➣ Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Ao3 | Ko-Fi | Playlist
➣ [divider @targaryen-dynasty]
➣ Story Masterlist
Word Count: 3,1k
Synopsis: Aylana Velaryon foresees Aemond Targaryen's fate and assigns herself to alter it.
Chapter Themes & Warnings: POV first person (Aylana's), swearing, angst, mentions of blood & violence, friends to enemies, mother-daughter relationship. See story master list for full themes & warnings!
Enjoy the read!
Likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!
AYLANA
Childhood is a kingdom gleaming over the horizon, a faraway sunset. You reach and grasp for faint little lights, golden and blue and red.
Your hands are made of smoke; passing through a world of gold. Sapphires tumbling into white sands. You, at the middle of it all, waiting.
Your childhood home possesses a different sort of nostalgia. It will always hold a piece of you, a version of who you once were. Reminiscence is mixed into the mortar. Its very air exudes memories that you thought long ago buried. Its edifice takes on the shape of your past - it’s almost tangible. It’s riveting.
King’s Landing held that sort of sentiment for me. When the city skyline emerged from the sea, I was a child once more, inching ever closer on the back of Syrax. Mother always used to bring me along, and I was welcomed home with an embrace.
This time it was with a blade to my throat. The cold ruthless edge biting my skin, and a piercing blue eye staring down at me like a hawk watching its prey. Ire licked around the edges like flame on water. One eye – cold and relentless. The other patched up behind leather. Reminding me of my failings. And during that breathless moment, all I could feel was defeat.
I hadn’t ascertained how I thought I might find him after all these years. I just knew that it wasn’t like this. Only a fool wouldn’t have presumed that he too had changed.
He was no longer the quiet, sensitive boy that I grew up with. One that would chase me around the castle and indulge my silly little ideas like swapping the milk for vinegar in the kitchens, or smearing honey on the door handles.
He was a man. Dangerous and unforgiving. Rather, he was just the way I’d left him – tyrannical, with a weapon of steel instead of stone. His depravity had been fed like water into drought-stricken land. And strangely enough, I could not blame him.
What was one to do at the loss of half one’s world, if not seclude to darkness?
But he was more than I would’ve welcomed in his circumstances. He was cruel. He was vindictive. Granted I hadpushed his buttons, and I had perhaps taken it a bit too far with Nymax. But I was angry. I was betrayed. A part of me wanted to see what he’d do. But behind that eye was nothing indicating regret or even the slightest acknowledgment that we had once been friends. Instead, I felt like a stranger, as significant as a leaf blowing in the wind.
And how he’d looked at me… Like I was no more than a beggar on the Street of Silk. With his single eye like a transparent blue agate marble. And that deep scar stretching out beneath the leather like a disease… It plagued my mind.
Word of the one-eyed Targaryen boy had surely spread like wildfire throughout the Seven Kingdoms, but this was the first time I’d seen it for myself, and all I could think of was to reach up and let my fingers graze across it as if my touch would turn back time.
My goading had reaped no fruit. Instead, it had turned to ash in my mouth. Bastard, he’d called me. My gut twisted with a wave of nausea. I’d heard the slight all my life. But from him alone, it stung more than a thousand whispers. It was a brutal testament to whatever monster had taken my friend’s place. He was no longer an Aemond who wanted to be touched. No longer an Aemond that smiled, except in a sadistic, taunting manner. No longer an Aemond that needed me for comfort, or that I needed to protect from his relentless subjugates. Like Ser Harwin and Ser Laenor, the Stranger had claimed him, and assuming his form was a malevolent and vengeful wraith.
Unlike many, I had not pitied him but rather respected the power that he had stepped into - claiming Vhagar as his own. The power I knew deep down he had always wished for. But the shaping of his power had seemingly shattered the last shreds of mine.
No dream had come to me in years.
Perhaps it was the blow to my head, or perhaps our life at Dragonstone was so uneventful and humdrum that there was no scope for the imagination.
Perhaps my auguries were imagined. Though the dream… no, the nightmare, that had come to me at Driftmark all those years ago, spoke to the contrary, filling my mind like a noxious fume: Aemond… writhing in pain, and a flock of maesters tending to him like a violent storm. Blood poured from him in lethal volumes, but as I looked him over, his body was intact. Blood was still gushing down, staining his hands that applied pressure, and as the maesters forced them away, I screamed. Aemond was crying blood. A deep, vertical gash split the left side of his face from cheekbone to forehead. His bone gaped white through the crimson like pulp, and all the layers of his eye had been slashed down to the retina. The pigments of his eye were leaking into the structures and mingled with the blood. He was howling in pain…
Moments later, I had stepped between my brother and the deadly promise of the boulder in Aemond’s hand. And then, everything went black…
It wasn’t until I’d awoken days later on a ship back to King’s Landing that I’d been told of my uncle’s brutal fate.
My mind had been quiet since.
Whatever the reason, I do believe I’ve been better for it. My dreams had never wrought a thing but the recipe for melancholia.
As a child, I had hoped that the life of a Dreamer would’ve granted me the freedom I’d always wished for.
Daenys Targaryen had a powerful foreboding, and alerting her father, Lord Aenar Targaryen, saved the entirety of our house from the Doom of Valyria. She was charged with a greater purpose, besides that of her inheritance.
My own dreams however, were nothing but misgivings – a feeling pitting my stomach that occasionally came to pass. Just the premonitions of a stupid girl with too wild an imagination. Or so I’d been told. Regardless, nothing could’ve prevented the tragedies that followed.
Whatever the future had in store, I had decided that I preferred not knowing.
Even though the people had changed, the castle remained quite the same, ever flaunting its extravagance and wealth of the Targaryens in tapestries, ornaments, and gold.
One thing that certainly had not changed was the stench. The pungent smell of vomit, urine, and feces gusted into my chambers through the balcony where I found myself gagging, considering which death would be more pleasant – suffocation or heat stroke.
The summer had been torturous. The heat hovered in the air, thick and sticky, and transformed the fetidness into something more tangible. And what little wind stirred, it did little to cool me.
How did I ever survive in this place?
I fidgeted with my dress in the mirror donning the Targaryen colors, and although I myself had picked it out, I was at present sincerely regretting my decision. The fabric was beautiful and the stitching intricate, soaking up my sweat until the garment weighed twice as heavy. The only piece of the design that offered me even the slightest reprieve was the neckline that wrapped well beneath my collarbones and let the breeze whisper across my neck.
My gaze drifted to the angry score that decorated my throat like a ruby necklace. I caressed it with my fingers, letting out a restrained hiss. It would leave a scar…
Vexation itched beneath my skin.
If another damned scar got painted on my body by that eunuch, I would start resembling one of his training dummies out in the yard.
The memory of his rough fingers digging into my cheeks swam up before me, pulsing hot like a bruise. His presence had been overwhelming. There had been so much of him at once, and the reminiscence of how he used to look culminated in a shock to my system, like being doused in iced water. The scent of leather, wood smoke, and citrus consumed me. The intensity of his eye on me had been so blinding that I could hardly stand to look at him, like gazing straight into the scorching sun. And his tongue… remaining idle at first but then jabbed at me like a venomous snake.
Hatred tasted acidic in my mouth when I recalled what he’d said to me. I’m going to make you wish you and your pretender menage never set foot in this city again.
A cold shiver skittered down my spine when I tried to imagine what he’d be capable of to make these words stand ground.
“Ayla!”
I jolted; my mother’s entrance having completely eluded me in the bowels of my thoughts. When I turned to face her, she was a flurry of distress and agitation, one hand clutching her swollen belly, wild eyes piercing me.
“What were you thinking?! Gods, how could you be so reckless? The entire city is already speaking of it. That you attacked Aemond and Vhagar with your dragon, and that Vhagar ripped you to shreds!” Mother declared, storming towards me.
Oh my. Causing a scandal before I’d even arrived. Gods had I missed this.
I scoffed, glancing out of the open balcony as if I’d expected to catch the culprit of this gossip. “Well, they’re lying. As you can see,” I said, gesturing up and down my intact frame.
To be fair, I hadn't actually anticipated every dockworker and merchant in King’s Landing to witness my small aerial taunt. But the fact that they would think Aemond could actually take me down was just insulting.
Mother stepped closer, her eyes narrowing at me. “I saw you attacking him.”
“But I didn’t attack him!” I countered, rolling my eyes. “I merely… tested his mettle a bit.”
“I doubt he saw it that way,” Mother hissed, raising an eyebrow at me, her eyes briefly dropping to my neck.
I swallowed, feeling the phantom of Aemond’s blade against my skin.
He had for a fact not seen it that way.
Ugh, why did they all have to be so dramatic?
“Oh, Alicent is going to be furious.” Mother exhaled despondently, cupping her face in her hand as she paced the room.
A steady current of regret diluted my pretension. The last thing I wanted was to stir up any more animosity between the two of them. Nor put any unnecessary strain on my mother in her most delicate condition. I admitted I must’ve miscalculated the entire situation. Tugging at a friendship that died long ago. But I refused to believe that a simple amnesty wouldn’t be able to solve this.
“I’ll… I’ll apologize to him. Publicly.” My jaw clenched, dreading the idea of begging for his forgiveness. But I cherished my mother more than I despised him.
“It doesn’t matter now, don’t you see that? If Alicent hears tale of this – that you made a strike on her son and his dragon, she will see to it that she has her revenge.” Mother looked me dead in the eye, menace rimming them like a she-wolf ready to pounce. As she approached me again, her voice dropped to a low hush. “You know what she wants.”
“But as of yet, she hasn’t succeeded. Grandsire stands between her and her delusions.”
“That doesn't grant us leave to poke the bear. And…” Mother hesitated, an anxious frown crowning her features, “Viserys won’t be around forever.” A distant look clouded her gaze like she was contemplating the fact. I took her hand in a silent comfort.
But once she recovered, her aggravation burned hot again. “Four years we’ve been absent, and you take the very first opportunity to risk our inheritance on some folly attempt of revenge. I thought you knew better than this.”
She was right. I had been reckless. Selfish. Not even entirely certain of why I’d done it in the first place. It hadn’t had anything to do with seeking revenge though. I wasn’t holding any grudge towards him…
Actually, that wasn’t entirely true. I was still angry at him for bashing my head in. But my actions had not been an attempt of retribution. I already believed he’d paid for what he’d done. With no intervention from myself. It was rather that I couldn’t resist the urge to vex him. In which I had succeeded. And was ill-received.
Like I said – me misjudging the situation.
If the Greens were to decide to take action against me, Alicent was certainly the least of my worries.
“I’m sorry,” I said, twisting the golden ring in the likeness of a dragon guarding a Tahitian pearl around my finger. “It won’t happen again.”
Mother softened, collecting my hands in hers to stop my fidgeting.
“We’re to gather in the Godswood in an hour. You’ll allow Daemon and I to handle it from here.”
I nodded, relief that I wouldn’t need deign make any apologies flooding me.
“And is this,” she said, cupping a hand around my crimson wound, “Something you’d wish to tell me about?” The tinge of maternal worry penetrated her voice as she exchanged a single look with her maid Elinda, who curtsied to a silent command and left to fetch something. I had always found their bond most fascinating.
I knew Mother’s choice of returning to King’s Landing had not been an easy one. Our return would surely unravel countless memories and stir dormant grudges never forgotten. Was I to tell her that it had already begun? What good would that do?
I covered the laceration, still raw and pulsing.
“Nymax caught her thorn in me as I climbed off,” I said tersely, still feeling the cool edge of Aemond’s sword biting into my flesh, juxtaposing his warm fingers around the back of my neck.
She studied me for a moment, before taking the damp cloth from Elinda and began to fab away the dried blood. The cool aftermath of the water’s touch was a welcome exchange.
We stood there, in silence, feeling the reminiscence of the room, the spirit of our past echoing between the walls. I suddenly felt an overwhelming grief choking me, like something crawled up my stomach and lodged in my throat. Ser Harwin used to push open the doors and tread inside, his gold cloak flowing around his sword hand with indisputable authority, and he would announce the request for our presence, or that Nymax needed feeding. But I had come to understand that the latter was just an excuse to speak to Mother alone.
I gulped down the lump and fought back tears.
Everything had changed.
Mother dropped the cloth back into the basin and I turned to the mirror dismissively, pulling at my dress absentmindedly.
“It’s so fucking hot in here,” I huffed, wiping at my face with my hands.
“Are you certain?”
“That it’s hot in here? I’m pretty fucking sure,” I quipped.
“About your cut,” she emphasized. “And please stop swearing so much. It does not befit a future Queen.” I caught Mother’s eyes in the reflection. They were stern with an ephemeral softness at the rim, as only her eyes could. She wanted me to confess. To convey his name so that she might be granted some leverage in the coming confrontations. But I was never one to admit defeat. Nor was I a rat.
If I wanted him reprimanded, I would put myself to the task.
I stretched my neck and forced a convincing resolve into my features. “Yes,” I told her, and she considered me for a moment, silence stretching as she looked beyond my eyes. Until she nodded what I believed was approval.
“If anyone asks, then that’s what you’ll tell them,” she said. A golden torc emblazoned with Valyrian glyphs materialized in her grasp. “I thought you could wear this today. And considering the circumstances, I believe it would be perfect,” she said, dressing my wound in gold until the angry red was only barely visible. She turned me around to face her.
A big sigh escaped her lips, her eyes coming alive with love as she took my face in her hands.
“You have grown into such a beautiful, intelligent woman, Ayla,” she said tenderly, rubbing my cheeks between her thumbs. “And though I would like to take all the credit, we both know part of it lies elsewhere. So, I’m aware that what I’m about to say might already be common knowledge to you. But as your mother, I must tell you anyway. No one at court is to be trusted. Do not cede to flattery and do not allow your temper to get the better of you. Here, your weaknesses will be routed and used to destroy you.” Vehemence laced her voice, and I watched a rueful glint flicker in her eyes when she let her thumb brush across my split eyebrow. “If anything happens, know that you have me, Daemon, your brothers, and Ser Laurent to protect you.”
I don’t need protection.
“Yes, mother,” I said placatingly. She was worried, and I could not find it in my heart to make any snide remarks.
She let out a sigh that pulled the tension out of her fingertips, like a bowstring relaxing after being drawn back, readying to release the arrow. She took to washing my skin and brushing out the snags in my hair from my leaking salt. Preparing me to look perfect. Though, I never felt it. My hair had always been too dark and meandering, my skin too olive, and my spirit too wild. Occasionally, I felt like an imposter. Like a crow among peacocks. I was aware of what people were saying about me, and for the longest time, I’d been enraged by it, the whispers rendering me incapable of thinking of anything else. But ever since I’d claimed my dragon, all of their impudence faded into insignificance.
I was as much of a Targaryen as any of them. Perhaps not pumping the amount of royal blood as Aegon the Conqueror, but pumping royal blood all the same. And I’d come to terms with that.
I was the daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen, and I would eventually ascend the Iron-fucking-Throne.
𝐎𝐧𝐞-𝐄𝐲𝐞 & 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫 ║ 1. The One-Eyed Prince ║ Aemond Targaryen x OC!Aylana Velaryon
➣ Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Ao3 | Ko-Fi | Playlist
➣ [divider @targaryen-dynasty]
➣ Story Masterlist
Word Count: 3,3k
Synopsis: Aylana Velaryon foresees Aemond Targaryen's fate and assigns herself to alter it.
Chapter Themes & Warnings: POV first person (Aemond's), swearing, high valyrian, dragon riding, blood & violence, friends to enemies. See story master list for full themes & warnings!
Enjoy the read!
Likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!
Translations:
Sōvēs – Fly
Ossēnagon - Kill
Gīda ilagon, kepus – Calm down, uncle
Iksi sesīr sir, ȳdra ao pendagon daor? – We are even now, don’t you think?
AEMOND
Gravity had nothing on us, my dear.
You can’t untie red strings of fate.
This is how it feels to fall in love with the atmosphere.
The world surrendered to a symphony of wind.
Turbulence thundered in my ears and whipped my hair untamed as I ascended the skies. Rising higher and higher, the clouds enveloped me in a blinding haze, and the elements of the earth below decreased into a mosaic.
I conquered the celestial at such speed that I felt like Aegon reborn.
Vhagar was an extension of myself, her undulating muscles beneath my straddling body felt as if connected to my own, forcing our masses through the heavens with an effortlessness. I commanded her higher still, and she heeded my command.
We defied gravity in a dance of grace and power.
As we approached the stratosphere where air ran thin, I straightened in my saddle, and my mighty Vhagar leveled out, conforming to every delicate change in my movements. The world below became an inverted dreamscape as we sailed the vague interstice that marked the transition between sky and oblivion - the clouds beneath were the unconquered sky, and the indigo above was the ocean, and I was flying upside down.
Mirth bubbled in my chest at the idea.
Together, Vhagar and I were limitless.
The memory of when I first claimed her was so potent it eclipsed everything else, real or imagined. It had been life-altering. Like I’d been a blind man suddenly being granted sight. Or a street urchin stumbling upon a hoard of gold. But it was more than that. She chose me. The largest dragon in the world. What was one to do with such power? A power so raw and exhilarating, it consumed. And I admitted, it certainly had consumed me, dousing my blood like liquor.
And who could blame me? I went from being a fucking nobody… to being the most powerful man in the world.
I leaned into Vhagar’s warmth, and she folded her wings against me.
We plummeted back down towards the earth, a thrilling drop that sent a jolt of pure ecstasy through my veins, hotter than dragon fire. My stomach lurched, and beneath my thighs, Vhagar’s thorax vibrated – a deep, primal roar that resonated through my very bones.
At that moment, I mirrored her, a guttural exclaim of pure, unadulterated joy escaping my lips.
Never had freedom tasted so sweet.
The force of our descent sliced through the nebulous clouds like a knife through cotton, and as we emerged, the Narrow Sea gaped wide, glittering beneath the noontide sun like crystal-embellished silk. I leveled out again and watched Vhagar’s twin loom out of the water.
In the distance, the seven huge drum towers - proud sentinels of pale red stone - rose out of the sea on their stony summits, and the tolling bells welcomed me back home.
An unfamiliar fleet of ships coasted down Black Water Rush like wooden beads along a blue mesh - an unremarkable observation since nobles from every corner of the realm had been descending upon King’s Landing for the wedding.
They had all come through the gates though, by horse and carriage. None by sea.
Traders perhaps? Arriving just in time to fortify our stores for the upcoming plunder.
So many fucking mouths to feed. I had seen them endlessly pour through the castle gates in a river of gold, silver, and polished steel – their banners displaying the sigil of House Lannister, Baratheon, Tully, and I could’ve sworn I saw a direwolf banner among them. Would the Starks truly find a Targaryen wedding of such importance that they would bother dragging themselves out of their frozen pits?
It was to be a grand affair, to be sure. A celebration with tourneys, hunts, feasts, and dancing, to last for at least a fortnight.
If I had it my way, I would escape and race the wind on Vhagar, scouting the lands until I’d committed every field, mountain, and terrain to memory. But Mother’s orders were a bittersweet curse.
‘You are to be on your best behavior,’ she’d told us. A euphemism for me babysitting my nuisance of a brother, ensuring he does not imbibe every wine cask in the Keep, and to hearten my sweet sister who always grew gauche in social gatherings.
One could hardly fathom I was the youngest.
But the chief of my worries was Aegon. He was already inclined to get unreasonably drunk on a plain day. I shuddered to think of the lengths he might go to in tribute to his own nuptials.
Unease filled my gut.
But it wasn’t the vigil of my siblings that rendered me apprehensive.
As I drew close enough to make out the banners, I realized that these were no ordinary trading ships. In fact, these weren’t traders at all…
I tugged at the reins and Vhagar gathered air beneath her leather, and sprung up high, casting her mighty shadow atop the vessels.
Memories consumed me like a bad aftertaste. The sigil-emblazoned sails draped across the masts below needed no introduction. The seahorse and the three-headed black dragon caught the wind.
Straightening in my saddle, a nauseating, breathless feeling tugged at my throat.
It could only mean one thing…
The thought got knocked right out of me as a bone-jarring force shuddered through me, emptying my lungs of air.
My point of gravity shifted.
The world went tumbling around me.
Adrenaline poured into my bloodstream.
Vhagar’s earsplitting roar resounding across the blackwater and the sharp tug at my arm snapped everything into focus.
My wrist had snagged through a loop in the climbing ropes, from which I was now dangling precariously. Vhagar’s tattered wings fanned at my side and my body swayed as she straightened from the impact.
Had I fallen off?
It took my mind a moment to grasp the idea. This just doesn’t happen. I don’t fall off.
I gazed up above where the saddle chains that I had once again neglected to attach myself to, draped down Vhagar’s side like a limp appendage. The links rattling. Mocking me.
I had fucking fallen off.
A distressed wailing growl tore from Vhagar’s throat, her hunter green head curving sideways. I met her glowing copper eyes. They were silently appraising me, awaiting my next command. Even though we were entirely different species, I could read her just as well as I could read any human. Sometimes I even thought I heard her. In my mind. But it was never anything so simple as a voice or an implication to one. It was a feeling. We were one entity, especially when I was astride her. But sometimes even more when we were apart. It was a bond I knew I would never experience with anyone.
I could feel her lowering us towards the city, her dark slits pleading with me to hang on.
“I’m alright, old girl,” I assured her, the thought of anyone witnessing this utterly humbling display suddenly seizing me, sparking my veins like hot iron. I could already feel the whispers clinging to the humid air, dispersing like disease in a brothel.
Aemond One-Eye was no real dragon rider.
He could not even stay his ass in the saddle on a windless day.
Gripping onto the ropes with my other hand, my eye aimed at the saddle above. “Sōvēs, Vhagar.”
I began the climb, my heart hammering against my ribs.
My commands were binding, and though I felt her brief reluctance at first, she conformed, her wings gathering air as I hauled myself back up. Her appeasing grumble thrummed against the back of my thighs as I straddled her, and gave her three firm pats on her hide, feeling sheepish after what had just happened. I pondered the catalyst for its occurrence, my mind skipping between the dreadful thought of a dragon’s ill health to an idea far simpler such as a fault of my own.
My gut churned at the thought.
I did not need to think for long though, because the reason then struck Vhagar’s thorax with a forceful blow, knocking me aslant. But I did not fall. My hands had gripped the saddle horns by instinct like my body had anticipated what was to come. Vhagar roared, deafening and furious, making the very air around us quiver in the still heat.
It was a warning.
My senses prickled with apprehension.
We were under attack.
I scouted the skies in a glassy bewilderment, growing acrimoniously aware of my disability. But the firmament was still and empty.
What in the Seven Hells?
Another blow, my frame unmoving this time. Fury consumed me like poison. Gritting my teeth, I gripped the saddle horn and twisted the thick reins twice ‘round my forearm, perceiving every muscle of Vhagar’s back contracting beneath me, waiting to charge.
Who would dare challenge the might of House Targaryen?
More importantly, who would dare challenge me?
A flicker of movement caught my eye.
A shadow, shrouded beneath Vhagar’s wing membranes, was soaring alongside us. And when I turned to look, my eye met a stranger, masked and cloaked, stalking us on a dragon as black and swift as a raven. The beast was miniscule in relation to us, just the age to breathe fire, and yet had nearly forced me to meet the gods.
Humiliation morphed into a blinding rage that seethed through my veins and marred my vision with a red mist. “Ossēnagon, Vhagar!” I growled, and steered her toward the trespasser. But the figure crouched down in their saddle, and their dragon dove towards the city.
Fucking craven.
We went after them. Wrath consumed me, shifting my attention to a single point of focus: to allow Vhagar’s jaws to rip them apart until all that was left of them was a cloud of blood.
Their descent was swift and inaudible, while ours was slow and thunderous like a moving mountain. The pale orange rooftops of King’s Landing, bleached from the summer’s scorching sun, spread out like a vast rust beneath our darkening shadows.
We pursued them to the Hill of Rhaenys, where we landed opposite each other outside the crypts of the dragonpit.
Dismounting, I started towards them, each step a measured threat. The steel of my sword sang its lethal warning as I drew it from my scabbard. But the stranger stood their ground, defiance flickering in their shadowed form, making no attempt to engage a weapon of their own.
From challenging me midair to abstaining from fighting me on the ground had my anger, already a simmering cauldron, boiling over. I closed the distance between us, a growl ripping from my throat, raw and primal before my blade bit their throat.
My whole being demanded their death, but I knew better than to execute a rogue assassin without first extracting some answers. A desperate struggle ensued, but my palm collared the nape of their neck, locking them to the steel. Alarming exclaims sounded in the distance, but the words faded underwater.
“The Stranger requests an audience. Less you reveal the purpose of your presence here within the next five seconds,” I seethed, the contiguity drowning my voice into a whisper.
I took pleasure in that I towered over them, feeling their hot, humid breath against me, hitching beneath the sharp edge.
“My prince!” A familiar voice mingling with the sound of clattering metal came from my left. Ser Harrold Westerling, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, was running towards us. His voice, booming like thunder, always sufficed in snapping the whole court to attention at his announcements. But it wasn’t his timber that stirred me this time. “Let her go!”
His words carried me out of my raging inferno and had me dip into raw curiosity.
Her?
A soft, vibrant laugh with a taunting edge pooled out of the cowl, finishing with a humming sound of satisfaction.
I blinked through my apprehension and scavenged the stranger’s frame with my eye as if I’d awoken from a dream and seen them for the first time.
“I see that you’ve lost your sense of humor too,” came a female voice. “Someone told me you get funnier after experiencing trauma. But you look like you haven’t laughed in years.”
Annoyance twisted my features.
A tug, a rustle, and her cowl fell back and settled around her shoulders.
A wave of ice ran down my spine.
It was like seeing a ghost. The protagonist of all my nightmares coming alive, ready to haunt me.
Aylana Velaryon.
She was a wretched little thing standing before me. Her eyes, the color of sunlit amber flicked with gold, held mine with an unsettling intensity. Mischief danced in them like cinders over a fire, and a knowing smile played on her lips.
Chagrin sparked hot within me, and she looked so fucking pleased with herself that I had no control of what I did next.
I grabbed her face. Ignoring the ominous, billowing roar of her dragon. My palm enveloped her jaw, my thumb and index finger digging into the soft, pliant skin of her cheeks, stripping that conceited expression off it.
“Are you saying that I should’ve found that little fucking ambush of yours up there funny?” I hissed, dubiety weighing my tone. Her dark brows knotted together, and her lips swelled forward, her mouth forced open into an oval shape. “You nearly killed me.”
She rolled her eyes. Fucking rolled her eyes at me.
“Gīda ilagon, kepus,” she said, a sardonic edge lacing her voice. “Iksi sesīr sir, ȳdra ao pendagon daor?”
The words hit me like a physical blow, taken aback by the fluency of her High Valyrian and the meaning behind the words in equal measure.
No… Actually, their meaning stirred me the most. Then, my gaze fell upon the one jarring element which had elicited them, as if it had called to me. A crimson scar that snaked across her left eyebrow, expressing a raw pink sheen beneath a shell of transparent skin.
Years had passed, yet the wound looked just healed.
My jaw tightened as venom scoured through my veins.
I could still see her crumpled, lifeless form in the dirt, her skull cracked open, every time I closed my eye.
And I was holding the bloody rock.
A torrent of questions, accusations, apologies – years of unspoken turmoil – churned within me. But now, with her life literally in my hands, the words deserted me. My tongue, usually an agile weapon, felt like lead. This was the person who had haunted my every waking and sleeping thought for years, and all I could manage was a stunned silence. Perhaps my countenance spoke volumes where my voice failed, though I doubted it presented anything but bored disinterest.
She echoed the girl I remembered, but time had woven its changes. Her once youthful features had sharpened. Cheekbones higher, lips fuller. She smelt of sea and brimstone. Her head of bouncy, tight curls was now an ocean of dark waves tumbling down her back in drifts… The shade struck a chord in me. Chafed at my benevolence. A testament to who… what… she truly was.
Tainted blood.
“No?” Her voice was muffled by the force of my grasp. “Well, if you are planning on killing me, please do try not to get any blood on this cloak,” she said, her chin wagging in my hand at the black fabric that draped her. “I’ve promised it to Jace in the event of my passing.” A sly grin curved the corners of her lips, sending ire tugging at my nerves.
Time certainly hadn’t woven any changes on the vexing essence of her character.
I let out a guttural sound of disdain as I released her, pushing her back, and she huffed sharply. A bright seam of red welled up at the lip where my blade had kissed her and painted the length of her neck like dark fruit. But she didn’t seem to notice.
“Don’t worry,” she said, unclasping the cloak and pulling off her leather gloves finger by finger. “I won’t tell anyone.”
I noted her gaze briefly flicker across my eyepatch. Her scrutiny made the leather singe my skin with awareness. I bristled. A streak of something ludic crinkled her eyes, discouraging me from entertaining whatever it was she was trying to pull out of me. But I couldn’t resist.
“What?” I muttered, regretting the acquisition as soon as it left my tongue.
She tipped her head, pulling the gloves between her fingertips. “That you fell off your dragon,” she said softly, like she was sorry it happened. “Granted she is the largest dragon in the world. And you’re so very small. But… I’d wager the court will find it most amusing all the same.”
Red.
Fire tapped into my spine, setting my nerves ablaze.
I heard how the self-preserving bond on my madness snapped like a fractured leg.
There was no restraining what I’d say next.
I approached her until we were nearly chest to chest and she was sure to have felt the slash I’d made in her neck the way it gaped open from her straining to look up at me. But she just smiled, a dimple flashing on her cheek. As if we were still kids and she had made a humorous jest.
I could choke her.
“Listen to me, bastard,” I drawled, taking savage pleasure in watching her grin drop and the colour drain from her face. “Whatever advantage you think you have over me, my preeminence is tenfold. I know what you are. I know what your filthy brothers are. It’s as plain as day. And though you know as well as I that every living soul in King’s Landing and beyond knows it too, I doubt you’d want the likes of me going around confirming the fact Rhaenyra’s children are the spawn of her whoring.”
She attempted to strike me, but I dodged her swing and the second time I caught her fist in my hand.
“Don’t worry,” I said, leaning into her, whispering, “I won’t tell anyone.”
“Fuck. You. Aemond,” she heaved behind clenched teeth, her voice thick with tears and trembling rage.
A taunting smile quirked my lips, a muscle movement that was foreign to me. I released her hand and stepped back.
“For however long you are here, dear niece, I’m going to make you wish you and your pretender menage never set foot in this city again.”
I watched her jaw work, her face contorting into an expression of disgust and such choler that I thought she would start breathing fire, but of which I was content.
“Ser Harrold,” I called, and the silver-clad guard approached hesitantly, having watched the whole scene play out. “Escort the princess to the Red Keep. Her old quarters should already be prepared for her.”
“Certainly, my prince,” said Ser Harrold, the Lord Commander who was the very first person to see my face after the loss of my eye. This fact made him remarkably significant somehow.
Ser Harrold showed Aylana the way to the wheelhouse with a small gesture of his hand. She stood unmoving at first, but eventually started forwards, absently dragging her feet behind her.
“Oh, and uh…” I added, watching Ser Harrold turn to me again.
Aylana stopped, her back to me.
“Make sure she doesn’t attempt murder on anyone else on your journey. Those bastards can be… hot-headed.”
I gave them my back, perceiving what I imagined was the sound of Aylana attempting to launch herself at me, but got caught in Ser Harrold’s grasp. Her vicious mouth spat curses and vile words as I mounted Vhagar and took to the sky, watching the Commander and the princess blur into mere specks on a canvas.
You are to be on your best behavior. Mother’s voice resounded in my head. Gods… it turns out that would be a mighty difficult command to heed.
This would be a celebration I was sure to remember…
𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐄 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐈 ║ III. The Dream of Rome ║ Marcus Acacius x Hanno's sister!reader
➣ Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Ao3 | Ko-Fi
➣ Chapter II. | All chapters
Word Count: 2,1k
Synopsis: As an esteemed warrior of the Numidian army, your world turns on its axis when you’re taken prisoner by the Romans. Ever since your stealth attack that nearly cost the General of the Roman army, Marcus Acacius, his life, he appears to have taken a special interest in you. Under his tutelage of swordplay and carnal things, you delve deeper into the heart of the Roman Empire, uncovering its instability, and Acacius’ true intentions with you…
Themes & Warnings: 18+ (MDNI!), POV first person, blood & violence, slow burn, enemies to lovers, implied age gap, misogyny, political corruption & instability, yearning & longing, mutual pining, slavery, pet names, mentions of sexual inexperience, swearing, mentions of sex
A/N: Next chapter will be spicy, so hang in there! 🤪
Anaticula (duckling), Adonis (god of beauty and desire)
Enjoy the read!
Likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!
I’d never thought I’d feel so subservient. So utterly susceptible to somebody else’s whim. Neither would I have believed that one simple action, taken in a mere second, would’ve unravelled a path that would crumble my whole world. Only to be put before an impossible choice that could inevitably grant me my freedom.
Though, it wasn’t really much of a choice. I needed to do it. For myself, and for my honour.
What felt like an eternity of silence had passed, before Acacius’ timber startled me, “What say you?” he whispered, like he was afraid of how I would respond to his instruction. I realized he had as much to fear as I did - relaying this sort of information to me. What nearly escaped me was just how much power he had actually placed in my hands. I was of no importance to the Roman Empire.
I wouldn’t even have to kill him myself. One breath to the emperors about Acacius’ schemes and I could have his head on a spike come dawn.
It was a dangerous game, a gamble with stakes far higher than I could have imagined.
But I’d sworn my allegiance. In my world, that meant something. And I believed that it did in his as well.
He pierced me with his gaze, his eyes the color of dark, swirling pools in the dim light of the atrium.
If I were to do this, I needed answers.
“Why do you wish to kill them?” I finally breathed.
Acacius appeared to wrestle with his thoughts, a torrent of emotions and events which I supposed could not be captured by mere words.
Finally, he sat down on the stone rim of the pond, one hand resting atop his knee. He proceeded to tell me everything.
About his departed wife, Lucilla, and their relentless pursuit of the dream of Rome, inherited by her father, the revered Emperor Marcus Aurelius. A dream that was slowly, agonizingly slipping away. He spoke of Emperor Geta and Caracalla – about their hot-headed tyranny; slowly bleeding the country out in pursuit of their own fame and glory.
“The bloodshed will not end with Numidia,” said Acacius solemnly. “These brats want to take it all. Persia. India. All the while their own people starve in the streets.”
The memory of the festering city swam up before me. The so-renowned city of Rome, in actuality, reduced to such a pathetic spectacle.
“Is that not the way of the world?” I asked.
A furrow of despair etched between his brows. “It does not have to be,” he said, his voice filled with a sincerity that I yearned to believe. “Change needs to begin somewhere.”
A strange warmth bloomed within my chest. Despite my reservations, I was beginning to realize that Acacius wasn’t inherently a bad man.
“And you wish to start this change with an assassination?” I queried, taking a seat beside him.
“An assassination that will help save the lives of thousands,” he implored, before rising from his seat and pacing the atrium, twisting the armilla around his forearm.
“And you wish me to perform this?” I posed. The notion was unfathomable to me. As a General, he surely had legions of loyal soldiers at his command. Men who wouldn’t hesitate, wouldn’t question. Wouldn’t fail...
“That’s right,” he drawled, the sound blazing a path down my spine of velvet and steel.
My eyes, drawn to his face, studied him intently. His skin was tanned, and slightly aged. He could not have been older than fifty. His lips, the faintest shade of cherry, formed the shape of a heart at rest. A perpetual frown etched his brow, which I supposed had come naturally from extensive warfare, but it did nothing to intimidate me, nor did it mar him. An old scar traced his right cheekbone, and the one I’d made on his neck was just beginning to heal.
“Why?” my voice was barely a whisper.
The question hung heavy in the air as he approached me slowly. “Because you will be able to get close enough to them.”
I stared into his eyes, dark and fathomless like polished obsidian, searching for any hint of jest. But his resolve was as clear as the dawn breaking over the horizon, and the weight of his request began to settle upon my shoulders.
“To get close,” I repeated, contemplating the actual enormity of this task when cold vexation flashed my nerves. “Enough of these vague concepts,” I said curtly, “What are you truly asking of me? I will need details, Acacius,” I said, rising to my feet, “Strategies, routines, vulnerabilities. I’ll need to know it all.”
His jaw ticked, and his expression hewed into something apologetic, a fleeting emotion that sparked an ill foreboding in my bones. He released the armilla and allowed his arms to drop to his sides. My eyes followed his path as he moved to a corner of the room, pulling out one of the elegant curule chairs from a round mahogany table. “Please, sit,” he said, before placing himself in the opposite curule. “You must be starving.” He poured wine into two glasses while I stood rooted and hesitant. But the agonizing hollowness in my stomach could not be denied. I had not eaten for two days, and though it did not sound like a lot, it felt like an eternity.
I walked myself toward the corner, pacing myself to not seem too eager, and cautiously seated myself. The small table offered a modest spread: a bowl overflowing with fruit, a dish of walnuts, a bowl of olives, and a sliced loaf of bread. I plucked vigorously, each bite feeling like a touch of heaven, and when my tongue tasted the wine, I found myself envying him.
When I looked up, he was watching me, his eyes a deeper shade of brown, almost black, as he sipped his wine slowly, deliberately. I spat an olive pit into my hand, and watched his eyes grow darker still beyond the rim of his glass.
I dried my mouth on the back of my hand, leaning back in the chair as he refilled my glass.
“Tell me everything,” I said, my voice firm with a newfound resolve. “I’m ready.”
Acacius leaned back, the palm of his hand stroking the dark, bristling beard of his chin as he appraised me. “Very well,” he began, his voice a low murmur that seemed to carry the weight of centuries and fixed me with eyes almost imploring.
He took a moment to gather himself, before he leaned toward me, and my breath slowed with apprehension.
“There will be a celebration in my honor. Tonight,” he said, and bile rose in my throat while a million questions and scenarios erupted in my mind like a flurry. “I need you to accompany me.”
Repugnance penetrated my veins at the thought of attending a celebration of my people’s demise. An overwhelming feeling struck me, like I was back in that cage, and the only way to set myself free was to chop my own arm off. I gritted my teeth against the rising tide of despair, pushing back the tears. “I fucking hate you,” I hissed below my breath, but the brief pause in his narrative confirmed he’d heard me.
If only I’d contemplated how much worse it could get.
“Now,” he continued, his voice softer, “The emperors’ parties are no mere gatherings. They are spectacles of power, displays of decadence, exercises in control... and sex.”
The last word snapped me back to attention, my pulse quickening, ice settling into my stomach – fear.
“They are designed to intoxicate the senses, to break down barriers, and expose the deepest vulnerabilities of those who attend,” he proceeded, and I prayed he didn’t notice how I’d gone pale.
A shiver, cold and profound, snaked down my spine, my entire body quivering from dread of the heart of his plan.
“During this party, I want you to get close to the emperors. Either one, preferably both.” His eyes held mine with such intensity that I could feel how the muscles in his body contracted. “And assassinate them.”
He made it sound so easy. I nodded, attempting to digest his every word without completely losing my mind.
“And,” I uttered hesitantly. “How would I...” I didn’t want to know the answer. “...get close to them?”
“You will have to seduce them.”
I shuddered, his words echoing in the silence of the atrium. I didn’t have a single notion of how to do that. Though, if I somehow did manage it, what then?
I was starting to feel dizzy.
“What if I get caught?” I asked, annoyed that I could not keep my voice from trembling.
“You won’t,” he said assertively.
“What if I get caught?” I repeated, my voice hardening, “Spare me the platitudes.”
He sighed and leaned back in his chair; one hand placed firmly upon the mahogany table. “Follow my plan,” he said. “Get them alone. And I’ll ensure you won’t get caught.”
It wasn’t much reassurance, but I supposed at this stage, I only had myself to blame. The moment of the battle flashed before my eyes, and instead of hesitating, I made sure Acacius spurted blood. It gave me momentary reprieve from the crushing weight of my predicament, my mind attempting to relieve my agony. But the torment only escalated once reality dawned once more.
Stupid, stupid girl.
“What am I to you?” I asked, my voice faltering.
Acacius paused and studied me cynically, clearly uncertain of the inference of this question. “You’re my slave,” he said then, and my guts twisted into a knot.
“I mean, at this party,” I managed, choking back tears, “What will I be to you?”
Silence stretched, and the furrow between his brow etched deeper, his gaze growing solemn and cold.
“I believe you already know the answer to that question.”
A tear spilled from my eye, not from grief, but from indignation, and I clutched onto my rags so hard they nearly ripped.
“Listen,” he said, leaning forward in his chair. “Nothing needs to happen if you play your cards right. You’ll get through this,” he said placating, but somehow it only made me resent him more.
Dread coiled beneath my skin at the prospect of intimacy. My sexual experience was limited, non-existent, in truth. And the idea of having to pretend to know what I was doing – to make it believable enough, while simultaneously plotting the emperors’ demise, made me feel vertiginous, like I was teetering on the edge of a precipice.
“B-but,” I stammered, my fingers trembling as I tried to school my racing heart. “Will the emperors not deem a girl already... pledged to another as... off limits?”
“On the contrary,” he said derisively. “They enjoy the hunt. They like feeling powerful, and desirable. It’s important that you make them feel as such,” he explained.
I was starting to feel delirious, and out of breath.
“They’re not only tyrannical, but extremely vulgar.”
“Enough,” I gasped, and rose from the curule, needing to escape the unbearable weight of this imminent affair.
“I’m not trying to upset you,” came Acacius’ voice from behind.
I walked into the atrium, and found myself drawn to the pond, watching the fish swirl and dart, their serene movements a stark contrast to the turmoil within, pacifying me.
“You need to be prepared,” he said gently, something akin to compassion penetrating his silken drawl.
I filled my lungs, slowly and deeply.
I would survive this, I thought. I had to. This was not merely about my freedom; it was about freeing the world from the suffocating grip of the Roman tyranny.
I turned back towards Acacius, who was now upstanding, watching me with a determined, cautious look. His demeanour, a peculiar mix of empathy and resolve, offered me the slightest hint of relief.
It could’ve been worse. Acacius could’ve been a tyrant too. Or I could’ve been somebody else’s slave forever, with no opportunity of escape. Acacius had offered me a chance to change something for the better. To make my life mean something. In this moment, partly to ease myself into the reality of the situation, I decided to be grateful. I decided to trust him. I couldn’t afford to falter now.
I met my reflection in the water of the pond and recoiled. I certainly couldn’t go anywhere like this. I turned to him. “What should I wear?”
He smiled gently, to my surprise, and offered me his hand. I took it. “Come with me,” he said, as he led me out of the atrium. “I have just the thing.”
𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐄 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐈 ║ II. Anaticula ║ Marcus Acacius x Hanno's sister!reader
➣ Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Ao3 | Ko-Fi
➣ Chapter I. | All chapters
Word Count: 4,6k
Synopsis: As an esteemed warrior of the Numidian army, your world turns on its axis when you’re taken prisoner by the Romans. Ever since your stealth attack that nearly cost the General of the Roman army, Marcus Acacius, his life, he appears to have taken a special interest in you. Under his tutelage of swordplay and carnal things, you delve deeper into the heart of the Roman Empire, uncovering its instability, and Acacius’ true intentions with you…
Themes & Warnings: 18+ (MDNI!), POV first person, blood & violence, slow burn, enemies to lovers, implied age gap, misogyny, political corruption & instability, yearning & longing, mutual pining, slavery, mentions of suicide, pet names
Anaticula (duckling), Adonis (god of beauty and desire)
Enjoy the read!
Likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!
I never saw Acacius again after we disembarked. But I heard his name. It was cheered in chorus, vibrating through the city like galloping hooves. The wealth of Rome was rooted in his conquests, and the people loved him for it. To them, he was a hero, the embodiment of all their dreams come true. The dream of Rome.
But from the outside looking in, this dream was rotten. The roads leading out of the city were a blight, a growing miasma of poverty and despair the further you went, like a festering wound. I gritted my teeth at the stench rising from the fetid streets, the scorching heat of the sun turning the smell thick in the air like soup, causing nausea to course through me again.
I should have killed him, I thought. I should have fucking killed him.
The ovation for his victory faded as the carriage pulled us further from the city. And after what felt like hours immersed in the relentless heat of the southern sun, a distant silhouette of buildings emerged before us. From the words exchanged between the drivers I surmised it was the city of Antium. Despite its teeming population, it lacked the grandeur of a true metropolis, its only notable feature being rows of crops sprawling their green tracks atop mounds and the circular arena at its heart, a seemingly smaller replica of the Colosseum. But to my relief, our distance from the capital offered some respite from its pestilence.
As the carriage rolled through the city center, I felt the weight of countless eyes upon me. Judgmental, hungry, lustful, hateful – their gazes were a tangible threat. The chains clattered around my wrists as I retreated from their outstretched hands. Whether their intentions were to caress me or hurt me, I was determined not to find out.
The carriage halted before a jostling, clamorous crowd, and a burly guard yanked me and the other women out from our rusted cage. The moment my feet touched the gritty Antium soil, a man with long, greasy hair, and front teeth poking forward like a rat, approached me, reaching his grimy hands out to touch me. A foul stench, like rotting fish and cat urine, clung to his ragged robes, and without a second thought, acting purely out of instinct, I lunged back and connected my foot with his gut in one violent kick. The rat man fell backwards in the sand with a grunt, and the crowd erupted in gasps and cheers of delight.
Panic sparked through me. In this foreign land, stripped of my title and reduced to a mere commodity, no more significant than shit under their boots, I had dared to defy my captors, and all I could expect was my sure destruction.
The rat man regained his footing quickly, bashing his huge incisors in a growl that sent saliva spurting out, and went for me again. I braced myself, having mere milliseconds to decide whether to submit or break his neck. But a hand shot out then, halting his attack.
“No touching before you buy!” growled a man in long beige and white colored robes and a half head of hair. And though the bile rose up in my throat at the thought, I could only assume this was my master. The rat stepped back, piercing me with a look that demanded blood.
A laugh came from my left. It was a laugh so exuberant and hearty that it spoke of wealth and power comfortably worn. He was tall and regal, his complexion the richest shade of brown. He wore golden circlets in his ears and his robes flowed red, purple, and gold, excellently complimenting his skin. His very presence whispered of charisma and effortless charm.
“This is a feisty one!” he beamed, wagging a jeweled finger at me. “Are you certain you can handle her, Master Fausta?”
The man in beige and white cast his gaze upon me, and a cold shiver crept below my skin. His eyes were light blue and crazed as they bore into me, nearly bulging out of their sockets the way he pierced them open. “Trust me, Macrinus,” Master Fausta sneered, “Even the wildest dog will yield to the whip.”
I stared back at him defiantly, feeling the cuffs tighten around my wrists. If only he knew how fortunate he was I was chained up.
Macrinus flashed a knowing smile, a row of perfectly white teeth. “Perhaps you should surrender her to me,” he suggested lyrically. “She’d triumph in the fighting pit.”
I couldn’t discern whether he was speaking in earnest or attempted to make a jest, but the idea intrigued me nonetheless. “Without a doubt,” I concorded, and watched a crackle of allure pass through Macrinus nearly black eyes, before a blow to my temple sent me reeling, and I tumbled to the ground.
“Slaves don’t speak!” roared Master Fausta.
My head throbbed from the impact and something warm trickled down my face.
“Now, now, there is no need for such theatrics,” Macrinus said calmly, before grabbing me by my arms and pulling me to my feet. My sight quivered from the impact, and briefly, I thought there were two of him. “What is your name, child?”
“Y/N,” I managed.
“Y/N,” he repeated. “Remember – there are always worse fates to find yourself in.” He pulled a handkerchief from underneath his robes and dabbed at my temple with it. “Chin up,” he said, and before he left, he made a playful bow, swaying theatrically with his red-golden robes. “Best of luck to you, Master Fausta. And if it runs out, you know where to find me.”
_
For days, we languished in their squalid cages, subjected to the scrutiny and degradation of the public while the masters prodded and examined us, inspecting us for injury, disease, and fertility - appraising us like livestock. As the days bled into endless nights, my spirit was slowly broken. Despair crept in, as I sunk deeper and deeper into poisonous thought. I would become a slave to someone’s whim, a mere commodity. The idea of escape was such an impossibility that the allure of oblivion grew stronger. Perhaps I could strangle myself with my own chains, or lure a guard close enough to grab his sword.
Acacius’ voice echoed in my head, ‘That’s not going to happen.’ I admitted there was a part of me that had believed him. That some greater plan of rescue was hidden beneath those words. A fleeting thought. But now, huddled in my own filth, I was consumed by a darker fantasy. The moment of the battle when he was at my mercy replayed endlessly, but in my mind, I composed a different outcome. One where I plunged my dagger into his neck over and over, until it came off his body, and my vision dissolved into a crimson haze. It offered me a fleeting reprieve, a momentary release from the crushing weight of despair. But once reality dawned, I had sunk deeper into the abyss.
On the third day, they dragged us from the cage. A throng had gathered further down the street, a sea of faces converging on a small, raised platform. It was early still. Though the sun had barely crested the horizon, the streets were already abuzz with activity. The bidding war was already raging. The women from my village were paraded like livestock, their beauty or youth the sole currency in this barbaric exchange. Men jostled and shouted, their voices a clamor of greed and lust, waving their purses heavy with coin for the young and fair, their enthusiasm waning for the aged and ugly. I watched in horror as the perfumed aristocrats fumbled, roamed, and pulled on their newly acquired possessions. I shuddered, imagining the degradation that awaited them in this accursed place. But fear did no longer consume me, for I would not live long enough to be submitted to any of it.
A wave of icy dread washed over me as I saw Master Fausta, his grip tight on a trembling girl, perhaps no older than fourteen. She clung to herself like a frightened bird, while the men haggled over her like she was a prize mare. But as the auction raged ahead, my gaze caught a spark of shiny metal strapped to Fausta’s waist. A leather-wrapped dagger hung loosely against the young girl. And all I could think was being up there with him meant that I would be just within reach of it.
I was up next. Each step towards the platform was a fresh wave of anguish. Two equally agonizing choices loomed before me, with mere seconds at my disposal to decide. Dread twisted my gut, a cold blade churning, while adrenaline infiltrated my veins, hot like fire. As I mounted the platform, my blood slowed, and dissociation clouded all ambient noise, the uproar of clattering coin purses fading into a distant hum.
“Ten aureus!” one man roared.
“Twelve!” bellowed another.
Master Fausta snorted with contempt, his beige-white cloaks swirling around him. “You can do better than that, just look at her!” he sneered, his grip on my face bruising.
I readied myself. The dagger at my side throbbed, a burning beacon.
“Fifteen!”
“Twenty-five!”
The bids escalated, each one a hammer blow against my will. The crowd below stretched out before me, a vast, undulating sea of faces, their eyes gleaming with avarice.
As I reached for the dagger, a head in the crowd caught my attention. It wasn’t among the gaping bidders, turned to me with a purse raised in a clamor. It was hooded and obscured, flowing through the crowd with a predatory grace like a lion pursuing a herd of blackbuck. Every movement was deliberate and calculated, and when the hood revealed strands of black and silver, I nearly gasped.
Like he was a silhouette against the sea of faces, he vanished into the throng before I had a chance to discern his features. My breath was hitched in my throat, my hand returning to my side - the purpose of its movement suddenly forgotten.
“Thirty!” The crowd roared.
“Sixty,” came a voice in the front, commanding attention.
“Oooooh,” Fausta exclaimed, trying to get a glimpse of the man who’d placed the highest bid yet. “Will anyone go any higher than sixty?” his voice echoed through the square, a challenge hanging in the air.
My eyes locked with another’s through the chaos, and my heart leaped into my throat. Acacius. His face, obscured by the shadows of his hooded cloak, was an enigma of intent. A curious sense of relief washed over me before I could reprimand it. He stood unmoving, silent, not lifting a finger to get me away from there. And why should he?
“Higher than sixty?” Master Fausta announced, his voice straining for excitement. But the crowd was silent, the faces casting glances at each other, each wondering who had dared to bid so extravagantly for a slave. But Acacius only held my gaze among them, unwavering, almost challenging. My relief soon curdled into malice, a venomous serpent coiling within me. I was on the verge of acting on that venomous impulse when Acacius, as though he could read my mind, placed a finger over his lips. Silence. And despite the beast of hatred clawing at my reason, I obeyed.
He could not have placed the bid. There was nobody coming to save me.
“Anyone?” continued Fausta, his voice less enthusiastic. “Sold!”
I was discarded as swiftly as I’d been captured, thrust into the waiting arms of my new owner who tossed a heavy purse into Fausta’s greedy hands. The man, smelling of too much perfume and an undertone of bad milk, spoke to me, but his words were lost in the maelstrom of my own thoughts. As he guided me out of the throng, my eyes remained fixed on Acacius, his frame a ghost in the shifting crowd. His eyes followed me, but as the auction resumed, its roar drowning out all else, he vanished.
“You listening to me, girl?” my master growled, and I nearly cricked my neck trying to find Acacius again. Once the crowd fell behind us, my master jolted me back to him and fixed me with his gaze. He was an imposing figure, old and tall, his body draped in a beautiful turquoise toga beneath a common hooded cloak, and his wrinkled skin had a film of falsity. His features twisted into a scowl from not being heard. “We have no time for this,” he grunted, pushing me towards an elegant wheelhouse. “Get in,” he said.
Before I could even gasp a question, he shoved me into the shadowy confines of the wheelhouse and slammed the door shut. The vehicle rattled forward almost instantly, the discordance of the auction receding into a distant echo. Peeking through the curtains, I watched the scene shrink behind us – the jostling crowd, the slave cages, and the arena, all fading into insignificance.
We veered south, but before I was pulled back into the stench of Rome, we took a second road west. For hours, we traversed a landscape that shifted between dusted streets of civilization and desolate stretches of sand beds. During the journey, my mind was a captive, contemplating all the horrors which awaited me. Would I scrub his floors? Would I cook his meals? Warm his bed? The prospect of becoming a Roman whore was excruciating. Revolt coiled and itched under my skin like maggots.
The image of Acacius swam up before me. I was on the brink of preventing all of this, but his presence had paralyzed me. Again. What was it about him that held such a suffocating grip on my mind? Like his very presence occupied too great a space for anything else to exist.
What had he even been doing there? A man of his stature. A General. Lingering in an ocean of squabbling merchants. Perhaps his purpose there was to witness my fate. To watch his near killer get sold as a slave and relish in the imaginings of the cruel life that awaited her. However, next time, I would not fail. Whether it was him or me, one of us would die tonight.
The carriage rolled onto a tree-lined gravel road, gliding towards a massive gate. As we passed through, the grandeur of the estate unfolded before me. I swallowed as the carriage came to a smooth halt; the silence broken by the squeaking carriage from the weight of moving bodies. The door flung open, and my master’s wrinkled face loomed over me, the lines etched deeper beneath the shadows of his cowl. I shuddered.
“We’re here,” he announced, his voice oddly subdued. Lost in a whirlwind of desperate schemes, I barely registered his words. “Quickly now!” he hissed, pulling me from the chariot.
The world exploded into color. I was engulfed by a verdant garden. The air was thick with birdsong, the scent of flowers mingled with the warm breeze, and sunlight filtered through the leaves, painting the scene in liquid gold. For a fleeting moment, I almost forgot my predicament, captured by this idyllic haven with a single thought that: I would not mind staying here forever.
“Make haste!” my master barked, striding towards the domus that centered the gardens, making no attempts to ensure I followed suit, but for some inexplicable reason, I still did. A chill prickled my skin even though I was damp with perspiration, as I followed him into the atrium.
A sense of vastness and cool air washed over me. The pillars that crowned the room brought it up high, casting long, dramatic shadows across stone. And a feeling as though I’d walked into a cave from the desert brought me awe. The distant sound of trickling water drew my attention as we slowly approached the center of the atrium, where a small pond had been built, teeming with vibrant fish, gleaming red, black, and bright silver.
My master ceased in front of it, his gaze fixed on something else but the fish. A thought of whether I should just drown him in this pond passed me like wind. I stopped across from him, awaiting his next move.
The sound of footsteps brushed my ears and a shiver from another body entering my range of view coursed through me. White and gold muscle cuirass gleamed beneath the filtering rays entering through the ceiling, and as skin came into view, my breath lunged in my throat.
“Senator Thraex,” came a voice set in steely velvet.
“General Acacius,” greeted my master.
A breathless feeling choked me as I locked eyes with him. His countenance was etched with a stern resolve, tempered by a flicker of concern. He stood bathed in the ethereal light, the gold and white seemingly shrouding him in a veil of divinity.
He maintained a studied distance, as though he wished to assess the situation based on reaction first. His hair was gently coated pepper and salt, and his eyes were so dark they were nearly black. My mind raced as I attempted to tame the raging tempest of my disposition, while simultaneously attempting to piece together his presence here.
Thraex gestured towards me, “I’ve brought her. As you requested.”
“Thank you, Senator,” said Acacius, taking a measured step forward, his gaze barely grazing Thraex.
“A peculiar sort of savage you’ve picked out,” Thraex observed, his toga gently swishing about him as he appraised me with a cautious glance. I responded with a glare of pure venom. Master Fausta’s dagger seemed a distant, yet desperately needed, memory.
“I’m afraid I am a man of unconventional tastes,” Acacius replied, his immensely dark eyes still piercing me with an intensity that kept itching beneath my skin. “I would get out of here before this one decides to try something foolish.” His voice dipped at the last word, the implication a veiled warning to us both. A furrow etched deep between his brows as he watched me knowingly.
“I’m afraid I agree with you,” nodded Thraex, and increased the distance between us. “It’s been an honor to serve you once more, General. I trust you continue the cause that inspired Lucilla-”
“Until tomorrow, then,” Acacius interrupted, cutting off Thraex’s sentimental pronouncements. There was a palpable urgency in his tone that led me to believe he was avoiding a subject.
“Indeed!” smiled Thraex and bowed. “Good day.”
Once the rustle of the carriage departing outside melted with distance, an unsettling sort of tension permeated the atrium, a palpable unease hanging heavy like the scent of an impending storm.
I scrutinized his expression, desperately trying to decipher what the purpose of this encounter was.
Was this a favor, or a punishment?
With the stretching silence, I felt small... exposed, like an antelope in an open field. It felt like an eternity in the oppressive stillness of the atrium, until Acacius took another measured step towards me.
“Anaticula,” he said, and I began to question whether he used it as a slight or an endearment.
“Why am I here?” I demanded, my voice coming out shakier than I’d intended.
But the realization hit me with the force of a physical blow: this man had orchestrated my purchase and had me smuggled into his own possession, hadn’t he?
What exactly did this entail? That I now belonged to him?
A wave of nausea washed over me, a sickening sensation of weightlessness.
Was this his revenge?
“Are you going to kill me?” I blurted out before he could respond, the question like smoke in the air.
He snorted, as if amused by the very notion, then quickly schooled his features into an expression of chilling solemness.
“I’ve told you that dying was never an option,” he said, his voice deceptively calm.
“So, what then?” I demanded, my voice edged with frustration. Another silence stretched, and the furrows between his brows deepening, as if the subject was too overwhelming to contemplate. Then, he fixed me with eyes so demanding, and almost pleading, as if to somehow ease the impact of his coming words.
“I have bought you,” he stated, and the pronouncement ignited a flame that began licking my nerves hot. “You belong to me now.”
What sort of sick plot was this? Was I to be his slave forever? An eternally suffering punishment.
I would rather die.
Even though this man was my enemy, his action stung like a betrayal, followed by the consuming inferno of my ire. “I’m going to kill you,” I hissed.
He quirked an eyebrow, “Well…,” he drawled, a smile playing on his lips as he dropped his gaze to his feet. “We both know how well that worked out last, don’t we?” he quipped, and gazed up at me again, an impish glow rimming his eyes.
It was like probing a gaping wound with dirty fingers, the infection gnawing at my insides.
“You fucking-.” Choler built up in me faster than a lightning strike - the fruit of my repeating failure, desperation, and grief. My fingers seized his throat with all my might. One fist coiled, aimed for his cheekbone, but he caught my wrist, twisting it back until it wouldn’t go any further. But he applied pressure still, and the pain caused my body to betray me. I recoiled, trying to lessen the agony, after which I had already lost, and before I knew it, my chest was pinned against the pillar, his hands expertly securing my arms between us.
My curse died in my throat, choked by a surge of disbelief from his domination, and a consuming languor from the heat of his breath fanning my face, and the heavy press of his body.
My wrath was a burning ember, fueled by Acacius’ firm grip on me, making me feel helpless and weak – sentiments I utterly despised. Were it not for the draining effects of captivity, I would have already shown him the true meaning of suffering.
“When you least expect it, General,” I snarled, my voice raw with suppressed fury, “My blade will be at your throat again. And this time, I won’t fail,” I made a futile attempt against his iron grasp, though, the harder I fought, the tighter his hold on me.
“Anaticula…” he drawled into my ear, the vibration of his voice like a warm current coursing down my spine, sedating me, sending my head spinning.
The reluctant response of my body only spurred my fury. But before I could recover, he uttered six words that would irrevocably alter my fate:
“I’m going to set you free.”
I blinked, bewildered, addled, and strangely feverish. Relief, a traitorous sensation, washed over me like a cool breeze. Yet, a chilling suspicion lingered. I’d wager this was some sort of sick ruse. But if his offer held even the slightest specter of truth, it would come at a terrible cost.
“But you will do one thing for me in return.”
There it was, I thought.
His grip loosened, and he turned me to face him. Winded, I leaned against the pillar, his white cuirassed figure looming over me. Our faces were inches apart, and a strange, foreign pressure bloomed in the pit of my stomach. He smelled like olive oil and myrrh, heavy and musky, intoxicating my senses.
I suddenly became very aware of the fact that I had not bathed in a long time.
“I don’t believe you,” I wanted to say forcefully, but the words that emerged were a pathetic whisper, a lamb’s bleat. Revolt surged within me, and I gritted my teeth in frustration.
“I suppose that’s fair,” Acacius conceded, creating distance between us. The oppressive weight of his presence lifted, and I was suddenly able to breathe again. “You have no reason to trust me. But if it offers you any solace, you’d be in far worse hands if it wasn’t for me.”
“I’d be home in Numidia right now if it wasn’t for you,” I retorted, fixing him with a glare that, I hoped, conveyed the full extent of my resentment.
The furrow between his brows deepened and his gaze dropped to the ring that he was twisting around his finger. “You’re right,” he admitted, “But I’m offering you an opportunity. An opportunity that might just lead you back home.”
The very notion caused a wave of longing to erupt within me, a desperate yearning for a home that no longer existed. Numidia was now nothing more than a ghost, mere scraps from the Romans’ plunder, and my family was either slaves or dust.
I lifted a shoulder. “I suppose I should be grateful, then?” I scoffed.
His eyes snapped back to me, dark and intense, filled with a reproving edge I had not yet witnessed from him. “You should be,” he stated, his timber dipped into something cold. And for the first time, I wasn’t sure whether it was a good idea to oppose him.
Whether home was a prospect or a fantasy, freedom eclipsed eternal servitude.
“So, just like that?” I countered, my voice carefully measured. “I perform a service, and you grant me my freedom?”
“That’s right,” he said, his voice a low, silken drawl, the mesmerizing play of his fingers with the ring ceasing.
“And what guarantee do I have that you won’t deceive me?” I demanded, my voice faltering as I caught his eyes flickering over my lips.
“In your position, anaticula, there is no guarantee,” he said, his voice a low rumble, laced with a strange undercurrent of opposing emotions. “But for what it’s worth, I give you my word.”
His gaze held mine as I studied him extensively, but nothing about his countenance revealed even a hint of deceit. Suddenly, all my previous fears facing slavery dimmed, and I concluded that, no matter what he’d ask of me, the exchange for my freedom would be worth it. Killing him would be a small feat if his demands would prove unfavorable.
The matter of the exchange loomed.
“What do I need to do?” I asked, a steady tremor of anticipation clearing my rage.
“I need you to agree first,” he replied, his timber firm and utterly convincing.
I nodded slowly, the weight of his gaze heavy upon me.
“Swear it,” he commanded, his voice a low growl. “A sacramentum.” He extended his hand out to me. I blinked, befuddled as to the implication. “A warrior’s oath,” he clarified. I hesitantly took it, glancing down at our union. His made mine look miniscule in comparison. They were rough and calloused from years warfare. But there was a warmth in them which nuzzled through my bones and eased my apprehensions. My skin sparked hot, like my hands had just become the most sensitive part of my body. “Repeat after me.”
I swear that I shall faithfully execute all that you command.
I shall never desert the service,
and I shall not seek to avoid death.
The words tasted like ash in my mouth, like pledging myself to the enemy – betraying my own people for my freedom.
But no one was coming to save me. This was my only option. This is how I would stay alive.
“Enough,” I snapped, my voice trembling, snatching my hand out of his grasp. The nerves in my stomach were twisting into knots, a thousand terrifying possibilities of what it was that would buy me my freedom flashing through my mind. “What do you need me to do?”
His eyes hardened, the shadows inside them rising to the surface.
“I want you to help me kill the emperors of Rome.”
annaxmalina
kianamaiart
blakekathryn
dededos
areudirty
ellievsbear
origamiaround
vaporwave
discoholicmusic
