#manipulative reader

Halovians were born to entrance: your halo shimmered faintly behind your head, feathers faintly rustling as your voice carried a resonance that soothed or unsettled depending on your intent. You cloaked your obsession well, weaving it into warmth, into companionship. Phainon never saw the strings you wound around him, because he was too busy binding himself with guilt.

“Sometimes,” he confessed one night by the campfire, “I wonder if my flame is meant to burn the world, not save it.” His cyan eyes dimmed, reflecting the coals.

You leaned closer, brushing his arm lightly with your fingers. The gesture was simple, almost accidental—but through your soft telepathy, you planted reassurance deep in his chest. No one else sees you like I do. No one else knows the truth of your burden.

His breath hitched, as though the thought were his own.

Phainon was kind, almost unbearably so. His laughter came easily, his compassion boundless—but every smile carried sorrow beneath it. And you loved him for it. Loved it so much that you began steering his path, gently, carefully. You whispered doubt into his ear about comrades who questioned his resolve. You magnified his reliance on you, until your presence was as vital as his Coreflame.

And he thanked you for it.

When battles ended, his hand would linger on yours, gratitude in his gaze. When the others cheered his victories, he searched only for your nod. Your manipulations wove a reality where you were the sole anchor keeping him afloat.

But obsession is a dangerous fire.

The night he almost broke was the night you nearly lost him. The Strife Titan had driven him to his knees, his sword cracked, his armor scorched. You wove your telepathy like a net around him, amplifying every ounce of his will, feeding it with your own. Rise. Rise for me.

He rose. He burned. He survived.

Later, when the others slept, he cornered you. His voice was ragged. “I heard you. In the battlefield. You were there—in my head.” His eyes searched yours, torn between awe and fear.

You tilted your head, halo glimmering faintly. “I was only reminding you of what you already knew, Phainon. You’re not allowed to fall. Not yet.”

Silence stretched. Then, slowly, he pressed his forehead to yours. His Coreflame mark burned faintly against his throat, and for a moment, you felt his soul’s warmth flicker against your own.

You smiled. He thought it was affection. He never realized it was triumph.

Because now, his survival was no longer his choice. It was yours.

Anaxa was dangerous, but so were you. That was why you adored him.

The Demised Scholar carried the weight of heresies and broken dreams in every word he spoke. His sharp tongue lashed at prophets and tyrants alike, but when you came near, his voice softened. Not by choice—Halovians could tune minds as easily as harps—but because you made it so.

“You’re too quiet,” he said once, aqua eyes narrowing, magenta pupils burning like coals. “Most who linger near me can’t resist arguing. You just…listen.”

You tilted your head, halo flickering in a delicate pulse. “I hear the music in your words. Why would I interrupt?”

That earned a rare laugh, dry and bitter.

You knew what he didn’t: you weren’t listening, you were memorizing. Cataloguing every wound, every vulnerability. You wrapped your obsession in silk, presenting it as admiration. When he raged against the gods, you whispered agreement, fueling his fire. When grief pulled him under, you cloaked his thoughts with your own, feeding him resolve.

To Anaxa, you were the one soul who understood him.

The truth was darker. You wanted to be the only one.

It wasn’t difficult. His peers already despised him, wary of his experiments and defiance. You nudged his paranoia with gentle suggestions: that colleagues mocked him in secret, that students whispered betrayal. He grew more isolated, but leaned closer to you, relying on your presence as his single tether.

One night, deep in his laboratory, surrounded by failed constructs of soul and flame, he confessed. “I think I killed her.” His voice cracked. “My sister. I wasn’t there when the Black Tide came. If I hadn’t chased knowledge, she would’ve lived.”

You touched his hand, letting your feathers brush his ear in a gesture that was half comfort, half claim. “She lives through you. Through your work. Through what you will become.”

His gaze snapped to yours. For the first time, he didn’t see a student, an admirer, a companion. He saw salvation.

And you smiled, because you had rewritten his grief into devotion.

When he attempted his final, forbidden transformation—seeking to merge soul with divinity—you were there, whispering steady guidance through your telepathy. Others might call it manipulation. You called it love.

If he survived, he would belong to you.

If he died, his legacy would still be yours to carry.

Either way, Anaxa could never escape you.

Aventurine was a gambler. And you? You never played fair.

He noticed you the way he noticed all things—calculating odds, weighing risks. A Halovian in Penacony was already a spectacle: your halo shimmered faint gold, your voice carrying an undertone that bent hearts without them realizing. To him, you were a curiosity. To you, he was obsession incarnate.

You played the long game. He thrived on risk, on chaos, but you fed his addiction subtly. A word here, a nudge there—telepathic pulses that made him crave your company the way he craved the roll of dice.

“You’ve got tells, you know,” he teased one evening, lounging across a velvet couch. His eyes gleamed under his glasses. “Every time you want something, your halo flickers. Just a little.”

You feigned a laugh, masking the deliberate pulse you’d trained into your gestures. “And what is it I want, Aventurine?”

His grin widened. “Me, obviously.”

He thought it was a joke. He didn’t realize how true it was.

Unlike others, Aventurine was hard to corner. He thrived on unpredictability, making every relationship a gamble. But you loved that. You mirrored his moves, reflecting charm with charm, danger with danger. Where he bluffed, you called. Where he tested, you raised. It became a dance of risk, except the odds were always yours—because your voice, your halo, your obsession tilted the balance.

He started seeking you out. At games, negotiations, walks under Penacony’s neon sky—he wanted your presence, your perspective. He thought it was fascination. It was dependency.

One night, when a gamble went sour and enemies cornered him, you intervened. Not openly—you whispered fear into their minds, subtle threads of Halovian telepathy that made them doubt, hesitate, retreat. Aventurine never saw it, only the aftermath.

“You’re lucky,” you told him, smiling.

But he shook his head, staring at you with unsettling intensity. “No. That wasn’t luck. That was you.”

The air thickened. For a heartbeat, you feared he’d uncovered everything. Then, his smile curved again, softer this time. “Guess I’ve found my greatest gamble.”

And he meant it.

You’d become his risk, his thrill, his obsession—and he never realized it was the other way around. Every choice he made now bent toward you, every calculation included your presence.

He was a gambler. But you had already stacked the deck.

And when the game ended, it would be you collecting all the winnings.

"Please, sweetheart... god, just... just close your eyes and rest," he begged, his voice a broken, desperate rasp. He was driving into you in a heavy rhythm, his hips slamming home with a force that made the bedframe groan in protest. His large hands wandered feverishly over you; one moment they were cupping your breasts, squeezing them with a desperate hunger.

And the next, they were sliding down to find your clit, his thumb working with a frantic, rhythmic precision that made your hips arch off the sheets in a desperate plea for more. He was a man drowning, his eyes searching yours for a mercy he knew wasn't coming.

"You're so cruel... you know you're not tired, don't you? You're just playing with me," he choked out, his thumb catching the peak of your pleasure just as he drove himself deep into your heat.

He tried to slow down, to find a way to ease the pace so you might finally drift into sleep, but you had other plans. You let out a low, teasing hum, a sound of pure, manipulative satisfaction, and suddenly you locked your legs tightly behind his waist, pulling him even deeper, anchoring him to your pussy. 

The movement was a silent command: Don't you dare stop.

"God, honey! Don't... don’t... don't pull me in like that!" He let out a sharp, strangled gasp as the sensation of your thighs clamping around his waist sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated electricity straight to his brain.

The sheer audacity of your grip, the way you were physically forcing him to stay buried inside you, was the final nail in the coffin of his composure. He looked down at you, his eyes wide and clouded with a beautiful agony, seeing the way you looked up at him not with exhaustion, but with a predatory, triumphant hunger that demanded he keep going.

"You're a monster," he whispered, though there was no bite in the word, only a breathless, reverent awe. He leaned down, his sweat slicked chest crushing against your breasts, his lips brushing against your ear as he felt the leash tug sharply, reminding him that he was no longer the commander of this room, but the servant of your desire.

He was desecrating your sanctuary, staining your beautiful, carefully chosen sheets with the evidence of his lack of control, and yet, he couldn't bring himself to pull away. Every time he tried to find an exit, to find a way to end this marathon of pleasure and penance, you would tighten those legs, your heels digging into the small of his back, forcing him to acknowledge that the mission wasn't over until you said it was.

"Please... just a moment of peace," he groaned, his voice cracking as his thumb found your clit again, driving you toward a peak he knew would only fuel your hunger. 

He felt the familiar, violent coil of his own orgasm building, a heavy, thrumming pressure that thrummed deep in his gut, a tidal wave of heat that threatened to drown his remaining shreds of willpower.

He was a man caught between the duty of a soldier and the desperation of a lover, and as he felt you arch beneath him, your eyes flashing with that insatiable, manipulative light, he knew he had lost the war.

There was no retreating from this battlefield, no tactical withdrawal from the beautiful, messy wreckage of your bed.

"Fine... goddammit, fine," he growled, a sound that was half surrender and half roar, as he abandoned all pretence of restraint. He gripped your hips with a bruising, possessive strength, his knuckles white as he braced himself for the devastating assault. He stopped trying to find a gentler rhythm, stopped trying to coax you into sleep, and instead leaned into the very thing that was destroying him.

He began to fuck you with a primal, unbridled ferocity. He drove himself into you with a ferocity that made the headboard crack against the wall, his breath coming in ragged, desperate snarls as he surrendered to the beautiful, messy wreckage of your bed. 

"You win... you fucking win," he roared, his voice breaking as the first wave of his orgasm crashed over him. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a desperate, primal mark of ownership as he poured himself into you. He felt the hot, thick flood of his cum spilling deep within you, a relentless torrent that seemed to pulse in time with the frantic beating of his heart.

Steve held you there, pinned beneath his massive, trembling frame, his hips still twitching.

Your hands, slick with sweat, wrapped firmly around his broad, trembling shoulders, anchoring him to you as the world outside your bedroom ceased to exist. 

He leaned down, his movements heavy with a sudden, overwhelming tenderness, and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was painfully sweet — a desperate attempt to find some semblance of purity amidst the chaos. As you tasted him, you could taste the bitter, salt sweet tang of his penance. He was kissing you like a man seeking absolution from the very sin he was currently committing.

He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in ragged, uneven hitches that betrayed the war raging inside his chest.

"Let's go again, Captain," you whispered, your voice a low, sultry command that cut through his exhaustion like a blade.

He let out a long, broken sigh, a sound that was almost a whine of pure, beautiful defeat. "You had enough... Christ, baby, you've had too much " he protested, his voice cracking.

He looked down at the wreckage of your bed, at the way his essence was smeared across your skin and your expensive, decorative sheets, and a fresh jolt of nauseating, delicious panic flared in his chest. 

The thought of "knocking you up" of leaving his mark so deeply, so permanently, in his own recruit sent a wave of vertigo through him. Steve wanted to pull out, to be the responsible officer, to protect your future from his own lack of restraint.

He wanted to be the man who stood at attention, the man who followed the protocol of a professional relationship, but the moment your legs locked around his waist again, pulling him back into the heat of your core, that man died a quiet, desperate death. 

"You're going to be the ruin of me," he groaned, a sound that was half prayer and half curse. He could feel the weight of his responsibility clashing violently with the primal, super soldier urge to simply obey you to breed you until you were so heavy with him that you couldn't even move. The guilt was a physical ache in his chest, a sickening, delicious tension that only intensified the friction as he began to move again. 

The third round was different.

The frantic, desperate energy of the first two had shifted into something more rhythmic, more deliberate, and infinitely more dangerous. Steve was no longer fighting the chaos; he was trying to organise it. He was attempting to drown the dizzying vertigo of his guilt by leaning into the sheer, animalistic simplicity of the act.

If he could just stop thinking about the rank, the mission, and the sacredness of your home, he believed it would be maintainable.

He stopped treating it like a frantic struggle for salvation and started treating it like a conquest. His thrusts became heavier, more primal, stripping away the "Captain" and leaving only the man, a man driven by a singular, carnal purpose.

He leaned down, his lips reverent as they grazed the sensitive skin of your neck and collarbone, murmuring praises that sounded more like a litany of worship than a confession of sin.

"So beautiful... my sweet girl," he rasped against your skin, his voice a low, vibrating hum. "So greedy for me... so perfect in your hunger."

He was trying to convince himself that this was normal, that a man was simply taking what he desired from a woman who was made for him. By focusing on the physical perfection of your body, the way your hips arched to meet his, and the way your breath hitched at his touch, he was attempting to drown out the moral dissonance of his conscience.

He leaned into the friction, letting the raw, unadulterated sensation of your heat swallowing him whole become his only reality.

If he could just focus on the way your fingers dug into his shoulders, the way your eyes searched for him with that insatiable, manipulative light, perhaps the vertigo wouldn't feel like a descent into madness, but a climb toward ecstasy.

Now, he was a man surrendering to a beautiful, inevitable storm. He began to drive into you with a new, terrifying confidence, his hips hitting yours with a heavy, rhythmic thud that echoed the pounding of his heart.

He was trying to make it feel "normal" to make it feel like a man simply claiming his prize but the way he whispered your name, a desperate, broken sound of total devotion, betrayed the truth.

It wasn’t just a simple fuck anymore, he was letting you rewrite his entire moral code into one single, glorious, unmitigated sin. 

Every time his hips slammed against yours, he felt the dizzying sensation of his own control slipping away, replaced by a heavy, grounding lust that felt more honest than any protocol he had ever followed.

He was drowning in you, and as he felt the familiar, violent swell of another orgasm building deep in his gut, he realised he didn't want to be saved. He wanted to sink deeper into the beautiful, messy wreckage of your bed, to lose himself in the rhythm of your breathing and the insatiable, cunning heat of your body, until there was nothing left of the Captain but the man who belonged entirely to you.

The end came not with a roar, but with a total, devastating collapse of his willpower. Steve had tried to rationalise it, tried to turn the madness into a simple, carnal rhythm. But as the tension in his core reached a breaking point, the "Captain" was gone for good. There was no more protocol, no more trying to be the responsible officer, there was only the overwhelming, primal necessity of you.

His heavy, muscular arms wrapped around you with a possessive, desperate strength, pinning you to the mattress as his massive, trembling frame crushed you into the sheets. 

His hands, large and calloused, moved with a sudden, frantic purpose, his fingers finding your clit and working with a desperate, expert rhythm that forced your breath to hitch and your back to arch. He watched you with a gaze that was almost feverish.

His eyes were tracking the beautiful, violent way your body buckled under his touch, driving you toward a peak that he was determined to witness.

As you crested the wave of your own orgasm, your cries muffled against his shoulder, he finally lost the last shred of his restraint. He drove into you one last time, a deep thrust that seemed to reach the very centre of your being, and then he came.

He came with a ferocity that felt less like pleasure and more like a total, unmitigated surrender of heat that seemed to pulse in time with the dying beats of his heart. Steve buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in shuddering, uneven gasps as he felt himself emptying into you, filling you to the very brim, leaving nothing of his restraint behind. 

In the sudden, heavy silence that followed, as the only sound was the frantic thrumming of your shared pulse and the distant hum of the city outside, a single, brief sound escaped him.

It was a tiny, broken sob, a sound so quiet, so fragile, that it seemed to vibrate from the very depths of his soul.

It was the sound of a man who had finally, irrevocably, lost the battle against his own heart. It was the sound of the Captain finally dying, so that the man could truly live within the wreckage of your love.

He stayed there, heavy and trembling, his weight a grounding, possessive force against you. He pinned against you, his forehead resting heavily against yours as the last of his strength ebbed away. 

The silence of the room felt deafening after the violence of his release, a heavy, thick atmosphere that tasted of salt, sweat, and the undeniable weight of what they had just done. He didn't pull away; he couldn't. He remained draped over you like a fallen conqueror, his heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against your own.

The sob had been a momentary crack in his armour, a brief glimpse of the man who was terrified of how much he truly wanted to belong to you, but as the initial shock of the climax faded, it was replaced by a profound, exhausted stillness. Steve was spent, physically and spiritually, his body a heavy, warm anchor that kept you both grounded in the beautiful, ruined reality of your bed.

He lay there for a moment, his heavy chest heaving against yours, the silence of the room amplifying the frantic thrum of his heart.

He knew, with the terrifying clarity of a super soldier, that his body wasn't actually done. The serum in his veins was humming, a low, insistent vibration that whispered he could go on for hours, that he could go on for hours, that his stamina was a bottomless well that could easily swallow the entire night.

But he could feel the weight of his own exhaustion, not just physical, but the spiritual fatigue of a man who had crossed every line he had ever drawn for himself. He needed to draw a line in the sand before he lost himself entirely to the beautiful, dark current of your desire.

He lifted his head, his gaze meeting yours. He saw it immediately that sly, manipulative glint in your eyes, the look of a predator who had just finished a feast but was already eyeing the next course. You looked so innocent, so deceptively sweet, as if you hadn't just systematically dismantled his entire moral compass.

"This is enough for tonight, sweetheart," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He swallowed hard, his throat tight, as he felt the leather leash tug slightly against his neck a silent, instinctive reaction from you, a silent, instinctive reaction from you, a subtle tightening of the bond that made his pulse spike with a mix of dread and desire.

"I'll eat you out in the morning, okay?" he added, his voice dropping to a soft, coaxing murmur, a final attempt to soothe the restless fire in your eyes. "Wake you up with a treat... sound good?"

He could see the gears turning in your head, the way you were weighing his bribe against your own insatiable hunger. He held his breath, watching you with a desperate sort of hope, praying that the promise of a morning "treat" would be enough to satiate the beast he had just spent hours feeding.

He watched you intently, his heart hammering against his ribs as he waited for your verdict.

For a long moment, you simply stared at him, your expression unreadable, before you finally gave a slow, reluctant nod. The tension in his shoulders bled out in a single, massive sigh, a sound of pure relief that seemed to vibrate through his entire massive frame. He didn't wait for you to change your mind.

With a slow, careful movement, he began to pull himself out of you, the sensation of his departure leaving a hollow, aching void that made him want to groan in protest even as his mind celebrated the temporary truce. 

He moved with a heavy, sluggish grace, his muscles aching with a delicious sort of fatigue as he rolled away from you. He didn't linger in the warmth of your skin for long, knowing that if he stayed too close, the scent of you and the memory of your heat would pull him right back into the fray.

Instead, he stood, his large, powerful silhouette momentarily blocking the dim light of the room as he began to rummage around for a clean cloth and water.

As he worked, his movements were methodical, almost soldierly, as if he were cleaning a battlefield after the smoke had cleared. He was cleaning the wreckage, the sweat, the spilled essence, and the stains on your beautiful, expensive sheets with a quiet, focused intensity.

Every movement was an attempt to restore order to his world, to scrub away the evidence of his surrender and pretend, just for a moment, that he was still the man in command. He was still a gentleman, he repeated to himself a mantra to steady his racing heart as he worked to tidy the chaos he had helped create.

He glanced back at the bed, his gaze softening as he watched you. You were already beginning to drift, your body finally succumbing to the heavy, blissful lethargy of a post orgasmic haze. You looked so peaceful, so deceptively innocent in the dim light, as if you hadn't just spent the last few hours playing him like a finely tuned instrument. 

A small, tired smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, a silent acknowledgment at the sheer, beautiful madness of it all. He watched the way your breathing slowed, the way your eyelids fluttered shut as you finally succumbed to the heavy, delicious pull of sleep.

Steve felt a profound sense of protectiveness wash over him, a desire to shield you from the world, even as he knew you were the one who had most effectively conquered him.

He moved quietly, his large frame surprisingly silent as he finished cleaning the mess, his movements careful so as not to disturb the sanctuary he had just so thoroughly desecrated.

As he finally climbed back into the bed, keeping a respectful, almost reverent distance, he let his eyes linger on your sleeping form. He was exhausted, his muscles aching and his mind a swirling vortex of guilt and longing.

But as he closed his eyes, the last thing he felt was the lingering heat of you, a silent promise that the war wasn't over; it was merely a temporary ceasefire, waiting for the dawn to begin the next battle.

$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus

$ vi protocol-and-penance.txt (v1)

a/n— i... actually dunno how i got here tbh. thankfully, this isn't dead dove quite yet, but you, yes you, as jace's manipulative targ wife, almost did, girl, jfc. ahahaha! comments, reblogs & like at will, mwa! 💝 + now that there is a second part, and a third part i'm plotting (uh huh), this is officially a series!! its v loosey goosey, but it'll have a masterlist so... it means it has a taglist! message me to be tagged 💝 & if there are any drabbles/blurbs you wanna see!! message me lmk!! i have so many thoughts about jacey & manipulative reader hehe + dividers by @danowh0re

The only warning you receive is the missive hastily made by your twin.

In his panic, Aegon's scrawl had been barely legible, but the cold sweat that shot through your spine at making sense of the text had you keening over; fingers over your mouth, a dangerous gurgle in your stomach.

The world tilts, the air sucks inward.

Fear... Cold, weightless fear, settles in your heart.

"Princess!" Your maid, Dyana, shrieks, hands grasping your elbows to prevent you from falling. She turns to the door. "Call the maestre back! Now!"

You shake your head rapidly. "No, no. No Ser Addam. I am alright."

"But princess—"

"No, Dyana, I am alright." But you are pale, and a thrum shakes through fingers, rattling your ribcage and trying to yank your heart out of your throat. You have to find your footing or all will be lost. You grab Dyanna's arms and she winces. "Tell me- the prince - where is he?"

"I'm not sure, princess, I can—"

"Quickly! We shan't lose precious more time."

You turn to Meera. You had invested in her from the early age you had taken her in from the orphanage. Loyalty, in its absolution, must be rewarded.

And ease for your own plans can be disguised as a reward.

She steps forward obediently, hands clasped behind her back like a soldier awaiting orders. She is nondescript with plain features, easily able to hide between other common folk; and no one, truly, looks at a maid.

"Go to the Sea Dragon Tower, wait on the Rookery for Johan. Only Johan, do you understand me? Keep the missive that I will dictate to you close to his heart, hidden, and he must depart immediately. Throw extra gold at the captain, I do not care. Meera, no other eyes must touch the paper I will send, tell him of the utter import such a thing. No other than another Spider. We cannot unravel further than this or we will start burning."

Meera's gaze darkens, her posture straightening. "Yes, your grace."

You grasp her hands, your mind whirring— so many plots, so many lies, in between them, he flashes in your mind; the dark hair, the warmth of his hand, the sweet, simpered smile and the flicker of rage that dances like a flame. In and out and calmed and wild.

Dutiful. A Perfect Son. A Beloved Prince. Your Lord Husband.

He flashes in between plans and unraveled lies. Along it, Aegon's missive, quickly written, panic seeping in every vowel.

Grandsire had gotten to Aemond's head. Went to Storm's End. Met Lucerys. They are calling him Kinslayer.

Your head is pounding. Kinslayer, Kinslayer, Kinslayer. It churns your stomach, dries your throat. Lucerys dead. Aemond beheaded. Jacaerys' rage. Rhaenyra's. Dark Sister in the Rogue Prince's hand. All your clever threads, your webs and tales, everything you have sacrificed to get here— they are unraveling, the lives you care about, your fondness and love — the fear has moulded and churned; the Stranger now haunting the skies, searching for names, trying to grasp for your neck.

Aemond, You, Aegon, Helaena, Alicent, Jaeheara, Jaehearys, Maelor—

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond.

Your baby brother. Marred and disfigured, dutiful and dedicated. Sarcastic and princely; dancing with you if you ask. Reading with him in the library. A flickering hearth, a kind eye, a protective arm.

Your baby brother, beheaded, gaping mouth and bloodred eye.

Justice spun and spun, but oh so corrupted when they had taken his eye and no name step forth to claim.

Disfigured, marred, and dead.

Focus, you think, your mouth moving, words spilling, plans stretching. Focus.

Otto Hightower must die. It is a pressing thought, digging into the centrefold of your mushy, wet brain. Pressing and pressing like a fever as words of instructions, orders, must be sent along one spider to another.

Your hand drifts to your stomach as Meera leaves, in her head the words that must reach King's Landing. That must pass only the cleverest of hands. Your hand curls, your fist tightens enough that blood clots and beads through crescent rings. Clever girl. Clever spider. You have to believe in Meera and the people under your hushed employ.

You have no choice. You have built your webs, you must trust your spiders.

Not when you can't even trust your own fucking blood.

It took a while to get your network going in Dragonstone. As soon as the smell of brimstone and dragon broached your nostrils, the plans for moving what you had started in Kings Landing became the forefront plan. There is only so much movement you can make in a board full of enemies; and with so many more things to do, you cannot be restrained.

People with stakes, with ambitions and wants of their own— be that money, a good future, a house with warmth and love — if you can provide it enough, dash it in enough kindness and care, people, like ants, could move mountains for you.

It took most of hyour life to have what you established in Kings Landing. Most of your free time— feiging afternoon teas, walks along the garden; young lady things that will not arouse suspicion, fit for a pious, devoted daughter of Alicent Hightower — was spent building and building webs.

Thankfully, as a Princess of the Realm— and as the future Heir's wife, the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms (the title tingles and throbs, comes alive in gasps and winning hands) — you can have your pick of maids and lady in waitings here too. Connections are important, and Jacaerys did not bereaved you of choice.

In fact, he so encouraged you to make changes to Dragonstone as you so chose fit.

"You are my wife," he sighed, pressing kiss after kiss to the side of your head. When he was wrapped around you like this— arms around your torso, a finger, almost absentmindedly, rubbing just the underside of your breast, and the smell of him, boyish but smoky, like a fireplace and first kiss, swaying you to a rhythm he is fond of, absentminded almost — it reminded you of how Vermax oft like to wrap around small hills and large rocks. A dragon mimicking another dragon; a twin soul so connected.

He sighed again as you run your own fingers against the back of his palm, against the side of his head behind you. "You may do so as you wish," he finished, nuzzling further into you as if he wants no more than to become one with you, flesh and blood. An engorged monster of sorts.

"Just your wife?" you teased. The wedding had only been a few moons ago. The missive had been immediately sent to Kings Landing (under your orders, of course, your new husband none the wiser as he had preferred a few more days of just you), and before lunch, your hand on Jace's thigh, his eyes more than hungrily looking at your lips— Caraxes screech alongside Syrax' wing pattern shook the walls, demanding answers.

Jace had looked nervous for a second, not at all prepared to be facing his mother so soon, his Queen, and his stepfather... whose own daughter he was supposed to marry. Better prepared to face all of them in Kings Landing was his plan.

But you had grasped his hands, had mounted girlish excitement shining in your eyes (an expression so familiar to you to adopt that it so perfectly hides the sharp edges of your excitement; your smugness. It oft reminds you of Aemond)— and Jacaerys had melted.

"My Queen," he reimbursed. You turned as his hands cupped your face. Gentle, possessive in its own way. You sighed, eyes fluttering close with a small, satisfied smile on your lips. "My beautiful queen."

A Maiden in love is not a hard thing to emulate. And he does not make it hard to be.

On some days, you even think it will be easy to actually fall in love with him. You already do so feel his warmth for you permeate your own being. His attention is addicting for one; it is whole and preserving. He makes it known when he is looking at his lady mother, at Baela, his former betrothed (who had given you a meaningful eye when Rhaenyra and Daemon escorted you back to Kings Landing to face the rest of your consequences), and other ladies of the court versus when he is looking at you.

He does not hide his adoration. His so obvious desire.

When you reward him for his loyalty, for private little ticked boxes you keep for him— siding with you in arguments, defending you upon ugly whispers in the Keep, requesting from his mother, a more permanent residence of your own in Dragonstone, in the guise of newly wedded bliss to hide growing your connections far and wide (once Rhaenyra takes the throne, Jacaerys will be named Heir and Prince of Dragonstone; your spiders and people must reach each end of Westeros, and Dragonstone is the perfect central chatter) — you mount him and bask at the lust contorting his features, at his hands gripping your waist in a staccato rhythm of feeling and gasp, each harsh bounce of your hips sending you both to bliss. You feel him inside you so deeply, enjoy his eyes rolling back and exposing his neck for you to sink bruises on.

Most oft, he enjoys mounting you. And you like the alternative of his choice to be buried so deep you feel him in your throat; to hold you down and hold you close, telling you to keep your eyes open for him as you come undone again and again— time and practice can manage his newness to the act. His enthusiasm, both for the act and for you, definitely helps his case, and he is so fond of finding your pleasure, of leading you to the precipe, so addicted to your sounds and writhes.

"There? Is that it, little dragon?" he huffs against your mouth, so attentive as he held your wrist and watch as you gasp, your face twisting as he hits that point inside of you, that sweet, sweet spot of undeniable pleasure buried so deep within— that he laughs. Not meanly, but of pride as he pulls back and hits it again. More insistent. You mewl and scratch his back, your toes curling as you seek the pleasure he so enjoys insisting you into.

"I've found it again, didn't I?" Another snap of his hips, another cry of your lips. "I will fuck your sweetest spot until you- are- crying- my name in that sweet, sweet whine of yours, shall I?"

But it's not really a question privy to an answer, surely not by your own mouth but by your body, as he manhandles you easily and does not stop until you are a quivering, overstimulated mess against wet sheets.

Sometimes, when you can't help but reward him as soon as possible— so excited from his gallant display; the perfect King bowing to his wife — you drag him to shadowy corners and solemnly drop yourself on your knees, unlacing his breeches with deft precision. You place your hot mouth against his manhood, your eyes fluttering delicately, making him reach completion enough times that he is left with a dopey, simpleton of a smile afterward, a soft, chaste kiss against your your head, your nose, your lips. So tender to how he was fucking your mouth not but seconds ago.

"I love you," he whispers against hot skin and cool, salty air.

And it eases, every time he looks at you like that, holds like you that. His love is patient, sweet, kind, and devouring. It overflows and seeps into you that when you whisper back, just as soft, just as troublingly honest, "Avy jorrāelan, ñuha zaldrīzes, I love you, my dragon," the truth of them bleeds further and further into your heart.

Jacaerys.

A warm grief swells within you. Your hands twitch, flattening your grief beneath your chest, deep in your gut. Deep below. You fought hard to be here. You cannot lose him now.

Otto Hightower must die.

A cruel thought, a natural order. With your marriage to Jacaerys meant a relative peace, a truce. Moving to Dragonstone many moons was more than just to establish your position, your future. It was also for your darling sister to take better control of her position back in the centre of power, alongside her husband.

Aged well with a stronger alley who most would not dare defy— a vainglorious guard dog, really, one who isn't afraid to sic people with a mere nod from his master — more than evens out the playing field.

The Queen To Be is prospering. And in her prosper, meant your husband's position more than fulfilled. He was to be King, and with you as his Queen, his reign will want for not.

You should have known it would put Otto on defense, would panic and use your siblings and your poor, nervy mother, to move in unfeasible decisions.

Aegon had taken to calling him grandsire again. Aemond... Your spiders had told you that Lucerys was sent to Storm's End as no more than a casual reminder of Lord Borros' oath. Viserys was in no doubt in worse conditions than he had been the last time you or your husband had visited him. Rhaenyra was settling on her position, reminding the Great Houses which heir was meant to rise soon, so close to the changing of the guard.

And your little brother no doubt was moved in panic.

This was a slip up on your part. Once the King was dead, Otto Hightower would hold no cards; Rhaenyra would never take him as Lord Hand, and his daughter would no longer be a foreground of power. Rhaenyra has her heir. The winning hand is more than ensured on her part.

His only move would be an usurpation, and would ruin your chance at being Queen... it was a good move. Your twin was not made for duty whilst you craved it. He knows you better than you know yourself; you will not be played in his palm. You would be useless to him.

"I should have killed him," you murmur to yourself.

Yna, the last maid in your arsenal, steps forward. She is the youngest of your main three wards, and the newest. She is still learning her letters, but she is young and always eager to serve.

"My lady?"

"I am going to find the prince. Whatever happens, tell them Vermax must not leave with his rider. Make up any excuse you must. My husband must stay in Dragonstone until I say otherwise." You raise your chin, tone icy. "Anyone who dares to defy my orders will be beheaded."

"At once, princess."

Your steps are measured, your breath held between lie and tongue. So many pretty rings on your fingers, twisting and twisting at the idea of the confrontation plagues you.

But you raise your chin. You will not be defeated. All is not lost.

Dyanna had caught you at Aegon's Garden, windblow hair and wide, fearful eyes.

You had braced yourself. "The Prince?"

"The Stone Drum, my princess, he is..."

"Angry," you supplied. She nodded jerkily. "Tell me everything."

"The Prince was talking with Ser Robert, was about the missive sent from Kings Landing says Kevan, not soon after your own." Another spider, one that follows most of your husband's movements. Unassuming and quick on his feet. A good soldier. "Prince Lucerys is alive but badly maimed." The breath you had withheld between grit and fright unrolled, the world slamming back into the ground in a giant's fitful wake. "He still hasn't woken up, says Arrax took most of the damage— one wing torn but is awake. Dunno about recovery for dragons, 'specially against Vhagar. Mournin' the prince, Kevan says. Makin' loud, sad dragon noises."

"But he is alive?" you pressed. Aemond's life hung in its balance. Your sweet, vengeful baby brother who bore his tragedies between muted teeth and rage.

"Yes."

"And Aemond?"

"No word in the missive or between them." It made your throat tight, the convulsion restraining your neck once more.

"It's fine. As long as there no mention of his death. Then that's all I need."

"My lady, there's more. There might be a reason we haven't been getting much word from King's Landing. Or Oldtown. It seems to connect is all."

Your pulse jumped. "Tell me later. I have to see to the prince. No one is allowed in Stone Drum for the time being. Not unless absolutely necessary." You think and you think hard. "Ready to call in a maestre."

Dyanna had looked alarmed when you left her, but you only gave a pensive smile. A soldier's nod.

He is bent over the Painted Table, shoulders so hunched, reminding you of monsters and tall tales. A dragon, really. He may not have Velaryon blood, your husband, but you— nor others — could deny the thrum of fire in his blood. Roiling and boiling, so engulf in his rage, his voice is quiet at the approach of your footsteps.

"You have bound me to Dragonstone," he says calmly with all the quiet rage you can hear in your very soul. It makes you shiver, but you stand resolute.

He is still turned away, away from you, palms flat on the surface. The iron brazier is lit up, and so is the Painted Table itself.

"Can you honestly tell me you won't try and kill my brother if I let you, ñuha valzȳrys my husband?" you say softly. You plead. His refusal to turn to you spikes your madness in corners. The night reaches and you finger your rings as you try not to spill all over the floor; your own madness, your own fears, your quiet, quiet webs. "Aren't you at least satisfied at the thought of your stepfather excelling at planting Dark Sister to his neck? At least cheery at the idea of him suffering inside those dungeons?"

He spins then, rage—white hot and spilling — breathes as he bellows, "He has harmed my brother!"

You calmly met his gaze. "You do not know that for sure."

He laughs without mirth, arms wide and daring. Crazed anger outlandish and wild, while in response you tighten and become small.

But you do not cower. No truth cowers. And you are a princess. A dragon the same as he.

Lest all, he is a mere husband.

"What else could it be? Your brother has called us bastards our entire lives," he spits. "Neither of us are blind to his dark looks. Despite your family's attempted plots, his rage beholds him. His grudge is stronger. He attacked Lucerys, on fucking dragonback— Arrax, a dragon Luke has barely flown against your brother's war dragon — and that makes him a kinslayer."

Your blood leaps, and you cannot control your own fear, your own anger. "Do not throw that word around so carelessly, Jacaerys! My brother has killed no kin!"

"He has tried, " he hisses and it makes your eyes burn because he has never looked at you so before. At his thunderous footsteps to reach you, to aggravate you, you fight the urge to flinch. His anger spills and spoils you. You try not to curdle. You keep yourself braced. Kinslayer is so ugly said aloud. "That is enough of a brand to call him kinslayer."

Your jaw tightens, tears unleashed from your eyes and there's a glimmer there— a spark, of your Jace. Your husband. It is small and short, a comet so faint it is almost nothing, but it is there.

He does not like to see you cry, your Jace. Not if it isn't from pleasure.

You raise your chin. "My brother is no kinslayer. Lucerys is alive. Do not make Aemond what he is not."

He laughs humourlessly against your face, his hand reaching for your jaw, thumb over your chin, but the mock gentleness wounds you worse. "And who has alerted you of the news? Your twin usurper?"

"W-what?" Blood rushes to your head. Something is missing. He knows. He knows about grandsire's plans. Dyanna would have said. Dyanna didn't know. "Aegon is not an usurper," you whisper, faint but firm.

His thumb rubs against your bottom lip, his eyes tracing your face. "Is this the plan all along, then?" he says softly. "While your brother and grandsire plot to usurp the throne from my mother, and your younger brothers raise bannermen from Oldtown to Storm's End, and try to kill my own when they get the chance, I suppose your job is to warm my bed and to ensure I'm out of the fray before you kill me in my—"

His words stutter for you have slapped him. It is not the hardest move on your part, and he stops not from pain but from shock. Tears freely flow down your face now as you push him off you.

"I know nothing of these plots you speak of." That in much is true. These plots are half-assed. Made in panic and fear, and it makes you curse Otto Hightower to the depths of further Hell. "And you may bully me as you wish, husband, but I will not take it as if it does not hurt me. As if- as if I would take pleasure from your death."

He raises his chin, so defiant in his own anger that he clenches his jaw. "Are you telling me you took no part in your grandsire's plans?"

"We have been married for many moons now. I think, out of anyone on this island, amongst our family even, you would know me best. I have only ever truly bloomed in your presence," you say softly. Lies and truths are balanced so precariously; they spin and spin in a tantalising grip that even you don't know where fabrication meets honesty.

If your own lies befuddle you, why not your truths to him?

"If you are doubting me, then you are doubting our marriage, is it not?" You give a mirthless laugh of your own, chin wobbling as you brush your tears away. His eyes track your movements and his brows are furrowed. "Is it ease, that has turned you so from me? Has your doubt been seeded long before you took us to Dragonstone? To affirm your mother that you have wedded me? Yes, Aegon sent me a missive a mere hour ago. He says Aemond had been urged by our grandsire, no doubt played with as he had done so to our mother, as he tries with Aegon. With me."

Jacaerys' eyes darken. Bottomless pits of dark, dark eyes. You've grown to love them you realised.

"I will give you all the violet-eyed heirs you desire," you had purred once in your new marriage bed, having just christened (one to a few times) your new marital chambers in Dragonstone. "But I do so wish I get a babe with your eyes."

"They are hardly exemplary," Jace had said, snorting. His hand rested on your back while you rest on top of him. The air is acrid in sweat and sex, but neither of you mind. "They are not a show of Valyrian blood."

"Who cares?" You reached to dance your finger against his lashes. "A daughter with your eyes... I fear, I would spoil her rotten. She would be an absolute beauty."

"Are you calling me a beauty?" he teased, trying to hide his rosy cheeks.

"Your eyes, yes," you teased back.

"If I was such a pawn to him," you say now. "If I was using you as you so callously accused me of, why would I bother with a marriage with you? You are right, they have accused you of not being a trueborn Velaryon—" He flinches. "—So why would Otto decide marrying you was a good idea at all? Any babes I carry would be questioned, and it would serve no benefit at all if the main plot was Aegon usurping the throne. To keep you entertained? Hardly. It would serve him better, as was his earlier plan, if I had married Aegon myself."

He loses his stance, a grit in his teeth gives you way to a slow curl of possession. A renewed sense of anger. His fists clenched at his sides.

You found a thread. You don't just unspool, you decide, you will yank, and you will yank hard.

"Aegon is a firstborn male heir, even as twins. It made sense to anyone who understood Targaryen customs that marrying us would be the natural order. It did not matter any past transgressions he may have had, I keep him better. I am his tether to this world. It was obvious to anybody with eyes that if we were to marry, we would breed good Valyrian stock, our children—"

But he has lurched forward, grasping your face, seething, angry at an idea, at a diverted road.

"He wanted us to marry," you continue, a snake's hiss that it is. "But your mother sent a missive asking for Helaena's hand, and I had already told her I wanted someone else. I wanted you." You grasp his leather, pulling him to you in equal ferocity. Madness meeting a mirror. "From the very start, grandsire could not control me for my blood sung for you. I had done my very best to free my siblings from him, resigned myself to be their forever protector inside that Keep with no real power of my own, but when the Gods gave me the chance to have you, I had been selfish. I abandoned them for you. Because I wanted to be yours for a night, I was willing to have that, if it is the only moment you will grant me."

You are crying again, and lies are spinning with their truths, golden and bloodstained, but you are cracking him.

"But it was you, Jacaerys Velaryon, who had asked for my hand. You wanted to marry, whisk us away to Dragonstone, and I love you too much to blind myself to the idea of becoming your wife would not be a totally selfish act, for what act of ours would be considered selfish if it was borne out of love?" you sob hard, grasping and reaching against him, trying to shake and ruin him. "I thought you loved me, and yet here you are, accusing me of plotting? What? Usurping your mother? Killing you in your godsdamned sleep?"

"Wife, I—"

"No. I am sorry for what happened to Lucerys. But if it is vengeance that is truly what you seek, and in the morrow my brother," my choke out. "My brother would be announced d-dead, I would rather you kill me now for it seems I have not only failed them from my grandsire's clutches, I have also failed at being your wife."

Your hands reach in and pull his dagger out, and he is instinctive, a true swordsman, holding onto the dagger before your own. But you do not give up. You yank him forward so suddenly, the dagger now positioned over your heart.

You keep him there, defiant as you are. As no true dragon is afraid of metal. Metal melt in the face of dragonfire.

The tip of his dagger deepens against your skin as war rages in his own mind. Truths and lies spinning and spinning in his head, but your thread— your thread is Hightower green clung in blood and gold — and it's the brightest, twisting beneath his lids and rage. Rage and grief, the tethering madness is spilling, trying to break into the dragon's clutches—

But your Jace is strong. He holds it at bay with a fury.

It is love, it is love, it is love.

But you are not sure. And you have to be.

You have been betrayed already, your Jace cannot betray you. If you are to have a future with him as King, there must be no doubts.

You step forward, letting the blade sink against your skin. It draws blood. A few beads bloom and slide. Thick red in a string or two. It makes his jaw tighten, and you feel, almost impercibly, the strain in his hand give.

That flash of panic, panic bathed in love, in adoration, is all you need.

You grasp his hands in yours, blade nestled between two grips now, and he gasps, thinking you were going to push him away finally, but no. You hold on tight to his hands, nails digging into his skin, keeping the blade where it is before you push forward once more. The tip sinks into your flesh, blood gushes as pain explodes.

"What are you doing!? Let go!" he roars, but you stare at his eyes, brown, so pretty, framed in featherlight lashes, did he even know there are violet flecks in his eyes?

You will not harm me, you think. You realise. For you have given yourself to me body and soul. Even the Gods know.

"Will you forsake me, husband?" your voice is no higher than a whisper, than a wind's hum. It is hollow and cracking. A siren song. In the silence, it is a whip cracking against petty flesh. Against a beating heart thrumming for you. "And the babe I carry?"

Before the words register in his brain, you yank his hands again with every strength you can muster, the dagger, to hover over your stomach. Your Jace roars, pulling with his entire strength as complete fear in floods his beautiful, brown eyes. The strength propels your force of gravity, and you fall with a hard thud. The dagger is flung in the second as he reaches for you, cold-curdled terror ruining his face as he tries to make sense of where to touch you.

The fall is hard enough that you wince. And your instincts, new as it is, is to curl your hands protectively over your stomach.

"M-my heart? Does it hurt? I-I am so sorry, I-A MAESTRE, CALL A MAESTRE FOR THE PRINCESS NOW!"

Your child is strong, you have always known that in your heart.

The second you held suspicion, pressing against the tender flesh of your breast to the nausea that kicked in out of nowhere, before Maestre Gerardys had confirmed: you are with child. Your firstborn. The heir of heirs. You could not wait to meet him.

"I hope it is a boy," you murmur weakly into the darkened space of your chambers. You don't turn as Jacaerys' head snaps, his hands over your own, sat on a chair by your bedside. Relief, guilt, fear breaks and crashes in waves against him, trying to nudge you, but you don't look. You stare from your position on the bed; forward and into nothingness.

"My love," he breathes, hands against your own warm and tight. "I am so, so sorry. I shall call for a maestre—"

"No need." Your other hand moves to your stomach. An emotion glimmers in his gaze at the movement. "My babe is strong. Blood of the dragon that he is. I know him already in my blood. Call for my maid instead. Any of them. Tell them to move my things to a different room, perhaps the one above Aegon's Garden. By morn, I will fly to Kings Landing to be with my family."

Panic fills and breaks. His hold tightens. "I-If that is what you wish, we can go as soon as Maestre Gerardys says it is alright for you and the—"

You turn to him, finally, your eyes dead of emotion. "I will go for I do not think you would like your would-be murderer to sleep beside you, haunting you with a dagger. This way, I can take advice from my mother about births and the like, and you can sleep comfortably. Do not worry, I will not poison you to your child's mind. You may visit him as you would like. You might even take comfort in knowing your mother would look for him as if he were hers. She is so very motherly, I'm sure she would enjoy a grand..."

Your words drift off as he had fallen to his knees, tears soaking your hand as he presses it to his face. You feel like the Mother, looking down on a penitent. Or the Father. Or the Stranger. You feel complete, as his apologies fall in graceless, shaky exhales and sobs. The axe is in your hand. His neck is exposed.

"—I will do anything, a-anything for your f-forgiveness. Y-You can move rooms if it comforts you, I will not s-shadow your doorway, but please. Please. Do not leave me. Anything. I will do anything."

You, and you alone, is the owner of his absolution.

You smile, despite yourself.

Maybe you should reward your grandsire after all.

You’ve never wanted to be part of this family…. It was your curse the moment your mother falled into Lante’s twisted hands. But being born into it, shaped by it. You learned how to play the part they gave you.

To survive, you became what they needed: delicate, charming, quiet. Harmless. Or so they believe.

They taught you how to flutter your lashes just so, how to speak in a voice that dripped innocence and hesitation. But behind that softness? You were forged into something else entirely.

You were trained in the most efficient ways to kill a man in bed, with a kiss, with a blade hidden beneath silk sheets. You learned how to please, how to disarm with a glance, how to smile sweetly while memorizing the shape of someone’s weakness.

They taught you how to be adored.

How to make them believe you would give them everything in bed.

How to make them believe you were theirs.

And when they believed that… that’s when you were most dangerous.

But even with all that they gave you….you never stopped thinking about freedom. Never stopped imagining a life where you belonged to no one but yourself.

And tonight… you see your chance.

Across the ballroom, standing tall in his ceremonial attire, is Link, the Hero of Hyrule. Revered by his people, a symbol of honor, strength, and safety. His presence is magnetic, commanding quiet awe from those around him.

To the rest of the world, he’s untouchable.

To you?

He’s your exit.

Not long after, you slip away from the glittering dance floor and onto one of the castle’s moonlit balconies. The cool night air brushes your bare shoulders, and the low murmur of the ball fades behind you.

And right on cue, they follow.

Men are drawn to you by your smile, by the sway of your hips, by the illusion you wear like silk. Their gazes are hungry, their confidence bordering on arrogant. You are easily prey for them. You welcome it. One of them steps forward, a sly grin curling across his face. “Well, aren’t you a pretty thing? All alone in a place like this.”

You brush your fingers lightly down his arm—just enough to make his breath catch, not enough to satisfy. “Isn’t it lonely,” you murmur, “being so close… but so far from company?”

They lean in.

Hooked.

Drawn like moths to flame, just as they were meant to be. You let them think they’re the ones in control, let them crowd too close, their laughter too familiar, their eyes dragging over you like they own you.

Just what you wanted.

But for this to work, you needed to be sure Link had seen you leave—had seen you stepping away from the crowd, slipping onto the balcony.

That way, when the men followed, he would notice.

And if he thought you were in danger…

Well, then the Hero would come to save you.

Exactly as you planned. Their laughter grows louder. One of them reaches for your waist, bold now, emboldened by your earlier touch. You pull back just slightly—enough to make it seem like hesitation, enough to shift the energy.

That’s when the air changes.

You feel him before you see him. His gaze lands on you even with the men towering over you, making your skin prickle like a sudden drop in temperature. Heavy. Sharp.

You don’t need to look to know who it is.

The Hero of Hyrule.

The men don’t notice at first—still too caught in the illusion you spun around them.

But you do.

You always do.

“Is there a problem here?” The men startle. One glances over his shoulder—but only briefly. He looks back at you, unconcerned. He probably doesn’t recognize the voice. Doesn’t recognize the man behind it.

“Heh,” the one closest to you scoffs, emboldened by ignorance. “Nah, no problem here. Just having a little chat with the lady. She was really friendly a minute ago, weren’t you, sweetheart?”

You flinch, like you have done a million times already, pretending to be scared. A calculated shift backward, eyes wide and glassy, voice trembling as you whisper, “I said I didn’t want any trouble…”

It lands perfectly.

The man nearest to you falters, caught off guard by your sudden change. The smug grin slips, replaced with confusion—irritation. His hand twitches at his side, unsure of what to do

Behind him, the second man stiffens. His gaze flickers toward the stranger again, longer this time. Something’s not right. The man isn’t reacting like some noble fool trying to play hero.

No panic. No posturing.

Just stillness. A quiet that hums with threat.

And then he sees it.

The scarf. The blue scarf.

The one that marks him not just as a soldier….but as the Hero, the Captain of the Royal Guard. A symbol of authority that only one man in the entire kingdom is permitted to wear.

The man closest to you still doesn’t get it—not at first.

But the other one does. His eyes widen. His mouth opens, and you watch him try to warn his friend, whisper something sharp beneath his breath.

But he’s too slow.

Because the first man is still too focused on you, fingers brushing your wrist again, tone insistent. “Come on, don’t play shy now,” he hisses. “You were into it a second ago, weren’t you? You wanted this.” You let out a sob. Soft. Pitiful. Just loud enough so the blond can clearly hear it.

“I just wanted some air…”

Your voice cracks perfectly, trembling with carefully crafted fear. You turn your face slightly, letting the light catch the shimmer of tears beginning to well in your eyes.

His fingers twitch, wanting to pull away, but you hold your breath, forcing the sob to catch in your throat just long enough.

“Alright, alright,” the first man grumbles, stepping back reluctantly. His voice lowers, edged with warning. “This ain’t worth the trouble.”

You don’t release your trembling act. Your lips quiver, your breath catches, and your eyes plead with silent desperation.

The second man shoves his friend, urgency sharp in his eyes. “We’re done here. Move.”

Finally, the two of them retreat, stumbling over muttered apologies. One nearly trips in his haste to get away.

You don’t move.

You wait, after all…timing is everything.

Then, with just the right amount of restraint, you let your shoulders tremble. Only slightly. Just enough to look like you're on the verge of tears.

And just like that, he moves.

He stops just in front of you.

And just to close your act, you throw yourself into his arms, letting your tears finally fall. You make sure they’re silent against his chest, soaking into his clothes as you bury your face there, making sure to sell your scared lady act.

He stiffens—caught off guard. You hear the small intake of breath, feel the hesitation in the way his hands hover for a split second. “I—I’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice low and unsure, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with you. But then his arms come around you, careful at first, then firm. Protective.

Just like you knew they would.

You tremble in his hold, clutching at his clothes like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. Your breaths come in shaky little bursts, your voice soft and ragged.

“I-I was so scared…” you whisper, just loud enough for him to hear. “They wouldn’t stop….no matter what I said…”

His grip tightens around you, anger radiating off him, but not at you, clearly… How could he be mad at you? He doesn’t know you.

“I didn’t know what to do,” you continue, your voice breaking perfectly on the last word. “Thank you… thank you for coming. I didn’t know if anyone would—if anyone saw me leave—” You hiccup a sob, the kind that sounds like it hurts to hold in. And when you tilt your face up to him, eyes glassy and lashes wet, it’s like you’re the picture of vulnerable gratitude.

“I thought I was alone,” you breathe, hand still fisted in the fabric over his chest. “But then you… you came.”

The walk back to the ballroom is steeped in silence.

You cling to his arm like you’re afraid to let go, fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeve, your body pressed just close enough to seem shaken, not improper. You don’t speak, and neither does he. Link’s gaze stays fixed ahead, his jaw tight with restraint. But he doesn’t pull away.

You cling to the act just a bit longer. A soft tremble in your fingers. A hiccuped breath when your shoes click too sharply on the marble. You never overdo it. You don’t have to.

By the time you both reach the ballroom doors, the sound of music and laughter spills back into the corridor like nothing’s changed.

But when the doors part and you step inside, eyes turn. The nobles notice him first, of course—who wouldn’t? The Hero of Hyrule, stepping into the ball with a crying girl clinging at his arm.

And that’s when Roxana sees you.

She breaks from her conversation with unsettling ease, gliding across the ballroom toward’s where you stand. Her gown trails behind her like spilled blood. Her smile is flawless, not showing her feelings, but you know better.

They take in everything.

The slight disarray of your hair. The shimmer of tears still clinging to your lashes. The way your hand remains curled into the hero’s sleeve.

Link slows when she draws near, posture guarded but calm. His free hand rests lightly near the hilt of his blade, unmoving, waiting for danger.

Roxana stops in front of you, her voice smooth, pretending to be worried,

“There you are.”

“There you are.”

At the sound of her voice, you let go of Link’s sleeve, the gesture lingering just a beat too long, like it’s hard to part with your safety. Then, with a breathless gasp, you throw yourself into your sister’s arms, burying your face into her shoulder as a soft, broken sob escapes you.

Roxana’s arms come around you in a slow, practiced motion. She holds you delicately, her touch protective to onlookers, but you can feel the tension in her fingers, the way her posture sharpens the moment your head rests against her.

She knows.

Of course she knows.

But she doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t call your bluff. Not here. Not yet. She know’s better than to question your actions after all.

Instead, she strokes your back with practiced calm and murmurs just loud enough for those nearby to hear, “What happened?”

You sniff, delicate and trembling, and pull back just enough to look up at her—eyes still glassy, lips parted like you’re struggling to speak.

“I just wanted some air,” you whisper, voice cracking like splintered glass. “And then those men……”

You don’t finish the sentence. You don’t need to. The implication hangs there, heavy and damning, sharpened by the way your fingers tighten ever so slightly in the folds of Roxana’s dress.

Roxana’s gaze flicks briefly toward Link, who still stands a respectful distance away, expression unreadable.

“And you intervened?”

He nods once. “I did.”

Simple. Honest. She know’s he doesn’t know you are faking it

Roxana hums softly. Almost approving. She turns slightly, shielding you more fully with her body, the perfect older sister now guarding her shaken sister

“Well then,” she says, tone crisp but polite, “you have our gratitude, Hero.”

Link gives a slight bow of acknowledgment, but his eyes linger on you for a second longer. Searching, maybe. Just what you want

You meet his gaze and offer one last, quiet, “Thank you.”

It works. He dips his head again and finally turns, melting back into the blur of nobles and chandeliers.

Only once he’s out of sight does Roxana exhale sharply through her nose, her posture going rigid.

Her grip on your shoulders tightens just a little.

And in a voice now stripped of all warmth, she leans in and mutters, low enough so only you hear it

“You have five seconds to explain what the hell you’re playing at.” You know she is going to give you hell for this, but at least you are sure that your escape from this family is going to work.

It’s late.

Your room is still. And the only thing that matters is the steady rhythm of breath against your shoulder.

It’s late.

You lie in the quiet, the sheets tangled loosely around your legs, Link’s arm draped over your waist like it’s always belonged there. His face is buried in the curve of your shoulder, nose brushing the skin just beneath your ear, soft exhales warming your neck.

He’s heavy against you. His fingers twitch every now and then, tightening around you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he loosens his hold even for a second.

You smile.

Not the kind you wear in the court. Not the soft, sweet smile you tend to give him every time you look at him.

This one is the one you inherited from your family. A slow, quiet curve of the lips. A smile with teeth hidden behind silk. The kind that doesn’t reach your eyes. The kind that means I’ve won.

He’s asleep beside you, warm, bare skin pressed to yours, his breath soft and even where it fans across your collarbone. One arm is flung over your waist, holding you close even in sleep, as though he knows, on some deeper instinct, that if he lets go… he’ll lose you.

You stroke your fingers through his hair, slow and soothing, watching the way his brow twitches in response. He melts into your touch, leaning into it like a dog that’s been starving for affection. He chased you.

He found you.

He loved you.

And you let him.

You let him see you cry. Let him wrap your wounds. Let him think he could save you. You let him think you needed saving at all.

He nuzzles deeper into your neck, murmuring your name in his sleep like it’s the only word that matters. And you press a kiss to his hair, tender and practiced.

You close your eyes, but sleep doesn’t come. Not yet.

Your mind drifts back to days ago, when you caught a glimpse of something you weren’t meant to see.

Link, standing in the shadowed corridor just beyond the rose garden. A member of house Castro – Not from the main branch, that you knew- hung from Link’s grasp by the throat, his feet barely scraping the marble floor. His mouth opened in wet, gasping sounds, eyes wide with terror.

You hadn’t realized he had been stalking you. Watching you.

But Link had.

And he hadn’t hesitated.

He drove the sword in with practiced ease, his face unreadable. No words. No threats. Just a quiet, terrifying calm as he let the boy fall in a heap, gasping and bleeding on the floor. Link wiped the blade clean, turning slightly  to leave, but never once did he see you in the alcove. Never once did he look toward the shadows, where you stood silent, watching.

​​You still haven’t told him.

Not because you’re afraid.

Because you liked it.

You liked knowing he would do that. That he already had. That even before you asked, he had already decided anyone who touched you without permission wouldn’t leave with their life.

And now he lies next to you, soft and gentle and golden in the dark.

He doesn’t know what you saw.

He doesn’t know the way your heart bloomed in your chest that day like a flower opening toward ruin.

You know that you don’t love him, but he loves you, and would do anything for you, and that’s enough.

You turn your face into his hair and finally, finally let yourself sleep.

Still smiling.

Dont kill me pls sorry for dissapearing, final's and the start of holidays before summer school had me procrastinating, have this as a peace offering, I swear il start publishing things once or twice a week if you all dont kill me, ok that's all bye :D

Askbox and requests opeeeeen -Runs away to prepare for an all nigther-

🐦‍⬛ If the enemy you got rid of was some particular rival of Swain’s, and later he still discovers that the eliminated target did not even have reasons to deserve your personal interest in that way… in the following days, Swain will be working out the best way to approach you and gain you as an ally—someone with your abilities and still with an untouchable reputation before everyone is an important piece on the board that he needs to have in his hands.

🐦‍⬛ Truly, you do not deceive him for long.

Once you meet, Swain’s interest is not immediate.

Alright, a sweet, adorable, gentle woman… pleasant to look at, but delicacies do not match the steel of Noxus.

Yet the demon Swain carries would probably sense something behind your shy smile when you greet each other for the first time in a hall, and it must have been then that Swain was internally warned that you hid something—it made sense, if one stopped to think more carefully: what would a pure angel incarnate be doing inside those heavy walls filled with intrigue?

🐦‍⬛ Do not worry, he does not condemn you for acting behind the scenes. Swain understands the importance of secrets for survival, and he even admires the methods you developed to survive in a world like theirs.

🐦‍⬛ And considering that he already knows your “true identity,” while you still believe that the Noxian emperor is unaware of your darker intentions, Swain will love entering into a kind of seduction–manipulation game - a cat and mouse game - with you.

🐦‍⬛ No, I don’t think he would fear exactly. Swain may not be able to read minds, but he knows how to use Raum very well to keep himself informed about everything and everyone in Noxus—and that includes you, with all your schemes and plots. That is why he crosses the territory and meets your path without concern; Swain knows very well where he is placing each step.

🐦‍⬛ He is genuinely curious to discover personally: what tricks you use to deal with a man like him; what spells of feminine charm you have hidden to lure your victims into the fatal trap; and if the great general of Noxus were to flirt with you, would you disarm, raise walls, reveal a new hidden arsenal of poisonous sweetness?

🐦‍⬛ Yes, yes. He wants to see firsthand the red of the blood hidden beneath the white petals that seem so pure.

Hope you enjoyed!