooping, 

I had not thought to ask her why then. Why she collected such things if they were already so close to falling short of bloom.

The flowers are pressed between the pages of a book, their fragile shapes preserved as though she has defied time itself. Beside them, in her careful script, she has labeled each one, names I recognise, though I have never cared to remember them before. A rose, a poppy, a sprig of thyme, rosemary. Even weeds have found their place here.

She has always been given to sentiment, to seeing beauty where others would not bother to look. It is a softness I have long struggled to understand. But she has made them more than what they were, given them a purpose beyond their fleeting bloom.

It was an evening primrose, its pale petals pressed so thin they seemed almost translucent. Beneath it, in her neat script, she had written:

“Evening primrose. For quiet devotion.”

And below that, a date, the day after we were wed.

I stared at it for a long while.

And as I stand there, I realise I have never seen her hands tremble when she writes.

I cursed myself when I returned to my chambers and remembered I had not restored the book to the page I found it on. She will know I have touched it. Her sacred little book.

27th day of the 12th moon, 128

The Keep is more quiet than it has been in months, as the year comes to its close. The usual tensions of the Realm remains, as does my father, who is more akin to a walking corpse than a man most days. He can no longer walk up the steps by himself, and my mother does not have the strength to assist. Even Aegon has managed to hold his tongue of late, though I suspect it will not last.

She has been visiting Helaena more often than usual as of late. Seated together in her solar, embroidering, their voices soft and indistinct, like the murmuring of a distant brook. A casual observer might have mistaken them for sisters, though I doubt either would care for the comparison.

“Soft in the head,” Aegon says of Helaena. “Soft in the body,” he says of my wife. He does not mean it as a compliment, though he says it with a grin, as if he expects me to laugh. I do not.

Though I don’t agree, the two do share a certain gentleness. An ethereal charm that I am not able to form into words. They are both easily dismissed, glanced over in a crowd of boisterous and overzealous personalities. Dismissed by those too blind to see. Aegon, is one such fool.

When I approached, Helaena looked up first with her pale eyes that were so familiar, but said nothing. And my wife, to my surprise, greeted me warmly, and seemed surprised to see me. When I spoke to Mother later, she insisted that my wife was a good influence on Helaena. And that she has a calming presence. One she says I should feel grateful for.

I did not tell her that I am.

2nd day of the 1st moon, 129

The belly of King’s Landing celebrated the turn of the new year more so than any within the Keep. The thunder of laughter and dancing seemed to stir the very grounds beneath me. The merriment of the season seemed to warm the chill in the air, and it seems almost everyone has felt its embrace.

She surprised me tonight.

I had not expected her, not at this hour, and certainly not in such a state. Her usual pallor was touched with faint color, her step more certain than it had been in weeks. There was a lightness to her gaze, an energy that I had not seen in some time, and for a moment, I thought her appearance a trick of the dim firelight.

I motioned for her to sit, though she declined, choosing instead to stand near the hearth. For a while, neither of us spoke. 

But then she said she had been thinking about her place here, at the Keep and by my side, as my wife. I waited, unsure of where this conversation might lead. 

“I know I am not the wife you might have wished for,” she continued. “I know what the court says of me, of my frailty, my weakness. And I know what it is to be a man of your station.”

Her meaning became clear, though I did not wish to hear it.

“If you were to take a mistress.”

I did not mean to startle her by interrupting, but I could not bear to hear the rest. Had she no respect for herself? That she would assume I am so restless that I cannot stay one moment without bedding another woman, simply because I am afraid she will break beneath me? What could I say? That I did not desire anyone else? That the thought of betraying her, even in name, made my stomach turn?

And then she asked why. I offered the only truth I could manage.

“I do not know. I only know that I do not wish to. Is that not enough?”

She replied with a simple, but quiet, “it is.”

She did not stay long after that, but she lingered yet in my mind as she does now, writing this entry at the hour of the wolf. Sometimes when I look upon my delicate wife, it feels as if she is other-worldly, plucked from some distant place and planted right here to wither in the sun. She seems less a creature of flesh and blood and more a whisper of something eternal, a soul untethered by time.

There is a stillness about her, a quietness that feels unnatural, as though she is not bound by the same rhythms of life that govern the rest of us. She exists in the space between moments, the breath held just before the candle flickers out.

She is not a woman to me, not entirely. She is something deeper, something I lack the words to name. Perhaps that is why I cannot bring myself to stray, why the thought of betraying her feels like a sin greater than I could bear.

Indeed why not? I could not answer her then, and I doubt I could answer her now.

5th day of the 2nd moon, 129

Am I not a man, but a beast.

She accompanied me this morning to break my fast. Something we now often do to please Mother.

She sat across from me, the light through the windows pebbled across her face, showing how the flush that had decorated her cheeks was starting to fade. A fleeting bloom I did not wish to see vanish.

She picked at the honeyed bread with delicate, little bites, savouring its sweetness. I hardly touched my breakfast. I find it difficult to eat in the morning. But here I sat, too focussed on the golden sheen of the syrup upon her lips.

When she licked the honey from her lips and fingers, I felt a sharp, sudden pain to my chest.

I do not know what possessed me then.

One moment, I was watching her across the table. The next, I was upon her. My hand tangled in her hair, my tongue licking along the seam of her lips to taste the sweetness that lingered there. She gasped against me, I remember her warm breath, startled but pliant.

It was not quick, though it was desperate, as if I could mold her body to mine, as if I could press all I was, all my essence into her fragile frame. My hands gripped her waist, her hips, her thighs, heedless of her delicacy.

I was a creature of need, of raw, unchecked hunger. And her sweet cunt tightening around me was the only thing that could sate it.

Her breath hitched as I fucked her, but said nothing. Her hands held my shoulders, as if to keep herself steady. I did not stop to think, to question.

When it was over, she lay beneath me, her breathing shallow, her hair tousled. And for a moment I could not bring myself to move. I stayed inside her, relishing the warmth of her sweet womanhood, breathed in her scent at her neck, and felt I might weep.

She smelled of vanilla and amber.

What have I done?

I did not dare look at her, but equally she said nothing. 

I fear I have hurt her. Both in body and spirit. And yet, I cannot regret it. Though now I must wonder if she looks upon me with fear, with pity.

6th day of the 2nd moon, 129

I sought her out today.

The guilt has gnawed at me. Sharp and aching. I thought she might be angry. Or worse, afraid.

She was in her chambers, a shawl around her shoulders to stay the chill that seemed to find her easily, a book rested in her lap. When I entered, she looked up, her expression unreadable.

I said I owe her an apology. Which was a difficult enough thing to admit to myself than to her.

She closed her book slowly, and moved to stand. The shawl made her look frail.

“For what?”

For that morning, I replied to her. For taking liberties. For being selfish and only thinking of myself.

She interrupted softly. “You have nothing to apologise for.”

She must have seen the confusion on my face.

“You did not hurt me,” she added. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “I was…surprised, perhaps. That is all.”

Surprised?

She answered that sometimes she felt undesirable. Repulsive. And the words from such a delicate, little thing were like a blade to my heart.

How do I tell her that I desire her more than I can bear?

She told me that she said nothing during the act because she felt it was improper for young ladies to desire such things. To enjoy them. And she had.

I only said that she is not simply a lady.

She is my wife.

She uttered so quietly I thought I might miss it.

“I did not think I could make you feel this way.”

Gods. She can.

She is not what I expected, not what I thought I wanted. But she is what I need, in ways I am only beginning to understand.

4th day of the 3rd moon, 129

Father is dead.

I've repeated the same sentence in my head for hours now, and yet they still feel hollow. Echoing like the toll of a dull bell. Everything has changed.

Though not unexpected, the whispers of his failing health have been constant for years. Even as long as I have been alive, I'd wager. But the finality of it. The truth. The realm will stir into chaos, as Mother had always warned us it would.

They mean to crown Aegon. They mean to gift him what Father had always upheld was Rhaenyra's.

Any whisper of treason is swiftly dealt with. Otto Hightower sees to it. Nobody is safe, it feels.

My wife has been locked in her chambers, barred from leaving as if she were a criminal. I am forbidden to see her, but I am told by the maesters that her condition is too delicate to bear the strain of what is unfolding around us. The stress, they claim, has worsened her already fragile health.

I am furious. The thought of her, alone and frightened, makes my blood boil. She is not a pawn to be hidden away while the realm burns. She is my wife, and I will not be kept from her.

Mother has tried to calm me, speaking of duty and order, of the chaos that would erupt if the truth of Father’s death were known before the plans are set in motion. But I see no order in this, only madness.

She does not understand. How could she? She has never known weakness, never known what it is to live under the constant shadow of her own failing body. My wife has. And now they confine her to her chambers, as though the isolation will preserve her.

Surely they must know it is not the noise of court or the weight of the realm that will break her. It is the solitude.

If they think to keep me from her, they are fools.

I will not allow her to be dragged head first into the mess Mother has made of this.

9th day of the 3rd moon, 129

Aegon is king.

The bells rang to usher in a new era. A new king. Grandfather had organised the crowds to gather in the Dragonpit, to witness the moment the conqueror’s crown was placed upon my brother's brow, and Blackfyre thrust into his grip.

For all his faults, Aegon is no stranger to spectacle. He held our great ancestral sword aloft, and the smallfolk roared their approval, blissfully ignorant of the blood that stains this crown and the chaos that will surely follow.

I stood beside Helaena. She was dreamy as usual, and barely looked in her husband's direction. She knew as well as I, that it all stank of desperation.

My wife attended, though she was likely too unwell to. It wasn't difficult to guess she had been spoken to by Grandfather, instructed what to do to appear as if she was supportive of this farce. But still, she insisted on standing by my side.

She had applied rouge to her cheeks in an effort to mask her pallor, but it did little to fool anyone. Her face was thin, her movements careful.

The smallfolk noticed. I saw the way they whispered to one another when their eyes fell upon her. They are a superstitious lot, always quick to see omens where there are none. A sickly wife at the hasty coronation of a king.

Her hands trembled as she gripped mine, her strength waning with each passing moment. I whispered to her that she should sit, but she shook her head, her resolve unbroken despite the frailty of her body.

And then the ground shook.

Meleys burst forth, the Queen-Who-Never-Was seated at her neck. And the smallfolk that were not stuck beneath her claws scattered like leaves in the wind. My wife’s knees buckled, her strength finally giving way. I caught her before she could fall, my arm wrapping around her waist as I shielded her from the chaos. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her fingers clutching at my sleeve.

But Meleys did not strike. Nor did Rhaenys speak.

I did not release her until the crowd began to stir again, until the danger had passed. Even then, I could feel her trembling against me, her breath shallow and uneven.

My house has been fractured. Our futures uncertain.

And all I can think of is her pale face, her trembling lips, as she said. “Are you alright?”

I could have laughed if I were not so angry.

12th day of the 3rd moon, 129

The maesters still hover over her, though I have been here at her bedside since the coronation.

She is more fragile than I remember, her breath shallow, her skin too pale beneath the warmth of the fire. Her gaze follows me everywhere, as if afraid I might vanish. Perhaps she sees me as fleeting too. 

Perhaps she fears that I might not return.

I did not think I would be the person she would cling to. And at times I do not know how to feel about it. She has not changed, and yet I used to look upon her with contempt and irritation.

Could it be that I have changed?

I must go to Storm’s End soon.

The Baratheons are key to ensuring an alliance, to strengthen my family's claim to the throne by rallying the great houses of Westeros to our cause. I resent Aegon's rule, yes, but I do not wish to see my whore sister on the throne even more so.

Should that happen, my wife would be in danger as well.

It is Daeron who I must barter a marriage for. It is a necessary journey, one I cannot avoid, no matter how much my heart aches at the thought of leaving her.

She knows this. She knows my duty to the family, to the crown, and yet when I spoke of it, a shadow crossed her face. Her lips parted as though she wished to speak, but she remained silent. The fear in her eyes, however, was enough.

“Will you come back to me?” she asked me.

She is afraid. She fears for my safety, just as I fear for hers. And equally, though she does not speak it, she resents that I have been dragged into this cause.

I promised her I would return.

When I kissed her before I left, I did not want to let go. Her hand gripped mine as though she might shatter with the slightest breeze. She did not speak again, but I saw the unshed tears in her eyes, and it nearly undid me.

I do not wish to leave.

I do not wish to leave her.

- - - - - -

I am living in a nightmare.

She sleeps as I write this. So deeply I keep looking over my shoulder to make sure she is not stood right there.

The journey from Storm's End to Kings Landing was a blur. And when I returned and dismounted Vhagar, I was soaked to the bone from rain. I did not stop to speak to Mother. Could not bear to.

I had not meant for it to happen. But what does intent matter now? The boy is dead.

Lucerys Velaryon is dead.

His body fell from the skies, his dragon broken and bloody. And I just watched. Fear gnaws at me, but not for myself, but what this means for my family and all those that live under my protection. Rhaenyra will want vengeance for this.

My mother, grandfather, they will want for me to claim I wanted this, just so they might shift their judgement onto me instead. Claim that I began this war and not their scheming. They will whisper, I know they will, that this was revenge for the boyish quarrel that left me half-blinded.

And such has ended in his death.

It is not so simple. I know what I have done. I know what they will call me. A kinslayer. A monster. And worse, I fear that she, my wife, will see it too.

When I returned to our chambers, she was sat in a nest made of pillows, propped up to avoid strain. Hearing my arrival, she sat up straighter, though she looked weak, and shakily got to her feet despite my initial protests.

Her eyes still looked upon me with softness, as if I were deserving. And I was unprepared for her reaction. She saw me, soaked and trembling but did not speak. Did not ask what had happened, though she could see some turmoil in me.

Her hands, small and trembling, undressed me without rush. Stripping me of not only my clothes but the weight that slumped my shoulders. She did not judge, did not speak of what was so plainly written across my weathered face.

Her silence was a gift. One I did not deserve.

And yet I leaned into her touch. It was so warm against my skin. I even allowed her to remove the leather over my stolen eye. Something I rarely do in her presence.

I was bare, laying beside her, shaking. And she shed her clothes so that we might embrace without the confines of fabric. Her hands ran through my hair, untangling the salty strands delicately with all the patience in the realm.

“I killed him.”

I whispered it into the dark, without seeing her face.

“Lucerys. I killed him.”

She did not ask why or how. She slid closer, her tender breasts against my back, and ran her hands down my arm.

I told her everything. What I said. Threatened. How I flew after him in the storm. Vhagar.

Her voice in response had no anger. Only sadness.

“You returned to me. That is all that matters.”

12th day of the 4th moon, 129

I went to her chambers tonight as if the Gods had paved the path for me. I could not summon the strength to summon her to mine. Not after what I have done.

She did not question the shadows under my eyes. She simply welcomed me as she always does, with a tenderness I do not deserve.

When our bodies came together it was a communion of two souls. Deliberate. Not a conquest in the least. She is the only thing anchoring me to this world. And each scrape of her fingernails against my back felt heavenly. Kissing me softly. Tracing the scars that mark my body with the same hands that never tremble in my presence. Even now, when I feel I am beyond forgiveness. 

For a night, I did not feel like a kinslayer.

14th day of the 4th moon, 129

I was not there.

I was not there. And I should have been.

I was with her instead. And in my place, it was Helaena’s chambers they reached. Their names I forget, but they were grotesque as if from some old wives’ tale. I cannot stomach to imagine their faces in my mind.

My nephew is gone. They made my sister, my blood, point him out, as if he were meats fetching a good price at the slaughter. If I had been there, in my chambers, as I was supposed to be, would I have been able to stop this? Could I have spared my sister the sight of her son’s blood soaking the stone floors?

I cannot think of it without bile rising in my throat.

The court is ablaze with questions, panic rippling through every corner of the Keep.

Where were the guards? How could this have happened?

I, too, demand answers. For all her faults, I never believed Rhaenyra capable of such an act, sending assassins into the heart of the Keep to put Helaena, of all people, in danger. But this? This cruelty? She has proven herself to have even less humanity than I once dared to credit her.

Helaena has not spoken and not emerged since. I do not know if she ever will. 

I cannot protect my family, even in my own home. Though my wife reassures me, I feel like a kinslayer twice over. Even once I returned to her bed after the commotion had died down and Aegon too, she reached for me, and I let her. Her hands were frail, but somehow steady when they touched me. Like tiny little stems curling into my blood. Growing more and more. Like a gentle annihilation of the man I think I am.

She wept for the child. For Helaena, who would never again hold her son.

And I wept with her.

25th day of the 4th moon, 129

The boy was paraded through the streets, wrapped in silks and embroidered fabrics. My mother and Helanea followed, and any level-minded person would guess that this is desperation. Something I would not forgive grandfather for if he forced such a thing onto me and my wife, if we had a child of our own.

Aegon has ordered the ratcatchers put to death, every one of them, as if blood could somehow wash away blood. I doubt it will ease his conscience, if he has one left. He claims it is vengeance, justice. It is anger. It is shame. It is fear, thinly disguised.

At the council, I learned that Aegon had dismissed my grandfather as Hand. His replacement? Ser Criston Cole. A decision as reckless as it is insulting. 

Mother’s face said what the rest of us could not. She sat in silence, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her lips pressed into a thin line. I said nothing either, though the weight of her displeasure mirrored my own. Criston may wield a sword with skill, but a Hand must have wit and reason. He has neither.

I know I hold little love in the eyes of my own mother now anyway. She looks upon me like I am a monster, as if I have been my whole life. As if this is not what she has made of me.

I returned to my wife afterwards. We rarely speak now, though her presence is a balm I cannot name. The illness has caught her chest again, I can hear it in her breath. She told me to keep my distance, fearing I will catch it, as if I care for such trivial things.

I stayed regardless, seated in the chair by her bed as the fire burned low. She did not scold me for it. She simply turned her head to watch me, her eyes soft, almost apologetic. I reached for her hand, and she let me take it. I can see the fear of what is to come weighs heavy on her. 

This quiet between us. Is this feeling what those countless ballads harp on about? Could this marriage, born of resentment and difficulty, become love?

2nd day of the 6th moon, 129

Aegon’s hold on this war is akin to his grip on a cup of wine at the hour of the wolf. Slippery, at best. He sits in council and speaks of Harrenhal with such conviction, as though Criston Cole marching there will be anything more than foolishness. Daemon holds that cursed ruin, and we all know what awaits Criston if he tries to pry it from him. Yet Aegon seems blind to reason, drunk on his desire to pull victory from thin air.

I suggest a different course. Rook’s Rest. But he will not see reason. And of course it was met with hesitation. Aegon’s indecision is a rot that will take him black, and Mother’s silence does nothing to stay it. 

They all think me hungry for blood and battle. Aemond One-Eye. 

There is a part of me that longs to prove myself. To be remembered for something other than the boy who lost his eye or the prince who killed his nephew. My wife knows an Aemond the realm does not. The one that sits beside her as they lays coughing at night. She sees a man, a good one perhaps. Whereas the court merely whisper of me as if I am a dark shadow.

The realm will never know the man my wife sees. There is a power in them seeing only what I allow, what I need them to know. Strength. Fire. 

Sometimes, I wonder if she mourns the parts of me that the world will never have.

She listens to me speak of my plans, hands clasped, seeing the fractures in her husband, the places where pride and vengeance run too deep to cut out. I wonder if she pities me for it. If she doesn’t, perhaps she should.

13th day of the 6th moon, 129

Rook’s Rest still burns, I'd wager. Though it has been several days since the battle. The wind still whips at me, I feel, as I watch Meleys hurtle towards the earth. Her dragonrider still pitched to her back.

Aegon does not relish in his victory. He lays near death, every breath a struggle. Not dissimilar to how I have seen my wife oftentimes.

I returned to her chambers as soon as I was able. The Keep feels hollow these days, and there I might find peace, where none exists inside me.

She looks frailer than she did when I left, though she insists otherwise. The maesters prattle about her condition, and I find myself snapping at them more than I ought. They are failing her. Everyone is failing her. Even me.

When she tried to rise from bed to greet me, I could not stop myself, I barked at her to stay put, the words sharper than I intended.  

I hate myself for it. But the thought of her straining herself, of her fragile body bending beneath the weight of this cursed war...it twists something in me, something I cannot name.

She is mine. My wife. My delicate flower. The one thing in this accursed world that is still soft, still untouched by the poison of the crown and the war.

I will not lose her.

She, of course, asked what had happened. Having heard the unfortunate nature of the king’s condition. Having heard the whispers. I said it was recklessness. Incompetence. But she has always been perceptive. 

She sees the darkness in me. The flicker of doubt that darkens her beautiful eyes, one she does not dare speak aloud.

But I cannot speak to her of the shadow that is cast over my heart. So instead, I spared hers, and told insisted it was Aegon's folly that lead to his downfall. Nothing more.

She nodded. But her gaze lingered on me. Searching. I know she does not believe me.

She reached for my hand, and I held hers too tightly. She winced. 

I watch her even now, as she sleeps, her breath too shallow for my liking, her form too still beneath the furs. My mind races with thoughts I cannot quiet. What if she never sees me return again? What if I leave and come back to find her gone?

I will not let it happen.

19th day of the 6th moon, 129

The council have chosen me as their Regent. Me, over Mother. It is as it should be. For all her wisdom, her place is not there. Her gentle sex does not suit the burden of governance, no matter how much she believes otherwise. She clings too tightly to something she herself has denied Rhaenyra, and I will not stand idly by and listen to her hypocrisy.

The council at least know my worth. 

Already I have begun to shape the crumbling realm back to stability. The first act began with Mother, relegating her to duties befitting of a Dowager Queen, and one she did not take lightly. It is not cruelty. Necessary. There is no place for soft murmurings of mercy at my council. She will understand in time.

The work is endless. The weight immeasurable, but one I wear with pride. I have longed for this. To show I am not weak, but formidable, with no time for distraction. 

The realm needs me now more than ever.

28th day of the 6th moon, 129

Regency suits me well. It is a shame I was not born first.

The first real edict was to close the city gates, to forbid people from leaving and also to avoid our enemies sneaking past our fragile lines. King’s Landing must be fortified, protected from the vipers who would see us undone. Let the smallfolk whisper and grumble, their safety is ensured only because I am willing to make the hard choices.

Trade has slowed, of course, but I care little for the merchants’ squawking. Better that they lose their coin than lose their lives when Rhaenyra’s forces march upon us.

Though the power is intoxicating it is not without its burdens. I see the faces of the council as they defer to me, the uncertainty that flickers behind their eyes. They doubt my youth, my ability to lead, but they dare not say it aloud. 

There are moments, fleeting though they are, when I wonder if I have already given too much of myself to this war. But I cannot dwell on such thoughts. The realm does not wait for doubt, and neither shall I.

7th day of the 7th moon, 129

I had nearly forgotten her.

The council chamber was quiet when she appeared, the hour so late that even the most loyal attendants had taken their leave. I sat, pouring over papers and maps, looking up as she stood at the doors draped in translucent fabric, her fragile frame looking almost ghostly.

She had come all the way from her chambers, weak as she is, just to see me.

For a moment, I was struck dumb, caught between guilt and irritation. I had not sought her out in days, too consumed by the weight of my duties.

I asked her, sharper than I intended, what she was doing here and that she should be resting. And she did not flinch, but I could see her eyes flicker downwards.

“I had to see you.”

It was as if she wanted to see if I still existed. And that I was not some otherworldly vision, told only through whispers and rumours. For she had not seen me in near a fortnight. Her voice was so soft that it struck a chord I did not need for it to resonate.

I could not say anything more than the realm expects more of me now. The demands on my shoulders. I cannot spare a moment.

Her voice strained. “I had to see you because otherwise I scarcely know my husband lives and breathes.”

Her words erupted guilt and irritation alike. Buried beneath a thin, black veil I have carefully fabricated.

I could only insist I do all this for her. To keep her safe.

“How is it for me, Aemond? All I see in you is this desire for power. You speak of the realm, of me, but this is just sheer ambition, and you are too blind to see what it is doing to you. And I will not be your excuse for how tightly you cling to what you seek.”

I snapped and said how could she know. She has not ruled and never will. She does not understand the burden I bear.

“Perhaps I don't understand. But I know the man I married, the one I grew to love. And all I see is him slipping away.”

Gods, she sounded so wounded I was not sure whether to resent it or pity it.

The man she grew to love.

I was rendered so shocked I could not say anything. Even when her eyes begged for a response. And she turned to leave, her steps weak and faltering with every second. And I did not help her.

I did not help her.

I cannot shake the look on her face. 

I know I should go to her, but I cannot. Her weakness, her frailty, I am afraid it will take me down with it.

And the realm cannot afford more weakness from the crown.

24th day of the 7th moon, 129

Everything is unravelling.

Rhaenyra has thrown everything she has at us, now even her bastards ride dragons. It is a cruel mockery of what we were meant to be. Blood of the dragon, sullied by lowborn filth. And Helaena, sweet and broken, refuses to aid us. Her grief holds her captive, and I cannot rouse her from it. I need her dragon, but she will not hear me.

Today was unbearable.

The council drags their feet and the walls close in. The smallfolk riot in the streets from hunger, one Rhaenyra herself has caused but that they seem to forget.

I came back to my chambers after the council adjourned, weary and enraged. And there, on my desk, I found them. Snapdragons. Flowers of bold pinks and oranges, fierce and alive, their edges tinged with red like the tips of dragonfire.

She has been here.

There was no note. No explanation. The flowers spoke what she did not.

It is a reminder of who I am, or rather the man I should be. The man she loves, not the beast I fear I am becoming.

I stood there for what felt like an age, staring at the blooms as if they might speak to me. In that moment, I made my decision. I must go to Harrenhal soon, to face Daemon, but I will not leave without seeing her first. Without making amends.

When I went to her chambers, there were no maesters, but her fever was heightened, and so she slept with sheer clothing and no bedsheets. She looked like a nymph, laid there, her breasts visible through the fabric and flowers at each bedside.

Like she didn't belong in the confines of the Keep. She belonged out there, amongst the trees and rivers, to exist in breath and wind.

She looked up, rose from her gentle slumber, and looked at me. Her eyes soft and searching.

I kissed her and she did not pull away. She let me touch her, hold her, gasped as I slid her nightgown up her hips and nipped at her thighs to taste the sweet nectar that poured from her.

She was warm and heady, an intoxicating mix of salt and sweetness, like honey warmed by the sun. I drank from her as if parched, savoring the way she trembled beneath me, the way her body seemed to bloom under my touch.

Her breath hitched as I lavished her with my tongue, her fingers desperate as her nailed pulled pleasantly at my hair. Each sound she made was a victory, each shiver a testament to the power she held over me. For all my strength, all my fury, I was undone by her, reduced to this, worshiping at the altar of her body.

Even as she cried out I could not stop. And when it became too much, I rose, her flavour still clinging to my lips. And we coupled slowly, tenderly, for hours. Devouring her as if by doing so, I could take some of her kindness, and bathe me clean of the darkness that lingers within.

She is no fool.

“My love. Do not make love to me as if I will never see you again.”

I could not answer her. She knows I must go. To Harrenhal. Now on my own, if nobody else will assist me.

I felt her fingers on my cheek.

“If you cannot promise me that. Promise me this. Write to me. Wherever you are. Whatever you do.”

I could not find it in my heart to deny her such a simple thing. I will send her my words, if I cannot send my body, soul and love.

I realised right there, her small body spent in my arms how many weeks, months even, I had spent unappreciative of the flutter she always gave me. The unending kindness she would offer. The truth, even when I didn't want it.

I had forgotten to treat her with tenderness.

1st day of the 9th moon, 129

Harrenhal is mine.

The stronghold of the Strongs fell with little resistance. The castle itself, vast and cold, looms like a beast over the land, its ruins whispering of past glories and darker tragedies. House Strong is no more. I have seen to that myself.

Save for one.

Alys Rivers remains. She claimed she had visions of my coming, of my victory, and of greater things yet to unfold. She spoke in riddles, her eyes fixed on me as though she could see into my soul.

Her words, her presence, are tempting in their way. Alys Rivers is a beautiful woman, older than I expected, with a certain allure born of her confidence and mystery. She has made no secret of her willingness to warm my bed, to offer herself to me in exchange for her life.

But I did not take her. I will not.

I told her plainly that she would live for now because her visions may serve a purpose. Nothing more. Let her think she has some measure of power over me if it keeps her pliant and useful. Yet even as I write this, I know I should send her to the sword, for the danger she represents.

My wife would see it how it is. Desperation.

I have not written to her yet. Not my wife. Not the only soul who would calm the storm within me.

I will tomorrow.

For tonight, the shadows of Harrenhal linger too heavily, and the blood on my hands feels too fresh.

17th day of the 11th moon, 129

Now I know why Daemon left this wretched place behind.

Harrenhal is not a castle, it is a carcass. Its halls are hollow, its walls crumbling, and its very air feels like a curse pressing down on my chest. The fires that claimed this ruin have never truly died. They linger in the stones, in the bones of the dead, whispering their stories to anyone who dares to listen.

And I am here now, breathing it in. I thought it would feel like a triumph, taking Harrenhal, but it is not.

I have not slept well since my arrival. And when I do, the dreams come. Muddled and confusing. Vivid and cruel things that weave consciousness into sleep.

Last night, I dreamt of her.

She was in her chambers in bed, sickly, her skin pale and translucent. The maesters swarm her like vultures for flesh, muttering useless words and hovering instead of healing. Her eyes found me, tired and hooded, and it was not a look of blame or fear, but something that still reminded me I am not the man she needed me to be.

In her eyes I saw my regrets. Every harsh word I spoke. Every moment I turned away. Every time I let ambition and anger drown out what little light we had kindled between us.

I tried to reach for her in the dream, but the distance was too great. I called her name, but she did not answer. And when I woke, my throat was raw, as if I had truly been shouting in my sleep.

In another dream, I was between her milky thighs, lapping at her sweet cunt like I had been starved of it for years. She moaned so sweetly as she always did. And when she clawed at my scalp to pull me closer to her it felt different. She was stronger. Less tender.

And when I looked up, her nectar glazing my face, I felt my heart grow cold and hollow. Her skin was pale, yes, but her hair darkened into something akin to raven feathers, her eyes sunk back slightly, cheekbones sharpened. And the soft, lightly colour there morphed into stark emeralds, lips red and quirked upwards.

Perhaps Harrenhal is cursed. Perhaps it draws out the darkest thoughts, the deepest fears, and forces them to the surface. Or perhaps it is only me. Perhaps I am cursed.

I must write to her. She is my tether, the only thing that keeps me from being swallowed whole by the darkness here. Tomorrow, I will write. Tonight, I will try to sleep and hope the dreams do not return.

Dearest Wife,

I write to you from the cold halls of Harrenhal, a place that holds no warmth, no life. Not like your chambers do. The days here stretch long, the nights longer still. It is a place of ash and shadow, where even the air feels heavy. And yet, amidst the ruin, I found something unexpected, a winter rose, growing stubbornly in the cracks of stone.

I have enclosed it with this letter. It is small, fragile, but it persists. A reminder, perhaps, that beauty can be found even in the bleakest places. I thought of you when I saw it. Handle it gently, as you always do.

How do you fare, my love? I pray the maesters have been attentive, and that the chill has not worsened your condition. I think of you often, though I fear my words fail to capture how much. I see you in every quiet moment, in every breath of wind. You linger in my thoughts as if you are a part of me, inseparable and eternal.

I do not wish to burden you with the trials of this place, nor the weight of my duties. But know that I am well, and I will return to you as soon as I am able. Until then, take care of yourself, for I cannot bear the thought of you suffering in my absence.

Yours Always,

Aemond

4th day of the 2nd moon, 130

Alys spoke of visions today.

She said she could see two dragons coming together, sharing the same fate above the great God's Eye. Then my wife, she saw our reunion, my wife's hair lit as if from the sun of the Seven Heavens. She sounded so certain, as if recounting events that had already transpired. She was so confident, I almost believed her.

Almost.

She sees so much, so she claims. Watching the flames dance along her eyes is, in itself, invigorating to watch. Her gentle mutterings are welcome sometimes in the quiet, hollow hallways of Harrenhal. They linger, pulling on the threads of my mind as if I am to her whim.

She moves through this great castle as if she has been a ghost here for generations. Her gaze does not cower before me as many others do, but she stands close. Perhaps sometimes, too close. And I think myself weak for not dismissing her.

She is a woman who knows the route to survival, and I cannot fault her for that.

They are brief, fleeting. The times where I wonder if she offers herself for something more than just survival. When she hands me a raven, her touch lingers longer than it should. 

I do not know what Alys Rivers wants from me, nor do I care to ask.

I have not written to my wife of her. How could I? How do I explain this shadow in my midst, this woman who speaks of futures I do not wish to see? I tell myself it is unnecessary, that Alys is nothing more than a tool, a means to an end.

And yet, I wonder if I am lying to myself.

Daemon is coming. That much I believe. Whether Alys’s visions are truth or falsehood, the outcome remains the same. We are on a path that cannot be turned aside.

When the time comes, I will be ready.

My Dearest Husband,

Your letter reached me today, and I must confess, I wept to see the winter rose you sent. Such a small and delicate thing, so rare. I pressed it into my own book, so it may keep company with my other treasures. Thank you, my love.

I have pressed a snapdragon into these pages also. Last spring, you commented that the colour of their petals reminded you of a dragon mid-roar, and I wished to remind you of simpler times, before the world felt so uncertain.

I have soaked these papers in the oils I apply to my hair and skin. Perhaps a silly indulgence to some, but I thought perhaps it might bring you some comfort, a memory of home in the coldness of that dreadful castle.

The maesters say the chill has caught my chest, though it has for many here. You must not worry, I assure you it is nothing more than the season’s cruel bite. I have taken my draughts and kept warm as you would wish me to, though the days feel colder without you here to hold me.

I hope this letter finds you well. Write to me when you can, even if it is but a few lines. Your words are a light in these dark times, and I cling to them more than I dare admit.

I hope you campaigns in the Riverlands fare well. Remember you are my husband first, not a shadow of war or duty. Please do not forget or lose grip on the man I fell in love with.

Yours Forever,

Your Loving Wife

- - - - 130

The quill trembles in my hand as I write. Ink smears before I can make sense of my thoughts. This entry will be illegible by morning, I am certain. It makes no sense— how could it? Dreams are madness.

Alys.

Alys.

Her belly was swollen, a grotesque curve rounded with child, one of my blood. Not hers. Not hers! I could not look at her without feeling bile in my throat, the heat of shame.

And then my wife.

My wife!

She was there, crumpling to the ground, her grief splitting the air like a storm. Her screams. Gods, her screams. I have never heard her voice raised in such a way, never seen her face contorted with such anguish.

I wanted to go to her, to explain, but I could not move. My feet were rooted, and the air was thick, choking me. She looked at me, her eyes wide with betrayal, and I felt myself drowning in them. No. Not in them.

In water.

My lungs burned. My limbs thrashed. The surface was a distant shimmer, unreachable. I could hear her still, even beneath the water, her screams warped and muffled, but no less devastating.

I woke gasping, clawing at the air as if I could still feel the water pulling me under.

What does it mean? What does it mean?

Harrenhal speaks as if it has a clawing, fearsome mouth.

Kinslayer. Usurper. Liar. Monster.

I am all and none. All and none.

The water, surely it does not drown me, it must cleanse me.

But it cannot. Nothing can. Nothing will.

My Dearest Aemond,

I write to you from my bed, as I have found myself unable to rise for much of late. The maesters are vigilant, though they assure me there is no cause for alarm and that I should not tire myself by writing. They say it is only the season and my own weakness conspiring against me. I do not tell them how I feel the cold seep deeper with each passing day, but I tell you, my husband, because I know you will not dismiss my words so lightly.

News of the battle at the Lakeshore has reached even here. The servants whisper of it, though I hear only fragments. There seems to be a changing of guards here at the Keep, but I do not leave my chambers, so I cannot see why. Are you well? Please tell me you are. It has been too long since I last heard from you, and I cannot help but worry. You are so far away, in such a dangerous place, and the weight of it lies heavy upon my chest.

I would not ask this of you if I thought it selfish, but please, write to me. Even a single line would be enough to still my restless heart.

Take care of yourself, my love. Remember that you are not alone in this, no matter how distant we may seem. You are mine, as I am yours, and nothing, not war, not duty, not even death, can change that.

All My Love,

Your Wife

My Loving Husband,

Why have you not written? Why do you leave me in this silence? The days are long without word from you, and the nights are even longer. I wait, and I wonder, and I worry. Is it so hard to take up your quill? Is it so hard to tell me that you are well?

Please, my love, do not let this silence stretch any longer. Tell me you are safe. Tell me you are whole. Tell me anything, for I am desperate for the sound of your voice, even if it must come to me through ink and paper.

Do you think of me, Aemond? Do you think of the nights we spent in each other’s arms? Do you think of the flowers I left for you, the words I whispered when the world felt less cruel? I hope you do. I hope you remember.

I have tried to be strong, for you, for us, but I am alas not as much as you. Please, my love, do not leave me to this silence any longer. Write to me. Ease my heart. I apologise for my heavy emotions, the ink smudges because of my shaky hands, and they are not as steady as they once were. Do not think poorly of me for it.

I fear I am beginning to lose my sense of time. Did I already tell you the maesters say I will recover? Forgive me if I repeat myself. My thoughts seem to wander, but they always find their way back to you.

I love you, Aemond. It hurts more than breathing. Please let me hear from you.

Yours, always and forever.

Your Loyal Wife

My Beloved Wife,

I read every stroke of your ink like a blade to my chest, not because they wound me so, but because I imagine your voice. Reminding me what I have left behind.

Do you know, my love, how much I miss you? How much I miss the feel of your hands on me, grounding me when the storms inside threaten to consume me?

Do not lose hope, for I cling to it still. If you cannot feel my arms around you, know that my soul reaches for you, across all the miles that separate us. Hold fast, my love, until I can come back to you.

Do not think poorly of your emotions, nor of your trembling hands. They have always been steady enough to hold me, to steady my own restless soul.

I do not deserve you, my delicate flower. But I am yours, wholly and utterly. I will write to you again soon, I swear it. I will not leave you in silence again.

Please, take heart, as I try to do. Remember that I love you, more than I have ever been able to say.

Yours, now and always,

Aemond

My Dearest, dearest Aemond,

Do you remember our first days as husband and wife? How cold you seemed, how distant? I used to think you disliked me, perhaps even resented me for my frailty. I was so small and scared then, unsure of my place in your life, in your heart.

But I see now what I could not see then. You are a man of storms, my love, and I was too weak to weather them. Yet, even storms have their moments of calm, and it was in those moments I found the man I have come to love more than life itself.

I do not know if this letter reaches you, nor if I have the strength to write another. But I need you to know, that I am wholly, and truly, yours. Now and always.

Please, remember me kindly.

Forever,

Your Loving Wife

My love,

It has been too long since I last wrote to you. For that I am sorry. I did not mean to worry you.

Truthfully I have left Harrenhal behind, trawling the Riverlands to those loyal to my sister still, even now. I head towards a confrontation I cannot avoid. Daemon wants his fight, and as much as I would like to be by your side, this challenge cannot be ignored. He is a fool if he thinks he can stand against me, but I must prove it nonetheless.

Once that is done, I swear to you, I will return to your side. This madness, this war, it has taken too much from us both. I long for the peace of your presence, the quiet of our chambers, where only you and I exist in our own world.

I do not know what awaits me when I return. I do not know what has become of you, though I hope you are well. Please know that, despite the distance and the bloodshed, you are always in my heart.

I will write again as soon as I can. Stay strong, my love. Wait for me.

I am yours,

Aemond

My love,

I await your reply like a lovesick child.

I fear the worst with each passing day, each hour that I do not hear your voice. Have I lost you? Is the cold consuming you, or have you fallen into silence for some other reason I cannot fathom? Please, I beg of you, send me word. Let me know that you are still waiting for me.

I have prepared myself to face Daemon, though I care little for the confrontation. His challenge has become a matter of necessity, but I cannot shake the thought of you, fragile and alone, while I am here, so far away. I would rather be by your side, taking care of you, than facing that traitor. But I have no choice now.

I am desperate, my love. A few lines in your gentle hand would give me the strength of a thousand men. Without you, what am I but a man trawling this desolate, darkened land, lost forever without your light to guide my way.

Please do write. My cherished flower.

Aemond

My darling wife,

I woke to a raven today. The words written within it seemed impossible, a cruelty that no man should have to face. It tells me of your passing, of your death.

But I refuse to believe it. I cannot.

You are not gone. I would have felt you, felt your soul leave this realm. I would have felt the Stranger take you from me, and yet, there is only the emptiness. The cold distance that stretches between us, yes, but not your absence. Not truly.

Were such a thing to happen, my love, I would have felt a pain so deep in my chest, I would have cried out. I would have howled until my throat bled. You are too vital to me for your death to be a mere whisper in the wind. No, this cannot be real.

Do not let the maesters fill my mind with their lies. Do not weaken the fragile hope I cling to, the only thread keeping me tethered to this world. Please, I beg of you, let me hold onto the belief that you are still waiting for me. That when I return, I will find you where you belong, by my side.

I will nourish you, body and soul, as I should have from the very beginning. For I do not believe that the distance, the war, the bloodshed, it has not been enough to sever the bond we share. When I come to you, I will fix what I have broken in myself, and I will fix what has withered between us.

This war has broken me, my love. I have witnessed too much, done too much, and it has hollowed me out in ways I cannot even express. But you, you always knew how to heal. Your touch, gentle, sure could mend what no one else could. And so, I beg you, when I return, lay your hands upon me. 

Fix me. 

Make me whole again. It has been so long since I have felt so. Without your touch, your voice.

I will come for you.

Forever Yours,

Aemond 

21st day of the 5th moon, 130

The winds howl so loudly now. 

They sing on the eve of what may be my last. Daemon is here and he waits for me. One of us must fall, though I have reassured my wife that it shall not be me.

I write this now because I do not know if I will have another chance. If the Stranger comes for me, I will not meet him with words left unsaid.

To my mother. You were the first to see me, even before I knew myself. When I was a boy without a dragon, I ran to you, tears staining my face, and you held me as though that could mend what I lacked. The day I lost my eye, the boy you nurtured was forced to become a man. A bitter man. Perhaps I lost more than my eye that day. Perhaps I lost the better parts of myself. If I am to die tomorrow, know that I never blamed you for showing your love to me the way you did, and though I may not have shown it, I am grateful.

My sister. Sweet sister, I am sorry. Sorry for your grief, sorry for your pain, sorry for all the ways I could not protect you from this cruel world. You deserved peace, and all you have been given is sorrow. I hope that, in another life, I might have been a better brother to you. I hope you will forgive me for failing you.

Aegon. Brother, I have resented you for much of my life. Perhaps it was jealousy, perhaps it was anger, perhaps it was something I will never fully understand. But you are my brother, my blood, and for all our differences, I have never wished you harm. Not truly. If I do not return, lead this realm as you see fit, but know that power is a fleeting thing. Do not let it consume you as it has consumed me.

To my wife, my delicate flower, if you ever read this: forgive me. Forgive the times I was cold, the times I let my anger and pride obscure my love for you. Forgive my silence, my absences, my failures to be the husband you deserved.

I see you even now, though miles lie between us. I see your smile, rare but radiant. I hear your voice, soft but sure. I feel your touch, delicate but anchoring. You made me feel whole, even when I thought I was nothing but a shattered thing.

Daemon may take my life tomorrow, but he cannot take what I carry with me, the memory of you, the warmth of you, the love you gave me even when I did not deserve it. That is mine, and mine alone.

If the Stranger does not take me, I will come back to you. I will hold you, care for you, and let the world crumble as long as I have you. But if I do not return, know this. 

I loved you. 

With all that I am, with all that I ever was, I loved you.

The winds howl louder now. Perhaps it is time I let them carry me. And if it is to be so, take me to her.

There are two wolves within you. One of them just came up with a fanfic you desperately need to see, and the other refuses to write it.

Spells from the Heart

Pairing: Tom Riddle x Fem!Muggle!Reader

Includes: mentions of war, memory loss, stalking, reader is naive, goes from third person to second, story is in Tom's p.o.v.

Word count: 1.2k

Summary: You come across something you shouldn't have, and Tom decides to keep you.

Passing through the war-wrecked streets of London, Tom made his way to his usual hiding spot where he could perform magic without being discovered.

It amused him to call it a hiding spot, because it was in fact a field, though — in all fairness — it was in the middle of the woods.

As Tom finally reached his destination, the smell of Earth surrounded him. He shut his eyes — a rare moment of vulnerability — and took in a deep breath, taking in the wet scent of soil and flowers with him.

He dropped his worn down satchel and discarded his coat on the ground. He sat atop his dark coat and grabbed an old book out of his bag. It was a book of spells that he was able to convince the Hogwarts librarian to let him borrow over summer break.

He scanned through the contents of the book, trying to decide on the first spell he would like to practice.

As a small bunny came into sight, Tom selected Vera Verto.

He stood up on his two feet and grasped his wand. He pointed it at the unsuspecting creature and whispered, “Vare-ah vore-toe,” pronouncing it as was written in the book.

Before his own two eyes, the bunny went from a living being to a goblet of water. Pride bubbled in Tom’s chest.

As he was about to mutter a spell to reverse it, a gasp from behind stopped him.

Clutching his wand, Tom turned around to find a girl around his age standing in shock from what she’d just witnessed. Like she’d come to her senses, she scrambled into a run.

Fortunately for Tom — but unfortunate for her — he was able to point his wand at her and yelled, “Kahr-pay ruh-track-tum.”

The girl was pulled towards Tom's chest, and with a grunt he wrapped an arm around her waist. She clawed at his arm like a feral animal and he had the urge to ask her to stop it.

With his free hand, Tom pointed his wand at the stranger again. “Obliviate,” passed through his lips and instantly her body went limp. He dropped her onto the damp grass.

Tom wasn’t sure when her consciousness would resurface, so he made quick work in putting his coat and satchel back on and stuffing his wand back in his pocket.

Before leaving, Tom looked down at the girl. Hair covered her face and Tom reached down to move it away. He noted that she was quite pretty. 

After being caught using magic, Tom hadn’t visited the fields in a few days. But, his fingers twitched to grab onto his wand. To point it at something and mutter a spell. The children at Wool’s Orphanage got on Tom’s, but of course he couldn’t punish them for it like when he was a child.

Done with being reminded of his predicament, Tom finally decided to go on a walk. It led him to the edge of the woods anyways.

He couldn’t help but think of you as he walked. He hadn’t used a spell on a muggle for so long, and doing so left behind a certain thrill.

Tom stopped walking and squinted. A little ways away from him, he caught sight of a house. It was hidden behind several large trees, casting a darkness upon it and hiding it from view.

As Tom got nearer to one of the windows, he saw a glimpse of someone. You.

He ducked under the window, and thought of how much of a fool he must have looked. He certainly felt like one.

The walls were rather thin, Tom learned as he listened to her hum. He recognized the tune. “I Don’t Want to Set the World on Fire.” At times the song would play on the small radio during dinner time.

A few moments passed. In those few moments, Tom realized that you were home alone. You looked to be Tom’s age, and if he was right, that meant your parents weren’t home.

Tom walked up the steps to your front door and knocked. The humming stopped and Tom listened to the sound of hurried footsteps.

The door creaked open. You looked up at Tom with wide eyes. He supposed you were surprised. It was unlikely that many people visited your family much.

“Excuse me, Miss. If it’s no bother, I was hoping you could help me? I’ve seemed to have gotten lost.”

Your face relaxed as you took in Tom’s words. “Of course. Do you just need directions, or do you want to make a phone call to your parents? If you have a telephone, of course.”

Tom pretended to think for a moment. The latter would easily let him into your house. “Would you mind if I phoned my parents? They must be worried.” The lie slid off of Tom’s tongue like honey.

With a nod, you let Tom into the house.

Silly girl.

Tom followed you into a small living room. You pointed to the rotary dial resting atop the wooden table in front of the couch.

“I’ll wait in another room.” With that, you walked up the steps to what Tom assumed to be your bedroom. “I’ll be back in just a moment,” your distant voice called out.

Tom had no use for the telephone. Instead, he looked at what stood tall on the mantelpiece. It was the goblet he had created several days ago.

You must have been so confused when you awoke after being obliviated.

Tom picked up the cup and brought it closer to his face to inspect it. It was blue with carvings of seahorses and mermaids covering the upper half of it.

Tom placed the cup back to its rightful place. He’ll be kind and let you keep it.

Tom slowly walked up the steps, careful not to make the steps creak.

Once he reached the top, he scanned the three doors. One was yours, one your parents, and one the bathroom, he assumed.

Tom opened the first door. It was obviously not your parents, as the only way the bed could fit two people was if they crammed together. The sheets were pink, and books littered the vanity.

He picked one up. Pride and Prejudice. The copy looked like it had been well loved. He tucked it into his coat pocket.

He shut the door and proceeded to open the next one directly across from your room. Disappointingly, there was no sight of you in the small bathroom.

Tom shut the door again and walked towards the room at the end of the hall. He opened it up and saw you sitting on a chair, rummaging through a desk drawer.

You looked up in surprise as Tom entered, halting your movements.

Tom clasped his hands behind his back. “I just got off the phone with my father.”

You nod. “Um.. I’m just looking for my parents' map. I know they have one, and I thought I could give you directions to help you get back home.”

How sweet.

He walked over to where you sat, and took note of how your breathing quickened as he got nearer.

You would make a nice summer plaything. And the best part was you wouldn’t even remember.

a/n: that poor bunny stuck as a cup forever😭 Also, I loved going through the Harry Potter Spellbook to write this. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed! divider creds: @saradika

Marvel Masterlist:

Peter Parker (Tom Holland's):

none yet...

Peter Parker (Andrew Garfield):

Dating Peter Parker Headcanons

Multiple:

Marvel characters x oblivious!reader

ngl but i think after you eventually fall pregnant with a stark baby from….obvious reasons….its the wolves that notice first. like Greywind is already a bit protective of you but all the sudden he doesn’t even like when robb is too close to you. Ghost literally will not leave your side and no one can come within 5 ft without a massive wolf growling at them. They literally just won’t leave you alone and take it upon themselves to protect you, theyre with you more than the stark men themselves (who have duties they must attend to) and theyve started liking you more than them anyway (i would feed them table scraps 10000%)

THE WOLVES NOTICING FIRST IS SO GENIUS THIS IS SO ACCURATE. ur so smart (ok spencer reid anon LMFOA)

greywind mirrors robb in his sort of wildly protective nature, but it just (somehow) grows when greywind senses you’re pregnant. now instead of by the door, greywind sleeps cuddled flush against you, covering your stomach with his body. he will flat out refuse to heed robb’s guarding commands, literally refusing to move away from you when you sleep. it seems like greywind has a mind of his own, giving a low growl as a warning when robb has a hand on or slings his arm around your stomach. and robb’s just ?? because usually they’re on the same wavelength, but he has no idea what’s gotten into him. and then the morning sickness starts, along with other symptoms, and you confide in catelyn (with greywind resting his head on your stomach as you sit with her). she sends you straight to the maesters, and they confirm you’re with child. robb finally understands what’s up with his other half now, and greywind resumes letting robb get close to you (& your stomach) again. because he knows robb will be gentle, knowing you’re carrying his babe.

and ghost. don’t even get me started on ghost. he and jon’s relationship (especially in the books) is already so funny. it’s more of a friendship/partnership than a master/pet relationship, and ghost already defies jon if he wants to. obviously, he heeds when it counts, but knowing that, it just confuses/frustrates jon when he starts standing between y’all. ghost loves jon, but it’s not uncommon for him to go off and do his own thing. so imagine everyone’s surprise when ghost refuses to leave your side. he still checks on jon throughout the day, but now, you’re doing your duties around castle black with this giant almost-as-tall-as-your-shoulder white shadow padding after you. he’s laying on the table in the mess hall watching you scrub a different one & immediately standing up on it to growl when someone opens the door to come inside. ghost starts literally hunting for the both of you, bringing you animals. you appreciate it, but it’s quite confusing. jon is so frustrated because as lord commander people have to be able to speak to him, but ghost won’t let anyone near you. eventually he literally has a sit down with ghost (because he definitely speaks english).

& he’s full on speaking to ghost just as he would speak to sam or edd. “She’s my woman too. D’you know that?”

then, as your symptoms start & you visit maester aemon, everything becomes clear. and jon is thankful that he’s not losing his mind anymore.

Hcs about how Aemond and Aegon(separate) would react to the reader running away and getting pretty far from Kings Landing? I really love your works btw.

Aemond and Aegon ii Targaryen’s reaction to You running away

Warnings: spoilers, possessiveness, murder

Word count: 1.3k

Aegon ii Targaryen:

Being a seamstress’s daughter, you helped your mother create dresses for Princess Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent.

Your mother had been young when you both moved to King's Landing, having just given birth to you. She’d been close to Princess Rhaenyra, having conversations with each other when she was taking the Princess’s measurements.

As you got older, you helped your mother make dresses for the royal family.

When Rhaenyra moved to Driftmark with the rest of her family, you both were stuck making clothing for Queen Alicent and at times, the other royals.

Prince Aegon & you hadn’t met until it was around the time of his nameday.

Queen Alicent had chosen you and your mother to create a suit for Aegon, for him to wear on his nameday celebration.

Your mother put you on the job of taking the prince’s measurements.

Though Aegon was a bit drunk, he still found it in himself to flirt with you. You, of course, had politely tried to shut down Aegon’s advances, but you soon found yourself taken with him.

Your affair had begun from then on.

When King Viserys died, Aemond found Aegon in your bedroom, begging you to run away with him.

After Aegon was crowned king, your mother had forced you to quickly pack a bag with the items you needed before leaving the castle, saying she wouldn’t support and usurper as a king.

Hours after you left, Aegon had come to visit you.

Your door was open, which hadn’t alarmed Aegon until he walked into your room.

It was a mess.

Clothes were strewn on the floor, various fabrics and sewing supplies were left on chairs or tables.

The drunk prince sobered up when he realized quite a few of your personal items were missing.

Aegon called for his guards to go looking for you as he went to Alicent’s chambers.

When Aegon realized that you were missing, his mind jumped to two possibilities. One, that you had been taken as hostage by the blacks, since Aegon had never been quiet about his relationship with you. Or two, that his mother had something to do with you leaving.

Alicent had tried talking to Aegon before about ending his affair with you. Calling the relationship a disgrace and asking if he had no respect for his sister-wife. Saying that she was using him for his wealth.

Aegon had argued against her and in the end didn’t end his affair with you.

Now, Aegon thought that she may have paid you off to leave King's Landing.

Once he had gotten to her chambers, it was clear to Alicent that something was wrong with Aegon. His cheeks were red and he looked to be in a rush.

When Aegon asked if she had anything to do with your disappearance, she denied it, but said it was good that you were gone. That you would have been nothing but trouble.

Aegon believed her, though defended you when she insulted you.

Over the next couple of days Aegon had been drinking more since your disappearance. When you were still here, he would help him with his drinking problems, but now that you were gone, he had fallen back into his hole of depression.

Since you were gone, Aegon found himself missing you more and more. He got out of bed and walked —or more like stumbled —to your room.

Guards followed him. There were more of them since the war between the blacks and the greens.

He lay down on your bed and breathed it in. It still smelt like you.

Aegon was about to cry over you, when he noticed a small paper half covered by one of the pillows on your bed.

He grabbed it and read through it.

The letter was written in an obvious hurry, the writing messy & jumbled.

In the letter it said that your mother was making you leave King’s Landing in support of his half sister Rhaenyra. And — perhaps stupidly— you wrote that your mother was taking you to Essos.

He clenched the note in his hand. This meant you didn’t actually want to leave him right?

He felt anger towards your mother. She was the one who took you away from him

Aegon decided that he was going to get you back. It wasn’t going to be up for debate. 

Aemond Targaryen:

Before the war with the Greens and the Blacks, your father had taken you to King’s Landing to meet Aemond Targaryen.

King Viserys had sent a letter, hoping that he would agree to betroth you to Aemond.

Your father, of course, had jumped at the chance to accept.

To marry a Targaryen would be an honor, he had told you.

You had found yourself upset that you would be forced to marry, but he convinced you to stay on your best behavior.

A celebration was thrown for you & your father.

Your house was quite respectable and wealthy, as you were known for your silk.

You met Aemond at the dinner party, and were surprised by how respectable he was. And you weren't going to lie, he was nice to look at.

You had heard stories about how unattractive the prince was, but you disagreed.

And as much as you didn’t want to admit it, you felt your cheeks heat up when the prince kissed your hand.

During the whole celebration, Aemond was respectful and seemed kind. And you thought that you both seemed to get along just fine.

There was no doubt in your head that you were going to get betrothed after that night.

For the rest of the time you were to spend in King’s Landing, Aemond had courted you.

You both would have tea together while being supervised, and spend time in the library.

Aemond was intelligent. That much was obvious.

You would watch as he trained using his sword & Aemond himself found that he was taken by you.

You didn’t shy away from his gaze like the other ladies-in-court have.

You were intelligent yourself & were eager for him to teach you High Valyrian.

 You both got married not long after.

Once the war Between The Blacks & The Greens had begun, you had begun to worry quite a bit over Aemond.

The war had truly begun when Aemond had killed Lucerys Velaryon.

He had claimed it was an accident, while Alicent & Otto had reprimanded him.

Though conflicted, you had decided to believe Aemond when he said it was an accident.

Later on into the war, Aemond was sent to retake Harrenhal.

Once word got back to you that Aemond had ordered the executions of The Strongs, you felt disgusted.

He ordered the death of innocent women & children.

You began to question if the murder of Lucerys was truly an accident.

The more you thought about Aemond, the more you were disgusted by him.

War had changed him. Or had he always been like that?

You decided you were going to leave. You couldn’t share a bed with a man who didn’t think twice about ordering the deaths of children.

It wasn’t as difficult as one would think to leave the castle.

Aemond had taught you about the hidden passages & the layout of them.

You packed a bag and stuffed a pouch with as much gold and diamonds that would fit in it. You put on some of your valuable  jewelry as well, in case of an emergency and you need to sell them.

You put on a cloak and grabbed your bag and left, taking a ship to Dorne.

Once Aemond had heard about your disappearance, he returned to King’s Landing as fast as he could, putting Ser Criston Cole in charge of Harrenhal.

Once he had returned to King’s Landing, he hurried to your shared chambers to make sure that what he had heard was true. And it was. You wear no longer in your chambers.

Had someone snuck into the castle and taken you hostage? It was possible.

He soon noticed that some of your jewelry and dresses were gone.

Had you left? To go where? It wouldn’t be to visit your parents. You were far too smart for that.

Aemond Targaryen’s wife was missing and he was going to find you.

And once he does, he was going to make sure you weren’t going to leave him again.

HOW UA SHOULD HAVE ENDED

Hard cut to Klaus talking to the girl on the bicycle

Klaus: “Did we save the world or screw it up again?”

Bicycle God: “You were never the problem”

She holds up an action figure of Reginald and crushes it in her bare hands. Marigold lights emerge from it. Golden light envelops everything

Hard cut to Klaus waking up in bed. He is wearing pajamas covered in marigolds.Street noise can be heard from outside.

(From offscreen) “You okay, Hon?”

Klaus looks over and Dave is cooking breakfast in their flat

Klaus: “Yeah, just had a weird dream.”

Looks out the window and sees an empty lot where the Hargreeves mansion should be.

Klaus: “Wasn’t there a building there?”

(Naïve Melody by the Talking Heads begins to play over a montage)

Diego and Lila Are wrangling their kids into the camper van. One of the kids gives Lila a picture of her family in a field of bunch of orange flowers (marigolds)

Luther is stripping and the obsessed lady in the crowd is Sloan. He has a marigold in his mouth. He takes it out and gives it to her.

Viktor is playing the violin with Harlon. Sissy is setting the table. She sets a bouquet of marigold into a center vase.

Allison is gardening while Clare and Ray play in the yard. She is planting Marigolds.

Five is teaching at some university. An older woman comes in. “Dolores” he says as she kisses him.

Jennifer serves Ben at the dinner. Closeup on her pouring coffee. He has a Durango flower tattoo that says “Jennifer” and she had a marigold tattoo that says “Ben”

Cut back to Klaus staring out the Window

Dave: No, been an empty lot as long as I can remember

Klaus, smiles: Yeah, I don’t know why I thought that

Camera Zooms out from the window as music continues

Reginald, voiceover: And that is how our unlikely heroes manage to create one timeline where everything was fine.

BTS footage plays with the final credits