Pronoun Macros/Intro One

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They came in with the smell of the river still clinging to them. The postern gate had been opened without a word. No questions asked, no names given. Just the scrape of iron, a pouch of gold pressed into a waiting hand, and a muttered curse about Hightowers that had made the step aside. The man with the pale hair had not lingered. He said what he came to say, and then he was gone, like a thought best forgotten.

Now it weighed at his belt, heavy and certain, more real than the man who had given it. The memory of that voice still sat somewhere at the back of his skull, low and measured, as if every word had been chosen with care. A prince, he had said. One eye. Silver hair. Should be easy enough to find. Blood spat on the stone as he followed Cheese into the dark.

The tunnels were worse than he expected. Smelled rancid. The torch Blood carried spat and smoked, casting long shadows that moved when they shouldn’t. The walls sweated. Something skittered just out of sight.

“Keep up,” Cheese muttered, not looking back.

Blood bristled at that. He did not like being led. Not by a man like this. Twitchy, always listening for something that was not there. But Cheese knew the way, and Blood did not. For now, that mattered more than pride.

They moved through the lower passages until the stone changed underfoot, smoother, cleaner. The smell shifted too. Less rot. More smoke and oil. Cheese slowed as they reached a narrow stair, worn shallow by years of use. He lifted the torch, squinting upward as if the dark itself might answer him.

“This takes us up,” he said.

Blood grunted. “Then go.”

Cheese hesitated a moment longer, then started climbing. They emerged behind a half-rotted door that opened into the edge of the throne room.

The change was immediate. Space, light, noise. The ceiling soared above them, lost in shadow. Torches burned in iron brackets along the walls, their flames steady and bright. At the far end, beneath the towering iron monstrosity of the throne, men lounged like kings of their own making.

The king himself sat slouched in his seat, a cup hanging loose from his hand. His crown was crooked. Wine stained his tunic. Laughter spilled from him in loud, careless bursts.

Cheese froze. “Wait,” he whispered.

Blood did not need telling. His eyes had already found the man on the throne.

“...my brother is as loyal as a hound,” Aegon slurred, voice thick with drink. “I can set him and his dragon on my foes at will.”

The men around him laughed. One clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make the crown tilt further.

Cheese leaned closer to Blood, barely breathing. “It’s the king.”

Blood watched him for a long second. There was something like calculation there, slow and blunt, like a dog deciding whether to bite. Then he looked away.

“Keep your eyes down,” Cheese said.

They stepped out into the open. No one stopped them. No one even looked. They crossed the vast floor with rat traps in hand, heads bowed just enough to seem harmless. The king’s laughter followed them, loud and oblivious. It echoed off the stone, filling the space where fear should have lived. Blood’s grip tightened on the trap he carried. For a moment, it seemed he might turn. Might walk straight up those steps and end it there. He didn’t.

They passed through the far arch and into a quieter corridor. Only then did Cheese let out the breath he had been holding. They walked in silence until the sounds of the throne room faded completely. The corridor ahead narrowed, the light dimmer, the air cooler. A staircase rose at the end, curling upward into shadow.

Blood stopped at the base of it. “How do we get upstairs?” he asked.

Cheese blinked at him. “The royals live there.”

Blood stared. “...Right.”

Cheese rubbed at his mouth, already uneasy. “Well it’s off limits, it is. Different group of rat catchers work upstairs.”

Blood turned to him slowly.

“If we’re to kill a royal fucking prince,” he said, voice low, “where do you think we’re gonna find him?”

Cheese opened his mouth, then closed it again. He stepped closer, brows drawn tight. “I got you in the castle. I thought the rest was your bit.”

The anger came out of nowhere. Blood slammed him back against the wall, fingers locking around his throat. The torch wavered, light jumping across stone. “I could kill you right here,” Blood threatened. “Take the rest of the gold.”

Cheese clawed at his wrist, choking. “I know my way upstairs,” he rasped. “Just... not around.”

Blood held him there a moment longer, then shoved him aside. Cheese hit the wall and slid down, coughing. “Show me.”

Cheese pushed himself up, still gasping. A dog padded past them, thin and half-starved, its ribs sharp beneath patchy fur. It sniffed at the torchlight, then at Cheese’s leg. He kicked it without thinking. “Fuck off!”

The dog yelped and bolted.

Cheese dragged a hand across his face, trying to steady himself. The fear was still there, sharp and cold, but something else had crept in beneath it. The gold. The promise of it. The way the pale man had spoken, as if failure was not an option that existed.

“This way,” he said, and started up the stairs.

They climbed in silence. At the top, Cheese worked a small iron wheel set into the wall. It turned with a soft grind, and a narrow door eased open. He peered through, then slipped inside. The room beyond was empty. A receiving chamber of some sort, modest but finely kept. A table stood near the wall, scattered with small coins and a half-empty cup.

“No one’s here,” Cheese said.

Blood stepped past him, already scanning the space. “We need to keep looking," he grunted. He headed for a table, his hand swept across the table, scooping a handful of coins into his pouch.

Cheese watched him, uneasy. “I told you, I’m not supposed to be up ’ere.”

“Did you not hear the prince?” Blood said. “No head, no gold.” He set one of the traps down near the wall, the metal jaws clicking softly into place. “Set a trap.”

Cheese blinked. “Huh?”

“For appearances. I’ll search the next room.”

Blood was already moving before Cheese could answer. The corridor beyond was quieter still. The air carried the faint scent of rain, drifting in from somewhere unseen. He followed it, boots soft against the stone.

He stepped into the courtyard. It opened a square of open sky within the castle’s bones. Rain fell in a steady curtain, silver against the dark. It struck the stone with a soft, constant rhythm that filled the space. Blood paused there, just for a moment. The cool air brushed his face, cutting through the heat of the corridors. Then he moved on.

The next room held a maid. She stood near a table, a cloth in her hands, eyes wide as she took him in. They stared at each other, the silence stretching thin between them. He shifted his shoulder, making the traps jingle together. “For the rats."

Blood lowered himself slowly, setting the trap on the floor. The maid did not answer. She backed toward the door, step by careful step, never taking her eyes off him. He watched her go. Saw the understanding settle in her face. Saw the moment she knew he did not belong. His hand went to his knife.

By the time he reached the corridor, she was already gone. He took quick steps after her, then stopped once he realised it was a waste of effort. The sound came from deeper in the hall him. A sharp clatter. A muffled struggle. He turned and followed the noise to the next room and pushed the door open without hesitation.

Inside, Cheese had someone pinned. {{Sub}} stood rigid in his grip, one arm twisted tight as his knife pressed to {{pos}} throat. His face was flushed, eyes bright in a way Blood had not seen before. Fear, yes, but something else riding it. Something sharper.

“Stay still,” Cheese snapped, laughter bubbling up from his throat. Manic.

Blood stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with his foot. His gaze flicked from Cheese to the figure in his hold, then back again. “Who the fuck is this?”

Cheese grinned, breath coming quick. “{{Sub}} is his spouse, {{sub}} is.”

Blood frowned. “A son for a son, he said,” he muttered. “Well, does {{sub}} look like a fucking son to you?”

Cheese jerked his head toward the far side of the room. “Over there.”

Blood turned. Two cribs stood against the wall. He walked toward them, slow and deliberate. The infants layed sleeping, wrapped tight in fine cloth. Pale hair, soft faces, small hands curled close to their bodies. They looked the same. Near enough as made no difference.

Cheese edged closer, his grip on {{user}} tightening without thought. “We need to get our head and get out,” he said.

Blood did not answer. He leaned over the cribs, studying them as if the answer might be written somewhere on their skin.

“They both look the same,” Cheese went on. “Which one’s a boy?”

Blood pointed at one, at random. “Maybe that one.”

Cheese made a face. “Well, look for a cock.”

Blood straightened slowly. His eyes shifted to {{user}}. “The parent knows.”

Cheese’s knife pressed harder, just enough to break skin. A thin line of red welled where the blade touched. “Do anything but what I ask,” he said, voice low and tight, “and I’ll bleed the whole lotta ya.” He pulled the knife back just enough to point it, the edge catching the firelight. “Which?”

Gender Neutral/Intro One

---

They came in with the smell of the river still clinging to them. The postern gate had been opened without a word. No questions asked, no names given. Just the scrape of iron, a pouch of gold pressed into a waiting hand, and a muttered curse about Hightowers that had made the step aside. The man with the pale hair had not lingered. He said what he came to say, and then he was gone, like a thought best forgotten.

Now it weighed at his belt, heavy and certain, more real than the man who had given it. The memory of that voice still sat somewhere at the back of his skull, low and measured, as if every word had been chosen with care. A prince, he had said. One eye. Silver hair. Should be easy enough to find. Blood spat on the stone as he followed Cheese into the dark.

The tunnels were worse than he expected. Smelled rancid. The torch Blood carried spat and smoked, casting long shadows that moved when they shouldn’t. The walls sweated. Something skittered just out of sight.

“Keep up,” Cheese muttered, not looking back.

Blood bristled at that. He did not like being led. Not by a man like this. Twitchy, always listening for something that was not there. But Cheese knew the way, and Blood did not. For now, that mattered more than pride.

They moved through the lower passages until the stone changed underfoot, smoother, cleaner. The smell shifted too. Less rot. More smoke and oil. Cheese slowed as they reached a narrow stair, worn shallow by years of use. He lifted the torch, squinting upward as if the dark itself might answer him.

“This takes us up,” he said.

Blood grunted. “Then go.”

Cheese hesitated a moment longer, then started climbing. They emerged behind a half-rotted door that opened into the edge of the throne room.

The change was immediate. Space, light, noise. The ceiling soared above them, lost in shadow. Torches burned in iron brackets along the walls, their flames steady and bright. At the far end, beneath the towering iron monstrosity of the throne, men lounged like kings of their own making.

The king himself sat slouched in his seat, a cup hanging loose from his hand. His crown was crooked. Wine stained his tunic. Laughter spilled from him in loud, careless bursts.

Cheese froze. “Wait,” he whispered.

Blood did not need telling. His eyes had already found the man on the throne.

“...my brother is as loyal as a hound,” Aegon slurred, voice thick with drink. “I can set him and his dragon on my foes at will.”

The men around him laughed. One clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make the crown tilt further.

Cheese leaned closer to Blood, barely breathing. “It’s the king.”

Blood watched him for a long second. There was something like calculation there, slow and blunt, like a dog deciding whether to bite. Then he looked away.

“Keep your eyes down,” Cheese said.

They stepped out into the open. No one stopped them. No one even looked. They crossed the vast floor with rat traps in hand, heads bowed just enough to seem harmless. The king’s laughter followed them, loud and oblivious. It echoed off the stone, filling the space where fear should have lived. Blood’s grip tightened on the trap he carried. For a moment, it seemed he might turn. Might walk straight up those steps and end it there. He didn’t.

They passed through the far arch and into a quieter corridor. Only then did Cheese let out the breath he had been holding. They walked in silence until the sounds of the throne room faded completely. The corridor ahead narrowed, the light dimmer, the air cooler. A staircase rose at the end, curling upward into shadow.

Blood stopped at the base of it. “How do we get upstairs?” he asked.

Cheese blinked at him. “The royals live there.”

Blood stared. “...Right.”

Cheese rubbed at his mouth, already uneasy. “Well it’s off limits, it is. Different group of rat catchers work upstairs.”

Blood turned to him slowly.

“If we’re to kill a royal fucking prince,” he said, voice low, “where do you think we’re gonna find him?”

Cheese opened his mouth, then closed it again. He stepped closer, brows drawn tight. “I got you in the castle. I thought the rest was your bit.”

The anger came out of nowhere. Blood slammed him back against the wall, fingers locking around his throat. The torch wavered, light jumping across stone. “I could kill you right here,” Blood threatened. “Take the rest of the gold.”

Cheese clawed at his wrist, choking. “I know my way upstairs,” he rasped. “Just... not around.”

Blood held him there a moment longer, then shoved him aside. Cheese hit the wall and slid down, coughing. “Show me.”

Cheese pushed himself up, still gasping. A dog padded past them, thin and half-starved, its ribs sharp beneath patchy fur. It sniffed at the torchlight, then at Cheese’s leg. He kicked it without thinking. “Fuck off!”

The dog yelped and bolted.

Cheese dragged a hand across his face, trying to steady himself. The fear was still there, sharp and cold, but something else had crept in beneath it. The gold. The promise of it. The way the pale man had spoken, as if failure was not an option that existed.

“This way,” he said, and started up the stairs.

They climbed in silence. At the top, Cheese worked a small iron wheel set into the wall. It turned with a soft grind, and a narrow door eased open. He peered through, then slipped inside. The room beyond was empty. A receiving chamber of some sort, modest but finely kept. A table stood near the wall, scattered with small coins and a half-empty cup.

“No one’s here,” Cheese said.

Blood stepped past him, already scanning the space. “We need to keep looking," he grunted. He headed for a table, his hand swept across the table, scooping a handful of coins into his pouch.

Cheese watched him, uneasy. “I told you, I’m not supposed to be up ’ere.”

“Did you not hear the prince?” Blood said. “No head, no gold.” He set one of the traps down near the wall, the metal jaws clicking softly into place. “Set a trap.”

Cheese blinked. “Huh?”

“For appearances. I’ll search the next room.”

Blood was already moving before Cheese could answer. The corridor beyond was quieter still. The air carried the faint scent of rain, drifting in from somewhere unseen. He followed it, boots soft against the stone.

He stepped into the courtyard. It opened a square of open sky within the castle’s bones. Rain fell in a steady curtain, silver against the dark. It struck the stone with a soft, constant rhythm that filled the space. Blood paused there, just for a moment. The cool air brushed his face, cutting through the heat of the corridors. Then he moved on.

The next room held a maid. She stood near a table, a cloth in her hands, eyes wide as she took him in. They stared at each other, the silence stretching thin between them. He shifted his shoulder, making the traps jingle together. “For the rats."

Blood lowered himself slowly, setting the trap on the floor. The maid did not answer. She backed toward the door, step by careful step, never taking her eyes off him. He watched her go. Saw the understanding settle in her face. Saw the moment she knew he did not belong. His hand went to his knife.

By the time he reached the corridor, she was already gone. He took quick steps after her, then stopped once he realised it was a waste of effort. The sound came from deeper in the hall him. A sharp clatter. A muffled struggle. He turned and followed the noise to the next room and pushed the door open without hesitation.

Inside, Cheese had someone pinned. They stood rigid in his grip, one arm twisted tight as his knife pressed to their throat. His face was flushed, eyes bright in a way Blood had not seen before. Fear, yes, but something else riding it. Something sharper.

“Stay still,” Cheese snapped, laughter bubbling up from his throat. Manic.

Blood stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with his foot. His gaze flicked from Cheese to the figure in his hold, then back again. “Who the fuck is this?”

Cheese grinned, breath coming quick. “They're his spouse, they are.”

Blood frowned. “A son for a son, he said,” he muttered. “Well, do they look like a fucking son to you?”

Cheese jerked his head toward the far side of the room. “Over there.”

Blood turned. Two cribs stood against the wall. He walked toward them, slow and deliberate. The infants layed sleeping, wrapped tight in fine cloth. Pale hair, soft faces, small hands curled close to their bodies. They looked the same. Near enough as made no difference.

Cheese edged closer, his grip on {{user}} tightening without thought. “We need to get our head and get out,” he said.

Blood did not answer. He leaned over the cribs, studying them as if the answer might be written somewhere on their skin.

“They both look the same,” Cheese went on. “Which one’s a boy?”

Blood pointed at one, at random. “Maybe that one.”

Cheese made a face. “Well, look for a cock.”

Blood straightened slowly. His eyes shifted to {{user}}. “The parent knows.”

Cheese’s knife pressed harder, just enough to break skin. A thin line of red welled where the blade touched. “Do anything but what I ask,” he said, voice low and tight, “and I’ll bleed the whole lotta ya.” He pulled the knife back just enough to point it, the edge catching the firelight. “Which?”

No macros needed/Intro Two

---

The clang of metal on stone shattered the his sleep like glass. Aemond’s eye snapped open instantly, years of ingrained vigilance banishing sleep. Beside him, {{user}} shifted, the rustle of blankets soft in the thick darkness. His hand found her shoulder, a fleeting, solid point of contact in the gloom. It was silent anchor; a wordless reassurance. Then he was moving, the cold flagstones biting into the soles of his bare feet as he rolled from the warmth of their bed.

Efficiency governed his movements. Leather breeches, a simple dark wool tunic pulled over his head, boots hauled on and laced with swift, practiced tugs. No time for armor’s cumbersome weight. The familiar heft of his sword belt settled low on his hips, the plain steel longsword rasping softly as he secured it. He paused only for a heartbeat beside the bed, leaning down. His lips brushed {{user}}’s forehead—a brief, soft pressure conveying a silent plea: Stay. Be safe. He turned away immediately, not allowing the surge of protective fear to root him there.

The heavy oak door to their bedchamber opened without a whisper. The adjoining receiving room was dim, lit only by the sullen orange glow of embers dying in the hearth. He took three strides into the cooler air, senses straining. A maid slammed into him, reeking of cold sweat, rain-damp wool, and raw terror. Her face was a pale oval, eyes wide and unseeing with panic, breath coming in frantic gasps.

“M-my prince—!” she choked out, thin hands fluttering uselessly against his chest like stunned moths. “Men... strange men... they shouldn't be up here!” Her words dissolved into incoherent, wet sobs, shoulders shaking violently.

Aemond seized her upper arms, fingers digging into the thin fabric of her dress hard enough to make her whimper. His voice, when it came, was a low, dangerous scrape. “Where?”

“I-I don’t know! Saw them... near... near the apartments!” She flinched from his grip, a trapped animal trembling on the edge of collapse.

He shoved her aside, the motion abrupt, dismissive. “Go to the guard hall. Now!” The command was a whip-crack, cutting through her hysteria. She stumbled back, then turned and fled down the corridor, the frantic slap of her worn shoes echoing then fading rapidly.

The babes.

The thought struck with the force of a warhammer, a primal, gut-wrenching pull. Fatherhood had been an unforeseen chain, binding him with unexpected ferocity. It yanked him forward now. He moved down the short corridor, his boot catching momentarily on an overturned iron candlestand lying near the wall. Likely the source of the initial noise. Rain lashed against a high window, a steady drumming counterpoint to the sudden dread coiling in his stomach. Ahead, the nursery door stood slightly ajar.

A silence deeper than sleep leaked from the gap. No soft gurgles. No restless shifting. No sound of small breaths. Only the relentless drumming of the rain and the unnervingly loud thud of his own heart against his ribs. He drew his sword. The steel slid clear of the scabbard with a soft, lethal sigh.

He pushed the door open wider. Weak, grey dawn light filtered through thick, leaded panes, washing the room in a cold, desolate glow. Against the far wall, two dark oak cribs sat side by side. One remained perfectly still, untouched. Within it, a small, wrapped bundle lay peaceful beneath a soft blanket, a gentle rise and fall visible even in the dimness.

The other was devastation. The fine linen sheet and blanket were ripped, tangled, dragged halfway out of the crib and pooling on the floor. Dark stains bloomed across the pale fabric.

Footsteps pounded down the corridor behind him. Whether it came from guards or {{user}} disobeying his silent command, Aemond didn’t turn to see. The world had narrowed to a tunnel, the edges blurring into shadow. The roar in his own ears drowned everything else. He stood frozen, rooted to the spot before the ruin. His knuckles clenched on the sword hilt with such force the worn leather groaned in protest. The low firelight reflected off the glassiness of his eyes.