Chapter Text
Astarion's POV
There was a time when he lived in constant fear, had to beg for scraps of mercy, shivered at the sight of sunlight and was forced to obey.
But now?
Now, he reclines in silks and crystal light, one arm propped lazily against a velvet pillow, the other trailing along the thigh of the spawn draped across his lap like a pampered housecat.
Around him, the room pulses with breath and flesh—his favorites tangled in limbs and half-laughter, lips swollen and fingers wandering. Someone moans, long and sweet, from the chaise near the hearth. Another giggles while kissing blood from a partner’s neck, leaving sticky red prints on the marble floor.
It’s beautiful. Carnal. Controlled.
And all his.
Astarion smirks as his eyes drift toward the tall window and he takes another slow sip of dark wine.
The courtyard beyond is immaculate—flawless hedges, manicured fountains, golden sun spilling across imported tile. A mirror of himself. A monument to elegance.
But his thoughts wander.
A soft, eager tug at his trousers brings him back. Daisa—his darling little pet—is kneeling at the foot of the bed, her eyes wide and devoted, hands shaking slightly as she undoes the laces with the trembling care of a supplicant before a god.
“Master…” she breathes, lips already parted, tongue flicking across them like she’s tasting him before her mouth even makes contact.
Astarion watches her through half-lidded eyes, amused. She crawls closer, her hair brushing his thigh, hands gently smoothing over his hips as she leans in—so desperate, so hopeful. Her lips kiss the head of his cock like it’s a relic, like it might grant her salvation.
He lets out a soft, breathy sigh. Not of pleasure. Of boredom.
And then—
-A sound. The sharp clatter of a carriage wheel on stone.
He glances back out the window. A coach has just pulled into the courtyard—polished, ostentatious, noble. How quaint. Three passengers emerge: an older man, stately and stiff; a woman beside him, dripping in gold and pearls; and trailing behind them— a younger woman.
She drags her feet, arms crossed, clearly not meant for this stage. Dressed in lace and lilac, but walking like the cobbles offend her. A soft wind lifts her skirts and she stumbles, catching herself on a marble ledge. She mutters something, shaking her head.
The older woman’s mouth falls open in a scandalized gasp. Her hand lashes out and yanks the girl’s arm sharply, dragging her forward.
Astarion barks a laugh, startled.
“Unladylike behavior…” he mutters aloud, lips curling. “How utterly refreshing.”
There’s movement near the courtyard gate—one of his spawn, finely dressed in black and crimson, steps gracefully from the entry hall and approaches the nobles with a deep, sweeping bow.
Astarion doesn’t hear the words, but he knows the routine: welcome, flattery, assurance that the Lord will find the time to see them.
The nobleman nods with polite disinterest. The older woman beams and clutches her pearls. The girl glances sideways, then lets out an exhale that flutters the loose strands near her cheek.
Astarion’s gaze sharpens.
The woman nudges her sharply in the ribs—an elegant little elbow dressed in golden lace—and the girl straightens like a puppet jerked by string. Her mouth presses into a line. Her eyes dart to the ground.
He smirks to himself, swirling the wine in his glass.
Who are they?
He feels Daisa’s mouth press to him again—worshipful, ready—and without thinking, he lifts a hand and gently pushes her away.
“Not now, Daisa.”
She pulls back, stunned, her lips flushed and wet, eyes wide like a scolded pet. She bows her head and slinks lower, curling into the silken sheets beside his knee.
There’s a knock at the chamber door. Soft and polite.
Astarion doesn’t rise, just slowly laces up his trousers. His gaze lifts back to the window, watching as the girl in lilac—who now rubs her arm with a scowl—casts one last glance behind her, at the fountain she tripped near. And the corners of his mouth twitch again.
The knock comes again, followed by the soft swish of the chamber doors opening.
One of his greeter spawn enters—Geoff, elegant and composed as always, wearing a high-collared black coat that flatters his neck just enough to invite punishment.
Astarion doesn't turn. He watches the courtyard instead, gaze fixed on the trio below.
“They are of House Selemchant, my Lord.” Geoff begins smoothly, voice low and respectful. “From Athkatla. Here on behalf of the Council. They claim to have a business proposition.”
Astarion’s smile vanishes as he turns slowly.
“And no one thought to inform me they were in the city?”
A hush falls over the room. The spawn lounging nearby lower their eyes, lips parted, frozen mid-pleasure. Even Daisa, still curled by his thigh, flinches and shrinks further into the sheets.
Astarion rises, fluid and furious, his presence like a blade unsheathed.
“I am the power in this city. I should know everyone who enters my gates. And a noble house from Amn’s merchant stronghold appears without so much as a whisper in my ear?”
He paces the room slowly, fangs bared in frustration, his hand twitching at his side. Then—he halts. Straightens. Composure returns like silk slipping back over steel.
“Tell them that I am regrettably detained in another meeting tonight.” He says, voice cool now.
Geoff bows his head.
“Invite them to stay here. Give them rooms. Show them hospitality. Tell them tonight is on me—a courtesy of the Vampire Lord of the Gate, for making them wait.”
He pauses at the window and takes another sip of wine.
“And in the meantime…” His voice lowers. “I want information. Find out who they are, why they’re really here, who sent them, and what secrets they think they’re keeping from me.”
Geoff bows deeply and vanishes like smoke.
Astarion waits a few moments, watching the noble trio as they are approached once more and the spawn delivers the message.
The nobleman frowns, then nods stiffly. The older woman smiles, brittle and satisfied. The girl—she exhales, head tilting back slightly, relief pouring from her shoulders.
Astarion observes her carefully.
The others begin to follow Geoff inside. She lingers for a few moments and when she finally moves, it’s slow, dragging her feet once more behind silk slippers and shining hair, muttering something beneath her breath as she trails after them.
“Curious…” Astarion murmurs, one pale finger tapping the glass. “Very curious indeed.”
Another knock—soft, uncertain, comes a little while later. Two spawn creep into the chamber, heads bowed, tension thick in the air like incense clinging to old velvet.
“My Lord…” one starts, voice trembling. “We’ve asked around, but it seems they arrived via magical means. No one saw them enter. No records, no gate activity—they just… appeared.”
“Teleportation.” the other offers, a bit too eagerly. “House Selemchant is known to support the Cowled Wizards. It’s likely they coordinated with.”
“Gods…” Astarion sighs, cutting the air with a sharp flick of his fingers. “Do shut up if you don’t have anything useful. I’m not running a school for statecraft.”
Both spawn fall silent, shoulders drawn in tight.
He strolls back toward the window, gaze flicking down to the now-empty courtyard where his uninvited guests once stood. Only the memory of them lingers—rich silks, polished boots, the amusingly stiff posture of that youngest one.
After a beat, he speaks again.
“The girl. The younger one. Who is she?”
The first spawn clears his throat carefully.
“Lady Jade, my lord. Niece of Baron Celandor Selemchant. The older woman is her cousin—Lady Sulima, daughter to the Baron. Their household sigils match. Their papers are in order, if... hastily conjured.”
“Mm. Celandor.” He rolls the name around, a smirk curling at the corners of his mouth. “Still clinging to that rotted little branch of power, is he? Gods, he must be desperate.”
His gaze drifts lazily across the city skyline.
“Lady Jade…” he repeats, tasting the words like wine. “And so very eager to impress with that noble tongue—shame it trembles at the sight of freedom. Tell the kitchens to prepare a feast. Tonight, they dine like kings.”
He turns, slow and deliberate, his voice soft but firm.
“Let them wait in comfort. Say I will see them tomorrow. Tell them tonight’s hospitality is a courtesy of the Vampire Lord—for the inconvenience of such an unannounced arrival.”
The spawn nods, but Astarion lifts a single finger—just one, enough to halt breath.
He walks slowly and sinks deep in the folds of his armchair. He twirls his glass a few times before taking another slow sip. Though now he doesn’t drink it for the flavor. No, it’s for the performance. A mood. A stage prop. And tonight, he’s very much the director.
“Do make sure the older ones are thoroughly... entertained.” He drawls, gaze locked to his glass. “I want them helpless with gratitude by sunrise. Whatever it takes: vintage bottles, sweet-voiced flatterers, maybe even a song or two from those new bards in the east wing.”
A smirk curls his lips as he twirls the glass again.
“Get them drunk. Disgustingly so. And if they ask for me, remind them that the vampire lord is terribly busy managing his court.”
He finally glances at the spawn, crimson eyes glowing faintly in the candlelight.
“But not the younger one. I want her clear-eyed tomorrow. Curious. Vulnerable. I’ll be handling her personally.”
The spawn bow and vanish like shadows, leaving Astarion with the echo of his own curiosity—and a sudden, sharp craving for the different kind of entertainment.
A few hours later, Astarion leans in the crook of his elbow against the stone balcony rail, shrouded in shadow. Below, a feast unfolds—chandeliers casting golden halos, musicians plucking out bright Amnian melodies, and his darling little monsters weaving expertly among the nobility like dancers at a masquerade.
He spots her immediately.
Lady Jade.
Seated beside Lady Sulima and the Baron. A triangle of excess. Pearls, gold thread, gemstone rings clinking against crystal goblets. All three dressed like they’ve come to wed the city itself. But she—oh, she sticks out in the most delightful way.
Straight-backed. Stiff. Fork poised like a weapon she’s afraid to use. Every gesture measured and tight. Her gaze flicks often—not toward the vampire spawn fawning over her table, not toward the music or dancing. No, always toward Sulima, as if silently awaiting correction.
When one of his spawn glides in to refill their glasses, Sulima lifts a hand and covers Jade’s goblet.
A clear, silent gesture.
None for her.
Jade nods slightly, not speaking, her eyes drifting back to her untouched plate.
Astarion hums to himself, a single note of amusement.
“Oh, you’re on a tight leash, darling. Someone’s keeping your strings pulled.”
Time passes. Dancers sway. The Baron’s laughter grows slurred and loud. Sulima has been coaxed into dancing, twirling in the arms of a spawn whose flattery borders on poetry.
And there, while Sulima spins across the floor, Lady Jade casts a glance over each shoulder. Finding no eyes on her, she reaches toward the next table, fingers curling around a half-full glass someone left behind. She tips it back and drinks—not daintily. All of it.
Her face twists in brief surprise. Then satisfaction.
He sees her lips move as she mutters something to herself, then the flash of awareness, the little jolt of shame as she sets it down too fast and wipes her mouth. She glances around again, this time almost guiltily.
Astarion’s smile stretches and he chuckles, low and pleased.
“Oh. This is perfect.”
Some time later, the feast finally winds down. The Baron stumbles, needing two spawn to support him. Sulima, giggling and flushed, has lost a shoe somewhere. They are gently guided—corralled, really—toward their opulent chambers. The vampire lord’s hospitality has been overwhelming.
Lady Jade follows last. Upright, steady, her expression pinched with the weight of everything she dared not say all night.
He watches her drag behind, her eyes flicking toward the stairwell. Toward the door to the upper floor. His floor.
As he turns from the balcony, intent on retiring, a flicker of movement catches his eye—a spawn lingering at the far edge of the corridor, watching the hall below with idle curiosity.
Astarion beckons him with a single finger.
“You..” he purrs. “One last task before you tuck our honored guests in.”
“Of course, my lord.” The spawn bows, eager.
“Bring the older ones our special calming tea. The amber blend, you know the one. Just to ensure they rest... peacefully.”
He lets the last word linger, like syrup on the tongue.
The spawn’s eyes widen just slightly. Then he nods and vanishes into the shadows with a whisper of robes.
Astarion hums in satisfaction.
“Nothing like a little insurance. Wouldn’t want tomorrow’s plans ruined by inconvenient hangovers or sudden curiosity...”
He finally slips into his room, eyes gleaming.
“Sleep well, Sulima. Sweet dreams, Baron. You’ll be out cold while I sink my teeth into something far more promising.”
Morning After. POV switch to You/Lady Jade.
You wake up already bracing for punishment this day is sure to bring.
Your head isn’t pounding—not exactly—but there’s a steady, nauseating thrum behind your eyes, like some vicious little bard is plucking strings across your skull. You blink at the ceiling, heart already hammering, body stiff as the silk sheet tangled around your legs.
You can’t remember falling asleep, but you do remember the wine. The taste of it still lingers, shamefully sweet on your tongue. Rich. Spiced. Absolutely divine.
The memory flares like a torch in the dark. You groan and bury your face into the pillow. Maybe if you suffocate now, you won’t have to endure Sulima.
Sulima.
Gods.
You jolt upright and start dressing—practical, elegant, just a bit severe. Maybe if you look the part, you’ll avoid at least some backlash.
But no knock comes. No summons. No cousin barging in to hiss lectures about dignity and disgrace and everything you must be.
Silence.
A terrible, conspicuous silence.
You hesitate only a moment before slipping out into the corridor, soft shoes whispering over stone as you rush toward Sulima’s guest chamber. You knock once. Then open it.
She’s still in bed.
Still dressed in the outfit from the night before.
Snoring, one arm flung over her eyes like the light itself is her enemy. A glass of something dark and half-finished sits on the nightstand, and from the smell alone you know she’s too far gone to stand, let alone reprimand you.
Panic prickles at the edge of your scalp.
You rush to your uncle’s door, heartbeat fluttering. He answers after a delay, shirt half-buttoned, eyes bloodshot and bleary.
“Uncle…?” You whisper. “What do we do?”
He squints at you.
“Jade… you must do it alone.”
Your stomach sinks.
He places a hand on your shoulder.
“Deliver our proposition. Make your family proud. You’ve got this…”
And with that, he closes the door.
You’re frozen for a moment, everything inside you tilting, rearranging. Alone. You’ll be alone with him.
And then comes the sound. A calm, practiced voice calls through the hall:
“Lord Astarion is ready to receive you.”
The corridors feel colder this morning.
Maybe it’s the polished stone beneath your soles. Maybe it’s the weight of silence—the kind that creeps along your spine and whispers: you’re alone now.
You walk with your back straight, hands folded neatly in front of you, not daring to fidget. The hem of your formal gown whispers along the floor. A dress meant for diplomacy. For decorum. For impressing lords who don’t leer like wolves with wine-dark eyes.
You’ve trained for this.
You’ve practiced speeches, negotiated trade routes, soothed furious barons with nothing more than a curtsy and a carefully timed compliment.
You can survive one vampire lord.
…Can’t you?
The echo of your footsteps follows you like a second heartbeat. You pass vaulted windows, distant gardens, the soft strumming of some lute in a far wing.
The palace is opulent, yes—but something about it feels… watched. Like even the paintings are recording your every move.
You reach the grand doors of the receiving chamber, where two pale guards flank either side. One gives you a polite nod and pushes them open.
You steel yourself, stepping forward—
-And there he is.
Lord Astarion.
He’s half-lounging in a throne carved of blackwood and gold, the sort of seat meant to intimidate. But he doesn’t need it. His posture alone is devastating—relaxed, regal, and somehow coiled all at once.
One leg bent, elbow draped over the armrest, a wine glass held lazily between two fingers like it’s a lover he’s contemplating finishing off. His doublet is crimson and coal, embroidered with a gold tread that gleams when he moves, and his snowy curls catch the morning light like sin made flesh.
But it’s his eyes that nearly undo you.
Crimson.
Sharp.
Burning through layers of silk and bone like you’re nothing but a scrap to be tasted.
You take a sharp breath and force your feet to keep moving, smoothing your expression, crafting that perfect neutral smile.
But then he rises.
Effortless and fluid. The very picture of refined welcome.
“Lady Jade!” He purrs, bowing just low enough to be gallant—just shallow enough to remind you he outranks you here. “A pleasure. You are an absolute vision this morning.”
You try to curtsy. You think you succeed.
His eyes glint with something too smooth to be kindness. Then he glances around the court, lifting one pale brow in playful confusion.
“But… what happened to your companions?” He asks, voice all honey and silk. “I was told there were three of you.”
Your throat tightens.
“Uh—yes. Well…” You fumble, hands clenching your skirt. “They… fell ill. Unfortunately.”
He frowns. An elegant, dramatic frown, as though he’s just heard his beloved hound was eaten by a goose.
“Ill?” He repeats, aghast. “In my palace? This simply cannot be.”
You scramble.
“I—I believe it’s allergies, my lord. From the travels. Dust and… spores. But I’m here on behalf of them.”
The words tumble out in a flurry of practiced dignity and raw, rising dread. You swear his mouth twitches—just slightly.
Astarion’s expression shifts—only slightly. One brow arches with a hint of theatrical concern.
“Oh, how terribly unfortunate…” He murmurs, lips curling around the words like he’s savoring them. “I do hope they recover swiftly.”
You nod, too quickly.
Then, with a single flick of his hand, he gestures toward a low writing desk set near the arched window. The morning light streams in just enough to paint the wood in amber. You hesitate for half a breath before following him.
He doesn’t sit behind the desk. No—he perches on the edge of it, perfectly at ease, glass still in hand, gaze gleaming like a cat watching a bird trapped in a glass cage.
“Well then…” He says smoothly “Lady Jade. What brings your family all this way?”
Your mouth goes dry.
He’s looking straight at you now. Not leering, not sneering—just seeing. As if you’ve been peeled open and lined in gold foil.
You clasp your hands tighter.
“We…” You clear your throat. “We’ve come to propose a mutually beneficial… arrangement.”
One of his brows twitches.
“The roads between Athkatla and Baldur’s Gate have become increasingly dangerous of late,” you continue, voice stiffer than you intend. “Our caravans—supplies, goods, and dignitaries—have reported sightings of strange figures in the Cloakwood. Corpses, they say. Moving.”
He sips his wine slowly. Doesn’t blink.
You shift your weight.
“We’re seeking an… accord. Protection, from your court. In exchange, House Selemchant is prepared to offer a percentage of trade revenues—along with exclusive rights to several lucrative transport routes and priority access to future shipments of refined…”
“Did you have breakfast yet, Lady Jade?”
The question slices across your practiced lines like a whip made of silk.
“I—I’m sorry?” You blink.
He tilts his head slightly, gaze warm in that way fire is warm just before it burns.
“Our fine cooks are making cherry custard crêpes as we speak.” He says, almost conversationally. “Perfectly thin. Drizzled in sweet wine reduction. A dusting of crushed pistachio. Warm enough to melt against the tongue.”
You don’t respond.
He leans forward just slightly—his voice dropping into something softer, silkier, and infinitely more dangerous.
“And trust me, they are…” He whispers “…to die for.”
Your breath catches in your throat.
He smiles.
And you sit there—still, stunned, your proposal half-finished in your lap—wondering if this man is mocking you, seducing you, or both.
His smile widens—not kindly. Proudly. As if he’s just fed you a line from a play and is waiting for your applause.
You finally exhale and say, dryly:
“I shouldn’t. It sounds far too dangerous for me as I don’t have your… everliving condition, my lord.”
That earns a laugh—rich, amused, and far too genuine.
“Condition?” He repeats, swirling the last of his wine. “Most would call it a gift. A blessing. A true wonder.”
You arch a brow.
“And how do you plan to use this miraculous gift? Eternity seems like a long enough time to get bored of just about everything.”
He grins, teeth flashing. There’s something hungry in it—not just for blood or power, but for the thrill of being challenged.
“Oh, don’t worry, darling.” He purrs. “I don’t think boredom is anywhere in my future.”
He stands slowly, setting the glass down with a quiet clink. Then, with all the nonchalance of a feline crossing into your space, he circles the desk—pausing as he passes your chair.
He leans in, just barely, just enough for you to feel the whisper of his presence near your shoulder.
“I intend..” He murmurs, voice low and close. “….to live. And enjoy everything life has to offer. Seize every opportunity. Savor every delight…”
Your breath catches—just slightly—but you hold your ground.
“Well, my lord..” you reply, lifting your chin. “Here’s an opportunity.”
He halts, mid-step.
You turn your head, meeting his gaze.
“Help us with our caravan issues and savor the delights House Selemchant has to offer our allies.”
“Oh?” he says after a short pause. “I do love a woman who plays the game.”
A sudden stir ripples through the room—new footsteps echoing across polished stone as more figures filter into the grand chamber. Nobles, petitioners, sycophants with velvet gloves and long-winded requests.
Astarion glances toward the approaching cluster of guests, then turns back to you with a smile that’s all invitation and intent.
“Well, my lady..” he drawls, voice lazy as poured wine. “It seems the court awakens. Hard to stay focused with so many distractions, wouldn’t you agree?”
You say nothing. His smile deepens.
“Perhaps we might… continue our discussion this evening? Over dinner. A private setting. Fewer interruptions.”
Your pulse flutters, but your voice remains smooth.
“Of course, my lord. I’d be honored.”
You rise, smoothing your skirt, dipping into a crisp, practiced bow. But before you can step away, his voice follows—light and amused.
“Oh—and please do give my best wishes for a fast recovery from their… allergies, to your dear family.”
You don’t flinch, not outwardly, just bow again, tighter this time, and walk away—spine straight, chin high, every step a lesson in regal indifference.
You don’t let yourself breathe until the doors close behind you.
And then—
-You press your back to the cool stone wall, fingers curled at your sides and let the breath rush out of you.
Gods.
It wasn’t just the conversation. It was him. His voice. His eyes. His mouth, curling with every line like he already knew your thoughts. Like he enjoyed watching you squirm.
You shake your head and mutter under your breath:
“Let’s go check on the allergies…”
Then, you push yourself away from the wall.
The corridor is quiet now. A faint breeze drifts through the arched windows lining the hall and as you pass one of them, your steps falter.
He’s there.
Just beyond the glass.
Throned like a prince in a storybook gone wicked—lounging with his long limbs draped in crimson, one arm thrown lazily over the side, a new petitioner groveling before him. The light catches in his silver curls. His smile—half-interested, half-lethal—cuts through the room like a command.
Astarion, The Vampire Lord of Baldur’s Gate in his element.
You watch him for a moment longer, caught in something you don’t yet have words for. Then you turn and walk on, breath shallow, heart pounding—toward the guest wing, toward the tight leash, and toward whatever comes next.
You reach the guest wing quietly, your shoes brushing against embroidered carpets that feel too thick to breathe through. The doors ahead are slightly ajar—Sulima’s quarters.
You’re about to call out when a clipped voice halts you mid-step.
“…He doesn’t need to know everything.” Sulima says, her tone sharp and hushed. “He’ll be getting a hell of a deal for playing a very small part.”
A pause.
Then your uncle’s voice, slower, lower:
“Agreed. But we must be prepared if he finds out…”
Your breath catches.
The words aren’t clear. The context is worse. It feels like a needle sliding under your skin.
You step forward before you can think, pushing the door open.
Both of them pause when you step inside.
Sulima reaches slowly for the glass of water beside her bed, taking a delicate sip like she hadn’t just been plotting something behind closed doors.
“Jade…” she says, voice soft and hoarse. “How did it go?”
Your uncle rises from the armchair in the corner, moving stiffly, one hand pressed to his lower back. His eyes are bloodshot, skin pale.
“Tell us everything, dear.” he murmurs, rubbing his temple.
You close the door behind you and smooth your clothes with both hands.
“He didn’t give a firm answer.” you say carefully. “But he invited us to dinner tonight. I assume that’s when he’ll give his decision.”
Sulima clicks her tongue, setting the water down on the nightstand.
“Vampires…” She mutters, laying back against the pillows. “Never straight to the point.”
She exhales through her nose, fingers pressed lightly to her temple.
“Fine. I think we’ll be well enough by evening.”
The Baron nods in agreement, already sinking back into the chair with a tired sigh.
“I’ll leave you to rest and recover.” You say, bowing gently.
Neither of them speaks as you turn and step out, the door shutting softly behind you.
Your own quarters are still bathed in morning light—quiet, untouched, the way you left them.
But something new waits on your nightstand.
A silver dish.
Polished to a mirror gleam, domed with a cloche.
You step closer and lift the lid.
The scent hits first—cherries and cream and something faintly spiced. Beneath the silver dome sits a single, delicate custard crêpe, folded and gleaming, dusted with powdered sugar and crushed pistachio.
Tucked beneath the edge of the plate is a slip of paper, folded once.
You pull it free, hands careful, heart already quickening.
The note is handwritten—smooth, elegant script, and signed with nothing at all.
Do try a bite.
A little death can be fun.
Your lips twitch before you can stop them. A smile—small, involuntary, and thoroughly inappropriate—curls at the corner of your mouth.
You pick up the silver fork resting beside the plate, its edge cold and delicate in your fingers.
Then, still standing, still unsure if it’s a trap or a temptation, you slice off the tiniest bite of cherry-stained crêpe and lift it to your mouth.
The taste is sweet and tart. Laced with something rich and dark beneath the surface.
You close your eyes, just for a moment.
And smile again.