#rituais

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This year I had the opportunity to collaborate with an extremely talented, practicing völva, and we created the 2026 Sabbat Grimoire and Calendar: A full-year witchcraft companion for beginners, seasoned witches & curious seekers!

This 64-page digital grimoire guides you through the eight Sabbats of the Pagan Wheel of the Year, blending rituals, astrology, tarot, spellwork and seasonal magic into one cohesive spiritual journey for 2026.

Each Sabbat includes: • Planetary & lunar energies • Symbolism, plants, crystals, animals & colors • A beginner-friendly “Sweet & Easy” spell • A deeper ritual for those who want more • A custom tarot spread aligned with that Sabbat’s energy

This book is designed to be both practical and mystical - whether you light a single candle or build a full altar, you will have guidance that meets you where you are.

What you get: • 64-page printable & digital PDF • High-quality illustrated pages • Original rituals, spells and tarot spreads • Seasonal astrology woven into practice • Suitable for beginners and experienced practitioners

This grimoire is for you if you: • Follow the Wheel of the Year • Work with Sabbats or seasonal magic • Love witchcraft, paganism, astrology or tarot • Want structure without rigid rules • Want something both spiritual and beautiful

First 5 purchases are eligible for a discount! If you're interested in that, send me a DM! All shares and reblogs are appreciated 💖

Preview:

So have this thought instead.

The war happens for three years, as you may know, essential workers font usually get holidays off. This is anything from cops (boo) to nurses and EMS (yay), it's actually one of the busiest times of year for them. But the Jedi order is a RELIGIOUS order so they probably have celebrations as soon as they can have them. They'll hold festivals and get the clines to join in to give them a break and introduce them to their rituals.

But the corries?

👁️ “Roubaram seus olhos… e nunca deixaram rastros”: o caso Olívio Correa e o enigma que desafia a lógica, a medicina — e talvez a própria realidade

O caso Olívio Correa é um dos episódios mais enigmáticos e perturbadores da crônica policial brasileira dos anos 1990. Em novembro de 1995, o agricultor de Estância Velha desapareceu por um dia e foi encontrado vivo, mas com os olhos removidos de forma cirúrgica — uma mutilação que, segundo laudos do Instituto Médico Legal, não poderia ser atribuída a acidente ou ataque animal.

A partir daí, a investigação se fragmentou em múltiplas hipóteses: tráfico de órgãos, vingança pessoal, ataque de urubus e até práticas ritualísticas de “magia negra”. A cada nova reportagem, o caso ganhava contornos mais complexos, ora reforçando a tese técnica da remoção cirúrgica, ora desviando para explicações naturalistas ou simbólicas. Em dezembro, a investigação atingiu seu ápice de dramaticidade quando o prefeito da cidade, Frederico Leuck, e sua esposa, Olga, foram apontados como suspeitos, alvo de buscas policiais e de acusações ligadas a supostos rituais.

No entanto, apesar da intensidade da cobertura e da multiplicidade de versões, o inquérito jamais chegou a uma conclusão definitiva. Não houve provas materiais que conectassem os suspeitos ao crime, tampouco consenso pericial sobre a natureza das lesões. O caso permaneceu sem solução, cristalizando-se como um mistério que expôs tanto as fragilidades da investigação quanto o poder do imaginário social em moldar narrativas criminais.

Mais de três décadas depois, o episódio continua a ecoar como um símbolo de perplexidade: um homem que sobreviveu à perda inexplicável de seus olhos, uma investigação marcada por contradições e uma cidade que viu seu prefeito ser arrastado para o centro de um dos mais controversos enigmas policiais do país.

The stage is set.

It’s theater. Carefully cast. Symbols burn because symbols are louder than words. Let us refreshen our minds for a moment, a Cybertruck in flames outside Trump’s golden tower? Remember? That’s not coincidence. That’s a sigil. Tech meets empire. Future devours legacy… or so they want you to think. They script the polarity. They choreograph destruction. They feed the public a narrative of collapse while trading hands behind the veil. What NOW looks like enemies is often alliance dressed in opposition. That’s the play. That’s always been the play. While the masses chant, rage, divide, the real ritual continues. The ones who know watch from behind the scenes, we observe quietly now, because the loudest magic is done in silence.

When she arrives in her chambers the pain blossoms and crashes onto her eyes making the reader drops her toddler out of her arms.

The quiet of the castle halls amplified the gentle sound of Rowena’s babbling as the reader carried her toddler toward her chambers. Rowena, happily oblivious to the world, tugged at her mother’s hair and muttered incomprehensible words. The reader managed a faint smile, though her temples throbbed with a dull ache that had been building steadily.

As they approached her chambers, the pain sharpened suddenly, like a knife pressed to her skull. The reader stumbled, her breath hitching as her vision blurred momentarily. She squeezed her eyes shut and took deep, measured breaths. Not now, not here. The pressure eased slightly, enough for her to regain her composure. She tightened her hold on Rowena and continued forward, but her steps were slower, more deliberate.

When she reached the door to her chambers, she fumbled with the handle, managing to push it open. The moment they crossed the threshold, the headache bloomed into a full-on assault. It was as though fire had ignited behind her eyes, radiating out to every nerve in her head. The reader let out a strangled gasp, her knees buckling under her as she fell to the floor. Her hands caught her weight, but Rowena slipped from her grasp, landing on the thick rug with a startled cry.

The toddler’s wail cut through the haze of the reader’s pain like a blade. “Rowena,” she croaked, trying to reach for her daughter, but her arms shook violently, and her vision swam with dark spots. She collapsed fully onto her hands and knees, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her head pounded as flashes of imagery filled her mind, chaotic and disjointed.

The cottage.

The hooded figures.

The bloodied dagger.

Rowena’s screams.

The visions were almost too vivid, as if she were reliving the horrors of that night. The reader grunted in pain, clawing at the floorboards as though trying to escape the memories clawing at her mind.

Rowena’s cries grew louder, a frantic wail of distress as she crawled toward her mother and tugged at her arm. “Mama! Mama!” the toddler shrieked, her small hands pulling with desperate strength.

The commotion reached outside the chambers, catching Alicent’s attention as she walked down the hall. She stopped, frowning at the muffled sounds, and quickly changed her direction. Pushing open the door, Alicent’s face fell into a mask of concern as she saw the scene before her: the reader on the ground, trembling and clutching her head, and Rowena sobbing beside her.

Alicent crossed the room swiftly, her skirts rustling as she knelt beside Rowena. “Shh, it’s all right, little one,” she said gently, reaching out to soothe her. But Rowena, clearly distraught, pushed Alicent’s hands away and clung to her mother’s arm, crying harder.

“Rowena, please,” Alicent murmured, trying again, but the toddler was inconsolable. Alicent realized she would be of no help here and rose to her feet. “Stay here, little one,” she said softly, though she doubted Rowena would move. Alicent hurried from the room, her steps quick and purposeful as she sought out Rhaenyra and Daemon.

Daemon was the first to react when Alicent burst into the room they were in, her face pale and voice urgent. “It’s Y/N,” she said. “Something is wrong—she’s collapsed. Rowena’s with her, but— Daemon, please.”

He didn’t wait for her to finish. He was already moving, Rhaenyra close on his heels. The pair moved through the castle with speed, their footsteps echoing in the quiet halls. As they neared the reader’s chambers, they could hear Rowena’s cries, a heartbreaking sound that made Rhaenyra quicken her pace.

When they entered the room, the sight stopped them both in their tracks. The reader was slumped on the floor, her body trembling as though fighting an invisible force. Rowena sat beside her, her tiny hands patting her mother’s face as she sobbed.

Daemon was the first to act. He crossed the room in three strides, dropping to his knees beside his daughter. “Y/N,” he said, his voice rough with emotion as he gently touched her shoulder. “Look at me, daughter.”

The reader’s head lolled slightly, her eyes glassy and unfocused. Her lips moved, but no words came out. Her breathing was shallow, and her body shuddered with every intake.

Rhaenyra scooped Rowena into her arms, holding the trembling toddler close as she whispered soothing words. Rowena buried her face in her grandmother’s neck, her sobs muffled but persistent.

“She’s burning up,” Daemon said grimly, his hand brushing against his daughter’s forehead. “Get the maesters.”

Alicent, who had followed them back, nodded and hurried off to fetch help.

Daemon gently shifted the reader onto her back, cradling her head as he looked into her face. “Y/N, stay with me,” he urged, his voice low but commanding. “Don’t you dare leave us.”

The reader’s lips moved again, her voice barely above a whisper. “Rowena… they… they tried to take her…”

“She’s safe,” Daemon assured her, his voice fierce. “You protected her. She’s here, safe and sound.”

The reader’s body gave one final shudder before going completely still. Daemon felt his chest tighten, a wave of dread washing over him. “Y/N?” he called, shaking her slightly.

Rhaenyra knelt beside him, her face pale as she placed a hand over her daughter’s chest. After a tense moment, she let out a breath. “She’s alive,” she said. “But barely.”

The maesters arrived moments later, and Daemon reluctantly relinquished his hold, allowing them to lift the reader onto a nearby bed. They worked quickly, checking her vitals and preparing remedies for her pain and fever.

Daemon remained at her side, his jaw clenched tightly as he watched them work. Rhaenyra sat in a nearby chair with Rowena still in her arms, the toddler finally calming but still sniffling.

“Is she going to be all right?” Daemon demanded, his voice hard.

The lead maester glanced at him briefly. “She’s stable for now, my lord, but we need to determine what caused the episode. This… is not a simple ailment.”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not an ailment. It’s something else. She spoke of hooded figures—visions.”

The maester nodded, his expression grim. “We will do all we can.”

Hours passed before the reader finally stirred. Her eyelids fluttered, and she let out a weak groan as consciousness slowly returned. The room was dimly lit now, and the scent of herbs lingered in the air.

“Y/N?” Daemon’s voice was soft but insistent as he leaned over her. Relief flooded his features as her eyes met his. “Thank the gods.”

The reader blinked slowly, her throat dry as she tried to speak. “Rowena…”

“She’s fine,” Daemon assured her, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “She’s with your mother. Safe.”

Tears welled in her eyes as she nodded, the memories of the pain and visions still vivid. “I saw them,” she whispered hoarsely. “The men who… who came for her.”

Daemon’s expression darkened, his hand tightening on hers. “You don’t have to talk about it now. Rest.”

But the reader shook her head weakly. “They’re still out there. I know they are.”

Her father’s face was a mask of determination. “Then we’ll find them,” he promised. “And they’ll pay for what they’ve done.”

Y/n let out a shaky breath, her eyes drifting shut again. This time, however, she found some measure of peace, knowing her family was by her side and Rowena was safe.

------------------------------------------------------------

The air in the reader's chambers was heavy with silence, broken only by the soft breathing of her sleeping toddler. Rowena lay curled up on the bed, her chubby arms wrapped around a stuffed wolf, her small face serene and peaceful. The reader sat nearby, her mind anything but at ease. The visions had haunted her since the night of her collapse, and no amount of reassurances from her family or the maesters could dispel the sense of foreboding they left behind.

She knew she needed answers—answers that the maesters couldn’t provide. Something deeper was calling to her, something beyond the reach of logic and medicine. Witchcraft. The idea had lingered in the back of her mind for days, whispered to her like a beckoning shadow. She had heard of the old ways, of rituals and spells that could peel back the layers of the unseen world. If her visions were trying to tell her something, perhaps this was the way to uncover the truth.

Late one night, while the castle was cloaked in sleep, the reader slipped from her chambers. She wore a dark cloak, its hood pulled low over her face. The soft patter of her bare feet on the cold stone floors was the only sound as she made her way to the library. The ancient shelves were lined with dusty tomes, many of which were forbidden to most. It took some time, but she found what she was looking for: The Secrets of the Old Tongue and Mysteries of the Shadow Lands.

Back in her chambers, she lit a cluster of candles, their flickering light casting eerie shadows on the walls. She placed the books on the table and opened them carefully, the brittle pages crinkling under her fingers. The texts spoke of sigils, chants, and rituals—methods for unlocking the hidden truths of the world. It was intimidating, yet exhilarating. For the first time in days, she felt a glimmer of hope.

Her first attempts were clumsy. She whispered the incantations haltingly, unsure of her pronunciation. She drew crude sigils in chalk on the wooden floor, but the lines were uneven, and the patterns felt incomplete. Still, she persisted. Rowena often watched from the bed, her head tilted curiously as her mother murmured strange words and lit fragrant herbs that filled the room with smoke. The toddler didn’t seem frightened; if anything, she was fascinated.

Weeks passed, and her efforts grew more confident. One night, as she meditated within a circle of carefully drawn runes, she felt it—a flicker of something beyond the veil of her understanding. It was faint, like a whisper carried on the wind, but it was there. She opened her eyes, her heart racing as the room seemed to grow colder. The shadows in the corners of her chambers lengthened, and for a moment, she swore she could hear faint voices.

Then, as quickly as it had come, the presence faded. The reader sat back, breathless and trembling, but triumphant. She was on the right path.

Her progress brought a new kind of determination. She scoured the tomes for more advanced rituals, ones that could help her delve deeper into her visions. Her nights were consumed by her studies, and even during the day, her thoughts lingered on the practice. Daemon noticed the change in her, his sharp eyes narrowing as he watched her during meals. “You’ve been quiet,” he said one evening, his voice low. “What are you hiding, daughter?”

“Nothing, father,” she replied smoothly, though she could tell he didn’t believe her.

Her mother, Rhaenyra, was more direct. “You’ve been distant,” she said one morning as they sat in the gardens. “Your mind is elsewhere. If something is troubling you, you can tell me.”

But the reader couldn’t. This was something she had to face alone.

One night, she prepared a ritual meant to reveal the truth of her visions. She waited until Rowena was asleep and the castle was silent. She laid out her tools: a silver bowl filled with water, a black candle, and a strand of her own hair. She carved runes into the candle and lit it, letting the wax drip into the water as she chanted softly in High Valyrian.

As the final words left her lips, the water in the bowl rippled, though there was no breeze. Her breath hitched as an image began to form on the surface—a dark forest, the trees gnarled and looming. She saw hooded figures moving among the shadows, their faces obscured. One of them held a bloodied dagger, its blade glinting in the faint light.

Then, she saw herself. She was standing in the same forest, Rowena in her arms. The hooded figures surrounded them, their weapons drawn. The image sent a chill down her spine, but before she could process it, the water stilled, the vision disappearing as quickly as it had come.

The next morning, the reader sat in the council chambers with her family. She had called for the meeting herself, though the weight of her decision to reveal her practices pressed heavily on her shoulders. Her parents, Daemon and Rhaenyra, sat at the head of the table, their expressions curious but wary. Aemond was there as well, his intense gaze fixed on her.

“I’ve been having visions,” she began, her voice steady despite the tension in the room. “Since the night I collapsed. They’re not dreams—they’re something else. Something real.”

Daemon frowned. “What kind of visions?”

She hesitated, then decided there was no point in holding back. “I see the hooded figures who came for Rowena. I see them in the forest, waiting. Watching. They’re planning something.”

Rhaenyra’s face darkened. “And you’ve kept this from us? Why?”

“Because I didn’t know what it meant,” the reader admitted. “I didn’t want to worry you without answers.”

“And now?” Daemon pressed.

“Now, I’m starting to understand. I’ve been practicing witchcraft—old rituals and spells. They’ve helped me see more clearly.” She paused, bracing for their reactions.

Daemon’s eyes narrowed. “Witchcraft?”

Rhaenyra’s expression was a mix of concern and disbelief. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? The risks you’re taking?”

“I do,” the reader said firmly. “But I couldn’t just sit by and do nothing. These visions—they’re a warning. The hooded figures aren’t done. They’re coming for Rowena again.”

Aemond, who had been silent until now, spoke up. “And what do you plan to do with this knowledge?”

“Protect her,” the reader said, her voice hard. “Whatever it takes.”

Despite their initial resistance, Daemon and Rhaenyra reluctantly agreed to support her efforts, though they insisted on keeping a close eye on her practices. Aemond, however, surprised her. He began accompanying her during her rituals, offering his silent presence as a form of support. Though their relationship had been fraught with tension, his steady companionship was oddly comforting.

One night, as they sat by the flickering candlelight, Aemond broke the silence. “You’re stronger than I gave you credit for,” he said quietly.

The reader glanced at him, surprised. “Why are you here, Aemond?”

“Because I care,” he admitted, his voice soft but earnest. “Whether you believe that or not.”

She didn’t reply, but for the first time, she allowed herself to believe he might be telling the truth.

The reader’s practices finally bore fruit during a particularly intense ritual. She had prepared for days, gathering rare ingredients and meditating to focus her mind. This time, the vision was clearer than ever.

She saw the hooded figures in the forest, gathered around a fire. Their leader held a map, his finger pointing to a location she recognized—it was near the castle. They were planning an attack, their sights set on Rowena.

When the vision ended, the reader sat back, her heart pounding. She knew what she had to do.

She gathered her family, sharing everything she had seen. Daemon immediately called for heightened security around the castle, while Rhaenyra began rallying their allies. Aemond offered to lead a scouting party to the forest, determined to find and eliminate the threat.

The reader, though exhausted from her efforts, felt a sense of purpose. She had unlocked the truth, and now, she would do whatever it took to protect her daughter.

The hooded figures would come—but this time, they would find her ready

The weight of the vision pressed heavily on the reader as she stood in the council chamber, her family gathered around her. The hooded figures were real, and their threat loomed closer than ever. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides as she relayed the final details of what she had seen, her voice steady but strained.

“They’re coming,” she said, her eyes moving from Daemon to Rhaenyra. “Not weeks or months from now—soon. The forest is their staging ground, and they’re planning to move against us.”

Daemon’s expression hardened, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his blade. “Let them come,” he growled. “They’ll learn what it means to cross House Targaryen.”

Rhaenyra, more measured, placed a calming hand on his arm. “This isn’t just about us,” she said. “They’re after Rowena. We need to be strategic, not impulsive.”

The reader nodded. “If we act rashly, we could endanger her even more. But we can’t ignore the threat. We have to prepare.”

Aemond, standing at the edge of the room, stepped forward. His face was a mask of grim determination. “I’ll go to the forest,” he said. “Scout the area and find their encampment. We need more information before we act.”

Daemon bristled. “You won’t go alone. If something happens to you, we’ll be blind to their plans.”

“I’ll take a small group,” Aemond replied, his tone firm. “Enough to be safe, but not enough to draw attention.”

The reader met his gaze, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Be careful,” she said, her voice softer. “We can’t afford to lose you.”

The following days were a whirlwind of preparation. Daemon and Rhaenyra coordinated the castle’s defenses, while Aemond led his scouting party into the forest. The reader spent most of her time with

Rowena, her heart heavy with worry. The toddler, blissfully unaware of the danger, giggled and babbled as her mother read her stories and sang lullabies.

One afternoon, as they sat together in the garden, Rowena looked up at her mother with wide, curious eyes. “Mama,” she said, her little hand tugging at the reader’s sleeve. “Bad people come?”

The reader’s heart clenched. “Not if I can help it, sweetling,” she said, pulling Rowena into a tight embrace. “Mama will keep you safe.”

Rowena nodded solemnly, as if she understood. Then, with a small smile, she said, “Avy jorrāelan, Mama.”

Tears pricked the reader’s eyes as she kissed her daughter’s forehead. “Avy jorrāelan, Rowena.”

Three days later, Aemond returned from the forest. His party looked weary but unscathed, their expressions grim. The reader met him in the courtyard, her stomach twisting with anxiety.

“What did you find?” she asked, her voice low.

“They’re close,” Aemond said, his jaw tightening. “Too close. Their encampment is less than a day’s ride from here. They’re heavily armed and well-organized.”

Daemon, who had joined them, let out a string of curses. “They’ll regret setting foot on our land.”

Rhaenyra arrived moments later, her face pale but resolute. “We need a plan,” she said. “If they’re that close, we don’t have much time.”

Aemond nodded. “I’ve already sent word to the watchtower. They’ll increase patrols and set up traps along the forest paths. But we need to be ready for an attack on the castle.”

The reader swallowed hard, her mind racing. “And Rowena?”

“She’ll be protected,” Rhaenyra said firmly. “We’ll keep her in the safest part of the castle, surrounded by guards.”

The reader’s chest tightened. “I’m staying with her,” she said. “If they come for her, they’ll have to go through me first.”

Night fell over the castle, the air thick with tension. The reader stayed in her chambers with Rowena, cradling the toddler in her arms as she sang softly. The wolf lay at their feet, its ears pricked for any sign of danger.

Outside, the castle was alive with activity. Guards patrolled the walls, their torches casting flickering light across the stone. Daemon and Aemond stood together in the courtyard, their swords at the ready.

The attack came just before dawn.

The first sign was the distant sound of horns, followed by the clash of steel. The hooded figures had breached the forest traps and were advancing on the castle. Daemon and Aemond led the charge, their dragons roaring as they took to the skies.

Inside the castle, the reader clutched Rowena tightly as the sounds of battle grew closer. She could hear the shouts of guards and the clang of weapons, each noise sending a spike of fear through her chest.

Suddenly, the door to her chambers burst open. A guard stumbled in, blood staining his armor. “They’re inside,” he panted. “We need to move you and the child.”

The reader nodded, grabbing a dagger from her bedside table. “Stay close,” she said, holding Rowena tightly as they followed the guard through the dimly lit corridors.

The hooded figures moved swiftly through the castle, their intent clear. They were here for Rowena, and they wouldn’t stop until they had her. The reader’s heart pounded as she and the guard navigated the twisting hallways, each turn bringing them closer to safety—or danger.

They reached a hidden passageway, but before they could enter, a group of attackers appeared at the end of the corridor. The guard stepped forward, his sword raised, but he was outnumbered.

“Run!” he shouted, his voice desperate. “Take the child and run!”

The reader hesitated for only a moment before turning and fleeing down the passageway, Rowena clutched tightly against her chest. The toddler whimpered, her tiny hands gripping her mother’s dress.

As they emerged into a small courtyard, the reader came face-to-face with one of the hooded figures. The man lunged at her, his blade glinting in the pale light. She dodged to the side, her instincts taking over as she slashed at him with her dagger.

The fight was brutal and frantic. The reader’s movements were fueled by sheer determination to protect her child. Finally, she managed to drive the dagger into the man’s side, and he collapsed with a pained groan.

The battle raged on, but the tide began to turn in the castle’s favor. Daemon and Aemond fought with unrelenting ferocity, their dragons wreaking havoc on the attackers. Rhaenyra rallied the guards, her leadership a beacon of strength.

The reader, exhausted but alive, made her way back to the main hall, where her family was regrouping. Rowena clung to her mother, her face buried in her shoulder.

“They came for her,” the reader said, her voice shaking. “They won’t stop.”

Daemon placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “They won’t get another chance,” he vowed. “Not while I’m breathing.”

In the days that followed, the castle began to recover from the attack. The hooded figures had been defeated, but the threat they posed still lingered in the reader’s mind. She knew they would return, stronger and more determined.

But for now, there was peace. The reader spent her days with Rowena, cherishing every moment of calm. She continued her studies in witchcraft, determined to uncover more about the hooded figures and their plans.

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The morning after the battle dawned quiet, the storm’s wrath giving way to a pale sun breaking through thinning clouds. The castle was alive with the sounds of repairs and mourning—dragons roared in the distance, the clatter of stone and metal echoing in the halls. The reader moved through it all like a ghost, her exhaustion deep but her mind restless. She carried Rowena on her hip as she walked to the kitchens, hoping to find something to distract her child.

The toddler had grown unusually quiet since the attack, her bright curiosity subdued. The reader worried about the lasting effects of so much chaos on her daughter’s young mind. She whispered reassurances as they passed a group of guards repairing a collapsed section of the wall, trying to shield Rowena from the bloodstains that still marked the stone.

Rowena clung to her, her small voice breaking the silence. “Mama sad?”

The reader froze mid-step, her heart sinking. “What makes you say that, sweetling?”

Rowena pressed her face against her mother’s shoulder, mumbling, “Mama no smile.”

The words were simple, but they struck deep. The reader held her daughter close, kissing her temple. “Mama is just tired, my love. I’ll be better soon.”

Later that day, the reader left Rowena in her chambers with a small pile of toys and her favorite stuffed direwolf while she went to speak with Daemon and Rhaenyra. The toddler’s sharp wits and curiosity often made her restless, though, and it wasn’t long before a pair of soft footsteps padded into the hall.

Aemond found Rowena sitting on the floor near the library, her small hands fiddling with a piece of broken chainmail she’d likely picked up from the armory. She looked up at him with wide, stormy eyes that so resembled her mother’s.

“What are you doing here, little one?” Aemond asked, crouching to her level.

Rowena studied him carefully before standing and reaching for his hand, pulling him along. “Come,” she demanded.

He chuckled, letting her guide him down the corridor. “Where are we going?”

She didn’t answer, her focus intent. Finally, she stopped by one of the tall windows overlooking the training yard. Aemond knelt beside her, his curiosity piqued. Rowena turned to him and spoke with a seriousness that belied her age.

“Mama sad,” she said, her tiny hand clutching his tunic. “You fix?”

Aemond blinked, startled. “Your mother is... strong. She doesn’t need me to fix her.”

Rowena frowned, shaking her head. “Mama no smile,” she repeated, clearly frustrated that he didn’t understand.

The weight of her words settled over Aemond. He glanced out the window, his gaze distant. “Your mother carries more than most. But I don’t think she wants me to help.”

Rowena tugged his arm, her small brow furrowed in determination. “Try!”

Her insistence brought a faint smile to his lips. “You’re just as stubborn as she is,” he muttered, standing and lifting her into his arms. She giggled, delighted at the sudden movement, and patted his face as if to say, good job.

When the reader returns to her chambers, she finds Aemond sitting cross-legged on the floor with Rowena on his lap. They were surrounded by an odd assortment of objects—books, toys, and scraps of armor—and seemed to be engaged in some sort of game involving building towers that inevitably toppled.

The sight gave her pause. It was rare to see Aemond in such an unguarded state, and even rarer to see Rowena so at ease with someone besides herself or Daemon.

“Busy?” she asked, her voice softer than she intended.

Aemond looked up, his gaze steady. “She insisted.”

Rowena turned at the sound of her mother’s voice, scrambling to her feet and running to her. “Mama!”

The reader scooped her up, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “What have you two been up to?”

“Fixing Mama,” Rowena said matter-of-factly, pointing at Aemond as if he were a tool she’d borrowed.

The reader raised an eyebrow, her gaze shifting to Aemond. “Fixing me, is he?”

Aemond stood, brushing off his tunic. “She’s more perceptive than you give her credit for.”

The reader sighed, shifting Rowena on her hip. “She’s too perceptive sometimes.”

Rowena reached out, tugging at her mother’s sleeve. “Smile, Mama.”

The reader managed a small one, though it was tinged with weariness. Rowena beamed, satisfied, and wriggled free of her arms to return to her makeshift game.

Aemond watched the exchange, his expression softening. “You’re allowed to let others share the burden,” he said quietly.

She glanced at him, her walls firmly in place. “And what would you know of burdens?”

“More than you might think.” His voice held no malice, only a quiet truth that left her momentarily disarmed.

She didn’t reply, instead watching as Rowena babbled happily to herself, arranging her scattered treasures into patterns only she understood.

That evening, the reader decided to seek answers to the questions that still plagued her. She left Rowena in Rhaenyra’s care, the toddler already half-asleep in her grandmother’s arms, and slipped out into the night.

The forest was alive with whispers, the wind rustling through the trees as if carrying the voices of the past. The reader walked with purpose, her steps crunching over leaves and twigs. She carried a small satchel of supplies—candles, herbs, and the ancient book that had become her guide in magic.

She reached a secluded glade where the moonlight filtered through the trees, illuminating a circle of mossy stones. It was here that she had first felt the stirrings of power, and it was here that she would find clarity.

Lighting the candles, she arranged them in a circle and sprinkled the herbs at the center. She knelt, opening the book and whispering the incantation she had memorized. The air grew heavy, and the flickering light of the candles seemed to bend and twist.

Her vision shifted. She was no longer in the glade but standing in the ruined cottage where Rowena’s life had been upended. The hooded figures were there, chanting in a language she couldn’t understand. They surrounded a central figure—a man with a cruel smile and eyes like ice.

He turned to her as if sensing her presence. “You should have stayed away,” he said, his voice echoing unnaturally. “The bloodline will end, one way or another.”

The vision shattered, and the reader gasped, collapsing to the ground. Her pulse thundered in her ears as she struggled to catch her breath. The warning was clear: they would not stop until Rowena was gone.

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Days passed since the reader's latest vision, and the air in the castle seemed heavier with every moment. The hooded figures haunted her thoughts, their cryptic message a constant thorn in her mind.

She spent hours in the library pouring over ancient texts, desperate to find anything that might shield her daughter from their reach.

One night, deep in the dim light of her chambers, she stumbled upon an old tome, its cracked leather cover inscribed with a sigil she did not recognize. The pages within spoke of blood rituals—practices that had long been forbidden but carried great power. These rituals, the text explained, could be used for many purposes: healing, protection, and warding off evil spirits.

The reader's pulse quickened as she read on. The descriptions were vivid, the steps precise, and though the magic was ancient and demanding, she knew it might be the key to shielding Rowena from further harm.

As the castle settled into the stillness of night, the reader set to work preparing for the ritual. Her chambers were quiet, save for the occasional crackle of the fire in the hearth. Rowena slept soundly in her small bed, wrapped snugly in her favourite blanket.

The reader placed a basin of water at the center of her room and lit several candles, arranging them in a careful circle. The air grew heavier as she crushed herbs into a fine powder, sprinkling them into the water. She unwrapped a small, sharp dagger, its blade gleaming in the candlelight.

Just as she was about to begin, the door to her chambers swung open. Aemond stepped inside, his expression dark as his gaze swept over the room.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, his voice low but sharp.

The reader didn’t look up. “What does it look like? I’m protecting my daughter.”

Aemond took a step closer, his presence towering. “With blood magic? Are you mad?”

She finally met his gaze, her resolve unyielding. “If madness is what it takes to keep her safe, then so be it.”

Aemond moved closer, his hands clenched into fists. “This magic comes with a cost. You can’t just play with forces you don’t understand.”

She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Do you think I haven’t considered that? Do you think I haven’t weighed every risk? I saw what those hooded figures want to do to her, Aemond. I saw it. I will not let them take her.”

He reached for her arm, his grip firm but not harsh. “Let me help you another way. There has to be another way.”

She pulled free, her voice rising. “There isn’t! This is my choice, and you don’t get to stop me.”

Aemond hesitated, his jaw tightening as he weighed his options. Finally, he stepped back, his gaze burning. “If you do this, I won’t leave. If anything goes wrong, I’ll be here to stop it.”

The reader nodded curtly, grateful in spite of herself.

The reader sat cross-legged on the floor, her breathing steady as she picked up the dagger. Aemond stood at the edge of the circle, tense and watchful. She murmured the incantation from the tome, her voice soft but firm.

When the time came, she pressed the blade to her palm and drew a shallow cut. Blood welled up, and she let it drip into the basin of water. The candles flickered, their flames dancing wildly as the magic began to take hold.

The air grew heavy, the scent of herbs mingling with something ancient and raw. Shadows seemed to shift on the walls, taking shapes that whispered of long-forgotten power.

Aemond’s hand moved to the hilt of his sword as if on instinct, his eyes darting around the room. “Is it supposed to feel like this?”

The reader didn’t answer, too focused on the ritual. She dipped her fingers into the bloodied water and painted symbols onto the floor, each stroke precise. The symbols glowed faintly, pulsing with an otherworldly light.

As the final words of the incantation left her lips, a wave of energy rippled through the room. The candles extinguished all at once, plunging them into darkness.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then the reader felt it—a shift in the air, a loosening of the oppressive weight that had clung to her since the vision. She opened her eyes, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

“It’s done,” she whispered.

Aemond stepped forward, kneeling beside her. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, wiping her bloodied hand on a cloth. “No, but I think... I think it worked. I can feel it. They’re weaker.”

He studied her face, searching for any sign of doubt. “You’re sure?”

She nodded, her voice steadier now. “Not gone, but weakened. It’s enough for now.”

When dawn broke, the reader felt lighter than she had in weeks. The air in the castle seemed clearer, the shadows less foreboding. She spent the morning with Rowena, who was blissfully unaware of the danger that had loomed over her.

Later, Daemon sought her out, his expression uncharacteristically grave. “Something’s changed,” he said, his sharp eyes studying her.

The reader nodded. “I performed a ritual last night. I weakened them.”

Daemon raised an eyebrow. “Blood magic?”

She didn’t answer, but her silence was enough.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he said, though there was no judgment in his tone.

“I know,” she replied. “But it’s a game I have to win.”

That evening, Aemond found her in the gardens, watching Rowena chase a butterfly. He approached quietly, his expression unreadable.

“You scared me last night,” he admitted.

She looked at him, surprised by his candour. “Why?”

“Because you were willing to sacrifice so much.”

She sighed, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “That’s what being a mother means. Sacrificing everything, if it comes to it.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze distant. “Then I’ll stand with you. Whatever comes next, you won’t face it alone.”

She offered him a small, tired smile. “Thank you.”

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The reader’s newfound use of blood rituals weighed heavily on her mind, not because she doubted their power, but because she feared the judgment of those closest to her. Her father, Daemon, was especially perceptive, and though he hadn’t openly confronted her about her nocturnal practices, she could feel his watchful gaze whenever they crossed paths.

It was a week after the ritual when Daemon finally cornered her. Rowena was playing in the gardens with the direwolf, her laughter carrying through the halls as Daemon gestured for his daughter to join him in the library.

“I know that look,” she said as she entered, closing the door behind her. “You have something to say.”

Daemon leaned against the edge of a table, arms crossed. “I always have something to say. But this time, it’s about you.”

The reader sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Go on then. Let’s get it over with.”

“You’ve been dabbling in blood rituals more and more,” Daemon said bluntly, his eyes narrowing.

The reader froze for a moment before exhaling. “How did you find out?”

“I know you better than you think,” Daemon replied. “And the energy around you has shifted. There’s power clinging to you—something ancient and dangerous.”

She didn’t deny it. Instead, she moved to sit in one of the high-backed chairs, her fingers tracing the carved armrests. “I did what I had to do, Father. You saw what happened. You saw what they tried to do to Rowena.”

Daemon’s expression softened, but only slightly. “And you thought blood magic was the answer?”

“I didn’t choose it lightly,” she said, meeting his gaze. “But the vision of those hooded figures, the attack in the night—it’s all connected. They want her, and I don’t know why. All I know is that I’ll do anything to keep her safe.”

Daemon paced the room, his boots thudding softly against the stone floor. “Do you even understand what you’re dealing with? Blood rituals are not a game. They take as much as they give, if not more.”

“I’m learning,” she said, her voice firm. “I’ve read everything I can find. I’ve followed the steps precisely.”

Daemon stopped, turning to face her. “And what will you do if the magic turns on you? If the cost is more than you can bear?”

She hesitated, her resolve wavering for just a moment. “Then I’ll bear it. Because the alternative is losing her. And I won’t let that happen.”

Daemon sighed, running a hand through his silver hair. “I understand why you’re doing this. I even admire it, in a way. But let me tell you something about power: it’s a hungry beast. The more you feed it, the more it demands.”

He moved to sit across from her, his gaze piercing. “You think you’re in control now, but blood magic doesn’t bend to anyone’s will. It’s chaos, and chaos always finds a way to consume.”

The reader swallowed hard, Daemon’s words striking a chord. “What would you have me do? Stop? Leave her vulnerable?”

“No,” he said softly. “But you need to be careful. You need to have limits. And you need to be prepared for the day when the magic asks for something you’re not willing to give.”

For a moment, they sat in silence, the weight of the conversation settling between them.

“Do you think I’m a fool for doing this?” she asked quietly.

Daemon shook his head. “No. I think you’re a mother. And mothers will do anything for their children, even if it means losing themselves.”

He reached out, placing a hand on hers. “Just promise me one thing. Whatever you do, don’t shut me out. If this magic spirals out of control, you’ll need someone to pull you back.”

She nodded, her throat tight with emotion. “I promise.”

That night, as the castle settled into its usual quiet, the reader returned to her chambers. The tome lay open on her desk, its pages filled with spells and rituals she had yet to attempt. She stared at the text, Daemon’s words echoing in her mind.

Rowena was already asleep, her small body curled up against the direwolf. The sight brought a faint smile to the reader’s lips, a reminder of why she was doing all of this.

But as she turned the pages, her resolve hardened. She couldn’t afford to stop now. The hooded figures were still out there, weakened but not defeated. She needed to stay ahead of them, to protect her daughter at all costs.

The next day, as the reader studied in the library, Aemond found her. His presence was almost silent, but she had grown accustomed to sensing him.

“You’re avoiding me,” he said, leaning against the doorframe.

“I’m busy,” she replied without looking up.

Aemond moved closer, his expression thoughtful. “Busy with blood rituals?”

She shot him a sharp look, but he didn’t back down.

“Daemon told me,” he said simply.

“Of course he did,” she muttered, closing the book in front of her. “And let me guess—you’re here to lecture me too?”

“No,” Aemond said, surprising her. “I’m here to help.”

She raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Help? Why?”

“Because I care about you,” he said, his voice steady. “And because I care about Rowena. If this is the path you’re taking, then I’ll walk it with you.”

The reader studied him for a long moment, searching for any sign of insincerity. But Aemond’s gaze was unwavering, his determination clear.

“Fine,” she said finally. “But if you’re going to help, you do exactly as I say. No questions, no arguments.”

Day four!! Smut (near the end), ocs. Kinda angsty Dynamic: High Priestess x follower, Older woman x Younger Woman, dom/sub, wlw Content: sex with others -> jealously -> mirror sex -> humiliation Word Count: 1007