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𝐀 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧’𝐬 𝐓𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡

𝐅𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐡 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

word count: 5.3k~

warnings: mentions of war, name-calling, vulgar paintings, strong vulgar language, Targaryen/Dornish mixed bastard, mentions of sexual themes, and overall mature setting for mature (18+) audience.

a/n: this is the 5th chapter of my AU HOTD longfic featuring my Black!OC, and the last chapter of this fic that’s posted here. If these previews interested you enough, be sure to check out the masterlist on where to read the rest!!! Hope I’ve gotten your attention by now. If there’s a warning I forgot to add let me know.

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𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗙𝗶𝘃𝗲 | 𝗟𝗮𝗱𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝗢𝗳 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗖𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘁

                    𝑩𝑶𝑹𝑬𝑫𝑶𝑴 𝑺𝑻𝑹𝑰𝑲𝑬𝑫 𝑰𝑻𝑺 𝑭𝑶𝑼𝑹𝑻𝑯 𝑫𝑨𝒀 𝑨𝑻 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑹𝑬𝑫 𝑲𝑬𝑬𝑷, and Sylvia grew hatred toward her constant studies with Maester Ollins reading massive leather-bound books, thick with extensive history behind the legendary House Targaryen and their ties to Valyria—including hundreds of houses within Westeros and political relations with and against the crown or with each other.

        Reciting words never used in her vocabulary would lock Sylvia’s jaw and copying pages upon pages with shitty handwriting and barely any practice back home with her own mother, would tire her wrists out and left her fingers cramped. Her mother was far advanced in both reading and writing, taught later in life after Sylvia’s birth, but her teachings weren’t consistent. She could only practice reading after every written word her mother wrote for her father to one day read given her popular status in the house. Writing was rare and Sylvia hated it.

        And once freed of Maester Ollins, left hours in Meya’s care as she taught Sylvia the ways of a proper lady of the court. The study of etiquette involved far more than walking in pretty dresses and keeping one’s mouth clean of cake crumbs. Curtsy when in the company of new peers and those of higher political status. Never address them by name but by title unless given permission or were under Sylvia’s status, such as Meya and many others. Head up, back straight, chest out, arms locked in front, and walk with grace as though she levitated. Not with a boyish posture, as Meya described. She was determined to cleanse the boyish nature from molding her bones. Never say too much. Never say too little. Then would clutter the table with various utensils to use and label.

        You must act as though even the Gods are watching you, Meya would say, because being a lady isn’t just a privilege of improvement and betterment, but an example to the people—lower-classed women and the poor who’d do anything to be where you are, and has convinced themselves that if they do what you do, they will one day stare behind your eyes.

        Sylvia didn’t think being a lady would be challenging and she was wrong.

        She grew delirious and starved of her freedom. She missed home and drunk travellers, and ex-lovers—still friends—laughing over countless fools. She missed her splinter-prone bow and running off to the woods with Yanis to hunt. She missed her loose-fitting clothing and the effortless movement it provided. She missed being outside. Free instead of being cooped up within the same walls for hours.

        She thought more freedom came with holding her father’s name, but freedom never tasted sweeter than it did back home. And perhaps, she didn’t know the extent of her freedom in King’s Landing because she was afraid that if she stepped out of line, King Aul would take back his word and ban her from the city. 

        But enough was enough.

        She walked out in the middle of Maester Ollins’ dreadful monologues in need of a break. A walk to clear her mind and explore the majestic castle. And a strange shriek and heaviness in the air that interrupted her lessons many times.

        Sight of a massive erotic mural of the same and opposite sex engaging in sexual activities with each other and a dragon came into view. Sylvia cocked her head as she inspected the art. “This is interesting. . ." She said. "And new."

        Meya reached her lady’s side and viewed the mural, a light tint in her cheeks almost the same color as her hair. “Very, my lady. These murals of different acts are scattered along the castle walls. You will see them quite often.” She said.

        “I assumed they were traditional. Modest."

        “It prevails by day but is another story behind the curtains. House Targaryen are quite accustomed to queer customs and often aren’t shameful or demeaning toward expressing sexuality. Much like Dorne though quite different and forced behind closed doors.” Explained Meya, lowering her voice as a few castle staff passed by. “Your father once used to host parties of such acts.”

        “Without the dragons, yes?”

        Meya laughed at her highly concerned expression. “Of course. So I’ve heard, they were extravagant and would last for days that men would leave their wives to attend and gifted their most prized possession for an invite.”

        Sylvia's brow lifted with surprise. Beyond hearing of her father's ruthless personality, it was the first she heard of his life when he lived outside of her mother’s stories. And she wanted to know more. "What more have you heard about my father?" She asked.

        “I began my work here after his passing, my lady, so I fear my words aren’t recent or credible.”

        “I’d still like to know.”

        “I heard he cut the tongue of a man who slandered his house in public as an example for his filthy mouth. Then flaunted his tongue around his neck as a necklace, rotted with flies. Before his marriage to Lady Vana, while courting her, he asked her to give him a name. Any name. The name of any who caused her heart to squeeze with stress whenever they were within her presence, so she did. And on their wedding day, he delivered her uncle’s heart on a silver platter to wipe her heart clean and transfer that stress onto his.” Meya continued. “He always made such a presence that no one dared speak unless spoken to. One might even lose their eyes if they're met. He was quite intimidating and twisted."

        “He was a prince. I imagined he’d have to be. If one steps out of line, it's one's job to push them back or others will follow behind." Words taken out of Yanis' mouth filled hers with ease.

        They spun to the cheering formed within the training pit around two men fighting. At the center, Prince Viseron pointed his steel sword, taunting his sworn protector always a few steps behind his shadow with half of his wooden shield missing.

        Having the best view above, Sylvia leaned against the rail, watching impressively. He was quite skilled and his movements were fast, just as good as Yanis. Maybe even better. Her eyes overlooked his skills and traveled below to the sweat glistening his bare chest and highlighted muscles that were hidden beneath his clothing the first they’d met. Only trousers and boots were worn during the fight, leaving nothing to imagine, but oddly, left her curious to see more while it’s shown.

        “And what of him?” Sylvia’s lip tugged between her teeth without her knowledge, studying the prince who once tried to get her naked. He hadn’t tried since then not that she’s had time for him. “What stories you’ve heard?”

        “I dare not say anything, my lady. I’d like to keep my head another thirty years.”

        “Oh, come on. Your words are safe with me. Who would I tell? My piss pot?” Still quiet, Sylvia rolled her eyes as she reminded, “I wasn’t giving you a choice. I want to know about this prince.”

        Meya was hesitant for good reason, but given the vast differences between their status, she had no choice but to obey. “Some believe he was born from the wrong father.”

        “Why so?”

        “Because he takes after his uncle, Prince Daemon. Their fury burns strong. There are far too many stories to share and talking about him makes me shiver. But one thing is certain, he’s betrothed to Julie Lannister.”

        Standing off the side near her attendant was Julie Lannister. Long golden strands with multiple braids hung in loops and intertwined delicately down her back, emerald green eyes fearful of her betrothed’s safety. She was not only quite young—around six-and-ten (16) possibly—but beautiful too. Her black dress with a crimson outline shaped her womanly frame well, some could easily believe she was older than she appeared.

        “Such a fragile thing paired with a ruthless prince who doesn’t give a damn whether she lives or not. Tis probably why he's held off the marriage for so long. About—three months I believe. Although war and house relations has preoccupied the prince's time." Meya informed and Sylvia appreciated the information. It did come as a surprise to her. She hadn’t heard a thing about this girl and the Prince didn’t present himself as a man set to marry—if there was a certain way a man should act.

        It’s not uncommon for a prince or anyone of higher status to already be betrothed as it was to become her faith too. On the outside, they looked well-suited, but if their wedding had been halted then perhaps something was happening on the inside that no one knew. Answers Sylvia was curious about.

        The crowd displayed Prince Viseron’s victory by clapping their hands with glee. Lady Julie rushed to her betrothed with words of praise but he shared his win with his component and sworn protector, Sir John—Sylvia finally remembered when she was tested to name everyone within her house and their titles while walking backward and bumped into him. He apologized first though it was her fault, his voice gruffy and deep. Lady Julie was ignored completely and stood aside as she patiently waited to be included.

        As though Sylvia’s presence was felt above, his head lifted and met her stalking gaze. She pulled back from the ledge but it was too late to pretend otherwise and grabbed her dress to dip her knees in a cursty. Like a proper lady who hadn’t been spanked on the palm of her hand with a stick or straightened until her back ached and thighs burned, and all the boyish nature had washed out of her. Most of it.

        He’s impressed by her growth, his lips pulling into a half grin with approval. Then dipped his head to greet her. 

        Sylvia lifted and couldn’t hide the gushing feeling of pride forming in the pit. She’s worked hard perfecting herself that some acknowledgment would be nice. Expected even. She greeted Lady Julie as well when following the Prince’s attention, only she didn’t return the gesture. Her bottom lip turned pink from how hard she chewed, looking at him and then back to her before lending a stiff smile.

        Meya touched her lady's arm lightly. "We have spent much time walking these halls I'm afraid Maester Ollins might assume you've abandoned him and your studies. We should return."

        The Prince took his leave. Lady Julie followed after.

        "That's because I have abandoned my studies," Sylvia admitted. "Maester Ollins is an old fuck who never keeps his eyes on the books—“

        Meya gasped. “You must mind your words, my lady. Such foul language is unacceptable for a lady.”

        Sylvia ignored her and kept speaking. “He speaks in one note, for a very long time, and isn't patient with me when I'm doing my best. What more does he want from me?”

        "We can request another, but you mustn't put off your studies. You made the King a—"

        Sylvia walked away from her attendant. She headed in the direction of the Great Room so she could continue her studies and force herself awake whenever Maester Ollins spoke. She knew very well of the promise made with the King and hated when Meya reminded her at every given second.

        “There she is!”

        Sylvia’s steps halted toward four noble women—judging by their pretty dresses and well-kept hair—rushing in her direction like children at the Sand Festival held every year back in Toland. Silly betting games where men would run bare-footed and nearly naked across the hot sand for three days for life-changing coins and honor, suffering nasty blisters, dehydration, and even death. There were also cake-eating contests. But inside was filled with poisonous sand scorpions, eating until one ultimately died or was saved in enough time. There’d be endless music and hard syrup candies for the children. Joy all around, joy that Sylvia was forced to experience from afar.

        Sylvia glanced over her shoulder to pinpoint their attention but there was no one behind them. No one of importance unless they were signaling a passing servant or patrolling guards. But as they neared it was clear she was their pinpoint. A bunch of strangers. Rather close by how they clung to each other. 

        Meya greeted the noble women and Sylvia followed in pursuit. “My lady, this is—”

        “I shall introduce myself,” a blond-headed woman with loose curls down her back and wide sharp eyes dismissed Meya as she stepped forward from the group. She bent her knees into a proper curtsy and lifted herself, her eyes glazing upon Sylvia’s scales with mere interest. “I am Lady Clarice Hayford, Daughter of Lord Benjamin, House Hayford of Crownlands. This is Lady Mercia Rosby, House Rosby of Crownlands. Lady Anya Buckwell, House Buckwell of Crownlands. And Lady Emma Wode, House Wode of Riverlands.” The last house was said in a mumble but had caught on learning briefly of the Riverlands. Of all their houses that were loyal to the crown.

        Each lady kneeled into a cursty. And as Sylvia met each woman as they rose, her gaze fell upon Lady Mercia, if she remembered correctly. Golden brown skin, shades darker than sand on its brightest day, with thick brownish red curls too wild to tame but were a looser patterning than the mess on Sylvia’s head—pinned from her narrow face with dangling ornaments, dressed in the colors of the leading house.

        Pretty, Sylvia thought to herself, she’s very pretty. They each had their own charm, whatever it was, but Lady Mercia stuck out.

        Another, Lady Anya, stepped forward. “We are very pleased to make your acquaintance. We’ve already heard so much about you.” She was very soft-spoken, light and airy like a whistle in the wind. Wide-eyed with ghostly white skin and hair as black as night. It didn’t help that her eyebrows were nearly invisible, so she appeared sickly.

        “What have you heard?” Sylvia inquired, wanting to know what had been said about her.

        Lady Anya exchanged a look with the other ladies and Sylvia could’ve sworn one had shook their head, as if to refrain her from speaking the truth. Their smiles were wide and bright and clean of evidence when she tried to confirm the gesture. “Just silly chatting. You know how it is in court.” She didn’t. Not one bit of it. “When someone new comes around, everyone is so eager to know everything about them. Few are convinced they’ve known them their whole lives. But with you here, in our circle, I believe we’ll be great friends. The bestest.”

        “My God, Anya, we are not that desperate. Be calm.” Said Lady Clarice, tugging the girl back who sent a soft glare.

        “It was your idea. You wished to confirm if the King had lost his mind bestowing a b—.”

        The woman hissed in a manner that shut Lady Anya up. She lowered her head with a pout and stepped even futher back upon the lady’s gesture. 

        Then chuckled with nerves, ironing out the creases of her dress that shaped her figure. Her manipulated curls played the illusion that her hair was voluminous, but the knitted hair piece pushing everything back showcased otherwise. “You misheard me. I would never speak ill of anyone or question one’s decision, especially the King’s.” Said through clenched teeth, still smiling. 

        “Liar.” The girl mumbled loud enough to be heard.

        “Your scales,” Lady Mercia blurted and she had Sylvia’s attention almost immediately. “They are real, are they not? I have never seen anything like it before."

        Before she could speak up, Lady Emma interrupted her. “Of course, they’re real. Why wouldn’t it not be? She has dragon blood in her veins. Only with their blood is it possible."

        It’s said the women from Riverlands were all too ugly to look at and lacked feminine hygiene and beauty, as the writings said. Swamplands and ruins from war. Emma Wode was the only beautiful daughter her mother bore; a head of brunette strands down her back, pepper green eyes, and a curvy figure to look past her flat face. A beautiful girl like her should be seen, an end to vile rumors of their house and Riverland women.

        Sylvia stood before Lady Mercia, leaning slightly forward. “Would you like to touch them?” She offered and her eyes brightened with excitement mixed with surprise.

        “Could I? Is it not rude?”

        “Not if I’m offering.”

        Lady Mercia reached out her hand and touched the scales along Sylvia’s cheek. Her touch was hesitant at first before she grew comfortable, gentle as her soft fingers outlined its trail. It was true that no one aside from Yanis and her mother had touched her scales, but there were rare occasions when Sylvia would allow a few selectives to explore her face. In exchange, she could explore them. 

        She wasn’t expecting the same deal with Lady Mercia. Not yet at least.

        “They’re beautiful,” Lady Mercia whispered, shying away from Sylvia’s intensive contact appreciating her beauty at a closer range. She liked the greenish mixture in her brown eyes. Realizing how close they were, she pulled back her hand with an apology.

        “Can I touch too? I’m curious.” Lady Anya raised her hand.

        “Me as well.” Said Lady Emma.

        It wasn’t until Lady Clarice cleared her throat that the rest stopped pestering Sylvia and followed back in line. Clearly, she held reign within the circle, leaving the question of just how powerful her house was. And much of it she didn’t wish to lose to a bastard. “You will have to excuse their excitement. Young new faces are rare to come by. While some lack discipline, they also lack personal space.”

        Many didn’t react lightly to being put down for something they couldn’t control. They were all around Sylvia’s age and younger. Full of energy and light. Trying to make the most of their life before they were no longer a girl but a married woman with duties to their husband and house. She didn’t mind their lack of discipline or personal space, or even their constant questioning. She was new to court, to their world. It’s to be expected. 

        But what she didn’t like was someone putting down others to make themselves look good. “And what do you lack?” Sylvia asked Lady Clarice. “No one is perfect, not even me. I’m curious if you lack discipline too. A mouth that just keeps talking.”

        Her mouth twitched and her eyes seemed touched with irritation as she narrowed in on the lady who dared to question her. But then the moment passed, all traces of anger left, and she offered her a stiffened smile. 

        Her lips parted with an answer prepared, but Sylvia realized she didn’t care and spoke over her with more questions to ask. “What brings you ladies to me? Whatever it is it’ll have to wait another time. My studies call to me and Master Ollins doesn’t seem like a patient man to be kept waiting.” . . .studies she would do anything to get out of with a teacher she was close to hating, but it was her promise to the King. While she prepared herself for marriage, he would provide whatever was necessary so she could learn of the house who’ve stolen her features.

        Lady Anya jumped off her feet toward Sylvia, taking her arm to lock tight. It was the kind of strength that felt the girl was scared she’d run off, and she would if given the chance. The action was sudden. “Then we shall walk you to your destination and chat. We know the way. Maester Ollins won’t say a thing with us by your side.”

        “Ah. . .okay.” Sylvia managed to say.

        Lady Emma occupied the other arm, the other ladies at their side, dragging Sylvia forward as if she were a rag-doll with weak stringy legs, vulnerable to even the mildest of control. Meya remained a few steps behind with no means to interject. She looked content with her lady with others than just her putting up with Sylvia, a break from bending and molding her bones and attitude into a proper lady. Lessons that still needed time to sink into her bones. And apparently, her brain.

        Multiple conversations were had and many questions were left unanswered due to lack of time to answer them before the next question was thrown out. It seemed Sylvia was learning more about them than they did about her. She preferred it that way. Her life was nothing of interest compared to highborn ladies who’ve seen more of the world than she had. Their hands were untouched by hash labor, smooth to the eye, their nails long and perfectly round. No scent of piss, puke, and sex lingered from their skin but the sweet aroma of lavender and. . .berries? There was not one strand out of place—thoroughly washed and brushed with limited knots and tangles, carefully curled with overnight remedies and styled to utter perfection. Not even the wind could displace their attendant's hard work.

        Even their stories were untouched by the cruelty of the world and filled with mindless pettiness, harmless pranks, and endless fun, surrounded by riches and an arm's length of friends. They were perfect. All of which Sylvia lacked and couldn’t help the jealousy pitting deep in her belly.

        A reminder that two worlds stood before them despite their feet walking the same land.

        “We remain at court while our fathers and many noble lords have been called to discuss trivial matters that have disarrayed our house and its people.” Said Lady Merica as they directed Sylvia down the wide-set stairs and through the long halls that were endless and beaming from the sun burning through. She had no idea what the subject was but went along with it.

        “I came to visit my brother. He’s recently joined the Knighthood. My father thinks it will strengthen his heart and bring forth honor.” Said Lady Anya.

        Lady Emma tugged on Sylvia’s arm, pulling her closer from Lady Anya’s previous tactic to have the girl to herself. A constant game that forced Sylvia to break free. It surely didn’t stop them coming back. 

        “But that isn’t all, is it?” Lady Merica sent a mischief look in her friend’s direction and it was the first her face had color, warming up as she refused to admit her true intentions. 

        Sylvia was very much lost. “What am I missing?”

        “She has eyes for Prince Aelor.” Lady Clarice unveiled and Sylvia scrunched her nose with disgust. She wished she hadn’t asked. 

        The girl gasped out with shock. “I do not!”

        “Do too.” Lady Emma teased. “The biggest crush. He is all you ever talk about. His kind eyes. His long legs. His calming nature. His beautiful hair.”

        Kind eyes? Calming nature? What version was she seeing?

        She unlocked their arms to cover her ears as she shouted. “I will not hear of this—this slander! And neither will either of you speak another word of my affections—should I have any—or else I’ll scream my lungs bloody and never stop until the sky roof caves in, crushing you whole.”

        “Why not save your screaming on your wedding night? You’ve practiced long enough.”

        A squeal of giggles bellowed from Lady Mercia as she took off running when Lady Anya chased after her. They laughed at the two using passing servants to block each other’s contact. Lady Mercia seemed like a shy woman at first but she was far from it, at least around her friends. There were occasions when she’d speak less that was practically invisible, and occasions when she’d make herself known and make use of it. A balance of both. 

        Sylvia certainly didn’t see what Lady Anya saw in the Prince and was convinced the girl got hit in the head by an apple or something heavy. They wouldn’t be House of The Dragon together but House of The Ghost. Uncanny and unsuited.

        Finally having Sylvia to herself, Lady Emma tugged her closer and Lady Clarice was quick to fill the empty spot. Their constant attention and closeness made her uncomfortable for reasons that she wasn’t used to. “My father claims it’s to spare our ships and men to prepare for the war up ahead. Only the best shall prevail.” She was back on the conversation of their reasoning for being at court. 

        “Except we need strong men and strong ships that won’t flood the first wave it's met.” Said Lady Clarice, in a tone that held a known story close to Lady Emma which she ignored.

        “But while at court, we accompany the future Queen to strengthen our relations that’ll benefit our future and make our house proud.” 

        “Future Queen,” muttered Lady Clarice with a sense of mock. “Whenever that will be. It's embarrassing enough having to listen to her delusions and pretend to care. There is only so much advise one can give before it’s time to return home.”

        Their shared laughter made known they knew of Lady Julie’s current predicament with Prince Viseron. Neither Sylvia nor Lady Mercia—when returning after the two grew tired and heavy with breath—found the situation humorous. She didn’t know the girl enough to find the joke and feared she’d contract her faith by downing her misfortune.

        But Sylvia couldn’t move on from their current topic deciding which games they should indulge in before supper when something Lady Emma had mentioned weighed on her mind. War.

        War was nothing new to her. Horrid stories roamed the fires back at Toland from men and former knights drinking away their trauma to any ears that would listen and even she had her first taste of it. But what concerned Sylvia was where this war was taking place and who was the intended enemy. She came to King’s Landing to create a future and safe home for her mother when she came, and couldn’t do any of that if her future was at risk. Based on many blurred lessons of war around the world with Maester Ollins, King’s Landing wasn’t all that invincible given the history of why the wall was built in the first place.

        “Will it be here? The war that's to come?” Sylvia asked.

        They grew quiet, having silent conversations with their eyes that Sylvia couldn’t understand. But when Lady Clarice was quick to fill the void when answers were sought, it was then she understood why they were hesitant to speak. “The Conquest of Dorne. The battle to last over centuries to come.” She held no filter as she played her fingers through her golden locks, eyeing Sylvia’s expression. She remained calm. “The Martells will never concede. Never to bend the knee to the crown nor compromise their terms to end this shitful fight, ultimately wasting our resources and men. Them vipers aren’t grateful no matter what we do. But enough is enough. Should they refuse us once more, we will come back harder.”

        One could not live in Dorne and not know of its conflicts not only within the country but outside of it. Even for someone like Sylvia, who didn’t care to know as it was never her concern nor was she sitting at the table with something to offer. It was strange living on the outside of the world, on the lands of the same enemies that were plotting against her home.

        Sylvia didn’t know where to stand. 

        While her roots were in Dorne, her lineage was far from it. One came with traumatic memories and a life that served no purpose while one was an opportunity in a lifetime, a purpose of many should she choose one. Or perhaps she didn’t have to choose. With her given title, she could pursue anything. There was no limit as far as she knew.

        Sylvia would always be proud of her home, grateful of her upbringing, and prideful of her Dornish roots—but wasn’t stupid to risk her life for the damn country or piss off others who were against them. The same one that took everything from her. Her mother included. And it’s people they claimed to care for. Her loyalty never extended beyond that.

        “I see,” said Sylvia, uncomfortable with their eyes on her every movement. Probably they were expecting her to curse this country and accuse Lady Clarice of spreading lies to fuel more propaganda. 

        They soon reached the door that led to the Great Room. Maester Ollins was currently inside because his distinctive voice carried through the cracks.

        Lady Anya waved her hand, dismissing the short awkwardness. “Enough of that depressing subject. Let’s leave it to the men. Why don’t you join us for a round of fox and hound after your studies before supper?”

        Sylvia never heard of this game before. “I don’t know how to play this game.”

        “You never heard of fox and hound?”

        “No. Should I? Is it popular here?”

        Lady Anya’s jaw dropped as if the girl was learning her first word, and one of the ladies had to remind her that Sylvia was not from around.

        “I can teach you. It’s quite easy once you get the hang of it if no one’s adding any last-minute rules.” Lady Mercia offered, and Sylvia would like that very much. “I’ll be the fox for the first round if you like. Just until you grow comfortable.”

        “That goes against the rules. Every newcomer must be the fox. Even I had to be for three rounds.” Lady Emma argued.

        “Surely we can bend one little rule for our new friend. That which you are—a friend in our circle. A position quite hard to obtain, even Lady Julie scrambles for our companionship that we offer you at no obligation.” Lady Clarice scooped Sylvia’s arm, walking closer toward the door and leaving the rest of them behind. Only Meya joined a few steps behind. “I hope you make up your mind soon and join us for a round or two, milady. It is a fun game to know more of each other and I can show you great hiding spots. As my father says, it’s good to have friends in every corner of the world each with something to offer.”

        Her sharp eyes and naturally arched brows made her appear as though she was constantly plotting. But while her aura was mean-spirited, she didn’t look like one with much motive other than hoarding friends under her belt within her control.

        Sylvia never had friends outside of the pleasure house or around her age, especially highborn ladies of such status—a status they shared. Making a variety of friends could serve her well in the future. She wasn’t sure what it could be or when, but knew it was in her best interest to join their inner circle. Be their friend. Accept their companionship and maintain good relations. And play a few rounds of fox and hound.

𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔

𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆

If you like what you read and wish to read more of this fic, you can read HERE

Princess Rhaena Targaryen and her dragon, Morning

𝐀 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧’𝐬 𝐓𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡

𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

word count: 5.4k~

warnings: mentions of war & death, mentions of prostitution (living at a brothel), strong vulgar language, attempted sa, Targaryen/Dornish mixed bastard, mentions of sexual themes, and overall mature setting for mature (18+) audience.

a/n: this is the 4th chapter of my AU HOTD longfic featuring my Black!OC. We meet more of the King and my oc’s father who are heavily inspired by King Viserys and Prince Daemon, and will meet new oc Targaryen characters. If there’s a warning I forgot to add let me know.

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𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗙𝗼𝘂𝗿 | 𝗥𝗲𝗱 𝗜𝗻 𝗠𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝗙𝗼𝗿𝗺𝘀

                    𝑲𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑨𝑼𝑳 𝑾𝑨𝑺 𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑫𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑨𝑵 𝑰𝑴𝑷𝑶𝑹𝑻𝑨𝑵𝑻 𝑫𝑶𝑪𝑼𝑴𝑬𝑵𝑻 when informed of Sylvia's presence and passed it along his servant once she entered, beckoning her toward the table of roasted chicken, glistening honey crepes, assorted fruits and rich wine. Her mouth watered and her belly grew impatient to stuff herself full, but felt it was best to wait for the King to sit and eat first.

        Due to the King preferring privacy, Meya and everyone else were escorted from the room. It was just her and the King.

        Noticing the gesture, King Aul motioned her forward with a light chuckle. "Please, don't wait for this old man or you will be waiting till your grave." He sipped his wine, watching the girl devour her food as if it was her last meal, but first of many. "I trust you settled well in your quarters? Well rested I hear. You surely look better than when you first arrived; I can tell you're a woman."

        Neither could she. 

        Sylvia couldn’t believe the woman in the reflection was her and not the tall boy she’d portrayed since her flower bloomed and her breast swelled. The seamstress returned with a beautiful dress far nicer than anything she owned and more than which she thought she deserved. The grey dress clung tight to her skin, shaping her womanly figure, with red and golden embroidery patterning of the low collar and along the fitted sleeves. Her shaped curls hung just below her shoulders, healthy and wild with multiple strands in decorative tiny braids and pinned from her face with a golden hairpin.

        She looked as though she’d belonged. And now she did.

        Sylvia drunk her wine to help flush out chicken stuck between her teeth. Because she wasn't a drinker, a cup and a half was the limit. "I did, thank you." She remembered Meya's quick lesson along the journey and added. "Your grace."

        King Aul smiled warmly at her attempt. "I summoned you so that I may know you better and personally welcome you, but I regret to inform that the man you look for has not ridden his dragon for two years."

        Sylvia knew the King spoke of her father. She also knew by the glumness painting his old features that he held his brother with high gratitude and loved him dearly. Having not known her father personally, there were no tears to shed and share along his silent grief but Sylvia sympathized. It seemed fate wasn’t in her favor and it’s a shame he died before he could reunite with her mother, or she could succeed in her plans of delusion. . .which ended up working out after all but not within her imagination.

        Perhaps his death was the reason he didn’t answer any letters or come save them, but that was two years out of seventeen. What happened then?

        “He was a good man.” King Aul continued after a sip of his wine. “Arrogant and ambitious and too honest for his soul, God rest him. A king the people would have loved had been older and easily controlled.”

        "How did he. . ."

        "In battle. Stepstones."

        Sylvia stopped eating. "Oh, I'm sorry."

        After a short moment of silence, King Aul offered a warm grin to hide his long-term grief. "Don't be. At least it was quick and he suffered no pain during his final moments, so I am told." He chuckled at the sudden change of moods and wished to revert the attention to the reason this meeting was happening. "Enough about me, eat. I hope you can fill me in on some details. What of your mother? Any siblings?"

        Sylvia continued eating. She weighed the honey tart between her greasy fingers and inspected the foreign treat before tasting it along her tongue. It's sweet. A lot better than it appeared.

        "No. Just me and my mother but we were split during the attack." Sylvia told the King, her voice somehow stronger than it wished to be. "I'm unsure if she made it out alive, but if she did, she knows where to find me. I intend to wait for her arrival however long it takes."

        Nodding, King Aul's keen to uncover more. "How did you get by? . . .Before the attack?"

        "My mother made a living as a whore. I took in daily chores."

        His expression didn't change upon learning this new information about her, but his mind did wander and contrived stories along her words instead of asking her, but one question didn't cave. "Are you still. . ." He trailed, hoping she would fill in the blank.

        It took Sylvia a moment to understand what he was asking until she realized and jolted upwards from her plate. "Yes. I-I gave myself to no man. My mother forbade my partaking in such acts because she wanted more for me. She’s very strict about that.”

        Although true, she had found pleasure with women within the house that left no evidence or proof of defilement. A man, she hadn’t. She was saving herself for Yanis.

        “Good. That’s good to hear.”

        King Aul cleared his throat with an uncomfortable shift. This was a conversation a woman should be having instead and saw he’d rather talk about anything else than her virtue, but he needed to be sure. Now that he's legitimized a bastard, it would be a shame to have tarnished both their reputation while making a fool out of him within a day especially given her Dornish background.

        "You said you are now nine-and-ten years? Nearing the age of when a woman should be already married. Do you house a husband back home? Or engaged with plans of marriage?”

        "No."

        "And there is no one in your heart?"

        There was, but he was long dead now. "No."

        "As you are well aware, my brother meant a great deal to me and I intend to thrive our house and his bloodline which now includes you. Something I would have never done and is the first and last of my doing." Said King Aul, another sip of his wine that's been refilled quenches his thirst. Sylvia barely finished with her first cup. "That means you will have to marry soon and bear a family as big as life gives you. I shall find you an exceptional suitor for my brother's sake, but I know with Lady Vana's arrival, she shall know what is best for you. Do you oppose?"

        Sylvia relished the idea of marrying a man worthy of her and birthing a few children in a house of love and compassion. It's what her mother wanted for her too. Though a secure-functional relationship wasn't what she had experienced before and grew scared of belonging to an abusive man for the rest of her life and children who would grow up to hate her someday; she enjoyed the silly fantasy because it was the opposite of her environment. Another picture of a life she painted had things turned out differently and her mother’s body wasn’t a means of income.

        And now, her fantasy shall become her reality.

        A man with a generosity of wealth. A man who shall love her as she is and will see her as a true equal. A man to learn from. A man who knows she deserves better and shall give her not only the world, but his entire undevoted heart. And anything more which her mother had listed repetitively, and the list was long.

        "No, your grace, I don't oppose." Sylvia accepted the assignment. King Aul was far too kind than her expectation of how a king would normally present themselves. It wasn't a king when looking at him, but an old man living out his days in peace and wine and a proper future he’d leave behind when the time came. "But I’m curious why you gave me my father’s name, more than what I asked. More than I deserve. You don’t know me. I’m a stranger who came into your life, so why trust anything I tell you? Why do what you did?”

        “I told you. My brother was everything in ways I wished I were and I’d be damned to let his bloodline die out with his only son one sickeness away from death, or a sword like his father. Bastard or not, his blood is yours. The scales along your face makes you closer to dragons than one could ever be. How could I not claim you?” Said King Aul, wiping his greasy lips with a napkin. He sat back in his chair and allowed his servants to remove what he finished. Sylvia was done before him but had more to finish since he didn’t eat as much. “You remind me of Daemon. Your spiteful nature and honest character. You are a stranger, yes, and I shouldn’t trust your word too easily, but I’m choosing to go against all advice. I’m giving you an opportunity in a lifetime no bastard, even mine, has reached. It is a great risk I’m taking with honor. Our house is the future, our future. Now yours to ensure it remains that way.”

        Sylvia couldn’t eat anymore or her stomach would explode. The King had given her a great responsibility she was now questioning it if was a quest she could fulfill. This life was not one she was raised into and she needed all the help she could get to become a proper lady of court. And while this new life had its lavish perks that needed time to get used to, Sylvia wasn’t sure how big of a burden he was asking of her. To think and put this house of strangers before anyone and to keep them in her best interest when the future was on the table.

        But as he said, this was an opportunity a bastard could dream of, exactly what her mother wanted. Kindness he won't extend ever again. And at least she’d remain in King’s Landing depending on her suitors. She must carry herself differently to survive this world alone with lessons her mother taught.

        “You have good a heart.” Sylvia could only say.

        But in his eyes, he was only a father, a grandsire, a man, hoping to see each of his kids and Daemon's happily and married. So the King chuckled lightly. "I hope so. Only a good heart can derive from sins of cruelty and motivate others to follow its lead, which I, came a long way from. I wish to remain a fair king till my deathbed."

        Sylvia said nothing and continued eating her meal when the king gestured for her to keep eating though there was no space left. To have all that she wished should she ask for more.

————————

        𝑨 𝑾𝑯𝑰𝑻𝑬-𝑯𝑨𝑰𝑹𝑬𝑫 𝑩𝑶𝒀 helped himself to drinks while he awaited Sylvia's arrival. Sat comfortably at the center table with his chair facing the entrance, he perked with interest as she furthered into the room and halted her steps upon his unfamiliarity. She sent her handmaiden a look of confusion.

        Meya softly gasped and greeted the boy with a bow, neither expecting his presence too. “My prince,” she motioned for Sylvia to greet him properly as briefly taught on her way to meet with the King. It was less poise and messy, still more work to be done. “May I present you her lady, Sylvia Targaryen, daughter of former Prince Daemon Targaryen. And he, Prince Aelor Targaryen, second son of King Aul.”

        The prince had to be at least a year or two younger than Sylvia. He had the face of a baby with naturally flushed cheeks, a look of innocent trouble. His eyes were a lighter shade of purple and wore his dark silver hair—as opposed to Sylvia’s and the King’s whose hair were much lighter—short and fluffy at his ears like the morning clouds. Skinny legs and frail arms with a long skinny neck, and ridiculously tall once he stood from the chair.

        “There are tales within our bloodline who are born with dragon-like features, blessed by the Gods who deem them worthy. I call it bullshit. A pity-case. I don’t believe in such a thing as it is rare, but rumors spread quickly and I had to come see for myself. See why a God would bless a bastard over true-borns.”

        “Your Highness, my lady is no longer a bastard as the King—”

        Prince Aelor shushed Meya with a wave of his hand, forcing her to chew her words. “Once a bastard is always a bastard. Acknowledgment doesn’t change it. A royal decree doesn’t change it. Even my father’s support doesn’t change what you are and who you’ll always be.” He was obviously trying to get a reaction out of Sylvia, one he wouldn’t find because she didn’t give a damn. 

        It would be different had she grown up a lady alongside this house, acknowledged since birth and fed into her head that she was more than a greasy bastard. Above them and all. . .But she’d always known her place and accepted it. Bastards in Dorne weren’t a curse or often a threat but acceptable as they were and most times treated the same as true-borns. His discreditment did nothing but confirm what she already knew. I am a bastard and I’m a proud one. Bestowed her father’s name didn’t change how she viewed herself except on the outside which gave proof of her new status.

        And frankly, Sylvia wished him gone. Exhaustion wore heavy over her head and she needed to take a piss. Plus Meya had other plans that could take the entire day.

        Sylvia stood, unmoving. “So what of it?”

        Prince Aelor gave a careless shrug.“Just wanted to be sure you know your place.” He inspected her features at a close distance that Sylvia had to lift her head to meet his curious gaze. His lips were red and his breath reeked of alcohol. Then his shoulders dropped with disappointment. "You aren't ugly. Just a girl."

        "What were you imagining?"

        "A dragon's head on a woman's body." He admitted.

        Sylvia could laugh at his crazy imagination but decided to withhold it to avoid offending him.

        "Can I touch—"

        Sylvia leaned away from the prince's reaching hand desperate to touch the scales along her face. Denying so, frustrated Prince Aelor as though he had never been denied anything before and his cheeks grew redder than an apple.

        "I wish to touch your scales." He explained frustratingly. "I am your prince and your king one day should my brother fall ill. If you are quick to refuse my request, I shall remember this day when you ask me of something in the near future."

        Meya was quick to interject. "My apologies your highness, the lady is still yet new to court. She isn't familiar with our customs but she would be pleased to be touched. Please forgive her ignorance."

        Ignorance? Sylvia shot her handmaiden a glare who dared kept her eyes elsewhere.

        Nodding, the prince stepped forward. "Ignorance is a woman's trait. I shall forgive you today."

        No one but her mother, Yanis, and past lovers had touched her face and Sylvia didn’t like it one bit. But because he was a prince with power beyond reach, and appeared as though he would throw a tantrum if she refused, Sylvia allowed him to proceed.

        As Meya said, Sylvia was a foreigner to their world. Refusing a prince could result in a harsher punishment than just getting it over with.

        His cool slender fingers touched Sylvia’s face, padding his printed tips along her scales, smoother to the touch from the thick cream Meya lathered. The thrill in his eyes grew like a child discovering fun for the first time, and it took Sylvia every last ounce of strength not to push him away. She felt like an animal, worse than anyone had treated her which wasn’t all that bad by covering up. The invasion, the live comments—it was insulting. 

        His thumb slightly parted Sylvia’s bottom lip, his index finger hooked under her chin and forced their gaze to meet. “There are no scales on my lips.” She reminded the prince, a warning to remove it immediately. 

        Prince Aelor ignored her and continued brushing, a lustful look filling his light purple eyes intrigued with the soft texture. And apparently more. “I hear your mother’s a Dornish whore. Is that true?” His brows rose with his voice but it wasn’t genuine curiosity behind it. 

        Sylvia’s jaw clenched. “It is.”

        She briefly looked to Meya, waiting for her to intervene—since she had much to say earlier—but was interrupted by his raising hand before she could defuse anything.

        “As I thought. My little ears are never wrong. And so I’m curious,” a tighter grip on Sylvia’s chin forced her closer, the smell of wine thick on his breath and tickling her lips. “If the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree? Don't worry, what happens in this room, stays. Your virtue along with it."

        Sylvia shifted as far back as she could before their lips collided, ripping from his grip that his long thumb nail scratched her chin. Once free, she pushed the Prince. The strength behind her push was strong enough to lose his balance, his feet shuffling back as he failed to catch the table and fell on his ass. Meya rushed from behind to help him to his feet.

        “Get your filthy hands off me!” Prince Aelor shouted as he whacked away Meya’s help.

        He was livid. Too embarrassed by his situation especially when there were witnesses to his fall at the hands of a woman beneath him, his eyes bewildered. Meya and the cupbearer kept their heads to the ground not to add to it.

        “You dare lash at your prince?” Prince Aelor gripped the table and fumbled to his feet. “I will have you beaten to death and hung in a pit of fire then your head placed on a spike at my window!" He seethed while jabbing his finger at the air.

        Meya rushed to Sylvia's side and whispered, "Apologize, my lady. You were in the wrong. This is not Dorne."

        Sylvia failed to see her mistake and what Dorne had to do with this situation. Someone whom she wasn’t, not even the slightest, attracted to insulted her so she rightfully defended herself.

        “I will not.” Stated Sylvia as though to challenge the prince which angered him further. Meya attempted to apologize in her place but was stopped before she could begin. “I don’t owe you an apology, you owe me one. You made me uncomfortable by using your authority against me to sexually please you after you insulted me. Prince or not, you have no respect for women or for me. After all, it is a man’s trait. I shouldn’t expect much.”

        Prince Aelor was visually shaking. He didn’t expect Sylvia to talk back and neither did she. She knew better than to smart-mouth someone of higher status and got too bold. He was a prince. At any sign of his discomfort and irritation would anyone of sane mind would be on their knees begging for their lives—all which Sylvia refused to do.

        . . .She did wonder if she said too much. Did too much. If it was better to follow through and ask for forgiveness despite who was in the wrong—which he was—and as her mother often advised. She was still yet new to court and that mouth of hers could get her killed.

        "Aelor,”

        They followed the stern voice to a man leaning against the open door with a rather amusing expression as he watched the scene unfold, possibly from the beginning. And possibly another family member by his silver hair, lighter than Prince Aelor’s, pushed from his face and brushing voluminously with light waves down his back. Important by how quickly Meya and others greeted him with a bow. 

        Prince Aelor stuttered, “B-brother.”

        Brother?

        Sylvia didn’t shy from his violet eyes staring back with such intensity, that she was convinced he could see into her soul. He wasn’t ghostly white like his brother but had a light tan that proved his love for nature. Certainly older than them both, two or three years at most. He wore a black tunic with intricate designs of red and gold along the collar enclosed around his neck, along the sleeves of his shirt reaching the cuffs, fitting his build perfectly. A steel sword laced at his belt. Attire fitting for a prince. Or a soon-to-be King. . .?

        His gaze snapped to Prince Aelor as he furthered into the room. “How would father react if he heard you’ve offended our beloved uncle’s legitimized firstborn? Could you not have waited to stick your dick elsewhere? Preferably a common whore or one of your maids.”

        Prince Aelor’s anger festered toward the smug grin Sylvia failed to bite back. “She assaulted me!” He seethed. 

        “And she did so with ease,” he gestured his head behind him. “Go on. Leave us be before you cause another mess I will have to clean up.”

        There was something about this man’s presence that cautioned his brother from crossing a line Sylvia couldn’t see. Prince Aelor was prepared to strike back and defend his honor—now stood in fear of his brother than the woman who bested him. He sent a deadly glare, bumping her shoulder before he took his leave. The cupbearer following behind.

        Sylvia picked up the cup that slipped out of the Prince’s hand and placed it on the table. “Thank you.” She released a half-filled breath of relief, the rest still held prisoner as a feeling of fear slowly seeped in. It could be Meya’s still presence that she fed from or simply the man as he just stood there.

        “Your prince,” the crease between Sylvia’s brows allowed him to answer her confusion. “I am Prince Viseron Targaryen, first of my name, eldest son of King Aul Targaryen, crowned prince and heir to the Iron Throne. Therefore, you shall address me and my brother as such. It may even save your life and your attendant.”

        Meya kept her gaze on the floor. Her lips were purple by how hard she chewed.

        Sylvia straightened herself quickly with a curtsy, only because it felt right. "My apologies for offending you, my prince." She corrected herself. It felt strange on her tongue from addressing the people in her home by their given names to addressing the people in their homes by their given titles.

        It’s unknown whether Prince Viseron was insulted for not being addressed properly or if he genuinely wished to educate her by the tone of his voice. His watchful eyes held no emotion and the projection of words didn’t help either. But his beauty was known, as her mother and the rumors that traveled quick had whispered of their untold beauty that even the Gods could make no mistake in their creation.

        His eyes were on Sylvia he rounded the table just opposite from her and poured himself a drink like he'd been here before. And had been. She had never felt small in one’s gaze as he made her feel, and lie uncertain toward how he might proceed with this offense. After all, she did assault a prince no matter how it’s viewed.

        “I’m not offended. Though, you have wounded my brother’s pride.” Prince Viseron gulped his cup in one sip. “Shall he retaliate, which I’m certain of, I won’t save you then.”

        "There's no need. I can look after myself."

        At that, he smirked.

        He didn’t doubt that. At all.

        Placing down the cup, Prince Viseron stood before her. “This is the proper way to bow in the presence of your King, not whatever you were doing before as you still do now.” He then showed her the proper way which wasn’t what she was doing before, but it certainly felt as though it was.

        But it also confirmed another mystery. So it was he who laughed at her?

        “You should wear my dress then,” Sylvia quickly added before she forgot. “My prince.”

        Prince Viseron lifted himself from the bow and regarded the woman. His silence started to grow the feeling Sylvia attempted to wash away earlier. What she said had caught him by surprise and apparently wasn’t appropriate given Meya’s unsettling expression. She forced her eyes shut as if the day would pass over. She must regret agreeing to assist the new lady.

        The breath Sylvia held began to ease when a smile tugged the Prince’s lips. It’s bigger than the one he offered, and his eyes glistened with mischief and evil intent. “Why don't you undress yourself so I may?" Tilting his head, his violet eyes raved her feminine frame.

        Sylvia blinked. "Excuse me?”

        "You wish for me to try on your dress, and I happen to like the color red in many forms. Don't you think it's my color? Or are you jealous I might look better than you?"

        It's unsure whether Prince Viseron jests or if he was serious about Sylvia undressing herself before his watchful gaze. Mere teasing she doubted he’d take to the heart.

        He motioned toward the quiet handmaiden still refusing to meet his gaze. “Help her.” He demanded.

        Meya was hesitant to move. She didn’t wish to humiliate her lady to later retaliate against her for following the prince’s order.

        “Are you serious?” Sylvia questioned his sanity.

        “I don’t jest.”

        “If I refused your brother a kiss and more, what makes you think I’d stand naked before you?”

        “Because I’m not my brother, and you are in no position to refuse me even while you hold our house name.” Prince Viseron said.

        Sylvia was quick to repeat his words, “Even if the King hears of this?”

        No fear in his eyes at the mention of his father possibly hearing of this, and instead, found the situation amusing by his careless gesture. “You have much to learn if you wish to survive at court, my lady.” Aside from humor laced on his tongue, it almost felt like he was advising her. Or a warning perhaps, should she alert the King.

        Sylvia looked to Meya hoping there was a solution to get her out of this predicament and the prince on his merry way. She was still tired and the pressure against her bladder had yet lifted, only growing worse by the second. As if aware of the answers she sought, Meya shook her head. There’s no way out of this.

        Her options were limited, but Sylvia refused to give in just yet. “My dress is too small for you.” She fought back, and at which, he came back harder.

        “I will make it work.”

        "I like it better on me."

        The corners of his mouth lifted. "So do I."

        Fuck. Nothing worked! Nothing was working on him or changing his outlook. Prince Viseron refused her excuses and Sylvia fought relentlessly to keep her clothes on and not satisfy the bored prince, and yet, nothing worked.

        His gaze shifted behind Sylvia. “Did I stutter?” His tone was harsh and cold.

        The power in his harsh voice forced Meya off her feet. “N-no, my prince. At once.” With a curtsy, she sent her lady an apologetic look—who was certainly not happy with her compliance—before obeying his orders.

        Her small, shaky cold hands were felt at her legs, grasping the intricate hem to lift over Sylvia’s head. The prince stepped back for a better view with his head slightly tilted as he watched with delight as her dress rose higher and higher. 

        She bit the inside of her cheek until it bled and looked away, hating the look in his eyes. It felt like forever until her slim calves caught light due to Meya’s constant hesitation, praying he’d find reason at some point. He didn’t.

        She bit harder. All this change and fancy bullshit and still, Sylvia held no real authority. Still she must act the same as back home; the lonely invisible girl with her head down and face covered to avoid further situations like this from happening.

        But Sylvia was tired and she didn’t want to be that girl anymore. She came all this way to King’s Landing, a city who didn’t know the girl she left to burn with Toland, and she’d be damned if she was forced back to where she started. 

        I am Sylvia Targaryen now, daughter of Prince Daemon Targaryen, Blood of Dragons and the leading house in Westeros. I’ve shed my skin for new and now I must not be here for only my mother but for myself. 

        She might not have any real authority against a soon-to-be-king and may even cost her life, but she must mean something if King Aul himself saw it too and she would use it to the ground. This was a new world and in this world, she must adapt.

        Sylvia snatched her dress from Meya before her upper thighs were exposed and the fabric fell to her ankles like how it should. “No.” She stated with firm.

        Prince Viseron’s brow lifted. “No?”

        “M-my lady—“

        “Did I stutter?” Sylvia spoke over Meya’s attempt to control the conversation and save both their lives, at which the prince stood there baffled. Almost fooled he liked it. “If this is your way of humiliating me then you are wrong. I’m not ashamed of my body or to show skin, and had you asked nicely, I would have given you a tease. But I’m disappointed.”

        “Disappointed?” He inquired with amusement.

        "You're so worried about me being jealous of you in my dress, but you should fear how good I would look in your clothes.”

        "Are we to find out now?"

        “Sorry, but I wish to retire. It’s been a long few days and I don’t have time to entertain anyone.” Yawning, Sylvia brushed her shoulder against the prince as she passed him toward her bed. “Meya, please escort the prince out of my chambers so I can piss and rest another day.”

        Meya looked at her lady as if she had lost her mind. To command a prince, the promised heir ranked at a higher status, to leave of her accord. She must have gone mad.

        The light in his eyes were easily interpreted as amusement, which Prince Viseron very much was. Like his brother, he probably wasn’t used to a challenge, to someone defending themselves and treated him like any other. But there was something else. . .like he’d finally met someone to play with. Sylvia was unsure if that was a good thing or bad.

        The prince’s lifted hand stopped Meya from escorting him. “There is no need, I can walk myself out.”

        “Perfect,” but Sylvia was curious about another matter she couldn’t let go. “How did you learn to do that so. . .proper and elegant?” 

        He knew she referred toward the curtsy he displayed. “I enjoy watching women."

        Sylvia stood straight when he stalked toward her.

        "And you," now standing in front of the girl, Prince Viseron leaned forward, his lips brushing the rim of her heated ear. He then whispered for only her ears to hear. "I shall be watching you too." 

        A chill sent down Sylvia's spine when Prince Viseron pulled back with a smug grin. They held each other's contact as he spun around and then headed for the door. A knight as big as two men followed behind once revealed.

        When he left, Sylvia rushed for the silver pot under her bed. She lifted her dress with the help of Meya rushing over to aid her and knelt to relieve herself of all that wine and tea. “Do I look funny to you when I curtsy?” She asked out of all things.

        “You have much more to worry about than that, my lady.” Said Meya, so close they were breathing each other in. “I’ve been challenged with quite a task but fear not, fear not, we shall fix it together to assure we both live long—very long—healthy lives.”

𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔

𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆

If you like what you read and wish to read more of this fic, you can read HERE

holy crowns || paul atreides x black! reader

summary: it was supposed to be your sister, your bene gesserit trained sister molded by the great houses, spy for the imperium. with no warning, paul chooses you instead and changes your life forever. some call him messiah, others an abomination, but you will call him husband.this will be a multi chapter work and 18+only. note: hello! this takes place after the events of dune part two and Paul is about to become emperor. Irulan and her father are in exile and Chani is gone. thank you for reading! if you wish to see the story continue on beyond this chapter, please comment or reblog!

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@fanfiction-addict22

@wonderpals02

@qveendiorsworld

@turn-thy-paige

@hoyoooo

@oscarissac2099

@inesven

@blahzaiblahsheep

CHAPTER ONE

THE MUAD'DIB CHOOSES A BRIDE.

Blood and roses.

     “I told you to be careful.” Your sister chided in a motherly tone, despite being only one year older than you, handing you a small handkerchief. With a mouthful of pins, you uttered a small sound of gratitude and used your non-injured hand to finish the task of placing metal rose hair pins in her braided crown. You’d be in Arrakis in less than an hour but your sister wanted her last precious moments alone to be with you.

    “There, done.  My sister, the jewel of the outer world and now Arrakis, I still can’t believe this is happening. Do you think he will be kind?” You asked, straightening up to face your sister in the mirror.

 You shared the same deep brown skin and nose of your father but that was where the similarities ended. Both of your mothers had been models of the Bene Gesserit order but only one of your mothers had been made wife of a Duke, and the other a concubine, no less loved.

Until your mother passed, leaving you alone to face rumors of her madness. As you grew so did the stories of the concubine who lost her way and denied herself spice and in turn, denied you of a mother and the protection of the order that trained her and your sister.

     “Paul Atreides is an abomination, a tainted nova and your sister will make him anew, his kindness is of no importance. You may go, your sister and I need to speak.”  Reverend Mother Mohiam said from her place in the doorway.

    “I only need a few more minutes with my sister Reverend Mother, we’re nearly ready.” Your sister said, hand in yours.

GO.

A thousand and one tiny cuts into your brain, you found yourself outside of your sister’s room frozen in place.

  You still remember the day Reverend Mother came to take your sister away to train under the sisterhood.You made the mistake asking why, why could you not go together.

    “You carry your mother’s agony. You are not sufficient, there is no bite within you, human child. My order has no need of sentient infirmity.”

The Reverend Mother was correct.

What was to be your life after your sister was gone?

Where would your path lead?

There was no place for agony among the stars.

The heat of Arrakis resembled a distraught lover, sloppy kisses of sweat covered your body, the breeze that accompanied the opening of your ship doors held no comfort. 

You stood behind your sister, poised to pick up the train of her gown the moment your house would disembark the ship but for some reason, no one could leave yet.

Over her shoulder, your sister smiled, stretching her hand behind her back for you one last time. Yet before you could take it, your sister froze, a sudden faraway look in her eyes. Through your veil you watched her eyes widen, her hands clenched into fists. 

    “He’s coming here! The Muad'Dib is boarding the ship!”  A guard whispered fiercely to another.

No one seemed to notice what was happening but before you took a step towards your sister, her gaze was fixed on you. Despite the heat, you were freezing beneath her stare, unsure if it was your sister or the Bene Gesserit acolyte looking upon you.

The sound of marching feet and chanting distracted you both and all aboard the ship including fell to their knees, the Reverend Mother the only exception. You stood with the others, eyes to the floor, hands shaking as someone made their way down the line, your father making introductions as an attempt at conversation but there was only silence in return.

 You waited for the footsteps to end at your sister but they continued on, barely masked gasps filled the now crowded ship and a pair of boots entered your line of vision.

REMOVE YOUR VEIL. 

The trembling in your fingers instantly vanished and with otherworldly precision, you removed the veil from your face, the silk sliding down the back of your braids and to the floor.

The Muad’Dib was looking at you. 

      “Her.”

One by one, every Feydakin behind him took a knee and your house got over their confusion quickly, copying the motion, your sister, eyes wet, included. 

Paul Atreides bowed before you, blue within blue eyes never leaving yours.

      “Welcome to Arrakis.”

That’s our first chapter, I hope you like it! If you would like to see chapter two, please interact with this chapter, comment or reblog! Thank you for reading. 

𝐀 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧’𝐬 𝐓𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

word count: 4.2k~

warnings: mentions of war and death, strong vulgar language, Targaryen/Dornish mixed bastard, and overall mature setting for mature (18+) audience.

a/n: this is the 3rd chapter of my AU HOTD longfic featuring my Black!OC. Her first time visiting King’s Landing and meeting royalty (OC members of House Targaryen). If there’s a warning I forgot to add let me know.

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𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗧𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗲 | 𝗞𝗶𝗻𝗴'𝘀 𝗟𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴

              𝑺𝒀𝑳𝑽𝑰𝑨 𝑺𝑻𝑹𝑬𝑻𝑪𝑯𝑬𝑫 𝑯𝑬𝑹 𝑨𝑹𝑴𝑺 along the ship’s ledge as they approached King’s Landing. A city her mother longed to see with her two eyes, together as promised, now forced to experience this moment by herself surrounded by knights loyal to the crown and others who’ve known this city by heart. A thrilling but anxious feeling she struggled to bury. As well as vomit that refused to vanquish with constant swallowing, remembering how unkind the sea was during long nights.

        Outlooking the city of cluttered buildings hidden behind a red wall taller than any known height, as though the Gods embraced the land that it molded within its structure, a majestic castle came closer into view as they traveled through the city by carriage. It reached the skyline at this angle. The city was far livelier than Toland with more people than she could count on her fingers; more land, more green, more water, more color. And although it was hot, there wasn’t a lingering dryness that left her throat parched, but humid with a wet earthy taste that kept her saliva wet enough. 

        But while its differences were known, it wasn’t Dorne. Home.

        The people pointed and waved at the traveling carriages—at Sylvia as she gawked through the velvet curtains, taken aback by the people and their cultural differences, and a lingering stench. To process a world existed beyond the sea outside of deserts and sandstorms was exhilarating. She wondered if it snows here too having not seen it before.

        Mar’kel and Jorio split ways once landing ashore. He had no choice but to accompany the journey to King’s Landing given their boat was taken by the current, and assured Sylvia he would find good work to provide for his family.

        Haron Baratheon—Lord Hand, as stated to address him—was kind enough to allow Sylvia to join his carriage. His eyes would linger in her direction and she would catch him staring without break as if Sylvia was a mystical creature, but she didn’t mind his curiosities. Forgave him even since he took her in, informed her of the castle up ahead, and spared her life.

        The Red Keep.

        A line of knights dressed in white armor and golden cloaks awaited the return of Lord Hand with Sylvia following behind like some lost puppy still yet a stranger to this new region. Though he was kind to allow sanctuary, she knew better than to trust a helping hand with blind eyes because the price weighed heavier.

        Lord Hand advised Sylvia to wait outside the guarded bronze doors until she was announced, and anticipation grew with every passing second. Because she had never met her father before, only heard through countless stories her mother shared, Sylvia was unable to create an expression appropriate toward her arrival. The one created out of her naive imagination, hoped he’d smile gracefully and acknowledge her existence. Fathers back in Dorne did. Without shame too.

        “Father, how was your travels? We heard war broke loose again across the sea, but hope to hear good news with the Martells and the arrangements made the hundredth time.” Said a woman whose voice was carried by gracious echoes.

        Two passing servants carrying a basket full of sheets were caught sizing Sylvia down, their noses riled in disgust as they picked at her filth. It wasn’t until one pointed out her hair that regret followed by fear flashed. They offered a bow before hurrying off, eyes glued to the floor. Whatever that was about. But they weren’t the only avoiding attention; the knights paid Sylvia no mind but they were intimidating. Everything was.

        “Rather interesting, your grace.” Lord Hand responded to the woman, assumedly his daughter. The Queen. “Aside from matters that should be privately discussed, in my travels along the border of the Narrow Sea, I made a mild discovery sure to be the talk of the day. Perhaps weeks. Come on out, girl.”

        Sylvia’s head perked realizing that was her cue.

        The chatters of council members and lords and ladies of the Royal Court were silenced once the large doors opened and there Sylvia stood, gawking at the view. High ceilings bleeding in light from the sky, held with humongous pillars. Colors so vibrant it was blinding. Lord Hand cleared his throat and gestured his head to the spot next to him. She hurried down the red carpet stretching from the doors toward the throne made of an asymmetric monstrosity of spikes and jagged edges and twisted metal made of swords still sharp enough to cut.

        It was where an older man—King Aul Targaryen, First of His Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, as proudly announced—with silky white hair pinned from his old face where a crown of gold sat. His slouched position straightened upon the girl’s entrance. Just as a beautiful black-headed woman—Lady Queen Alice Baratheon, as announced—stood beside the throne, glaring at her husband.

        Sylvia kept her gaze to the floor, fidgeting with her dirty fingers when reaching Lord Hand’s side. The carpet tracked her wet muddy boot prints. She never stood before royalty, a king and queen of the realms, and possibly her father somewhere hidden. Their customs were foreign, but knew when greeting high-borns—or in this case, royalty—one should show respect as customary.

        So, Sylvia lifted her chin and lowered her body with a curtsy as her mother taught her. With grace and beauty…or so she believed it to be. And since she wore no dress, had to improvise with her loose-fitting shirt that was given by the cook on the ship. It smelt of sweat and sausages but it was better than her other shirt still covered in Yanis’ blood and dirt from home. 

        “Oh God,” said Lady Queen Alice, unimpressed by the gesture. Lord Hand included by his lips pressing together with a sigh deep from his chest. 

        Sylvia started feeling a bit silly especially when a snicker erupted the gossiping crowd on her left. There were too many faces scrutinizing her existence down to the soul, but only one who made their laughter known and didn’t care to hide it. Only his silver hair registered before the Queen spoke up.

        “Have you fathered another bastard, husband?” Lady Queen Alice rubbed between thinly arched brows, looking at the King with low eyes. Despite her disappointment, it seemed nothing new to her.

        “I would remember if I did.” The King motioned toward Sylvia’s awkward stance. “What is your name, child?”

        Lord Hand spoke before she could. “This is Sylvia, Sands of Dorne, and takes claim as daughter of the late Prince Daemon Targaryen.”

        The room erupted in a collective of gasps and gossip with people squeezing between one another to get a better look at the bastard. The Queen noticeably sighed with relief. Possibly for the fact she wouldn’t have to provide for another bastard the King presumably has.

        King Aul scooted further in his throne, careful not to knick his hand along the sharp blades. Violet eyes widen with shock they could bulge out of his sockets. “Impossible,” though said to himself, the echo carried his voice across the room. His eyes were on Sylvia but his words were directed toward the Hand. “Daemon would have told me if he seeded a bastard especially one of her grown age. How old are you?”

        “Nine-and-ten years,” Sylvia answered, her accent far different and distinctive than everyone here.

        “That is long before his marriage with Lady Vana, my king.” The Queen mentioned. “During the—”

        “Yes. I am well aware of my brother’s travel as it was I who sent him to tarnish our enemies for the crown and won the battle that gave him the title I bestowed. A war of many, and a war that has come bite me back in the ass.” King Aul interrupted his wife who bit her tongue, still never letting Sylvia out of his sight. “Nineteen years is quite some time. My brother, as sneaky as he was, confined me with his secrets and there has been not a word of the existence of a child born on Dornish soil.”

        Perhaps her father was ashamed of Sylvia. Or he didn’t give a rat’s ass to acknowledge a bastard across the sea when his life and legitimate children was right where he’s needed. She didn’t hold it against him, but she would be lying if she didn’t want a proper answer. All those letters sent and not one response? Coming all this way for a false dream her mother fed, and he dare not show his face? 

        “Prince Daemon was known to enjoy common acts of pleasure and relish in an arm’s length of lovers to keep him company. There is no doubt in me to believe he wouldn’t find company of his own during his long stay in Dorne, a world free of imagination. And in such actions, resulted in the birth of Sylvia Sand. Perhaps without his knowledge.” Lord Hand defended.

        After a beating moment, King Aul beckoned Sylvia closer where he may view her better. The red stones beneath her feet were so clear that she could see her reflection, her dirty clothes and matted hair. She’d even caught the reflection of nobles standing in wealth from head to toe, wrinkling their nose at the stench of the slums that clung to her. She was nothing but scum to them. Undeserving of this opportunity to be presented before their King, defended by the Hand, and bastard of a war prince.

        But Sylvia knew avoiding their vile opinions and cowardly within her skin would do no better but give them more to talk about. She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin and kept it high, and allowed the King to look at her. The Queen didn’t bother to dignify Sylvia’s presence with so much as a quick size-down, as she was no child of the King, and therefore, no threat to her or her problem to deal with.

        “And you are sure your father is Daemon Targaryen and no other man?” He added quickly as Sylvia opened her mouth to answer him, “Don’t you lie. It is a sin to lie to your king.” He spoke in a tone only a father would on a child, but Sylvia was no child nor a child of his from the looks of it. The feminine growth of her body held proof of her womanhood, yet it was hidden behind shapeless clothing.

        “My mother is no liar nor did she raise me as one; Daemon Targaryen is my father. During the Blood War, my mother kept him company before he left to fulfill his duties to his king where I was then later conceived.”

        “Why wait until now to stake your claim?”

        “It’s not in my intention to stake any claims my father withholds. I was perfectly fine living in my little village with my mother without knowing my father or him knowing me, but because of certain circumstances, here I am.”

        “Here you are, yes. But for what reason? What compensation do you seek from the crown?” He asked.

        Lord Hand stepped forward. “The bastard—”

        “I want nothing from the crown,” Sylvia spoke over him with a confession that intrigued the King to hear more, but not so much the Hand. She ignored his burning glare. “From my father. From this house. From anyone. My only wish is to remain in King’s Landing so what was lost shall be found. But. . .the other half of me can’t ignore the opportunity I have to learn about my lineage and how my features came about. This world was just stories when I was young, but now that I’m here, I wish to explore it.”

        As the King observed the girl once more, Sylvia saw the look in his eyes had softened with contentment. Perhaps he saw the prince in her, a face he knew better than anyone else. Certainly better than Sylvia. She may be a bastard but enough of her father’s blood, this house’s blood was in her veins; evident from the scales along her skin, the color of her hair, and purple in her eyes. It’s not of Dornish traits nor did her mother share any—that was all them. And frankly, coming this far across the sea in a world unknown, brought by Lord Hand who decided to take bring her to court, some recognition would be nice.

        “Very well, then. It seems you’ve caught me in a good mood and on a lucky day.” King Aul sat back on this throne but not too far. “I hereby affirm Sylvia, Sands of Dorne, be known as Sylvia Targaryen, eldest daughter of Prince Daemon Targaryen. I shall send word to Drangonstone and inform Lady Vana of my royal decree."

        Sylvia was just as stunned as the next, even more than Lord Hand. This was not what she asked of him. Nowhere near her desire to remain in the city, yet it was exactly what her mother wanted. No longer known as a bastard but legitimized in the eyes of the law and given more than what had been given in her entire life in just a few days, and all it took was an outbreak of a civil war.

        She dropped to her knees to thank King Aul. She had no words. No one else did either.

        Lady Queen Alice almost lost her posture at the degree and sought to question his decision. “My king, don’t you feel you are being too generous? You have always been fond of Prince Daemon, rigid with guilt after the following of his death—” Sylvia lifted her head. His death? “—but we don’t know the girl. She is all but a stranger. What if this decree inspires more bastards of Daemon’s or yours to come forth and ask more than we provide?”

        My father is dead?

        “Then we get to know the girl. My brother has only one child in his lifespan and the Gods have brought us another. Not only will I honor him and his services to the realm, but I shall hope his bloodline strives another hundred years to come.” King Aul addressed and stood from his throne. “Someone see the girl to a bath and proper clothing. I need a fucking nap.”

        The Queen chewed her bottom lip pink, glaring in the direction of her father as she and the entire court bowed as King Aul took his leave. Sylvia stood off to the side not to block his path, next to Lord Hand, and met his empty stare. There’s no telling if the outcome of this arrangement went in his favor or against his consciousness. Following behind the King, he ignored his daughter’s glower.

        A brown-haired woman with big round eyes rushed before Sylvia upon the Queen’s request. “My lady, if you’ll please, follow me this way.” She motioned after the King had cleared the room, trying to sneak a glimpse of her scales.

        Instead of replying, Sylvia peered around for the silver-haired individual who laughed at her earlier. She had hoped to catch a proper view of him before everyone cluttered together to exit, but he was nowhere to be found. Or he was hiding.

        “My lady?” The servant called again, closer than before, and Sylvia almost thought she’d mistaken her for someone else until it settled. “Shall we take our leave?”

        She would never get used to that. My lady. A proper title than bitch, boy, bastard, and aye.

        “Sure. Yes, we can go.”

————————-

                    𝑺𝒀𝑳𝑽𝑰𝑨 𝑾𝑨𝑺 𝑳𝑬𝑫 𝑰𝑵𝑻𝑶 𝑨 𝑾𝑬𝑳𝑳-𝑫𝑬𝑪𝑶𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑬𝑫 𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑴𝑩𝑬𝑹 consisted of many colors but blue and browns and reds were popular. Deep blue couches with three-headed dragon embroidery stuffed pillows. Brown bricked fireplace burning low, gleaming against the detailed oval rug. Red curtains pinned from the wide windows almost as big as the wall, framed with a series of paintings and banners of the same three-headed dragon. And many bronze decorations of items unknown to Sylvia as she never owned any of them before. Like this room that was about three to four rooms combined back home.

        “This is my room?” Sylvia asked, peering over her shoulder toward the woman following behind. She couldn’t keep her fingers or excitement to herself, touching everything in her path like the wet leaves of watered plants as tall as her and the quilted cloth slung over the couch.

        “Yes, my lady.”

        She went over toward the table where a basket of fresh-picked grapes and bright red apples sat. Plucked it but didn’t complete the next step. “And this?”

        “Yes, my lady.”

        She plopped the grape in her mouth, sloshing around its sweet with a tint of sour juice. Madam Marget reserved fruits—aside from apples—for her high-paying guest and whores and Zaal the cook, would notice if a stem was broken or someone blew their breath too close. Her mother was the house favorite and together would eat a hoard of grapes, raspberries, peeled oranges, and chugged rich wine until their heads grew heavy and their finger tingled.

        She ate another. Then discovered a bed big enough to fit five or more people, dressed with thick embroidered quilts and stuffed pillows shoved in designed cases. She never had her own room. Her own bed. Her own space. It was all too big that she missed her small room, where it was just her and her mother.

        “And this?”

        “Yes,” the servant repeated, barely hiding her annoyance well. “My lady. All of this, the room, is yours. In your name, as your birthright. If you would follow me this way, I may introduce you to Meya, your handmaiden.”

        From behind a bamboo panel where multiple women stood filling the tub with boiling water, a woman with deep auburn hair draped into a messy braid down her back revealed herself with a bow. “My lady, it is a great honor to serve you and this house. I intend to serve you well.” Her lips were so thin that when she smiled they were nonexistent, and beneath the red dress she wore—quite similar to the woman who escorted Sylvia and few who passed them—her breast filled every open space.

        Sylvia knitted her brows as she faced the servant beside her. “Are you not my handmaiden?” She asked, unsure how this went about and what exactly a handmaiden would do for her at her side already used to fending for herself.

        She laughed as though Sylvia said something funny, but it was a modest laughter. Very light and airy, hidden behind her hand not to offend her. “You flatter me, my lady, but I serve the Queen. I am here only to guide you to your chambers. Meya is well qualified and shall help you adjust and become a proper lady of the court. Should you need anything more, Meya is at your arm.”

        Another question touched her lips but the woman was already gone.

        When she took her leave, Meya guided Sylvia behind the thick panel to rid herself of clothes connected to an identical she once was. She kept the boots because the pouch of money and jewels remained, in close proximity should anyone get any ideas. Then, with offered help, eased herself in the water dusted with rose petals, hot enough to burn off her skin.

        The air smelled of spiced salts and perfume, foreign scents and fancy oils she wasn’t accustomed to. Sylvia soaked further in water steaming off her skin with a deep sigh, allowing her aching muscles to relax. But what followed next gave no prior warning to such torment. Under the care of servants, her skin was rubbed red and raw with a rag determined to change her tone or peel off her scales, her nails shaped and picked of dirt and dried blood. 

        Washing her hair required the help of many hands struggling to work through mats and knots with wide-tube combs, fingers, and horse-hair brushes. Sylvia’s cries were ignored until every stand was free of tangles and dirt. By the end of the process, the milky-like water had turned brownish-red with floating twigs and leaves. 

        Sylvia had never been pampered with such torment and washed with the help of multiple hands touching intimate parts. It wasn’t something she could get used to.

        She tugged her wet curls free from her nightgown shoved over her head and stood before the mirror—at the woman, a lady, a legitimate child of her father—as Meya recorded her measurements to send the seamstress for a whole new wardrobe.

        “Is this necessary? All the. . .extra hands?” Sylvia finally brought up. Everywhere she looked there were hands on her body, in her hair, reaching for her when she wasn’t looking.

        “It is, yes. You are no longer who you were before you stepped foot in King’s Landing. You are Sylvia Targaryen, eldest child of Prince Daemon Targaryen, royal blood of the leading house in Westeros. You must look your best even while you sleep. That is the way of a lady.” Meya replied, telling another a number to record. At a closer view, she was quite young but not as young as Sylvia, but graced with years before her first grey strand would grow in.

        “I’m not sure how to be one. A lady of the court. Or a lady at all. There aren't many examples where I'm from.” Sylvia admitted. A few giggled at her response but not in an antagonizing way but like a puppy barking for the first time. 

        With a firm look from Meya, they fell silent. She stretched the numbered strip from her shoulder toward her wrist, a warm smile on her young face. “You need not worry, my lady, that is my job to bear. I will guide you every step of the way. The world is slightly different from Dorne but I believe you’ll learn quick.” She hugged the strip around her slim waist, passing more numbers to record. “I suppose it will take some getting used to.”

        Sylvia took in the room as though it would be taken from her with a blink of an eye and she’d awake in the boat heading toward Yronwood. This was everything her mother ever wanted for her and it’s a shame she wasn’t here to witness it. But the plan remained the same; I will stay and wait for my mother’s quick return.

        Meya caught Sylvia yawning once again, her eyes fluttering and heavy head swaying back and forth. Her lips tugged upwards and with a wave of a hand, sent everyone away. “It’s been a long day for you, quite the journey across the Narrow Sea on top of your given status the King bestowed. Why don’t you rest for a while? Should you need anything else I will be here at your side.”

        She didn’t even have to ask twice. Sylvia climbed into the bed—the pouch hidden under her pillow, which she placed shortly after getting out the bath when no one was looking—and drew the sheets to her chin. Her head was thick with exhaustion as she drifted off into a deep slumber.

        But it wasn’t long until a voice of worry called from her sleep and Meya was hovered over her, inspecting Sylvia as she had gone somewhere. She rubbed her eyes while sitting up in bed that had molded her figure. Eyeing the room confirmed this wasn’t a dream but her reality. She was a lady of status.

        “What’s going on? Did something happen?” Sylvia inquired and her pulse spiked at an older man at her side, mashing herbs in a bowl to pour in a steaming cup.

        “You slept like the dead, unmoving the entire day through night and day again. Then you were burning in your rest so I called the physician to assess you.”

        The physician handed the cup to Sylvia to take. It smelt strongly of ginger and an unknown substance.

        “What is this?” She took the cup but didn’t dare sip it.

        “Mild supplements to get your blood pumping, my lady.” He gathered his tool and little-tied bags of herbs and shoved them into his brown bag. “Nothing to worry about, you are as young and healthy as a dragon. After your long journey, it is only natural you would sleep through days until it wears off. Should another fever arrive, do call for me.”

        Her nose scrunched in disgust at the bitter taste warm down her throat. She remembered how long it took the physician back in Toland to see her when she was bedridden with sickness and puking her guts red. There were so many cases of the sick going around that it took days for one to see Sylvia, to the point her mother had to pay differently to secure a visit and proper medicine. They were not at her beck and call as they were now, and for minor disturbances.

        Meya walked the physician out and lent her ear to another servant who entered the room while Sylvia struggled to swallow the rest. Her eyes grew wide with shock, bowing to the messenger, and rushed over. "My lady, the king has requested you join him for supper."

𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔

𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆

If you like what you read and wish to read more of this fic, you can read HERE

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐦-𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐝

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

word count: 4.5k~

warnings: strong language, eventual violence, classic Niklaus resorting to violence and drinking away his problems

a/n: this is the 3rd chapter of my au longfic based off the The Originals (what if the child was a teenager/YA throughout the show duration and not at season 5?). This chapter features Klaus’s pov, an insider to his struggles accepting his role as a father. Rebekah and Elijah makes their return. Davina as well. If there’s a warning I skipped let me know.

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𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗧𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗲 | 𝗡𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲’𝘀 𝗟𝗼𝗼𝗽𝗵𝗼𝗹𝗲

       𝐊𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐒 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓 𝐀𝐒 𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃. From her thick curly roots, to the smeared blood currently being wiped clean from her delicate features, to the soft beatings of her heart indicating she was calmly resting. In his hand, he held an old photo of him sitting next to Vanessa. Who was clearly the girl's mother given the identical features they shared, alongside a letter explaining the situation of his existence with clear instructions to NOT come to New Orleans.

        Yet the girl—Deena, as stated in the letter—came anyway. Hard-headed.

        Klaus remembered Vanessa almost as if it was yesterday. He met the young aspiring witch at a local art exhibit held in The French Quarter where she first struck his interest, besides being the only who wore silly socks with a tight-fitting dress. She was not only well-spoken in art, but she had a way with words in which Klaus wouldn't notice the smile he wore until she told him, and she was her own person with a peculiar taste in fashion. And he liked it. In fact, he loved it. They hit it off quickly and spent every chance they had with each other, until one day she disappeared without a word. Klaus assumed it was because of him and didn't blame her since she was too good for his world and she deserved more than what he could provide for her.

        "Impossible," Were the first words Klaus said. He tossed the photo to the floor and faced his back to Deena to slip her from his memory, to Elijah who spoke not one word until Klaus spoke first.

        Elijah picked the photo from the floor and placed it on the table beside the written letter before Klaus seized a chance to rip it. "Whether it's true or not, the child needed our help and we gave that to her. Nik—"

       "You expect me to believe this child is mine from a silly photo with a woman I dallied with years ago and some loveless letter of lies?" Growled Klaus. His mouth suddenly felt dry and though he did his best to put up a front, the fear in his eyes was evident and by the end of his words, panic had entered. "I am a vampire. I cannot procreate!"

        Rebekah rinsed the cloth of blood in the warm water of dark red ready to be refilled and continued to clean the child's face and arms the best she could. The scent of her blood was alluring, preying them to feed into their cravings with just a taste, a single drop of her blood until there was no restraint to stop. But they have lived long enough to control their thirst, and the blood lust wasn't as appealing when the victim's a child and presumed to be a Mikaelson.

        "Magic made you a vampire as us all, Nik." Rebekah pointed out. "But you were born a werewolf; it courses in your blood given by your father, so it is possible. Ludicrous but possible. And we can confirm it with your blood and hers. And a witch."

        That shut Klaus up.

        "The child has already been through enough, and we can't be sure of which witch we can trust until we figure out the origin of this madness. Let's not bother her anymore and hope she wakes soon." As Elijah spoke, he watched Deena intensively under his black lashes and compared her physical similarities to his little brother. Her lips. Her ears. Even her nose with a slight readjustment, accurately portrayed Klaus but there was no way to be sure without that spell Rebekah mentioned.

        Rebekah rolled her eyes. "She will be fine. With my blood in her system, she's healing a lot faster than before. And I know a witch we can use; she was just here not too long ago banging on our doors to hear her out. And by the looks of it, she cares enough to do anything for her," Rinsing the last of Deena's blood into the bowl, Rebekah placed the rag on the dresser and carried the bowl into her arms to be refilled. She caught sight of Klaus's quietness, his eyes never leaving the child and added, "And if we hold this off any longer, we might as well shave our heads bald and pay ourselves a visit to the loony bin, and I don't rock a bald look. I would rather stab myself with the white oak before I plug in a bloody razor."

        Rebekah left for the bathroom.

        They knew exactly who Rebekah spoke of—Davina Claire, the teenage witch who wanted but nothing to do with the Mikaelsons. More specifically Klaus. After Elijah thought about the decision, he began to view Rebekah's point and agreed. However, the decision wasn't up to him.

         Klaus could feel his brother's heated stare as he looked to him for answers he didn't have nor wished to answer. He stood quietly acquainted with fear more than anyone has witnessed since Mikael's invasion back in 1919. He does want the answer, but he's too prideful to ask for help and he was too afraid of the outcome.

        Elijah then understood he would have to make the decision for them both and found Rebekah's gaze as she exited the bathroom with a clean bowl of warm water. "Let's do the spell."

━━━━━━ ━━━━━━

        𝐃𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐀 𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐕𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐒. Her eyes never left Klaus as she made her way down the hallway and into the spacious room, waiting for a reason to use her magic against him, until she found Deena lying unconscious on the freshly made bed in the room she had once lived in back when Marcel was around and things were a bit hectic because of her. Or at least similar. She rushed to Deena's side with a gasp.

        "She will be alright," Elijah answered her panicked thoughts as she pulled back at the blood staining her hands when she reached out for her. She sent him a soft glare and carefully took Deena's hand into hers. "Will you be able to perform the spell?"

        Klaus, remain quiet. The quietest he's ever been.

        Davina noticed her friend appeared a lot brighter in her complexion despite her blood-stained clothes. Even noticing her cuts vividly healing before her eyes which meant she was given vampire blood, and she felt guilty. Like it was her fault for not protecting her or keeping her away from Klaus as she intended to do. And by keeping the supernatural world a secret to protect her, she felt she had done more harm than good.

        "I can try but since her blood is tainted, I'll have to—"

        "The blood on her clothes is pure. Can you use that instead?" Asked Rebekah.

        Davina narrowed her gaze from Deena's stained clothes. It was easy magic she's done before and responded, "I'm only doing this for Deena and no one else, so don't call me here again. I don't wanna be mixed up in your family drama." Her gaze found Deena's. "And she shouldn't have to either."

        "You have my word," Elijah promised.

        If Klaus was in his right mind, he would've had something to say about this but for the first time in a while, he had no energy to feed into petty drama.

        Because Davina knew she could trust Elijah out of all the original siblings, she began the spell. She emptied the bowl of marbles she found on the dresser and began to remove Deena's blood into the bowl leaving her shirt spotless as if it had been recently washed. She then faced Klaus. "I need your blood." She demanded.

        One by one, they looked to Klaus who was currently in his own world. He didn't hear Davina but he soon felt their stares and allowed Elijah's voice to be heard as he called his name softly. Of course, he was worried for his brother. He's never failed to hide his worrisome in times like this. Klaus followed his gesture towards Davina waiting for something he had. What was it she asked for? My blood? Without wasting another second, he bit into his wrist and held it over the bowl as his blood began to mix in with Deena's. He pulled back his arm as he began to heal and waited in the far corner.

        Rebekah practically hovered over Davina as she continued on with the spell and Elijah stood in the center of everyone, his eyes never leaving Klaus. About five minutes later, Davina stood from her seat indicating she was finished with the spell.

        Rebekah peeled herself from the wall. "Well, is it true? Has my brother officially knocked some poor woman up against her will?"

        Klaus saw the way Davina looked at Deena, the look was enough to give him the answers they longed for, but he needed to hear it from her lips. He was desperate as they all were for the answer. She sighed finally meeting Klaus's anxious gaze. "She's a hundred percent Klaus's child." Davina announced.

        Klaus was shocked into silence.

        Not one word has been spoken as they struggled to process nature's loophole. A child, a true Mikaelson, here in flesh by the blood and DNA of Klaus, the Original Hybrid unable to create any lifeform of the living. It was difficult to create a logical answer in their heads how any of this was possible. Klaus has slept with countless women throughout the centuries, so why is it now that it's possible for his seed to create a mortal being? What made Vanessa so special out of all?

        Rebekah felt bitterness towards the situation. Though she was happy her brother has a child he could watch grow old and she has become an aunty, she knew that kind of possibility wasn't possible for her. And she desired what Klaus had—a family. From her own DNA, conceived naturally from her body, children of her own. But she was a vampire. Unlike Klaus, she could not procreate. There was no loophole for her.

        However, Elijah failed to hide his glee. After years of cleaning up after his brother's retaliation, years of watching his demons mold his anger to fear that has built a wall between his misery and his own happiness; wanting nothing but the best for him and for him to let go of his grudges against the world and start letting people in, he believed this could be a chance for Klaus to start over fresh. For not only Klaus, but for himself and for Rebekah. Maybe with the child's presence, could diminish their negative ways and bring back empathy. Something they haven't felt in a while.

        Klaus shuffled into the desk behind him, his tear-filled eyes never left the unconscious girl. He didn't look at her with hate or displeasure; it was a softer look that couldn't be explained in words. There was too much roaming around in his head and in his heart and in his actions, it was too much for him to process.

        Davina suddenly lifted the blood-filled bowl from off the bed and placed it on the smaller dresser near the bed in case Deena moved in her slumber. She clapped her hands together, gathering their destruct attention. The awkward silence was too much for her to stand in. "If that's all, I'm leaving." She sent Deena an apologetic stare before she was already out the door.

        In a flash, Davina's backside was pressed against the opened door with a hard thud. Klaus held her by the neck, seizing to scare her by his threatening presence. "What kind of trick are you playing, Davina? Do you think I can be easily fooled? Do you not fear your worthless life?" He tightened his hand as she fought out his hold. She even sank her fingers between so that she could breathe.

       "I did the spell like you asked!" Davina cried out.

        Elijah sped towards the abrupt commotion while Rebekah took a hesitant step forward, in an attempt to pull Klaus from off Davina before he did anything he'd regret, but his grip loosened from her neck as an enormous amount of pain surged his brain. He fell to his knees while gripping his head like a maniac. His groans of pain and her lifted hand allowed them to put together the pieces.

        Davina stumbled back as she caught her breath, rubbing her now red neck, eyes frantic on the other siblings in case they were going to try her. They held their ground. "Look, Deena's my friend. And as much as I wish I had sabotaged the spell and made your lives miserable, it wouldn't be fair to her and I wouldn't be able to live with the guilt. She is your daughter whether you like it or not. And if you don't believe me, fine! Find another witch who's willing to do the spell. Not that you have many to call. I'm outta here."

        The pain stopped as soon as Davina left the room. Klaus fell to the floor relieved of his torment. He will have his chance to murder that witch with his own bare hands someday. For now, he was focused on regaining his consciousness.

         Elijah was already at his side to help him up. "Niklaus—"

        "I don't need your help!" He pushed away his brother's helping hand and stood on his own. Everyone stood in silence. Klaus took one last look at Deena and fled the room within seconds.

        Elijah sighed.

        "How is this possible, Elijah?" Rebekah asked, staring at the child trying to find the similarities. There were a few, the same Elijah pointed out earlier, but it was hard to believe the child was real. "Despite him being a hybrid...is—is this natural? Is she truly his offspring? And If so, can he produce more?"

        "This is all new to me as it is for you, but spells cannot lie. And I trust Davina. She is a hundred percent Klaus's offspring. Now for the lather, I will have to look into that."

        She stopped at his side. "But—"

        "I said I will look into it," Rebekah recognized that tone and held off from asking any more questions that couldn't be easily answered. "Why don't you find the child something she can wear when she awakens? I will go find our brother and talk some sense into him."

        Without a word, Rebekah sped over to where Deena's luggage sat to look for come clean clothes.

        "And Rebekah?"

        She glanced up with a hum.

        He motioned his finger around the room. "Make sure the house is empty before she awakens. We don't need an incident to occur or a hungry vampire's blood on our hands."

        She rolled her eyes. "I'm always stuck with babysitting when I can do more than that," She whined. "The child I can do, but a house of pre-war vampires? They are already a pain in the ass."

        "Just get it done."

        She rolled her eyes and continued to search through Deena's clothes.

━━━━━━ ━━━━━━

       𝐊𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐒 𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐍’𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐎𝐋 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 entering the bar he sat at to drain his sorrows in. It was only a matter of time before Elijah tracked him down. He never ventured out of his usual locations and his secretive spots were a work in process. Bringing up his empire took up the majority of his time having to fight through an army of vampires loyal to his dear Marcel. Of course, he couldn't bring himself to kill the boy he raised to make an example out of him, so he let him flee.

        But none of that seemed to matter now that he found out he's a father.

        Father.

        A strange title he couldn't force himself to withhold. And instead of believing his forced reality, he decided to drink forth to a past he lived before the child was a thing. His glorious days he might call it.

        "You learn of the existence of your child and yet you sit here to drink it away?" Elijah swiftly made his way toward Klaus.

        Klaus placed down his 5th empty glass of whiskey and released a stressful sigh upon Elijah's disturbing question. "I do not wish to hear your nagging, brother unless you have come to join me?" With his head dangled over the glass-stained counters, he signal the waiter to pour him another glass.

        Elijah then unbuttoned his jacket and ordered the waiter to serve him another round of whiskey as he took his seat next to him. They sat in silence. But knowing Elijah, he couldn't hold off the conversation any longer.

        "What are you thinking, Niklaus?"

        "I think of nothing. But I do think I need a stronger drink, don't you agree?" Klaus was clearly bothered by the question and ordered stronger liquor he could drown in, which meant there was something on his mind. Elijah knew what it was, but understood his tough-hearted brother needed a little push.

        "Your expression tells me otherwise." He thanked the waiter who placed down his drink, and took a small sip before he continued. "Are you afraid you will become a bad father?"

        "And so she has gotten to you with her puny lies? Oh, the Noble Elijah." Klaus mocked his title with a scoff. "The Elijah I knew would not be easily swayed by an amenable spell performed by the very witch who has tried to kill me more than twice and more to come in the future. A spell so that she can forge a weakness to catch me off guard when I have no weaknesses to be used!"

        "And the brother I know would never be troubled with such matter if you truly believe her spell was purged." Klaus's heart thudded faster than its usual speedy pace, which Elijah heard or else he wouldn't have continued his boring speech. "No matter how you feel or what Davina's true intentions are, I do trust her and I trust she would not lie about something as great as this. Think about it, Niklaus, the girl's mother disappeared without a trace and when you asked of her to be located, the witch could not find her on any map which meant she was either cloaked or dead. A cloaking spell is only used when you want to hide from someone or you have something to hide."

        "Yes, thank you, Elijah, for explaining to me the usage of a cloaking spell. Care to explain how to have a quiet drink without your brother pestering him with bogus ideas next?"

        Elijah sighed. "I wish you would not joke for once."

        Elijah wasn't phased when Klaus slammed his glass against the counter and faced his brother with an irritated look on his face. "Well, how else should I process this kind of information, brother? Shall we light a candle in a dark room, stare each other in the eyes, drink from goats' blood, then share our darkest fears and insecurities with one another?" He offered, humor on his tongue.

        Elijah wore no smile on his face at his brother's silly offer. "I wish you would be honest with me for once and not hold up such a wall as if I am here to shame you of the very thing I want you to have—a family."

        He faced the counter with the glass already at his lips. It was beginning to taste like water. "I already have a family." He boasted.

        "And now you have a daughter, who is family."

        The glass pressed heavily on his bottom lip when he suddenly froze. His eyes grew big hearing the D-word and family placed into the same sentence, no longer able to hold up his glass or Elijah would see his hand was shaking. Turning his head to control himself or Elijah would catch the glossy glint filling his vision. Forcing his heartbeat to slow or Elijah would detect his anxiety. A new weakness. One he kept struggling to deny.

        Elijah made a good point about Vanessa because anyone who knew her knew she would never run from anything not even Klaus himself, but of course because of his nature, the thought never crossed his mind. He only assumed it was because of him, not the result of an action they both consented to.

        Klaus could still feel his brother's stare. He knew that if he didn't say something now—the absolute truth behind the wall he kept gluing up—Elijah would get it out of him one way or another. And frankly, he just needed an ear to hear him out. And since Cami was not in viewpoint, he had no choice but to open up to his brother.

        "Fine, you win. You want to know how I feel about becoming a father? I am petrified."

       He finally faced Elijah who had been waiting all day for this exact moment to unfold, only to feel guilty for pressing the matter. But it was what he wanted, and Klaus would give him just that.

        "Given the lack of fatherliness I received, I don't believe the subject is far-fetched. I mean, the girl is practically a young adult, what do I have in common with her? I have lived a self-ruled life of volition and a deep crave for violence as I rain hell upon my enemies, to suddenly become a father of a teenager in less than an hour?" He scoffed. His eyes suddenly black with anger while gulping down his drink in one sip and slammed the glass (almost breaking it) against the counter which caught a little attention. "Her mother knew of this knowledge yet she decided to keep it from me. Just wait until I track her down, she will never hear the last of me."

        Elijah was finally able to understand a piece of Klaus's mind. There is potential and he was already showing it despite his crave for harming the child's mother. "You have missed her childhood; her first word, her first steps, her early years of growth and you feel guilty for that. But now you have a chance to miss no more of her development. This can be a new beginning for us all, for you, Niklaus. Maybe this isn't a bad thing."

        "What if..." He swallowed hard. "What if I'm not ready? What if I'm not...good at this? Good enough? I have no experience of this sort and I don't always have the best interest of whomever I come across."

        Elijah is taken back at his vulnerability and placed his hand on his shoulder as a form of comfort. "No one is ever ready for fatherhood, it just happens. But you are not alone in this, you have me and Rebekah at your side. Together we shall find a way. Always and forever." He smiled warmly.

         For a moment, both brothers shared the weight of Klaus's fears. Hope sparked in his eyes and with comfort he knew his brother would always be at his side no matter the gravity of the situation and it made him feel a little less lonely. Almost happy even, until he remembered Zoeè and the silly prophecy she spoke of conjured out of ignorance, and the witches who seek to fulfill it by sacrificing Deena.

        He stood to his feet with a mission written on his face. "Enough milking my sorrows, brother, I have Camille for that. Because we," While placing down his bill, "have a long list of witches to kill."

𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔

𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆

If you like what you read and wish to read more of this fic, you can read HERE

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵୨♡୧︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿

I will be periodically updating the list. PLEASE, PLEASE recommend your favourite BLACK AUTHORS, more importantly smaller creators (less than 1000 followers for instance) and authors that write for thick to chubby black readers and DARK SKIN black girls <3

Authors that write for Black Reader:

Posts on More BlPOC Writers.

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❥ List By @blackterrae ❥ black fan-creators big list by @triangularz

This is so real and I hate this for myself, but I love it at the same time. So much to show the world yet never enough time

I hate being such a slow ass writer. I have so many drafts I wanna post, yet have so many ideas that keep coming.

reblog if you believe fanfics are as valid as books that were published and sold by authors who write as their main careers. I'm trying to prove a point

since some of yall (mostly racist white people and c**ns) got upset with me the other day about supporting black fanfiction writers, i decided to explain to you all about why i said what i said. 

𝐀 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍’𝐒 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇

𝐔𝐏𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄

A Dragon’s Touch :

Chapter Eleven | Weak-Blooded

~ 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴 ~

⎯⎯ so desperately want to edit these chapters and write and have these updates ready by yesterday, but the hurricane did a big number in my area. Still currently out of power with shitty bars, and need to save as much of my battery for emergencies. I’m alive but I’m aching to write…

This is me. Kinda jealous of all the writers who can write quickly because I can't.

𝐀 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍’𝐒 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇

𝐔𝐏𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄

A Dragon’s Touch :

Chapter Ten | Desires I Have

~ 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴 ~

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐌-𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐃

𝐔𝐏𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄

Book Three of Warm-Blooded :

(Season 5 of the originals)

Chapter 7 | A Piece Of Me To Carry

~ 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴 ~

THE BUCCANEERS ➳ American Poison

Glad that we ditched the "I can fix him" narrative and replaced it with the "i can join him" narrative. Let women be evil!

bring back 24 episode seasons with nearly-an-hour long episodes i am SICK of people's devastatingly low attention spans when it comes to media resulting in everything needing to be chopped down into bite size morsels i need a SAGA

THE GET TO KNOW YOU BETTER TREND

Thank you for the tag: @mtcloudsworld 🤍

last song: Eusexua by FKA Twigs

favorite color: forest green and purple

currently watching: The Judge From Hell and Queen of Tears (I know, I’m late. I started it but stopped cause I was watching other dramas around the time but now I’m obsessed)

last movie: The Crow 2024 and Inside Out 2 (watched it in theaters but saw it was on Disney+ today and had to watch again. The ending always gets to me)

current obsession(s): sims 4, iwtv, claudeleine, the acolyte (need season2), gen v (mariejordan), plan d, rotten mango, six of crows, bob’s burgers, perfecting the languages I know — honestly the list could go on

relationship: single ♡

last thing i googled: Hurricane live tracker. Unfortunately going through a hurricane right now and wanted to know when it was making landfall and how crazy it is. I don’t watch the news like that so I was searching for a live stream

𝐀 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍’𝐒 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇

𝐔𝐏𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄

A Dragon’s Touch :

Chapter Ten | Desires I Have

~ 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴 ~

the first draft is never good. Never. The beauty of writing comes in the editing, when you can tear apart what you’ve done and make it better. It’s not about adding fancy words or making every sentence perfect. It’s about finding the heart of what you were trying to say and making sure that shines through. Editing means being ruthless, cutting out the fluff, and tightening every loose thread until your story feels solid. It’s tough to look at your own work and admit what needs to go, but that’s how your writing levels up.

I’m new here and been tryna discover many Black fanfic writers to follow and support, but the many I’ve found so far—TALENTED AS FUCK. Writing on another level with all the pairs I’m looking for like omgg I need to get inside some of y’all’s heads

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐌-𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐃

— Kol Mikaelson will seize any opportunity to tease his big brother, Klaus Mikaelson, especially when it involves his somewhat mortal niece (Klaus’s daughter)…link below

Warm-Blooded Link

Chapter 20 | A King Does Not Run, He Disappears (1st pic, book two of Warm-Blooded, season 3 of the Originals)

Chapter 3 | Your Sword And Shield (2nd pic, book three of Warm-Blooded, season 5 of the Originals)