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[mysticalprincesskitten]

happy birthday fantasy king!

[mysticalprincesskitten]

Bunny

Pairing: Malachy Granger x reader

Warnings: NSFW/18+ ONLY! MINORS WILL BE BLOCKED, !MDNI!, swearing, smoking weed, violence/murder, porn with plot, age gap (reader is 18 but Malachy is 24), oral (f/m both), fingering, vaginal penetration, light dubcon (cuckhold, implied baby-trapping), stalking behavior/yandere!

Summary: Malachy met you through Amy and became your go-to for weed, but what happens when Malachy feels more for you under the surface than what you could ever imagine…

Word Count: 8.6k

A/N: wow! starting off with a bang for sure… might have to wipe my hard drive after this lol, but here goes my first fic ever on here! After the last poll, I didn’t realize how close the tally would be for Tom Glynn-Carney as Haymitch Abernathy (fancasted not cannon… please god I have seen what you’ve done for others) in a Hunger Games !AU! v.s. Malachy Granger, and I actually ended up breaking down the Haymitch one shot and decided to delve into that world and turn it into a short series. if you guys like this fic I could tease what would be part one!

My requests are open! In the works currently is the TGC’s Haymitch AU series (like 2 parts in drafts so far that I’m tinkering with) and a priest!AegonII because I can’t get enough of that beautiful man Tom Glynn-Carney.

fic below the cut… enjoy! not proofread so I apologize if there’s any spelling errors!

It was sweet really.

Nothing made a boring day for Malachy Granger go by faster than when he thought of you. Even a bad day couldn’t end on anything less than a good note even as long as he got to think about you, his sweet girl.

Malachy loves you dearly, and knowing you weren’t answering his texts when he’d look at the hanging clock on the wall of the boathouse, or his phone, knowing that when he looked up at the time, he always knew where you were. He even went out of his way to memorize your class schedule. The daily rotation too!

Malachy wouldn’t go out of his way to do all of that if he didn’t care about you. Malachy wouldn’t go out of his way if he did not care about the people he loves.

Every time he sees you walk out of the brick building in your plum-colored uniform, he can’t help still remember the day he first saw you, he could not get enough. He felt like you cast your fishing net lined with hooks, ensnaring each sharp prong into his skin and mind. That had to be the answer for the pull he felt towards you.

‘How did you know so much about him?’ he wondered to himself, ‘how did you know that he was going to drive down that street that night as you walked?’

The first time about 3.5 months ago was when he merely drove by you, almost missed you even. It was late at night. Would have been perfect too– except that Malachy had a sleeping Amy in his passenger seat, so he was able to ease off the acceleration just to get an extra moment’s glance at you.

He even let out a soft sigh at the sight of you just walking home on the sidewalk under the streetlights, hair in those two French plaited braids he could already feel twirling between his rough fingertips.

Winter is coming soon and the temperatures at nighttime rapidly fell, but that didn't seem to bother you.

‘Where was your jacket? How could you be so reckless with your health? You could catch a cold!’

‘Where were you coming from?‘

What he then noticed though was those headphones in your ears that drowned out any chance for your brain to comprehend that you perhaps weren’t alone. How could you be so foolish in regards to your own safety wearing a skirt like that?

‘Where were you going? Alone, no doubt? What else is in that backpack of yours?’

Malachy wouldn’t have that reckless behavior. Not if he had anything to say about it by the way he looked back at you in his rear view mirrors as he had to drive by you like a normal person on their way, but he didn’t do it though without committing what he could see under the night sky and the dim street lights.

You were so beautiful to him at first sight. The way the yellow hue of the streetlamp that shined against your braided hair as you walked. Your hair looked healthy. Not like Amy’s. He couldn’t help but wonder what kind of hair products you liked, what you smelt like.

He didn’t even realize how hard he was gripping the poor cheap leather of his steering wheel. He could literally picture it now, and the mental image made his teeth clench; the fleeting thought that any sick fucker could see you and your radiant innocence.

Nobody including you would even know what happened if someone ran up behind you and—.

-

The next time he saw you, it was about a month later and God did life just always seems to go his way.

How could it have not when Amy had given him a new address to pick her up from what she called a ‘new’ friend’s house. She said made a new friend today in class whom she hadn’t conversed with much but the class had to work on their projects with assigned partners, and that was you.

Malachy’s feet pressed down into the floorboard of his car with his toes practically curling in delight within his boots finally seeing your beautiful face again. At your own house no less in broad daylight too as you waved goodbye to your new friend Amy and shut the front door to your parents house behind her.

He hadn’t seen you smile that first night, but all good things come to those who wait.

Malachy wiped the giggity-smug expression from his face within a split second as Amy turned around and walked down your driveway and across the street to his car.

Unfortunately he still had to give Amy a smile though when she got into his passenger seat. Unfortunately he had to press his mouth against hers. Malachy made sure to wait a few seconds after driving away though. He couldn’t give you a chance to see him out a window with your friend in his car with him like that.

He was yours and you were His.

It was too perfect.

‘How hadn’t he seen you before? Why hadn’t Amy’s fucking dumbass met and befriended you before?’ He thought to himself as he gripped the steering wheel after dropping Amy off at her own house, barely letting her shut the door before he drove off ‘late to work’.

The past doesn’t matter now though. He could spend the rest of his life making up for the past though. He could show you how sorry he was not having seen you before he did. He should. He would. He will.

A few days of being parked down the road at night and one can learn so much in the silent hours with so much time to think while the rest of the world is sleeping. Like clockwork, you always leave the back window in your bedroom unlocked to climb onto your roof at night to smoke weed at 11:30pm.

Malachy liked to smoke too…what a coincidence. What a coincidence it was that you never failed to surprise him or keep him on his toes either. He loved surprises. Made him feel good inside knowing in this life he could have his slice of cake, and eat it too.

Malachy had to be smart. You and Amy’s friendship was still incredibly delicate as it was newfound and almost professional in a sort of way. He couldn’t just pry and ask Amy who her new friend is cause that could be suspicious and he just wanted nonchalance at the moment as he drove the two of them.

With Amy, even before seeing you, he found himself in recent months especially quickly growing tense and he had lost that burst of youthful energy he’d gotten from being around her a while ago, the empty feeling just festering like a rot within. He sucked it from Amy, she must be doing it back to him now. Needed to cut her loose and dispose of her sooner rather than later.

Sometimes he’d even roll down his window just a crack to let oxygen in and the smoke out while he toked on his own cigarettes. Moments like these when the two of you would smoke together were peaceful for him and his temper already dangling off the edge.

With you, it was tranquil. Free therapeutic relaxation time as Malachy smoked with the most beautiful sight before him… 150 feet away on top of her own roof while he sat hidden and silent in his car. He never knew he had the capacity within to feel what he felt for you.

Malachy had to be precise, but it was so fucking hard to cum into his hand even with your panties pressed to his nose when he didn’t know your name even if he was laying on your bed while you were at school and your parents at work.

How did he get those? Oh, that was easy, but it was a little frustrating for you. Where did they go? Why didn’t they come back after being sent down with the laundry?

Hadn't Malachy’s sweet bunny even stopped to think if they were even truly sent down? Or was you just that enamored with his silent devotion to you. Hadn’t Malachy’s sweet girl comprehend and realized that someone truly loved you in this ugly, cruel world?

Hasn’t anyone taught you how dangerous it is to live without a man who loves you? Clearly not, not that first time, not the way you so carelessly went about the world, like you weren’t. But you were and you did.

As the days went by, days turned into weeks he watched you from the shadows, completely unaware of him. He learned you liked to skip school on occasion too, whether it be to smoke outside in the woods with Amy and her other friend Caitlin whom you didn’t know much about either.

Today was the day though that you had chosen to skip your third and fourth period blocks to come back to your house for another type of fun while your parents were both at work with a stowaway behind you, completely unaware of the one already in your room when you both snuck inside your parents’ house. Such a naughty streak you have.

Malachy hadn’t even thought of Amy once the entire day. He’d even forgotten to pick her up from your school while he was too busy watching you, standing in silence after he ushered himself within suddenly hearing the front door shut and your laughter echoing up the stairwell.

It was tortuous agony for him standing so still, palming himself with one hand and using the other to press your sweet-scented lace against his nose while inhaling into his sinuses, watching you squirm like that on your bed through the slanted slits of the closed closet doors.

The boy to you was just one of your classmates, you may have had a small crush on him, but it was less of an infatuation and more so just a fun rush than anything. A pep in your step for an hour or so if you will.

Malachy hadn’t ever watched like this before, and he found it and the adrenaline rush exhilarating. You knew how to make it fun for him. You currently may have felt some type of good, yeah maybe, but he could do it better instead of that pathetic, scrawny teenager.

Malachy’s eyes shut and his lips parted, wincing inwardly as he pictured the scene playing out in his own mind now that he had the mental recordings of your moans and whimpers that he too could playback at any time he pleased himself now.

That same brunette, the one with his head between your legs as you laid on your bed, he and Malachy actually worked together at the boathouse now that the kid was a new hire recently.

Malachy was relieved inside to know why he just never fucking liked the kid’s presence, but in this moment he supposed he didn’t mind that much if he was watching a free presentation on how to actually satisfy you the way you would want.

He didn't miss the deadpanned eye roll you gave the boy once you dissuaded him basically to give up and you were just stressed about an upcoming exam, and the boy shyly smiled, unconvinced but nodding anyway, and the two of you left once more as the ambiance for you was more awkward, rather than enticing and Malachy could sense that too.

Malachy’s silence, and patience always paid off in the long run.

‘Who knew you liked to be watched so much?’ Malachy thought to himself, his ego growing heavier than the weight of which his sack hung and contracted once he finally cummed after cuckholding himself on a happy accident.

In the predicament in which he found himself hiding in your closet was a good spot, he couldn’t soil your panties, so he almost panicked and instead used a random sock to clean himself up before quickly slipping from your window with a shit-eating grin.

Malachy had assessed about you that nobody taught you what it felt like to be loved, to be protected. That you still needed to be taught that Malachy was the one who provides that for you, even if it’s from a distance just for now. You’ll understand someday.

Malachy finally understood why people said ‘if I can’t have you, nobody can’ when he looked at you. He never understood, and in a way almost found the phrase to be borderline creepy until that profound realization as he stood there and watched someone else try to pleasure you.

But psychopaths are the ones who say that quote… Malachy wasn’t a psychopath because it’s been said that psychopaths don’t feel anything and Malachy felt what he believed was everything worth keeping close in this life with you… Psychopaths hurt animals too… He couldn’t be a psychopath… He loved nature!

Malachy felt bad about the idea of hurting any of nature’s beauty. You were a part of that. He would never.

What Malachy didn’t feel bad about was knocking that dirty, rusted shovel across the back of that teenager’s head that night. He was just some random boy.

That boy didn’t care about you. Not like Malachy did, and he himself knew that for a fact when he didn’t even flinch upon hearing the daunting sound of the metal cracking the boy’s skull open with a ‘clunk’ noise, nor when he fell forward with a quick splash and disappeared under the surface.

That boy didn’t call you back after that night and that made you cry because that boy too just used you, even though your encounters together weren’t exactly remarkable— it still hurt some part of your own ego, but what Malachy didn’t know was that while he was dealing with the evidence, you were in bed in a stumped stupor, unsure of why that certain scent of cologne and cigarettes just keeps following you. How was it that your pillows and sheets smelt like it too?

You narrowed your eyes on a single fine blond hair that was lying nearby, plucking the strand up and observing it, trying to pinpoint who she knew within her small social circle. Amy mentioned her boyfriend… whatever his name was… she said he had blond hair. His leather jacket smells like cologne and cigarettes too, Amy wore it once or twice when coming over to work on your class project.

You swallowed that odd feeling that threatened to fester in the pit of your stomach, shrugging it off by chalking it up to it having to have fallen off the jacket itself the last time she was here. You still couldn’t finish yourself off though, so you took a quick shower and went to bed, still somewhat upset that the boy, Ryan, you were with earlier hadn’t responded to you in a little while either.

Malachy had to promise himself to make that up to you too somehow.

Maybe someday he’ll take you exactly where he just watched the last bubble rise and plop once breaking the surface of the water after Malachy just gifted the bottom feeders of the harbor and entire 6 months, at least, worth of food! It was so thoughtful to the small fish, worms, crabs and whatever else well fed beneath the surface that he too loved nature, and that he wished only the best for the innocents in existence.

As the rippling water settled, his reflection had been cold and stern, his eyes dark with contempt, the face looking back at him shattered by malice in every which way as the water bounced.

He only smiled when the surface of the water grew still after a few minutes, the contempt in his eyes melting into something else while his hooded reflection turned and walked off into the night, leaving Ryan to never be seen again.

He left the harbor empty once more as nature investigated what now hid beneath the surface of the murky water while he decomissioned the shovel within the boathouse that night, and discarded the pieces across town the next morning.

‘Nobody would ever know.’

Nobody would ever have to know that kid who showed up to work the fuel pump that night. Nobody had to know that the teenager was approached by a hooded figure that needed help loading his boat back up out of the water.

Malachy even complained later on the next day to Arj once the sun rose again that kids nowadays are practically useless. Well not all of them, Amy was still somewhat useful as you grew a little closer. He didn’t exactly need her, but it helped in the early stages. He got to learn you, through Amy after a line or two and she wasn’t able to shut the fuck up anymore as she rambled on. He let her do all the talking.

It was only when he got your number that he didn’t need Amy’s assistance anymore.

How did Malachy get your number anyway? You gave it to him yourself. You texted him first. It was after you and Amy smoked weed together a few weeks after the two of you spent time together bonding as new friends while you two worked on your class project.

You wanted more from a new person because your dealer sucked, and Amy told you that her boyfriend can help you. Don’t you remember?

Malachy could remember. He could remember he wanted to strangle Amy with both of his hands around her neck when he found out she addressed him as her ‘boyfriend’ to you. As Amy spoke to him about her giving you his number as she looked around without a care about her surroundings.

Malachy merely looked forward as he drove. nodding his head in acknowledgment to her words that fell on his deafening ears over the thrumming bolt of heated anger he felt coursing through him. Now he has even more work to do, but he’d do anything for you.

His eyes winced slightly, feeling his phone vibrate against his thigh in his pocket. It had to be you. His heart was racing as his thumbs strummed against the steering wheel as he drove Amy home, dropping her off and leaving once more.

Amy had begun to wonder why Malachy had become a bit more reclusive recently, not hanging around with her as much as he ‘worked’. He ran the boathouse, and it was usually quiet, but Amy didn’t press it.

He barely made it down the street before pulling the phone out to see an unsaved number, a small smirk tugging on his lips. He wasn’t sure what it was about you that made him feel such a ways or how it came to be that you reminded him of a bunny, but it just came to him.

He ended up saving your contact name as ‘🐰’ in case Amy ever decided to go through his phone despite the conversations kept between you and Malachy were brief and friendly.

You really weren’t sure at all what it was about Malachy or what made him captivating, something it was about him that seemed to always draw you in and demand your attention in his presence. Maybe it was his smile, or the way he seemed to listen to everything you had to say, no matter how short or long, or the side quips with a side glance that perhaps lasted a moment longer than it should’ve.

Before Amy’s disappearance, you had only seen Malachy briefly about 4 times when you bought weed from him.

The last time, you had met him at the boathouse and he invited you inside for a little while. The invitation to stay inside with him for a few minutes had caught you off guard, and you had panicked.

To maintain some shroud of trying to be a decent friend to Amy despite knowing her and Malachy couldn’t have been that serious if she frequently spent time with other girls. She had flirted with you too to test the waters, but Amy could tell you didn’t quite fully swing that way as well.

The least you could do was not maintain eye contact with Malachy in which it felt like the two of you were undressing each other with your eyes alone while he nonchalantly strummed along the strings of his guitars.

You had never asked Malachy his age, you just knew he was a few years older. You also knew you had no business at your age being around him either– let alone spending time with him without Amy, but it pushed the boundaries of your young life and it felt exhilarating despite knowing it was wrong.

It took a good week for your parents to let you back out of the house before or after school hours as the investigation and search parties for Amy went on as you enjoyed going for runs in the morning.

As the days went by and there were no signs or evidence left behind of her disappearance that would have suggested foul play, whispers spread as the authorities had begun to chalk up the disappearance to being a runaway case of a troubled young teenage girl running from home.

Your parents were also sickened to hear about another missing’s person report the same age as mine and Amy’s… the same one you were with… Ryan.

You made sure to give your parents an extra tight squeeze as they got into their respective cars to leave for work, and you instead set the relay timer on your watch to begin your morning run before school. The air was crisp as it was late autumn, and the leaves had fallen now, but that didn’t stop you from wearing shorts instead of leggings with your crewneck sweatshirt.

Malachy smiled to himself seeing the back of your head while you were on your run, the first time since Amy and Ryan’s disappearance, he enjoyed how much you liked to take care of yourself like that. He loved how mature you spoke, and how you presented yourself in the way you held your composure.

Despite your freedom to be with open wings once more, Malachy found himself growing to respect you in that aspect even if it were out of character for him and how he felt about you, but on cue, he realized that he knew he would have to clip those beautiful wings for your own good. It’s a cruel world out there full of bad people that would love to watch over you like Malachy did.

After you got back to your house from your run, you decided that today would be another day to bunk from school as it was a random Tuesday that didn’t call for any exams or quizzes. You bit your lip as you undressed in the bathroom and turned on the water, sending Malachy a text that said ‘hey… wanna smoke?’ while you waited for the shower water to warm up. You also called Ember to let your friend know that you were staying home today so she didn’t think the worst.

He has the best intentions, he really does, even when he’s standing outside of your bathroom door while you showered after you returned home from your morning run to what you thought was an empty house, listening to you talk to Ember for a second on the phone before stepping into the shower and pulling the curtain shut.

He too bit his own lip when his phone vibrated in his pocket, pulling it out and leaning against the wall to see your contact. God if only you knew.

M: be there in 10

Malachy could hear the curtains rustling after his text vibrated your phone on the countertop as you checked to see what he responded to you with, a light chuckle leaving his lips as he pushed himself off from the wall and silently walked down the stairs as he heard you curse aloud at the short window of time.

Within 10, you showered, redressed into another crewneck sweatshirt and yoga pants, and only got to drying your hair about halfway when your phone lit up on the counter with a text from Malachy saying ‘here’.

You quickly went downstairs, wiping the smile from your face when seeing his silhouette through the marbled glass of the front door, opening it up to let him in before any eavesdropping neighbor could rat you and your inappropriate invitation of the man in his early-mid twenties out to your parents.

However, likely due to the added stress from Amy’s disappearance, Malachy looked a little bit worse for wear and it only served to heighten the guilt churning inside me that I still found him, my missing friend’s boyfriend or whatever Malachy and her were, attractive even with a more rugged appearance and dark under eye circles.

“Hey doll face,” Malachy gave you a one-sided smirk with the nickname as you let him inside, a rosy pink hue warming the apples of your cheeks at his endearment.

“Hi,” you said softly with a light smile in response, gesturing with a nod of your head for him to follow you upstairs to your bedroom to smoke.

“So… how have you been holding up?” You asked to break the silence between the two of you, looking back down at him as you ascended the wooden steps but missing his blatant, nearly salivating eyes on your ass clad in your yoga pants that had him holding his breath as you led him through the house.

He already knew where your parents’ ‘crap’ drawers were, where the household scissors are stored, the little things that highlighted his keen attention to detail as he learned about you and your family, but he just carried on with his one-sided facial expression, giving a light shrug when you looked back at him.

“I guess I don’t know what to make of the entire situation,” Malachy answered slowly as the two of you walked down the hall, watching as you grabbed your damp towel from the bathroom and continuing on to your open bedroom, shutting the door behind you and wedging the damp towel in the crack under the door to contain any smells, “I’m a little perturbed if she did take off without so much of a note or a goodbye… but it’s unsettling as well.”

“Yeah, for sure,” you frowned softly at the remembrance of how sudden Amy’s disappearance without a single word or trace left behind while you reached under your bed for a sealed mason jar that contained a pre-wrap within. You nodded your head at him with permission to sit down on your bed as you bent down, “I mean I know she’d mentioned that she wanted to leave but I didn’t think she’d actually do it.”

“Yeah- wait…here,” Malachy responded, quickly seeing what you were doing and pulling out one of his own from the pocket of his gray sweatpants and a small lighter, his smirk now curled up on both sides of his rather almost too-perfectly shaped lips as you found a spot of your own near the head of the bed with crossed legs. The duvet was still made from this morning when you got up and he sat down as well on the other end of the bed after taking off his boots, “I’ve got one already. My treat.”

“Look at you,” your own smile got a little bigger at his words and seeing he brought weed even though you had invited him over, your lips still flattened out and pressed in a curved line almost like a sweetened smirk of your own as you stood up to light a candle and open a window while he pulled out a lighter to ready the joint, “thanks Mal.”

“Anything for you,” he winked, putting the joint between his lips and inhaling as the pocket lighter ignited and the thin white papered tip burned steadily as you looked away for a moment down at your hands in your lap, another small blush forming on your cheeks.

You knew you shouldn’t feel this way and you knew he probably shouldn’t be talking to you this way either as you begun to contemplate the meaning behind the form solace you provided for him rather than emotionally, but you swallowed the guilt in a thick motion as he handed you the joint and you reached out.

“Thanks,” you murmured softly, taking the joint from his fingers delicately and into the grasp of yours, drawing the joint between your lip and not paying much mind to Malachy as you were studying the joint.

Malachy was too busy watching how your lips closed around the tip and inhaling, his own lips pursed too and his eyes dark with an emotion you couldn’t quite put a finger on the next time you looked at him once more to hand the joint back to him. Once he took it back from you, you leaned back a few inches against your headboard and turned your head to blow the smoke out of your lungs out of the open window while he pulled it between his lips.

“So… I don’t suppose you’re turning up to first period dressed like that,” Malachy jestered playfully between a few hits and you turned and laughed softly, not missing his gaze that traveled up and down the outfit of choice of the crewneck and yoga pants instead of the standard plum school uniform skirts and collared button ups, “what’s your excuse today?”

“Told Ember I wasn’t feeling well,” you shrugged playfully and continued to hum in amusement softly as you answered his question, your eyes falling from the scrutinizing eye contact with his dark blue irises to the joint as he handed it back to you.

This time, his fingers grazed against yours and sent small sparks up your arm but you made no effort to display such reactions to the brief touch while you took a hit too, the joint almost halfway gone now.

Your room was slightly hazy as the morning sunlight peered through the windows and you both were feeling the effects as you could see his sitting posture relaxing just a bit as did yours back against the headrest.

“So you mean to tell me you invited me here with germs?” His eyebrow cocked as he continued the tease further, his eyes falling from yours for a split second to the joint between your lips before his eyes met yours once more, “so you’ve got cooties?”

“What? Of course not,” Your eyes nearly rolled out of your own head at his childish phrasing, your hum of amusement turning into a light giggle as you shook your head with disapproval and you coughed quietly into the elbow crook of your free arm at the burn in your throat as you tried to choke out lightly, “if either of us had ‘cooties’ it’d be you just because you used that word, but no… I didn’t feel like handing in my college essay prompt for peer reviewing.”

“Oh please,” Malachy scowled jokingly at your words between your coughing causing a light laugh, a real laugh, rumbling lowly from his chest and your heart raced softly, handing the joint to him. You certainly didn’t miss the smirk on his lips that caused the deepest parts of you to stir involuntarily as if you were being eyed down, predator like prey despite the relaxed ambiance while his fingers brushed against yours once more as he took the joint from you, his eyes darkening even further as you mentioned of ‘college’.

The emotion brewing behind his irises wasn’t anger but it was something much more sinister beneath the surface, but it’s not like sure Malachy is capable of feeling something like that… right?

Your tongue darted out to moisten your bottom lip as you turned to take a sip from your water bottle to soothe the burn in your throat and to have an excuse to look away from him as he took a couple of hits and exhaled in the direction of the open window.

“Are you stuck working today?” You asked softly, pulling the lightly bunched up sleeves of your sweatshirt further up and over your knuckles while your arms folded over your abdomen once you were done taking a sip to signal you were done smoking for now. As you relaxed back against the headboard where you were as Malachy studied your face, watching him stand up with the remnants of what was once a joint and now a roach, dropping it into the ashtray sitting on your nightstand next to the water bottle to allow the vacuum of the open window to pull the smoke outside.

Malachy could’ve groaned at the sight that threatened an ache to form in his lower belly, suppressing every urge to flip you onto your stomach and dominate you right here, right now after he turned to look down at you and your head turned up at him. Your heart pounded in your chest as Malachy suddenly turned to you, standing above you as you looked up at him with glassy, bloodshot eyes while he answered, “no, I’m not.”

You suddenly found yourself rendered speechless for some reason, blinking through the haze clouding both your mind and the room as you choked out quietly to keep the conversation going without awkward silence, “that’s nice…”

Malachy hummed softly, his hand suddenly lifting up and his fingertips grazing over the crown of your head, delicately twirling a lock of your hair around his finger and you held your breath, your heartbeat pounding in your eardrums and you didn’t dare blink.

“Breathe… darling,” Malachy whispered and you involuntarily obeyed, exhaling softly and inhaling once more as if your face had turned red. His fingertips left the strands of hair on the side of your head, trailing ever so gently over the skin of your temple and down the side of your cheek.

Your eyes must’ve been blown wide in reaction to his bold behavior especially so soon after Amy’s disappearance, but Amy, truth be told, had found a small corner in the back of your mind that wasn’t loud enough to garner your attention from the unfolding events being made between your missing friend’s ‘boyfriend’ and you, her ‘friend’.

It wasn’t until his palm cupped one side of your jaw, the size of his hand allowing for his finger to splay up and nearly engulf the side of your face while his thumb pressed against your lips, flattening the delicate tissue under the calloused pad. With your heart beating like cornered prey, it opposed the reaction you experienced as you could practically feel your damp panties stuck to your cunt.

“Tell me to stop,” Malachy murmured softly as if he could smell the unease festering in the back of your mind, looking down at you with those blue eyes, darkening by the minute as his pupils had begun to dilate.

The unease however, was wiped away when he dared to press his thumb further past your lips and against your teeth, your jaw suddenly opening for you as you accepted his thumbpad into your mouth as confirmation to do the opposite of his words.

“Fuck,” Malachy moaned softly as he pressed down on your tongue and your lips closed around the digit, his lips almost curling into a dangerous sneer that instead of deterring you like it probably should’ve, it only served to spur you on as your widened eyes had relaxed, “look at you, looking like a greedy fucking whore suckling on my thumb.”

His words made your eyes widen once more at the sheer vulgarity of them and his sneer smelted into almost a twisted smirk as he pulled his thumb from your lips, reaching down behind your ear and around the base of your skull to create a makeshift ponytail as he turned you and drug you forward like a paperweight.

Malachy’s once blue eyes almost seemed to appear black during the swift motion, your face wincing at the sudden static of pain that pricked along the underside of your scalp as he kept a hold of your head with one hand and used the other hand to scoop under around one of your folded knees to guide the twisting motion of your body.

Meanwhile he turned your body and uncrossed your folded legs to allow him even closer, his face craned down and kissed you hungrily as your hands flew up to grip his hoodie to keep you grounded to reality. Soft whimpers left your throat as tears lightly welled but your excitement of the anticipation bubbled faster, pushing away any fleeting thought of pain.

You gasped softly at the overwhelming feelings that overrode your mind between his words, his mouth on yours, the grip he had on your ponytail and now, his body shifting to lean over yours.

Malachy took advantage of your gasp to dominate your mouth with his tongue as you melted under his touch, his tongue dancing with yours as he used your hair to guide you to lean back, nudging your legs open and pressing and rolling his hips down against yours as you swallowed each other’s moans.

Unsure of what took over you yourself despite your morals screaming at you to halt this behavior with Malachy immediately, one of your hands left his shirt and reached up behind his head, reciprocating the gesture of your fingers in his hair and tugging, eliciting a moan from his own throat as his cock throbbed as he rutted against your clothed core.

“Fuck,” Malachy groaned softly once he finally broke the heated kiss with a triumphant shit-eating grin, a blush creeping on your face watching the lewd sight of a string of saliva still connecting your lips and his eyes gleamed with a carnal desire.

Your entrance painfully clamped down around nothing as you watched the tip of his tongue barely curl up between his parted teeth and up around his right upper canine tooth mischievously before his head dipped within a blink’s notice.

His hand let go of the grip it held on your hair and moved to a bit more tender position back cupping your jaw and grazing his thumb across the apple of your cheek as the other hand rose up your thigh from where he held onto your knee when he first moved you.

His lips attached to the column of your neck placing hot, open-mouthed kisses as you continued to whimper softly under the sensation of his sloppy kisses down your heated skin, his hand on the topside of your thigh creeping up around the small pocket of fat that padded the side where your thigh met your hips, his thumb dangerously resting dangerously close to the hem of your panties.

The yoga pants you wore did little to pad Malachy’s clothed erection through his sweatpants that were grinding deliciously against your own clothed core, your fingertips tightening softly in his hair and he dropped his delicate hand from your cheek to roughly grope your breast through your crewneck. He gave the clothed globe a quick squeeze and you whined at the mix of hot and cold against your neck between his hot breath and the playful blows he gave against the slick column that bobbed as you swallowed.

Your whine only egged him further, his hand swiftly reaching down under your crewneck and his cool fingertips tracing up your stomach causing goosebumps to break across your flesh. His fingertips found your bare breast and he groaned against the crook of your neck, a sharp breathy moan hitching in your throat feeling his fingertips roll and pinch the hardened bud between his calloused pads.

“No bra? God you really are such a whore,” Malachy sneered against your skin, his teeth grazing your collarbone and your cheeks burned shamefully. No— you hadn’t planned on doing this at all with him, but you’re certainly thankful for it as he pinched the pert nipple once more and your spine arched up into his hand when he let go of the nipple and groped the flesh once more, “god I’ve been thinking about this since the first time I saw you.”

Your eyes opened and widened at the ceiling, and your fingertips tightened their hold in his hair and in his hoodie at his words– what? Malachy has been attracted to you instead of Amy this whole time?

Before you could respond, Malachy leaned up and pulled the crewneck over your head in a swift motion as he muttered something along the lines of ‘fuck out of my way’ and you were so thankful the neck hem didn’t yank any of your piercings with it to ruin the moment.

Any passing thought you had was quickly sliced through like a scalding blade as his lips immediately found your nipple that he had been toying with, his fingertips finding the other neglected nipple and doing the same as you moaned wantonly, arching up into his mouth further as his lips suckled and his tongue swirled.

“Mal,” you choked out softly between whimpers, looking down at him with parted lips and half-lidded eyes taking in the view of his closed eyes as he concentrated, skillfully pinching and sucking before grazing his teeth over the bud of nerves before switching again, giving attention to the other nipple with his lips for a few moments before releasing the pert flesh with a pop.

His teeth grazed along your skin as he grinned against your sternum between your breasts, his lips placing delicate, soft kisses that betrayed the rough grip he held on your waist, your hands reaching up to both card through his messy blond hair that also pressed your breasts against both sides of his face tucked into your cleavage as he left small hickies and groaning.

It was your turn to react when Malachy’s fingertips coated themselves in his own excess saliva on your breast from his attentiveness that left the slickened buds now abused and sensitive, his digits leaving causing a soft whimper to leave your lips at the missing contact. His hand suddenly dipped below the waistband of your yoga pants and panties, the pads of his fingers quickly pressing against your bare cunt for friction in place of his clothed cock, a high-pitched moan falling from your lips as he circled your clit with his middle finger.

Malachy’s lips found one of your nipples and hummed softly in approval to feeling the evidence of your desire, the vibrations coursing through you that left you breathless and panting for more as he spoke gravelly against your flesh, “your cunt is fucking dripping.”

Malachy continued to nip at your skin, his teeth pinching softly at the same time that he ran his finger down your folds from your clit, his fingertip finding your tight hole and pressing against it teasingly before cranking his wrist and sinking his middle finger. Your velvet walls sucked him in happily and you whimpered softly at the abrupt feeling that quickly melted into a pleasurable sensation with the aid of your slick essence as he established a rhythm pumping in and out.

One of your hands left his hair to grip the duvet below you as you continued to moan, his hand suddenly pulling out of your core and before you could protest, Malachy had already pulled himself away from your breasts, both of his hands gripping the hem of your yoga pants as he looked up at you.

Malachy didn’t have to say anything for you to obey under the almost intimidating, heavy gaze with his dilated pupils. You shimmied your hips up to help him yank down the fabric along with your panties, leaving you completely bare while he was still fully dressed as he found himself between your legs again.

A soft whine left your lips again and he merely stood over your flushed figure, panting softly as you anticipated further. His eyes trailed down from yours, down your chest, your navel then your bare cunt presented to him as your legs were still splayed open on both sides of his hips.

Your half-lidded eyes widened a bit seeing him sink down to his knees on the floor, meeting your core at eye level before his dilated eyes looked to you once more as he hiked one of your legs over his shoulder and left you spread open for him.

“Who does this sweet cunt belong to?” Malachy hummed softly against the delicate skin of your inner thigh as he kissed closer and closer to where you needed him most, your hand finding his hair once more as you squirmed when his scruffy short beard tickled your heated skin. When you didn’t answer within an appropriate timeframe to his question, his hand gently smacked down on your sensitive clit sending a shockwave through you.

“Fuck, you Malachy,” you cried out softly at the blunt impact, hearing him hum with another smirk again in satisfaction before giving you a quiet praise bedore he attached his lips around your swollen clit, another loud cry falling from your lips as his tongue swirled greedily around the bundle of nerves and his middle finger found your entrance once more.

His finger delved back into your leaking entrance for a few pumps before pulling out and collecting more slick now aided by his drool as he lapped at you like a starved man, his index finger now coated as well as he stretched your tight hole. The burn made you hiss softly, your body writhing as you went back and forth from stiffening to relaxing, until ultimately surrendering to the pleasure as he coaxed more moans from you.

“If I knew you tasted this good I would’ve had my way with you a long time ago, baby,” Malachy spoke in a gravelly tone right against your heated flesh eliciting more moans from your throat, realizing he wasn’t even talk to you at all but to your leaking cunt that was milking his fingers that pressed a ‘come hither’ motion into the spongy spot of tissue within your walls.

“Mal, ‘m gonna,” you sputtered out, unable to form any words as Malachy honed on suckling the bundle of nerves between his lips and shaking his head as he groaned, finger fucking you into the mattress as you writhed beneath his firm hold on your hip. You came without warning, your muscles contracting as you released, his fingers quickly pumping in and out and his tongue greedily lapped up every drop.

Your spine arched again as you cried out his name, your eyes looking at the back of your own skull while nearly seeing stars as he continued fucking you open with his fingers. Panting, you picked your head up and opened your bleary eyes to see him undressing himself and you lazily slid from your mattress onto your knees.

Malachy cursed softly at the sight of you on your knees, so willing for him while he pulled his erect member from his boxers and wincing as the flesh nearly slapped up against his own belly. Your lips parted at the sight of him, the angry rosy pink tip leaking with pre-cum and his girthy shaft veiny and aching as you reached forward, kitten-licking the tip as he gasped and took hold of your hair again.

As had he worshiped you, you wished to do the same for him, concentrating on bobbing your head rhythmically, pumping any excess length you couldn’t fit yourself as his grip held tight around your hair.

You could tell he was holding himself back until he finally didn’t as he murmured softly while running his free hand gently along your cheek as you looked up at him through your dark eyelashes, “‘m wanna’ fuck your face.”

You inhaled slowly and blinked in approval, realizing he wasted no time to hold your head steady by your hair and sunk your face down his cock until you gagged and choked when the tip met the back of your throat and then some.

Malachy’s hips steadily fucked your open mouth, breathy moans falling from his lips and tears streaming down your cheeks as the back of your throat was being pounded against.

Drool dribbled everywhere as your jaw began to ache, and the thought of what you looked like made you blush as he shoved his cock deep down your throat once more, your nose burying against the groomed dark blond hairs of his pubic bone before pulling out of your mouth completely.

“Get the fuck up,” Malachy snarled with a wolfish grin and again wasted no time, pulling you up by your hair as you gasped for air after his rigorous deep-throating and in shock at the sudden abrupt change in position as he bent you over the side of your bed, pressing your face down into your duvet.

Your eyes went wide as your dripping cunt was now presented to him completely for the taking and your lips parted as he guided the tip of his cock to your entrance.

You barely croaked out a soft ‘wait, Mal-‘ to bring attention to the use of a condom, but he didn’t wait for you to finish talking before pushing the head of his cock past your slick entrance.

A scream tumbled from your lips as he sunk straight down to the hilt, the burning sensation splitting you in half while he cursed loudly in satisfaction, his free arm slinging and wrapping around your body to rest on your hip, effectively caging you in as he still held a grip on your hair, “god I’ve never fucked a cunny’ this tight baby,” Malachy panted against your shoulder, kissing the skin softly as your tears dampened your cheeks.

You could barely form an audible word between your soft cries split between pleasure and pain, your mental too fucked out to comprehend most of the situation other than the burning sensation that rocked you to your core as his hips roughly snapped repeatedly against yours, his testes slapping forward heavily against your overstimulated clit. You weren’t a virgin but any means, but it had still been a little while since you had laid with anyone else.

“Your pussy takes my cock so good, fucking needy slut,” Malachy growled against your jaw as he had kissed up your neck, his tongue darting out and gliding up your cheek to collect the streams of salty tears.

He always knew how to keep you on your toes, his delicate kisses on your cheeks were a polar opposite treatment than what your poor, leaking cunt was currently receiving as your spine arched, a moan involuntarily tearing through you at the newer angle.

Your hands pressed down against the mattress and fisting the duvet as you slurred out his name. he continued to taunt you between kisses on your cheek and low grunts, “look at you, fuck, ’m so cock drunk you can’t even speak.”

“Mal’ ‘m close,” you babbled out, and he hummed against the shell of your ear, quickly pulling out of you and flipping you over onto your back, “I can’t-“

You gave a shrill gasp aloud at the sudden loss of contact and him repositioning you quickly again, his hands picking up your legs from the backs of your knees and bringing them up in front of you, pressing them together as he folded you in half.

Your thighs pressed together against your torso and he leaned his weight down and threw both of your legs over one shoulder, holding your hip with that hand and binding your wrists together in the other hand with an almost bruising grip on your skin.

Another breathy scream tore through you as his tip made work to brush your cervix with each deep rolling motion of his hips, his own breath growing breathy as your walls had begun to clench around his cock and he smiled down manically at you, “pretty girl, ’m already close, fuck, you keep screaming like that I’m gonna fuck you full of my cum.”

Your eyes widened knowing Malachy meant his words full and well, your head picking up in protest but a light roll and pinch was given on your clit, sending you straight over the edge and your walls fluttering around him. Your eyes snapped shut as your orgasm ripped through you in waves, your limbs trembling as your cunt coaxed his own orgasm forth and your jaw fell open as you cried out. His weight pressing down on your folded body trapped you underneath him as his pace sped up, fucking you throughout through your high and tumbling straight into his own.

any pleas for him to pull out falling on deaf ears as he kissed you deeply to shut you up with a smirk, and a groan of amusement rumbling from his throat as his own pace stuttered.

[mysticalprincesskitten]

Seasmoke Manual for Addam, Aegon Manual for baby Sunfyre.

Love the ongoing joke about how it was easier to teach Sunfyre English than to make Aegon learn high Valyrian.

[mysticalprincesskitten]

I see people getting really mad when women say that they prefer a bear over a random man.

Oh I'm sorry honey but how many time when you heard a woman was found in woods you though a bear killed her?

[mysticalprincesskitten]

[mysticalprincesskitten]

Aegon II Targaryen X OFC // Part 2

Disclaimer/Trigger warnings: MDNI, smut, oral sex (m), Season 2 non-compliant, dragonriding as foreplay, canon misogyny, aegon is pretty possessive in this fic, Targcest, OC is Viserys and Aemma's daughter, OC is named Daenerys because I love my OC being the second Daenerys in ASOIAF after Alysanne's daughter, OC looks like Elizabeth Olsen.

Part One here:

The singers would go on to craft ballads about the great love of King Aegon and Queen Daenerys long after the Dance of the Dragons. There is little doubt the queen loved her husband, though in truth her true love may well have been her dragon. Princess Daenerys bonded with the Grey Ghost shortly after her ninth nameday during a visit Dragonstone with the rest of the royal family. King Viserys decreed that his children could attempt to claim one of the dragons from the Dragonmont — provided they were “bold enough.” Prince Aegon claimed the young dragon Sunfyre, a splendid beast with golden scales and pale-pink wing membranes. Many expected Princess Daenerys to choose one of the hatchlings, or perhaps Silverwing, former mount of the Good Queen Alysanne, as the princess had been named for Queen Alysanne's eldest daughter who tragically died in infancy. But it was the Grey Ghost, a shy and reclusive dragon by all accounts, who bore the princess into the sky that day, to the delight of her father, the king.

-- Archmaester Gyldayn, The Dying of the Dragons

Though she rested in the comfortable bedchambers of her childhood, Princess Daenerys felt anything but a child as she fought to find sleep that night.

Aegon’s touch had branded her. Her blood felt impossibly hot, boiling beneath her skin. And the pleasure… What had happened as he ground his thigh against her, that indescribable ascent to liquefying ecstasy…

What was that?

Daenerys wondered dimly if only Aegon was capable of making her body do that, if he knew some secret trick from his frequent visits to the brothels of Flea Bottom. Could any other man in the realm make her see stars like Aegon could?

No. She only wanted Aegon. Her betrothed, her blood. We are the blood of the dragon, like Rhaenyra and Daemon. We are meant for each other.

He hated her, he scared her, and yet…

And yet…

Daenerys lay awake long into the night, until the stars were her only companions.

Her stepmother wasted little time the following morning establishing control of the wedding celebrations and, by proxy, Daenerys herself.

The Hightower queen invited Daenerys and Aegon to break their fast together in the royal chambers. Father would not be joining them. The king was still too weary to leave his bed. Daenerys felt her heart ache. He is wasting into nothing more and more as the days pass.

“Lords from across the Seven Kingdoms will be in attendance,” Alicent explained to her, “all of whom will rejoice to see yourself and Aegon wed at last.”

At last. Daenerys didn’t miss the snipe in her stepmother’s tone. I am here now, am I not?

Just then, Aegon graced them with his presence, strolling into the hall and slumping in his seat with nary a word to either of them. He stunk of wine and misery. He sank into his cups last night. Wine had always been Aegon's undoing. Daemon hadn't lied, it seemed, when he told her the prince's drunkard ways had only worsened.

“I was just informing Princess Daenerys of the current arrangements for your wedding day,” Alicent greeted.

Aegon grunted.

Alicent sniffed disapprovingly.

And because Daenerys fell into old rhythms easily, she intervened before Alicent could scold Aegon and send him him further sinking into his black mood.

“I wish to ride Grey Ghost to the Great Sept on the day of our wedding.”

Alicent frowned. “I appreciate your honor of Targaryen tradition, though I worry it will only cause disturbance to the day.”

“I am sure any such disturbances would be minor.”

“The festivities have been arranged long in advance, princess,” the queen said firmly. “Perhaps if you had joined us in King’s Landing sooner we could have accommodated your request.”

Daenerys steeled herself. “I am a dragonrider of House Targaryen and I wish to meet my husband on dragonback.”

Alicent regarded her coldly. “I will present your case to the king.”

Daenerys deflated. Father was too frail to contest Alicent’s will. If the queen insisted Daenerys attend her wedding by carriage instead of dragon, the king would acquiesce.

“I mean to ride today,” she announced, suddenly renounced of her appetite.

“So soon after your arrival?”

“Grey Ghost is unaccustomed to King’s Landing. I would see he settles.”

“Indeed,” said Alicent. “Aegon shall accompany you.”

“What?”

“What?”

They spoke simultaneously, awkwardly avoiding the other’s eye.

“The city can be dangerous, even for a dragon. I am sure my son wishes to ensure his betrothed remains unspoiled.”

“Your concern moves me, Your Grace, though I fear it is misgiven. My dragon is the greatest guardian I could ask for.”

“Two dragons are safer than one,” Alicent insisted. “I am sure the time together will do you both well.”

Already the spider had spun its trap, caging her in its web. Was this her life from now on? Ruled by the whims of the scheming Hightower queen?

Daenerys said nothing as they finished their meal, lost to fear as her future under Alicent Hightower’s command waved before her, a bleak sea with black waves.

Even Alicent Hightower could not sap the joy from her morning ride, thank the gods.

Grey Ghost was unsettled when she attended him in the Dragonpit, roaring and thrashing, daunting even the Dragonkeepers, who had tended to the Targaryen dragons since the days of Old Valyria. Daenerys barely had time to strap herself into the saddle before her dragon was moving, scrabbling from the cavernous Dragonpit and hastily taking wing. She faintly heard Sunfyre’s lilting cry behind them.

Instinct bade Grey Ghost to head for Dragonstone. Daenerys urged him gently away from Blackwater Bay and back towards the city. Sunlight glinted against the rooftops as they wheeled across King’s Landing a few times, before she guided him inland and south towards the kingswood.

Another melodic cry rang out; Daenerys turned in the saddle and saw a familiar golden beast rising in the sky, scales a jeweled hide that caught the sun and scattered its rays like nectar. Sunfyre called out again. To her mild surprise, Grey Ghost rumbled a greeting in return.

With Aegon and Sunfyre tailing them, Daenerys flew Grey Ghost at rapid speed away from the city and towards the kingswood, eager for respite from the city. Sunfyre caught up with her beneath a veil of clouds; she glimpsed Aegon’s grin, felt the silent invitation. Dare to race? It had been one of their favorite activities as children.

She was exhilarated by the thrill of flight, the dragon within her purring — or was that Grey Ghost? Sometimes it felt as though they were one. She felt his contentment now. Sunfyre’s presence emboldened him.

She leaned forward, gripping the saddle handles. “Selagon, Grey Ghost!”

The wild dragon screeched and lurched forward, wings beating the air, a thunderstorm come to life.

Grey Ghost and Sunfyre were equal in size, strength and speed. The maesters suspected both dragons were of the same age, although nobody was quite sure when exactly Grey Ghost hatched -- the wild dragon was born outside of the Targaryen hatcheries somewhere in the cliffs of Dragonstone. Sunfyre gained on them, keeping pace with Grey Ghost as they raced through the sky.

But Daenerys was the more experienced rider. She’d flown everyday on Dragonstone, thrice as much as Rhaenyra and her nephews. Using the clouds as cover, Daenerys urged Grey Ghost higher, looping over Sunfyre and disappearing into the clouds with Grey Ghost’s pale scales a shroud concealing them both. She heard Sunfyre call out again, this time mournful and questioning. Where did you go? Then another, a petulant growl this time. Come back!

She let Aegon worry for a heartbeat, then dove from the clouds behind Sunfyre; Grey Ghost gently lashed the golden dragon’s hind with his tail, trilling a greeting, then wheeled and took off again with more thunderous flaps of his great grey wings.

She laughed, wild and unbidden. Sunfyre and Grey Ghost sang to each other as the dragons looped together in the sky, gold and grey streaks of movement, like the sun had shattered and birthed a rainfall of stars. Both of them hurtled to reach the finishing line — a hillside in the midst of the kingswood, just large enough for both dragons to land.

Everything felt right; Grey Ghost beneath her, Sunfyre ahead, Aegon’s laugh in the wind...

I have been asleep. Only now have I awoken.

So focused on her destination, Daenerys didn’t notice Sunfyre slip away. Suddenly she was painfully aware of the lack of gold in the sky, the empty cold of Aegon’s absence. Grey Ghost called out. She looked around quickly.

Where have you gone?

Something collided with them. Daenerys cursed herself as Sunfyre soared past them, descending at the finish line first.

“That was not fair!” She yelled at Aegon, unbuckling herself from the saddle as soon as Grey Ghost landed and marching towards her grinning betrothed. “You used my own maneuver against me!”

“What can I say? You are a proficient teacher.” He caught her waist and pulled her to him. “I won. What is my prize?”

She glared. “You cheated.”

“I did no such thing! You said it yourself, I merely used your own tricks against you. Bested by your own methods. How does it feel, sweet sister?”

She grumbled.

Aegon laughed. “You always were a sore loser.” He nuzzled into her neck. “Maybe I will let you win on the way back.”

“Let me win,” she scoffed. “I do not need your sympathy, dear brother. We both know I am the better rider.”

“You still lost though, didn’t you?”

She stamped her foot, feeling childish but too frustrated to contain herself.

Aegon laughed again and gazed at her adoringly. “Very well. You are the superior rider, sweet sister. Does that please you to hear?”

He was so warm against her, so firm and unyielding. My husband. Blood of the dragon.

“It does please me,” she said softly. “You please me.”

Aegon softened, eyes shining wetly.

A daring she’d never known before possessed Daenerys. Exhilarated by their race, and the blissful absence of anyone else besides them and their dragons, Daenerys palmed Aegon’s breeches and withdrew his hot, hard length.

Aegon hissed. “Nerys…”

“Let me please you,” she whispered.

She had never see a man’s parts before. Such lewd sights were inappropriate for an unwed princess, according to her septa. She did not know what she’d expected — if indeed she had expected anything. He was hot in her palm. He fits perfectly. Like we were made for each other. Indulging a newfound curiosity, Daenerys stroked the reddened tip, feeling soft skin beneath her questioning fingers.

Aegon let out a moan that was pure music.

The dragon within her purred. Or was that Grey Ghost again? She could not tell. Fire boiled her blood, desire overtaking her senses; desire to make her beloved feel good, to incite another musical moan.

She sank softly to her knees and cautiously tasted him with a flick of her tongue.

Aegon growled, fingers tangling in her curls. “Fucking hell,” he groaned, “where, sweet sister, did you learn to do that?”

He pulled her further onto him until his cock was sheathed in her mouth.

“Did you let some filthy peasant or lesser lord spoil you for me?”

She looked up at him through wet eyes that still somehow conveyed her annoyance, digging her nails into his bare thighs for good measure.

Aegon only laughed at the pain. He gazed at her like she was the most precious thing he’d ever seen. Finally, the layers of resentment peeled away, leaving the boy she remembered, her Aegon, who adored her and would never harm her.

“Fuck… You are a dream… Mine…”

He thrust inside her mouth again and again, making her gag and choke. She refused to break eye contact the whole time, however. Her nails left gouges in his skin. Good. Then he shall know he is mine as well.

Aegon tightened his grip in her silver curls. “Ah… My perfect girl... A gift from the gods themselves..."

Experimentally, she hollowed her cheeks and sucked, welcoming his onslaught. Aegon gasped. "I'm almost there, sweet sister. Do not waste a drop."

His thrusts grow wilder, more erratic. He spilled inside her mouth just as Sunfyre gives a shuddering roar. Instinctively she swallowed.

"I cannot wait to fuck you." Aegon scooped her in his arms and clasped her tightly.

"Save yourself for our wedding night," she said playfully.

His hand cupped her face gently, and he looked at her with such wonder it snatched the air from her lungs. "I am dreaming. You are too perfect to be real."

She smiled, turning to nip at his hand mischievously. "Is that real enough for you?"

Aegon kissed them. Behind them, Sunfyre and Grey Ghost sang to each other, reunited at last.

[mysticalprincesskitten]

People who are criticizing GRRM for being unprofessional for not airing out his grievances privately should kill the Brand Management Team in their heads. His public criticism wasn't even that scathing. Some people are acting as if he scheduled a press conference so he can bash the show when all he did was have a mild take on what's basically the equivalent of his personal livejournal (his not-a-blog where he posts the most mundane of thoughts and the most miscellaneous goings-on of his septegenerian life). The way some people micromanage celebrities and famous people and don't allow them to express even the most milquetoast of takes because they're more concerned how it'll reflect on the Brand™️ is wild. The way some people empathize more with a company's PR and legal team than the actual creator is wiiiiiild.

[mysticalprincesskitten]

My wives.

[mysticalprincesskitten]

girl dinner' girl breakfast' girl lunch ' girl food

[mysticalprincesskitten]

Aegon II Targaryen x OFC // Part One

REWRITE OF OLD FANFIC

Trigger warnings: MDNI, smut, kink, kinda darkish aegon in this part but not really, Season 2 non-compliant, canon misogyny, possessive Aegon, Targcest, OC is Viserys and Aemma's daughter, OC is named Daenerys bc <3, OC looks like Elizabeth Olsen.

Queen Daenerys Targaryen was the second daughter of King Viserys I Targaryen and Queen Aemma Arryn. She was sister-wife to King Aegon II Targaryen, and the pair famously fought together during the civil war between House Targaryen known as the Dance of the Dragons. She was a dragonrider who rode the wild dragon Grey Ghost. -- Archmaester Gyldayn, The Dying of the Dragons

Fresh, cold air enlivened her, the pale fingers of dawn beckoning as the princess rose early seeking her dragon. Daenerys Targaryen, daughter of King Viserys and the late Queen Aemma, felt anxious to return to Dragonstone's skies atop Grey Ghost's back. It may well be their final flight. Today, she returned to King’s Landing, bidding farewell to her ancestral home, the island fortress where she had lived with her sister, Rhaenyra, and her sister's family for years.

In three moons, she would be a woman wed.

A restless beast within the princess longed to leave. But something else wanted to remain; she sensed that in common with Grey Ghost, the wild dragon native to Dragonstone. He did not want to leave. Her dragon was shy, avoidant of people and other dragons. He did not care for the Dragonpit. She could not blame him. Neither of them shared any fondness for the capital. Daenerys lacked the taste for politics and pretense, the ever-present demand to portray perfection, perfectly navigating the societal expectations that came with being a princess of House Targaryen. Today she was leaving the relative safety of Dragonstone, where she had supped on freedom unbeholden to the responsibilities that awaited her in King's Landing. She was leaving her home, re-entering a hive of snakes set on twisting her to their will, bleeding her dry from a thousand tiny bites. Who knows what the city is like now? They could all be different. Even Helaena. They could be ... crueler.

Were it not for Aegon, she would refuse to leave Dragonstone.

Father would forgive her. Father always forgave her, even when he wouldn't overlook Aegon's transgressions, or Aemond or Helaena. Daenerys was Aemma’s daughter. The king's favor had not gone unnoticed. Many nights she had comforted Aegon as he cried drunkenly on her lap, feeling guilt churning her stomach. She couldn't help it. She resented Father's preferential treatment; all of her siblings were worthy of adoration, from Helaena and her sweet temperance to Aemond's unwavering sense of duty. She barely remembered her mother, the long-dead Aemma Arryn. Daenerys ached for her all the same.

Another painful pang shot through her, making her wince. She was saying goodbye to Rhaenyra today as well. Another mother taken from her, to be replaced with Alicent Hightower In three moons, the green queen would be Daenerys' good-mother; she did not relish the thought.

Grey Ghost nuzzled his maw into her chest as she descended the Dragonmont, passing the Dragonkeepers with their long poles and lithely climbing across a grey-white wing to strap herself into the wild dragon’s lightweight saddle. The dragon roared, a trill similar to Syrax's call, then spread his wings. A hit of wind as she was thrust airborne, and another as the dragon gained momentum.

And then they were truly flying.

Every woe fell away, every fear and worry and secret. On dragonback, Princess Daenerys felt truly powerful. Her stomach lurched as Grey Ghost swooped from the mouth of the Dragonmont, a steep incline that plummeted them both to the sea. Unfurling his wings, Grey Ghost caught the wind and coasted, claws scraping the ocean's surface, before pumping his wings and taking them straight up into the sky. Clouds caressed her cheeks, the wayward tendrils of her silver curls wild as her dragon. She pressed her hands to Grey Ghost’s scales, abandoning the saddle handles, her dragon’s touch a molten comfort. Grey Ghost looped around the cliffs of Dragonstone, across the fields where the dragons sometimes landed after flights, ducking over the small port villages where fishermen were steering their nets; she heard them cry a greeting, remembering how the smallfolk of Dragonstone were said to view Grey Ghost as a fortunate omen. One glimpse of the Grey Ghost, and a man's net will never go empty. She flew as far as she ever had — further, even, — until she had to steer back lest she arrive at King’s Landing prematurely. Grey Ghost dipped and banked, scraping his claws in the sea again, before taking them higher back into the clouds, where the shy dragon’s pale scales concealed them both.

The sun had fully risen by the time Daenerys heard a familiar whistling shriek calling to her. Daemon. She must have been gone longer than she thought. The rogue prince himself had mounted Caraxes the Blood Wyrm to bring her home.

Sighing, Daenerys guided Grey Ghost back to the Dragonmont with the lightest nudge of her thigh. Caraxes soared to greet her, a crimson serpent among the clouds. Both dragons descended simultaneously, landing inside the Dragonmont at the plinth of Meraxes' skull.

“Nyke naejot chase ao,” Daemon remarked. (I thought to chase you) “Gōntan ao forget īlon issi lodaor, niece? Ao isse particular." (Did you forget we are otherwise engaged, niece? You in particular)

“Nyke emagon daor forgot.” (I have not forgotten) How could she? Everyday she’d thought of Aegon. His lips. His eyes. What does he look like now? Her soon-to-be husband. Daenerys herself had undergone a rapid growth spurt in the years they’d been apart, hips widening under her skirt, her bodice growing tighter.

“Then perhaps you ought be mindful of your timekeeping. We do not want to keep your sister waiting.”

“Indeed we do not.” Daenerys rolled her eyes, running her hands along Grey Ghost’s flank soothingly. Soon. She would remount her dragon before the day was done and return to King’s Landing — to Aegon — at last.

She shivered. In fear or excitement, she could not say.

“You do not have to do this.”

Daenerys smiled at her sister. “I knew you would attempt one last effort to change my mind.”

“It is not too late, Daenerys. We can betroth you to Jacaerys, you would be the future queen—“

“The Hightowers would never accept such an insult,” said Daenerys. “Aegon and I have been promised since birth. It is time we honor the oaths taken for us.”

"I cannot bear to see you shipped off to that drunken sot," Rhaenyra said coldly.

Daenerys glared at her sister. "Rhaenyra--"

"I know."

Rhaenyra didn’t say it, but Daenerys knew her sister sensed the truth. Daenerys had been promised to Aegon the moment he was born, at the urging of Ser Otto Hightower, Hand to their father, King Viserys. Aegon and Daenerys marrying would bring the two branches of his family together, said the Hand, Aemma's daughter and Alicent's continuing House Targaryen's customs, wedding brother to sister, dragonrider to dragonrider. All her life, Daenerys had known Aegon would be her husband. At first it meant little to her. Aegon was her baby brother, a doll to dress up, and then a playmate who followed her lead -- followed her anywhere, really -- as the prince and princess tore through the Red Keep, playing monsters and maidens and come-into-my-castle. They claimed their dragons together. Did everything together, even things they were not supposed to do until they were married. He was hers, and she was his.

But that had been before Driftmark. What if the Aegon that awaited her in King’s Landing was unrecognizable?

Rhaenyra took Daenerys’ face in her hands. “Sister,” she breathed. “You look much like our mother today.” In her ivory riding coat trimmed with silver and white fur, beaded with moonstone and opal, Daenerys unintentionally wore the colors of House Arryn. In truth, she had been avoiding the debacle of wearing black or green, opting to honor her dragon instead.

But for once Aemma’s ghost felt soothing. Daenerys closed her hands over Rhaenyra’s, their foreheads touching, both sisters sharing an intimate mother in honor of their late mother, the woman who connected them through life and death.

“I am proud of you, sister,” said Rhaenyra.

“As I am you.”

The sisters parted, mounting their dragons as they prepared to make the destined flight to King’s Landing. Syrax’s wings brushed Grey Ghost’s as the Targaryen sisters departed Dragonstone, together for a little while longer.

Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump--

Her heart was a caged beast throwing itself again the bars of her ribs. Shivers plagued her hands. Grey Ghost shared her nerves; as King’s Landing rose on the horizon — the Red Keep atop Aegon’s Hill first, then the Dragonpit on the Hill of Rhaenys, a sprawl of buildings and brothels and taverns and crooked keeps stacked on top of each other in between — the grey dragon trilled mournfully, shying away from the city. She soothed him, murmuring in High Valyrian, all while battling her own nerves.

This was it. She was finally going to marry Aegon.

They would share each other’s bed and be expected to sire new Targaryen princes and princesses to fill the Red Keep's halls. Heat rushed to her face. As children, Aegon and Daenerys shared clumsy kisses, fumbling hands hidden from her septa. Once they were married there would be more need for secrecy. He would take her to bed and claim her maidenhead, this stranger prince who bore her brother’s name.

Grey Ghost dismounted in the Dragonpit in between Syrax and Caraxes. As the Dragonkeepers led them away, Rhaenyra squeezed her hand, both of them following Daemon as he climbed into the ornate carriage escorting them from the Dragonpit to the Red Keep.

Aegon.

His name was a litany in her mind. As the carriage crawled across cobblestone streets, Daenerys tried to think of something else, anything else, but it was impossible. Her stomach churned. She caught Daemon’s eye and the rogue prince chuckled, amused by her distress. Rhaenyra looked at him reproachfully, squeezing Daenerys’ hand once more. She held onto it, grateful for her sister’s comfort, eager to drink up all of it before she was married and bound to the Red Keep while Rhaenyra returned to Dragonstone.

She remembered the Red Keep well. But it looked different; more somber, the tapestries of House Targaryen replaced with various religious heraldry honoring the Faith of the Seven, and an air of mourning clinging to the castle like maudlin perfume.

Do not let them see you frightened. You are the blood of the dragon. A dragon does not cower. A herald announced their coming as Daenerys and her family entered the gates to the main hall and approached the Iron Throne. Father. He smiled, frail and gaunt on his seat of swords. At the foot of the throne stood Queen Alicent, resplendent in a green gown, and the Hand, Ser Otto Hightower.

Flanking them were three silver-haired strangers.

Aemond was easily distinguished by his eye patch. He has changed. He is taller, more dangerous. He stood protectively next to Helaena, clad in a cloth-of-gold dress with her eyes elsewhere, the only one of Alicent’s brood not wearing green.

And then there was the comely silver-haired youth watching her with an intensity that made the dragon within Daenerys purr.

Time had been kind to Aegon. The boy she knew had grown into his features, hair shorter than she remembered. He is beautiful. His violet eyes were fixed on her. The weight of their history crushed her; every moment together in this castle... The moments soon to follow... The wedding... The bedding...

Daenerys trembled, suddenly flushed with new fire.

Aegon had waited for this moment for so very long.

Ever since Rhaenyra had taken his Nerys from him, he had waited, yearning, for the day she would finally come back to him. She had to. Aegon could not let her leave him forever. His Nerys. His she-dragon. The only person in his accursed family who truly meant a damn to him, his sweet sister with her large lavender eyes and kind words and soft lips.

He hated her.

She was his only good thing, and she had left him, absconding to Dragonstone with Rhaenyra after Lucerys took Aemond's eye on Driftmark. How could she leave him? Didn’t she know how much he needed her, craved her? Had he not told her every fucking day? Everyday without her felt excruciating. Aegon drowned himself in wine and whores and slowly lost parts of himself, chipped away by Mother and Father and their endless disappointment in him. Nothing he did was ever good enough.

And now the moment was here. He had imagined it a thousand ways, a thousand possibilities. What did she look like now? She’d always been a beauty, the pinnacle of Valyrian radiance with her silver curls and haunting lavender eyes. Aegon remembered the child she had been, but now she was a maiden grown. His soon-to-be wife. Seven Hells, don’t let her be ugly, he thought selfishly.

Rhaenyra entered first. His half-sister’s cool gaze passed over him like he wasn’t there. Smug bitch. Mother’s words chimed in his head; “You are the challenge, Aegon! Simply by living and breathing!”

It wasn’t enough for Rhaenyra to be their father’s favorite child, to flaunt her transgressions blatantly by masquerading those bastards of hers as true Targaryens. She had to steal Nerys from him too. They had always played a silent game of tug when it came to their sister; Aegon would pries Daenerys away from Rhaenyra, and Rhaenyra would snatch her back. He seethed silently. Today you lose, sister. Even you could not prevent this marriage.

Daemon entered alongside Rhaenyra, his uncle’s countenance imposing as ever. Aegon felt Aemond watching him with something akin to admiration. Rhaenyra’s brood of bastards came next, along with the rogue prince’s twin daughters sired on Laena Velaryon.

Aegon saw none of them truly. He was transfixed by the exquisite creature clad in ivory gliding towards him, lavender eyes already searching.

She was taller, leaner. Years of dragon-riding had honed her figure; she looked somewhat like her dragon, the wild Grey Ghost, with her ivory riding coat. With a jolt, he recognized that familiar mane of silver curls, remembered burying his nose in them and inhaling her scent. His eyes roved every curve hungrily; the swell of her hips, larger than they had been last time they were together, the curve of her breasts, her plush lips...

She was a woman now. His woman.

Aegon thrashed internally as he fought the urge to cross the hall and claim her in front of every lord in the court.

Her lavender eyes were hard to read. He recalled their power vividly, those wide, beseeching eyes, impossible and inescapable. She was inspecting him, too. Did he disappoint her? Bone-deep insecurities gnawed at him. His hands shook in want of a drink.

Aegon barely heard their father’s words.

“ … an honor to finally unite the two branches of my family, and to strengthen the dynasty of House Targaryen for another hundred years … “

A firm jab of Mother's elbow roused Aegon from his lustful thoughts. At her urging, he stepped forward; Daenerys did the same.

Aegon took her hand, as was custom, while King Viserys decreed, “Let the royal festivities commence! Prince Aegon and Princess Daenerys will be wed in three moons. May the gods bless the royal couple!”

Cheers erupted in the court.

Her skin burned in his. He felt the trembling of her hand, sensed her distress.

I love you. You left me. I need you. You are mine.

Aegon squeezed her hand tightly, pressing his lips to her skin, desperate to taste her, to consume.

The feast held in the Red Keep that night was more splendid an affair than any Daenerys had ever attended, a grand celebration fit for a royal couple. Bards sang ballads of Targaryen greatness, from Aegon the Conqueror's war for Westeros to her uncle Daemon's deeds in the Stepstones, while nobles devoured course after course of food. The Red Keep was a cacophony of sound. She was seated beside Aegon, of course. After their initial meeting, Daenerys had gladly been given leave to bathe and prepare for the approaching festivities. It felt strange, returning to the bedchambers of her youth. Had it always been so droll? Dragonstone was dank and draughty, true, but there was a familiarity to it that felt like home, the Dragonmont flushing the castle with heat like blood in a brick and mortar body.

The castle had changed. As the handmaidens scrubbed the scent of dragon from her skin in a copper tub filled with steaming water and scented oils, untangling the snares in her silver curls, the princess pondered the changes made to the castle, from the religious decor to the somber ghosts haunting the halls. Poor Father. He looks so ill.

And Aegon…

Thoughts of her betrothed made Daenerys dizzy as the handmaidens smoothed her dry and dressed her in a dazzling gown of silver silk embellished with opal and obsidian, her shoulders bare and anointed with perfumed oils beneath sweeping sleeves of Myrish lace. He is angry with me. No, not angry. Aegon never felt any emotion with anything less than its most intense potential; when he was joyful he lit up a castle, and his fury could scorch kingdoms to the ground. She felt his fury now.

He believes I abandoned him. Does he not see that I was always certain to return? Could he not grant me a few more years of freedom before the Hightowers ensured I was wed and bred to their would-be king?

No. Of course he did not understand. Aegon was a man, ignorant to the fears every woman faced in the birthing bed.

Men knew lust, however, and Daenerys had seen the lust in Aegon’s eyes. He wanted her. He hated her, but he wanted her. She’d been a fool to expect a less hostile welcome. He was no longer her sweet prince, the brother she loved and cherished, her partner in play. He was … different.

What if Rhaenyra was right? What if Aegon's heart had become as blackened as the towers of Harrenhal, a cruel drunkard replacing the precious boy she'd known?

And so the princess sat beside Aegon on the raised dais in the seat of high honor, steadfastly ignoring her betrothed as her hands silently shook beneath the table. Father retired early, too weary to endure the celebration, leaving Queen Alicent and Ser Otto to steer the pompous speeches plaguing the night. Daenerys poked at her food, wishing she' could talk to Rhaenyra and Daemon, sat on the far end of the table away from Alicent's children, and helped herself to wine. Aegon did the same. As she finished her first cup, her hands moved to signal one of the servants, only for Aegon to beat her to it. He filled her cup himself, eyes never meeting hers. She glanced at him, then away. She could scarcely look at him for shivering anew with nerves. What was happening to her?

Steel your nerves. You are the blood of the dragon.

Tyland Lannister disturbed the tension, thankfully, as he approached the dais.

“My prince,” he addressed Aegon first, “my princess. Please accept my sincere well wishes for your union. I am sure it will be fruitful.” He grinned. “You are truly a lucky man, my prince. To have such a beauty by your side.”

Aegon’s hand suddenly cupped her thigh possessively. She froze as he leaned forward.

“You are most kind, Lord Tyland. I assure you, nobody shall enjoy my beautiful wife quite like I.”

Lord Tyland laughed. “A babe in her belly within the year!”

Daenerys tensed. Aegon’s laugh grated her. Her own fury flamed beneath her skin, boiling her blood.

“That is most generous, Lord Lannister,” she drawled in a sickly sweet tone. “Perhaps you would join me in a dance to celebrate this joyful occasion? I fear my betrothed has neither the taste nor talent.”

Dancing with Tyland Lannister was not a welcome prospect, but making Aegon jealous was. Twice the buffonish lord trod on her feet. She bore it as long as she could, smiling sweetly and accepting his ludicrous comments about her nuptials to Aegon with courtesy fit for a princess. As the tempo of the music urged more people to dance, she took advantage of the opportunity to twirl away from Lord Tyland into Daemon's arms, who chuckled at her fortune. She glanced at the dais. Aegon was gone.

Daenerys excused herself, seeking refuge in the only place she truly enjoyed in the Red Keep -- the godswood. The weirwood tree was as beautiful as she remembered, it's bone branches illuminated by the full moon.

“I knew I would find you here. Your fascination with this tree remains bewildering.”

Aegon. He appeared as if from the wind, standing closer to her than courtesy deemed appropriate.

“I enjoy its peace." She turned to face him. "Peace is hard to come by in this place.”

“Would you have rather remained at Dragonstone?”

“My freedom was mine own at Dragonstone. Here we dance to the rhythm beat for us, pulled by invisible strings.”

“You sound like Helaena.”

“Helaena is smarter than you know. You should listen to her.”

He scoffed. “What would you know?” His fingers found her arms, digging into her. The heat of his breath tickled her face. “You chose to flaunt about Dragonstone at Rhaenyra’s side when we needed you most. You left us. I waited for you, Nerys. I waited and waited for you to come back to me, all while you hid beneath our sister’s skirts on that godsforsaken island. You abandoned me!”

Suddenly he shoved her into the weirwood tree, rough bark biting through her silver gown. His hands grasped her face hard enough to bruise. Fear gripped her … and something else, something that had lain dormant until Aegon roused it, a monster of fire and blood thrashing against its chains, demanding desire, passion, Aegon’s hands holding her tighter, tighter…

The blood of the dragon.

“Still all you think about is yourself,” she hissed, “your own welfare, how much you must suffer. Have you considered my choice to leave King’s Landing did not involve you?”

“It fucking should have,” he growled. “You were mine. You still are. I fucking needed you. Does that please you to hear? I needed you, Nerys. I always needed you, you know that. Father abhors me, and my mother…” Tears glistened his eyes. “Nothing I do shall ever be enough for her. You were all I had. And you fucking left me.”

The bloody leaves of the weirwood tree shielded them from view. Daenerys wondered hazily if she should scream. A guard might hear and come to her aid. Of course, there was no surety a royal guard would dare to touch Aegon, a prince of the realm, but they might alert Alicent or Rhaenyra…

The scream would not come. “I did not want to leave you.”

Aegon scoffed, unkind. “You are a liar.”

“By the gods, Aegon, must you be so dense? Did you ever listen to my words? I confided in you all those times how I feared I was doomed to meet my mother's fate. She was locked in a castle and forced to bear heirs for the crown until it killed her. Our father did that to her. The man who claimed to love her, to the detriment of his wife and family. I was … I am scared. You know there are those in this castle who believe to be Father’s true heir. Those same people will inflict on me what our father did to my mother. They would use me as a broodmare for your heirs. Even if it kills me.”

Aegon frowned, somewhat diminished. “I do not understand.”

“How could you? You are a man. Your life is your own.”

“Do not be so sure,” he snapped. “You are not the only one beholden to the expectations of others.”

Daenerys held his stare for a long time. “I have missed you,” she whispered.

His eyes devoured her. Hungry, he tugged at her silver curls as his lips captured hers.

Daenerys resisted, pushing against him, but Aegon was unyielding, warm and firm and familiar, and so perfect, hot and solid, silver locks entwining her fingers as she growled and scratched at his scalp, suddenly filled with his hunger… The dragon inside her thrashing, gouging, needing more more more…

It was not how she envisioned her first real kiss with Aegon. Their stolen, forbidden kisses of childhood had been chaste, unsure. There was nothing unsure about this. Their tongues met in a battle of dragonfire, hands clawing and pulling and pawing.

Aegon’s thigh slotted between her legs. A moan left her, swallowed by the star-filled night.

“That’s it,” he crooned. “Let your betrothed take care of you. That’s my good girl.”

“We cannot…”

“I don’t care.” His hand gripped her chin, forcing her to look at him. “You are mine. I will never let you leave me again. If I must, I shall chain to my bed and collar you like an animal, so nobody can steal you ever again. Would you like that, darling? To warm my bed and drain my cock whenever I fancy?”

His words repulsed her. So why was she soaking wet and throbbing where his thigh pressed against her? This was wrong, she was a princess, not a common whore to be despoiled before her wedding night… And Aegon… His passion terrified her. It thrilled her.

“You frighten me.” Her voice was small, barely a hush.

Aegon pressed his forehead to hers. “Good. Perhaps if I frighten you enough, you will know not to desert me again.”

She trembled.

“I can make you happy,” he said hastily. “I do not know how but I … I want to make you happy, Nerys. I love you.”

Burying his face in her curls, he kissed and nipped at her throat, eliciting breathy gasps and moans from her, the liquid pressure in her lower stomach growing and growing.

“Aegon… I don’t… I don’t know…”

“Shhh, sweet sister. I have you. Let go for me.”

And she did, a thousand stars swimming in her head, lost to pleasure and all thoughts of Aegon, Aegon, Aegon...

A/N: So I decided to rewrite my Aegon x OC fanfic. Enjoy, I'm very tired.

[mysticalprincesskitten]

A ghost to its haunt (Pirtir, Ch.2)

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Pairing: Aegon x Rhaenyra's Daughter!Reader

Summary: You set off ahead of your family towards King's Landing, attempting to escape the restlessness that overtook you as the day your betrothal is to be announced draws nearer. You find yourself a witness to what has become of the people you once knew as the King summons you all for dinner.

Word Count: 6.2k 

Warnings: Topic of arranged/forced marriage. Viserys is a terrible father, but you knew that already. Helaena is a dragonrider and has a close bond with Dreamfyre, the show can fuck right off.

A/N: Very little of Aegon here, I'm sorry. I promise next chapter will be more exciting. I hope you enjoy!

Title is from a diary entry by Virginia Woolf, "I come home - and I have a feeling returning like a ghost to its haunt."

Your hand caresses bronze scales as you come to stand on solid ground, and you find yourself fighting the instinct to command Vermithor to take you to the skies again as you face the awaiting party. 

You had hoped that if you were to arrive days before you were set to do so with the rest of your family, they wouldn’t have enough time to make a spectacle out of your arrival. 

Then again, a century-old dragon is perhaps not the best means of transport if you intend to catch them off guard. 

And so there they stand, the Lord Hand, his daughter the Queen, and the three of her children that still live in King’s Landing. 

You aren’t sure what it is you were expecting, but it certainly was not this. You seem to remember them wrong. All of them. 

The spirited even if demure Queen of your memories, of angry eyes and fingers gripping a knife and demanding retribution; has left in her place a shadow of herself, a woman of tired eyes that offers an almost sorrowful smile as she greets you. The anger though, the anger remains. 

The boy you last saw fighting back tears and putting on a brave face as the maesters treated his wound, stands tall as a man of his own right, wound hidden away behind an eyepatch and any of the humanity of your youth absent in his piecing stare. 

Aegon is no less a stranger. Though a mask of him remains, much like the casts of corpses the families of Old Valyria used to make to keep in their homes, the boy you knew once, capricious and uncaring about the legacy or future of any of it; seems to have died since you last saw him, leaving behind something you don’t entirely recognize. Gone is the heedlessness and imprudence of your shared youth, leaving in place something like wariness, like resignation. 

He seemed more spirited, livelier, when you were younger. You suppose you didn’t see then that he has his mother’s eyes -the anger, yes, but also the sorrow-, you didn’t notice then that he too shares in what seems a trait of his family of being uneasy in their own skin.

Your eyes meet, and though you find yourself with so much to say, you were taught better than to speak your mind, you know better by now than to let your heart get ahead of yourself. And neither the reproaches of it being his fault that you are to once again lose your home, nor anything else, something perhaps more foolish and far more careless, leave your lips.

Aegon looks back at you, eyes slightly wide in uncertainty and something else, something like expectation, and though for a moment you think he is to say something, lips parted forming for a moment in what you swear is the beginning of your name; he adjusts in his place, and looks away from you.

Finally, in a sea of strangers, there is a familiar face. Helaena looks familiar, feels familiar. Big eyes are fixed on you, though when your own gaze finds hers, she looks away. A smile, kind and warm and exactly as you remember, curves at her lips, and it gives you the impulse -the courage, the strength- you needed to approach them. 

The pleasantries leave your lips with ease after you exchange your greetings, “Such a welcome was not necessary, though I am grateful for your kindness.” 

“What was possible considering the…short notice of your arrival. It is essential for the people of King’s Landing to see you are welcome here, Princess.” The Hand states, each word chosen carefully. They can’t afford for the people and the Great Houses to think you a hostage, is what he means. 

It is Aemond who steps forward then, before you can even utter an answer, hands joined behind his back, head held high even if for a moment it faintly bows in greeting. It seems he gauges you for a moment, as who plans his next step on a board game, eye narrowing before he adds,  

“So as not to let them confuse your standing with your brothers’.” 

You swear you can hear Otto Hightower heave a sigh at his grandson’s words. 

Resigned, but with practiced familiarity after over a year spent in hostile territory, you fix your stance and return his words in kind. 

“Surely my brothers are as welcome here as I am.” 

“Hm. It just happens it is not a fair comparison, between my…dear nephews and you.” 

You are as much of a bastard as your brothers, and you are certain he knows, for his mother is no idiot, and must have put together the coincidence of your conception happening during Daemon’s short stay in King’s Landing after your mother and Laenor’s wedding. And anything Alicent knows, she feeds to her sons, or so has Lady Mysaria warned you. 

You would rather believe it is the slights your brothers committed against him, and the fraught nature of their relations, what leads him to see them as lesser than you, and not the thinness of their blood. You’d rather deal with vindictiveness than hypocrisy. 

“In your eyes, and the eyes of your family, perhaps,” You remind him. “Not the eyes of the people of the Seven Kingdoms. That I can assure you.” 

And it is no lie. You didn’t spend twenty months in foreign lands and sleeping in unfamiliar beds, drinking watered-down wine and eating overcooked duck, for your brothers’ legitimacy to be as challenged as it was before. 

“It was not the people of the Seven Kingdoms who built this dynasty, niece. Our family did.” He argues, now in your native Valyrian. It pulls at an old part of your heart when Aemond speaks confidently High Valyrian, it makes proud the girl that would let the candles burn until they died out sitting by him and practicing the intricacies of your native tongue.  

There’s a hint of a smile playing at your lips, for at his threat that it is the will and power of the men of your bloodline that can set the future of the inheritance, yours or your brothers’, you can answer with a threat of your own, 

“No, dragons did.” 

As if another part of this conversation, as if to serve as a reminder, Vermithor rumbles a low call, diverting your uncle’s attention to him. A clipped little hm leaves Aemond’s lips as he gazes upon the Bronze Fury, for the first time since you last saw each other in Driftmark years ago. 

You feel the slow breath of warm air leaving the old dragon’s nose, it warms your hands, carefully joined behind your back. From the corner of your eye, you see Helaena’s smile at the sight of him, so alike the smile you saw brightening her face the few times you took to the skies together in your youth. 

You know, though you dread to, that you are to command Vermithor to leave you behind, to occupy his place in the Dragonpit, but you hesitate. 

You first stepped into the Dragonpit many years ago, long before you claimed Vermithor, to meet Dreamfyre, and then Sunfyre, which Aegon insisted you did after hearing his sister had taken you to see her own dragon. You were but children, and the Pit seemed another world entirely, cavernous and strong and other, but now you look upon them and see nothing but stone, carved by men, for men, to soothe themselves thinking they control fire made flesh. 

You say nothing, instead turning around and looking into familiar bronze eyes. Vermithor’s answering rumble for a moment seems to imitate the shrill song Silverwing often directs at their eggs, and without another wasted moment he takes to the skies and towards the outskirts of the city, away from the Pit and towards the Kingswood. 

“Dreamfyre knows he is here. She has missed them,” Helaena mutters quietly, watching him fly away and shifting in her place, as if the she-dragon’s restlessness is her own. “They were one, once. They should have remained so.” 

You hum in agreement, watching the bronze dragon force the clouds to part for him.  

“Much like you and I, they were side by side almost since they hatched, no?” 

You turn to her with a smile, but the sharp gaze of the Queen keeps you from saying anything else or from deviating your attention from her. 

“Princess. You flew here.” Queen Alicent points out, something like accusation lacing her tone. 

You refuse to let your smile falter as you look upon the Queen and answer, “Any journey is made more entertaining, not to mention shorter, on dragonback, Your Grace.” 

“Eager, then?” 

“Restless.” 

“Ah,” She nods, dark eyes trailing over your body from head to toe. “Must be why you come dressed for battle, then.” 

You wear nothing too different from what any dragonrider would, and of course in your mother’s colors, but you won’t deny the dark chainmail over your sleeves, or the metal corset clinging to the red and black fabric, though subtle, are meant to resemble armor. It was a gift from your half-sister, readied for when your tour had meant to include King’s Landing. 

“Dressed for a long flight, nothing more. I’m sure any of your children, all experienced dragonriders, would understand.” You answer, ready to force them into the conversation in order to avoid an ambush. 

“A dress does make flying uncomfortable,” Helaena provides, as kind as you remember. Her gaze flickers to you, and she murmurs, so quietly it is almost silent, “A cloak for war, lies for battle.” 

___ 

Merely an hour after your arrival -barely giving you any time to reach the Keep in the carriage, much less settle in what you are told are to be your apartments-they send your handmaidens a message, instructing them to ready you for dinner, for the King is awake and well, and wishes to welcome you as the pain from his illness prevented him from doing this morning. 

The two handmaidens assigned to you -as yours must be somewhere in Blackwater Bay by now, making the trip here with the rest of your family- busy themselves without even a prompt from you, one tending to you in your bath and the other setting to straightening and readying the dress you brought with you on Vermithor’s saddle, along with a few other essentials.  

You count on your family to bring what else you might need, along with the rest of your clothes and jewels, with them when they arrive on their boats. It is a practiced routine by now, after so long travelling on Vermithor, to take with you only what is most important while a day or two later the rest of the servants bring the rest. 

“Is this…common? For my grandsire to attend dinner with all of them?” You ask one of the handmaidens as she brushes a conditioning cream onto your hair. 

You do not care about the routines in the Keep, that isn’t why you are asking. You want to know the kind of women they have assigned to serve you, as you did whenever you traveled ahead of your own handmaidens during your tour. 

“As any family meets as one for supper, Princess, so does the King’s.” 

These girls are terrible liars. 

You are surprised to find Princess Helaena waiting outside your apartments when you are leaving them to join supper. She stands tall, expression carefully void of any tells, and greets you with a murmur of your name. 

Not your title, not niece, your name. Strange, that you cannot recall the last time your name was preferred, or the last time it was not uttered as a call to heel. 

You accept her strange offer and let her walk you to the dining room, handmaidens and Kingsguards in tow. 

“You are wearing red.” 

“It is our family’s color. We are blood and fire.” 

“Mother never makes me wear green.” She comments instead of offering an answer, and it is only at her words that you notice this morning, while her brothers wore dark green -almost black, but you know better-, and her mother vibrant emerald, she wore a soft blue dress with silver details. 

“This dress is beautiful, Helaena.” You tell her, admiring the greys and blues of its silk, the various designs embroidered in its sleeves. 

She lifts a loose sleeve to show you. Your eyes trail over ling insects of many legs and of odd antennas, before stopping to linger on a spider of red and black.  

“I made these.” 

“Oh, they are quite impressive,” You admit, reaching for her sleeve but stopping yourself a moment before when the Princess stiffens up at the threat of contact. Lifting your gaze, you await permission, or an explanation perhaps, but Helaena merely looks away. Even if a tad thrown off balance by her reaction, you grant her distance and continue, “Are these…real creatures? I have seen nothing like them before.” 

“I copy them from drawings, or descriptions. Grandsire gifts me books that the maesters write about the animals and insects they find in their travels,” She tells you, and for a moment you are sitting with her on the stone steps of Driftmark’s castle on that last night, that last reunion, watching the spider crawling over your hands as she tells you about its origins, about the strings her grandfather pulled to gift her this creature, both of you unaware that your brothers were fighting in the tunnels below. The memory, the unexpected nostalgia that comes with it, catch you off guard long enough that the conversation dies out. After a few beats of silence, your aunt offers, “I’ll teach you, if you want.” 

“Oh.” 

“To embroider. Not spin.” 

“I-I would love to learn, I-…” 

“He is my brother,” She interrupts you, big eyes unwavering in their intensity. She speaks with certainty, with purpose, as if these scattered sentences hold just one meaning, “Despite the rest, b-before the rest. He is my brother.” 

“I was sent here as a bride, not an assassin. Is this a warning?” You try to jest, but she loses none of the intensity, none of the…anger. 

“Yes.” Helaena promises, surprising even herself at the statement, it seems. 

Seeming to hesitate for a moment, unsure of what to do or how to move, she finally decides to stride into the dining room that awaits you, leaving you behind. 

___ 

Your mother was right. By the Gods, you hate to admit it, but your mother was right. You should have never ridden ahead of them.  

The painfully small gathering has arranged you all around a small table, sitting you by the King’s side with Helaena at your other side, while your uncles and the Lord Hand sit across from you in the small table. 

Granted, in your travels you scarcely found yourself dining with a family lacking tension, it is almost a condition of noble blood to hate those you share it with, but there is something else to whatever haunts the family that resides in the Keep. Errant, a thought crosses your mind, a gratefulness to your mother to have taken you from here if this was to be the outcome for you as well. 

There lingers a lifelessness that reminds you of the marble model your grandsire keeps of Old Valyria, that makes you think of them all as beasts desperately trapped in the brittle stiffness of marble figurines. 

The Queen sits as tightly coiled as a spring, jarring tiny movements, almost spasms, as she as she takes her seat next to the King; though her eyes, big and anxious, trail over you all, jumping from person to person like an anxious deer’s. Yet, neither she nor anyone else comments on any of this strangeness. Perhaps this is what is normal for her, for them. 

Helaena has made it her mission to fold her napkin into some form or another, hunched over the table to focus on her task, and refuses to deviate her attention from it; while Aegon seems to have made his mission to discover how quickly he can sight the bottom of his cup, and appears to be making faster progress to his goal with each refill from the servants. 

And Aemond is making quick progress to losing his other eye, by your hand this time, if he doesn’t cease in repeating this maddening little trick with his knife. He throws it a tiny distance so it embeds on the table, then pulls it out. Repeats this once more. Then spins the round-handled knife on his finger, one, two, three times. Back to the table, and the cycle starts again. Thud, thud, swish, swish, swish.  

“I hear you came here on your dragon. How was your journey here, Princess?” Otto Hightower asks, and whether he intended to or not he has thrown you a rope to pull yourself out of the waters. After more than a year of travel and ceaseless talks with nobles, of endless dinners and constant lies and embellishments, an exchange like this is as natural to you as it is for Daemon to wield Dark Sister. 

Thud, thud, swish, swish, swish. 

“Quite wet, I’m afraid, my Lord Hand,” You answer, accepting a small pork tart a servant offers you. Nodding your thanks, you continue, “Vermithor enjoys the rain, and cares not for my opinion on it. If he sees a storm nearby, he’ll take us to fly right through it.” 

Thud, thud, swish, swish, swish. By all the Gods, what use have Lord Confessors for instruments of torture when Aemond and his Gods-damned knife trick exist? 

“I told you before, my girl,” King Viserys muses with a wry chuckle. “The idea that we control them is…is an illusion.” 

“We control them no more than we control our own children,” You tell your grandsire, agreeable smile, as is expected, on your lips. “Or our parents.” 

He seems to gather a deeper meaning from your words, and where you merely meant to compare the veteran dragon that claimed you as his rider and your parents’ own protectiveness, your grandsire takes it as a reproach of sorts, based on his downturned mouth, on his furrowed brow. 

“I…I know you must still resent my decisions. I myself have come to regret them, with the years,” You are certain your confusion must be clear in your face, but he pushes forward with a grimace of pain as he leans closer. “But you are mine own, Rhaenyra. In my eyes, know that none of them could even compare, you must kn-…” 

Queen Alicent interrupts him with a quiet whisper of his name and her hand resting on his shoulder, but you hear the unspoken words as if a dragon had roared them, as does everyone in the room, you are certain.  

You venture to look to your right and find Helaena hunched over the table, both elbows resting besides her plate, and fiddling with her napkin, still attempting to fold it into some shape or another, and unaware of or unwilling to react to her father’s words. But you notice the way she has made herself smaller, the way her shoulders are hunched up almost to her ears, and you feel your heart break a little. 

Prince Aemond is still relentlessly toying with the knife, but where the movements were practiced now they have a certain jitteriness to them, as if the repetitive motions are no longer the result of idleness, but of restlessness. It reminds you of the anxious flicks of Vermithor’s tail when he grows agitated. 

The only one immobile is Aegon. 

He is as still as a stone statue, arms extended and gripping the edges of the table as if catching himself from standing up -from fleeing? Or fighting?-. His eyes -by the Gods, he truly has his mother’s eyes-, wide in shock and shame and something older than himself, remain trained on the table before him. 

A breath, stuttered and shallow, and his gaze lifts to his father. Pain, disgust, and somewhere in them you could swear there is also rage. You’ve seen trapped wolves with that look, you’ve seen cornered snakes with that look. 

“Rhaenyra isn’t here, my love,” Alicent tells the King, “She will join us in a day’s time, to announce her daughter’s betrothal to Aegon. Remember?” 

At the reminder, as quick as a soldier standing to attention, as instinctively as if a command had been issued, Aegon’s eyes flicker to you, only to find you already looking at him. The minuscule smile he offers you is one of lips pressed into a thin line, it is bitter, it is defiant in the face of humiliation, and it is terribly sad. 

Cravenly, foolishly, you find yourself looking away. You turn to the King instead. 

“Yes, of…of course,” There’s clarity in Viserys’ eyes and his mind for a moment before the pain or the remedy for it seems to dull it once more. “Forgive me, child. You do look a mirror of your mother.” 

Your smile is a grimace but still sweet enough for your grandsire to answer with one in kind, but you find yourself stuck with no path forward, with no idea on what to make of this. What you know for certain however, is that you will forbid your handmaidens from ever again braiding your hair in the same manner your mother wears it. 

“When she came of age, I was drowning in an ever-growing sea of letters and gifts, proposals and requests for her hand,” He reminisces, nostalgia as intoxicating to his senses as the strongest of wines. “I’m sure it was no different when you did.” 

By the Gods, you want this conversation to be over, you have wanted for few things more fervently than an end to this uncomfortable and dreadful affair. 

Stiffly, carelessly, you answer, “I wouldn’t know, I refused to hear of it.” 

“Ah.” The King concedes, leaning back, disappointment and something impossibly close to grief clouding his gaze.  

With a deep breath, through gritted teeth, you force yourself to add, “W-Which she tells me she often also did, when she was my age.” 

“She resisted my every attempt to find her a match, as I’m sure she has told you,” He says, not wasting a moment to return to the bittersweet draw of memories. He lifts his cane to aim the ivory dragon your way with a smile on his lips that almost makes him have the healthier and rounder face of the grandsire you remember from your youth. Almost. “And I hear you resisted as well, and set off in your tour to make your own choice. You inherited her beauty and her temperament.” 

But you didn’t inherit her temperament, and you don’t look like her. And though you love her, you aren’t like her, in your faults and in your virtues. 

You understand, however, that it is yet another mask, another face. Some will wish to see your mother’s daughter and nothing more, and so you know that if you aim to win -and you do- that is the face you ought to show. 

“I can only hope, grandsire.” 

“It does warm this old man’s heart to know you walk willingly into this union, child,” Willingly? Your nails dig like claws onto your thighs, and from the corner of your eye you notice Helaena stop in her folding of the damn napkin and turn her gaze to you. “Despite the sacrifice it demands from you, despite the kind of man you must marry.” 

He hasn’t said his son’s name. Hasn’t even looked at him since dinner started. 

Now that you think about it, you doubt he has looked upon any of his children at all tonight. 

And he hasn’t looked at you, not really. Not without seeing the face of the daughter he lost, the daughter he failed. 

And though you ache to tell the King that were the odds to be even slightly more in your favor you would feed Aegon to Vermithor without hesitation, not in virtue of who he is but instead who he must become; and though you know what you must answer with is gratefulness for the recognition of your sacrifice, agreeable demeanor and a sweet smile; it is an old instinct, older than the one learned during your family’s self-imposed exile to Dragonstone, what decides your next words. 

“It is no sacrifice,” You tell him, lie coming naturally to you, a skill in no small part Aegon helped you develop, with all the times in your youth that you lied to cover for him. “As you might remember, we were quite close, all of us. I am glad to return here, and I could ask for no better match.” 

He knows you are lying. He is old and dying but he knows you are lying. 

At least your grandsire remains as you remember him, and will take the comfort of an empty lie over the difficult reality of truth. He smiles, a sentencing. 

“That is good to hear, sweet girl. It gives me hope that our House will remain united, able to withstand what tribulations are to come.” 

“As it should. Only a dragon can kill another. Our House is invulnerable as long as it remains one,” You agree, as is expected, as is demanded. It is unbefitting, untoward, unthinkable, to have you admit you have often thought about it all burning, breaking, crumbling. To admit you have often wished for it. “I am honored to do as expected from me, and uphold the family, the crown.” 

“You possess an admirable sense of duty, of sacrifice, Princess,” The Queen compliments, to which you know you must answer with a smile. Elbows leaning on the table, Alicent rests her chin on the back of her joined hands and asks, “Did you inherit that from your mother also?” 

The smile, as false as a vow made in wine, falls from your lips instantly. 

The Hand clears his throat, straightening in his chair, and at her direct attack there is not the calculating, almost proud look in his eye that was there the night she wielded a knife against your mother. He looks tired, disappointed and irked, but mostly tired. The look in his eyes reminds you of the Dragonkeepers in charge of herding the hatchlings. 

“We will cease with these…these quarrels at once. Otherwise, our dinners, and our lives, will feel entirely too long,” It steals the ground from under your feet, the breath from your lungs, to hear him say such a thing. A lifetime. “Prince Daeron sent word that you were able to meet with him in Oldtown during your travels, Princess.” 

Once again, The Hand saves you all, and thankfully diverts your attention from your own spiraling thoughts. 

“Yes, my Lord. He and Ser Gwayne were kind enough to take me on a few outings and show me around. As beautiful a city as I ever saw.” You tell him, and though the answer is practiced and instinctual, it is no lie. The most innocuous street a thousand years old, every stone that makes up its castle witness to a hundred battles. 

“It is a wonder.” Otto agrees. 

You should bite your tongue, until it bleeds if you must, you know you should. But you didn’t inherit your mother’s temperament, and you want to remind them. Foolishly, recklessly, you want to remind them that you do not run when cornered. 

So you add, “One must thank the Gods that your ancestor had the good sense to bend the knee to Aegon the Conqueror. It would have been a shame for such a wonder, such a House, to burn.” 

“How fortunate the Hightowers are, then,” Aemond drums a short little beat with his fingers on the table, drawing the attention to himself. “That of the dragons capable of such destruction, only Vhagar remains.” 

“Yes, marvelous creature that she is. Yet long past her prime,” You retort. “In all her might, Vhagar is a relic of days sadly gone from us.” 

“Hm.” Another drum of his fingers on the table, and though he is still a stranger, you notice the clear tell of anger on him, a twitch on his lip, the slightest widening of his eye. You’ve seen Dragonkeepers with decades of experience burned to ash for the simple mistake of not heeding the creature’s warnings. 

You will gain nothing from antagonizing him, and while you may amuse yourself by prodding to see what it is that makes him tick, you are aware Aemond remains a weapon you ought to be careful not to see turned at you. 

In your months travelling through Westeros, entertaining conversations with Lords and Ladies from the most brilliant to the dullest, from the most hostile to the meekest, you have learned almost everyone has exposed nerves. Most are aware of them, and attempt to guard them, as you yourself have attempted to guard your own over the years. 

Others, in arrogance or desperation, find themselves unable to. And while your grandsire’s need for peace -perhaps not peace, but merely the absence of conflict, not an extinguished forest fire, but a land devoid of air, where not even embers might linger alive- was something you expected would be easy to learn was his weakness, you are surprised by how swiftly you understand pride is Aemond’s. 

“I have not seen you ride her in years, I fear neither my memories nor the stories I have heard must do either of you justice now, after so long bonded,” You admit, false sweetness twining with honest admiration. “Once I am settled here, would you take me to see her, uncle? We could fly together.” 

You would think a praise as plain as those extended to some Lord or another during your travels, a request as simple as this, would not so easily disarm him, but it seems to. 

A twitch of his mouth, as if he stops himself from giving a quicker answer, and Aemond leans back in his seat. A retreat.  

Another drum of his fingers on the table, but there’s a nervousness to the movement now, and you fight for control to keep the smug smile off your lips. 

“Of course, Princess.” 

You bow your head and mutter a quick kirimvose, and catch yourself slipping, offering an honest smile. A part of you, still the child that would linger long after the candles had started to die out practicing Valyrian with a book recounting the Conquest, is still filled with awe at the mere thought of Visenya’s dragon. 

And the part of you that felt her blood sing when Daemon made you take flight with him on Caraxes and Vermithor and taught you all he could of how to lead a dragon during war, during a true dance, wants more than little else for a chance to prove yourself against the Queen of All Dragons and her rider. 

“A most excellent suggestion, sweet girl,” The King praises. “Two of the oldest living dragons, the two branches of our House, flying as one again. It will remind the Realm we stand as one.” 

Must everything be for the good of the Realm, to send a message? Must everything be for appearances’ sake? You merely wanted Aemond and his hoary dragon to be reminded you and the Bronze Fury remain faster, better. 

Reminding yourself to play, and desperate to close any openings these people might find, you search for a shield. 

“I have dearly missed the musicians from King’s Landing. Many fond memories of my youth involve their melodies,” You announce, entirely more chipper than you have ever been naturally. Turning to the King, you prompt, “If you please, grandsire?” 

He acquiesces, and orders the music start with a slight cough at the end of his words. He reaches with a clammy, cold hand and squeezes your fingers once before letting go. 

Strangely, perhaps in the most bizarre interaction you’ve had since arriving, you find the Lord Hand regard you quietly and offer you a nod when your eyes meet, as if approving.  

With your future betrothed seemingly intent on ignoring you and Aemond back to his maddening little game with his knife -it is strange, that even in such distinct actions and attitudes, the brothers remind you in the same way of the lions the Lannisters of Casterly Rock presented to you when you arrived, and the incessant circles the poor beasts would pace, forsaking food and water to keep up the mad repetition their time in captivity had impressed in them-; you find yourself with no remaining choice but to bother sweet Helaena. 

“Are dinners in the Keep usually…like this?” 

Like a castle a stone away from crumbling to dust, like a barrel leaking oil next to an open flame. Like an open wound, dug into by uncaring, rotten fingers. 

“No. The pain makes father sleep a lot, so he doesn’t join us. Grandsire is always too busy to attend,” She tells you, intent on achieving on the folded napkin the perfect angle for what you know is a dragon. “And usually no one talks to me.” 

“Oh.” 

She taps the dragon’s snout once, twice, to further correct its position. Looks at it for a few beats of silence, studying it. 

“I hope that changes with you here again. I haven’t had a sister before.” 

Though her wording is strange, it is no different from the way the girl you remember from your childhood used to speak. You allow yourself a smile, honest for once, “Neither have I.” 

“You have Baela and Rhaena,” She argues without thinking, before her eyes widen and rise to meet yours. “I’m sorry.” 

“No use in lying to you, is there?” 

She breathes a warm little laugh, but ducks her head, even as she admits, “Everyone still tries.” 

“I can assure you it is not meant as a personal offense, Helaena,” You promise her, “To many it becomes an instinct. It is no longer a choice they can make.” 

Her brow twitches, as if something bothers her, and she does a miniscule shake of her head as if to rid it of something. Instead of sharing thoughts you are certain are itching to be voiced, Helaena presents the napkin dragon to you. 

You take it with careful hands, and bow your head with murmured, yet heartfelt, thanks. 

___ 

Dismissed from what you are certain has been the longest dinner of your entire existence, you walk with Helaena to your room, your handmaidens having gone ahead of you to ready each of your rooms. 

In your hand the cloth dragon is carefully cradled, and you muse aloud about where it is you will place it. 

“Rhaenyra taught me to make these. I used to make them daily for father, for him to put next to his marble ones,” Helaena reminisces, “He discarded every one of them. Aemond found them one day, tried to hide them so I wouldn’t know.” 

“I take it he didn’t succeed.” 

“My brothers are terrible at hiding things, both of them.” 

“I know, and so are mine. Remember when Aegon and Jace agreed to steal Sunfyre and Vermax from the Pits to have them race? Days before they were giddy, couldn’t for the lives of them hide they were up to something.” 

“You cursed at them in Valyrian and in Common when you found out what they were planning.” 

And yet you still went with them, as did Helaena. Even Aemond, grumbling the whole way, joined you and watched the dragons fly overhead with you all.

Foolishly, you find that you remember that day fondly, even though Jace refused to talk to you for a week after finding out you had bet on Sunfyre winning. 

Instead of admitting that memories of a shared youth linger fresher in your mind, closer to your heart, that you would like, you argue,  

“It was an objectively stupid idea. If our mothers had found out they would have had their hides. And ours.” 

“They found out.” 

“They did?” Your smile falters. Even to this day Jace boasts about the time he stole his own dragon from the Pits. “My mother never said anything.” 

“Mine did. She-…” She stops, startles at a thud from within your room as the servants move about. She shakes her head again, though you gather it is memories and not something relating to her dreams that she aims to clear from her head now. “They found out.” 

“I’ll be sure to tell that to my brother, he still believes himself some masterful thief for pulling it off.” You tell her, attempting to bring levity back into the conversation. It feels like yet another mask, for no one’s benefit, and you aren’t sure what to make of both the realization that you wear it even now, and the fact that you refuse to drop it.  

You both come to a stop in the door to your apartments -what used to be your mother’s apartments, instead of the rooms you occupied when you were last here-, and Helaena speaks again, 

“You couldn’t know, but I…I…” Her hands spasm, open and close, one, two times. Like dying spiders. “You hurt me, by leaving.” 

“I never meant to.” 

“I know. You didn’t have a choice,” She concedes, but the stiffness remains. Helaena lifts her head a little higher, hands joined together before her. “It doesn’t change that it hurt, however.” 

“I…” 

“Goodnight.” 

She bows her head as a goodbye and doesn’t wait for an answer before she takes her leave. 

Thank you for reading! Some chapters of this series will skip in time a bit, so if there's anything that wasn't clear or that you'd like to know about the time in between, or any skipped scenes, or stuff from the past, feel free to ask!

Taglist: @21-princess

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[mysticalprincesskitten]

The real parents: Balerion and Dreamfyre, two big fearsome dragons that will always be remembered. And it's actually make sense that these two are the parents.

Ryan propaganda:

[mysticalprincesskitten]

How long this love can hold its breath

Series Masterlist / General Masterlist

Pairing: Aegon x Rhaenyra's Daughter!Reader

Summary: It has been years since your mother took you from King's Landing to join her in Dragonstone. Years since you and Aegon have seen one another. Years in which he has refused, time and time again, to marry, even as you tour Westeros meeting suitors in search of a husband of your choosing. That refusal can easily be undone with a few words: it was you she chose, Aegon.

Word Count: 3.1k 

Warnings: Alicent's abuse of Aegon. Alcohol/drunkenness. Mentions of sex/prostitution. Usual Targaryen incest stuff. Arranged marriage stuff. Angst. Hurt and kind of no comfort for now.

Some AU/Setting stuff: Reader is a bastard of Daemyra (claimed by Laenor of course), firstborn child of Rhaenyra and heir to her mother's claim. She rides Vermithor. As you'll figure out thorugh this one shot, she and Aegon had a thing when she was still in King's Landing. How relevant or impactful that 'thing' was depends on who of the two you ask. I've stretched the timeline a bit. Rhaenyra spent a few years more in King's Landing (making Aegon around 16/7 when she leaves, and the Reader, the eldest of the Velaryons, around 14/5). Instead of six years in Dragonstone, the Blacks have spent around three there in this story. Viserys still lives (and is rotting slightly slower), Aegon and Helaena did not marry.

A/N: My first work in this fandom, so i'm a bit nervous. This is a bit of a prologue/alternate PoV for a series I have in the works, but I wanted to share it as a one shot since I think it also works as one. I hope you like this!

Title is from the quote "I've hoarded your name in my mouth for months. My throat is a beehive pitched in the river. Look! Look how long this love can hold its breath." - Sierra DeMulder

It feels as if he has just rested his head on his pillow when he hears the heavy doors being pushed open, and the familiar hurried steps of his mother as she enters his apartments. 

He isn’t sure why he bothers by now in telling the guards not to let her in, since she insists on overruling his orders whenever she wishes. 

Still half-asleep, Aegon reaches for the bedsheet covering his body, wary of any attempt she might make in her anger to pull it off him. Surprisingly, his mother stops a few steps away from the foot of the bed. 

Aegon feels her piercing gaze on him, and aware the choice is between caving and chasing after her, asking her what it is she wants; or waiting for the anger at his unwillingness to follow the unspoken command -and the thrown object, or the stinging hit, that comes after said anger-; he drags his hands over his face in an effort to wake himself further and asks,  

“What is it, mother?” 

“Where in the Father’s name were you? Three days, Aegon,” He winces at the reprimand. In his defense, he truly didn’t think they’d notice. Helaena would, perhaps, but she wouldn’t seek him out either way. “You were gone for three days.” 

“I wasn’t…far. I didn’t even leave King’s Landing.” 

She starts letting out a sigh, laced with disappointment and annoyance, but stops herself short, instead turning her back to him and pacing a few steps away. 

“I know where it is you go to…to satiate your vices, caring not for the shame it brings to your name and mine, behaving most unlike your station.” 

“Then why did you ask?” 

His mother won’t turn to look at him, her back turned to him and her hands joined in front of her. 

“Your sister was here.” 

His brow furrows in confusion. 

“My sister is always here.” 

“Rhaenyra was here, Aegon.” 

“Oh. What for?” 

Alicent turns on her side, considers him with eyes widened in afront and mouth curled in disgust. The question leaves her lips slowly, a threat and a dare all at once. 

“Are you still drunk?” 

He mulls over the question for a few moments, and realizes his thoughts are entirely too calm for him to be already sober. The numb haziness of the night before remains, a comfort. 

“I think I might be,” He admits, eyes darting to the side and lingering on the pitcher of wine on a nearby table. He wonders if it is empty. “Slightly.” 

When it seems his mother is intent on merely staring at him in disappointment, he motions for her to turn away and gets dressed. 

He can’t help but feel unseemly, standing before his mother in rumpled clothes and disheveled hair, while she stands tall with not a strand of hair out of order, not a speck of dust on her dress. Then again, even at his best he hasn’t managed not to feel small, unsuited, by comparison. 

Instead of letting those thoughts linger, aided by the comfortable haze the wine from the previous night -or nights, rather- provides him with, Aegon moves to sit on a table in one of the darker parts of the room. 

Alicent follows quietly, but she doesn’t sit. 

“I come here with news. You are to be married, n-…” 

He shakes his head with a mocking laugh, the defiance as easy as breathing, after four years of holding the same stance. He might not have a say in much, but he does in this. 

“No, I’m not.” 

“Your father has approved of this union. As have I.” 

He shrugs his shoulders. 

“Then you are welcome to marry her yourselves. I shall hope for a long and happy marriage for you three.” 

Sometimes, perhaps in foolish hope, in some hollow fantasy, he thinks his impertinence amuses his mother. He might imagine it, he’s quite certain he does, but sometimes he swears she furrows her lips to hide the faintest of smiles. 

But of course, she shows no give, betrays not a flicker of amusement, of softness, of anything. Try as he might to earn any of them. 

“I did not come here to entertain insolence.” 

“Why did you come here, mother?” He asks, not able to reign in the restless movements of his hands, fingers tapping an irregular rhythm on the table. “My stance hasn’t changed. And it won’t.” 

The restlessness building within her is betrayed in the small movements of her hands that increase in intensity the longer she looks at him. With a sudden movement, she slams a hand on the table between them and leans closer. 

“You cannot go on like this, Aegon, shrinking your duty because of the denial of a caprice of your youth.” 

“It was the one thing I asked for. I haven’t asked for anything since, nor did I ask for anything before.” 

His mother scoffs in response, looking away. 

“And that is reason enough for your wish to be granted?” She asks, derisive, almost jeering. Alicent leans back, straightens her stance again. Not too unlike Aemond adjusting his posture to strike with his sword during training, he supposes. “You have gone through your entire life doing as you please, not considering the cost to your family, to your House, to me, and you expected to be rewarded?” 

But he has considered the cost, has had no choice but to consider it, when every choice, every action, it seems almost every thought, is heavy with the impact it might have on his name, on his family. He has considered the cost, but try as he might no choice, no action, has been enough. 

“It would have…It would have changed things. If you had said yes,” He argues, an argument repeated, in his head if not aloud, a thousand times over in these passing years. And yet restlessness builds within him regardless, and he finds himself grasping at the table to keep his hands from fidgeting. “It was the smart choice. You know father would have been for it. You could have kept Vermithor on our side, and given them no choice but to play by our rules with their daughter here. We might have won this war you want so b-…” 

“All I have wanted is to make sure your lives are not forfeit when your father dies. It is not war I want.” 

“Then why did you say no?” 

She shakes her head as she looks away again. 

“The matter is settled. Long settled.” 

“Yet you never told me why.” 

He wants to hear it. More than an apology for denying him a chance at happiness, more than an admission that beyond the feelings of any involved it was the smartest choice, more than anything, he wants to hear her tell him why. 

She didn’t even hear his reasons, she didn’t even consider proposing the union to your mother, or Viserys. She dismissed him, and denied him, without even a second thought. 

He wants to know the reason why. If it was because she knew of you something he didn’t, and was certain you would have rejected him even at the cost of your home and life as you knew it, he wants to know. If it was because she believes him so monstrous that she wished to protect even the daughter of her lifelong adversary from him, he wants to know. 

If it was because in his weakness and his failings he has made himself into something even his own mother wishes to see punished, or because there was something he did -because it had to be something he did, there cannot be so many that were supposed to love him and refuse to for it not to be something he is doing wrong, something about him that is wrong- that not only managed to make his mother’s love for him vanish, but also earned him her scorn, he wants to know. He thinks knowing that to be the truth would splinter him in a way he isn’t sure he’d be able to recover from, but he is tired, and alone, and he wants to know why. 

He searches his mother’s gaze, desperate for an answer, any answer. She looks back, and yet all that is reflected back at him is contempt, disappointment, and what he fears is disgust. 

“It has been years, Aegon. You are being senselessly stubborn, holding onto this…this grudge against me.” 

He makes a face at her words, and grabs the pitcher in the table before him only to find it empty, the only wine remaining being that still in the half-filled cup. 

“It is not a grudge, I-..”  

“Weakness, then,” She sentences, and he doesn’t bother hiding the flinch at her words. His gaze lowers to the table before him. “You’re being a fool, if you think after all this t-…” 

His eyes are set on the half-full cup of wine before him, and he doesn’t dare move his gaze as he interrupts, “I am not marrying, mother.” 

She considers him in silence, and though for a moment he thinks a hit is to come -he doesn’t usually get away with interrupting her-, followed by her footsteps leaving the room, his mother takes a deep breath and insists, 

“It is not me or your father who request this of you. It is your King who commands it.” 

“The King, or his Hand?” He retorts. He grabs at the cup and downs the remaining liquid, making a face at the taste of stale wine, and presses on, “I’m guessing a Baratheon, to earn Borros’ support? Or a Tully, to secure the Riverlands?” 

For the briefest of moments, when his mother’s lips press into a thin line, hands fidgeting where they rest joined before her, he thinks he finally got the upper hand. That he proved he isn’t as blind to their plots and their increasing panic at Rhaenyra’s influence as he may appear. That he proved her wrong, that he showed he isn’t as incompetent as they’d like to think, that he… 

“A Velaryon,” Alicent admits, and any pride, any satisfaction, die out like flames in a room without air. His lips part, he knows not for what since all that leaves them is a choked breath, the beginning of a question, of a name. Aegon searches his mother’s gaze, attempts to find any truth, any certainty, but Alicent looks away. Her next words sound as if heard from underwater. “To keep you from certain execution when your sister ascends the Iron Throne.” 

“Do not toy with me, mother,” He means for it to sound like an accusation, like a demand, like anything but a plea, and yet that is what leaves his lips. Betrayed by the waver in his voice, by the iron grip on the glass, he goes on, “She’s touring the whole of fucking Westeros in search of a husband as we speak.”  

“She has made her choice, Aegon. It was you she chose,” She promises, and her voice is low and warm and almost comforting, so why does it feel wrong? Why does it make him want to crawl out of his own skin? “As for the tour, it will continue as scheduled. Rhaenyra deserted her own tour before time was due, she knows better than to repeat her mother’s mistake.” 

Breathable air is lacking by this chair, in this room, and he stands up, wincing at the too-loud sound of the chair scraping against the ground. 

He eyes a pitcher of wine in another table, and crosses the distance with quick strides, refilling his cup and draining half of it before turning to his mother again. 

“Why tell me now? I-If the tour is to continue,” If she can still change her mind, “Why tell me now?” 

“Your grandsire and I believed you might take this opportunity to amend your behaviors,” Alicent tells him, “So you might save your future wife the embarrassment, so you might protect her honor, seeing as you do not care for ours or your own.” 

She hasn’t said your name yet, he notices.  

Neither has he, but he has forgotten when it was the last time that he said it aloud. Intentionally, that is, he doesn’t count any time he let it slip past his lips when deep in his cups or buried inside some whore with the wrong shade of silver in her hair -and the wrong eyes, and the wrong voice, and the wrong smile, and the wrong touch-. 

Aegon can’t even remember when it was that he decided he wouldn’t utter your name again, all he knows is that through the years what started out of spite, as a way to deny the wound and the absence; has become something else. It has become to him something like a secret, something to be hoarded, to be kept his alone. 

Because there’s pride, and satisfaction, and something rotten but his, in having known you in ways no other did. In remembering you how he is certain -he has to be, it is of the few things he has left- no one has known you. 

And so he doesn’t speak your name. Lest in sharing any of the warmth of a bond long gone he loses it, dying embers to a strong wind; lest in admitting old truths he is left behind also by the part of you that he keeps safe, a secret only his. 

But now in his head resonate so loudly that they drown anything else -like thunder, like the beat of Vermithor’s wings taking you far up into the sky- his mother’s words.  

It was you she chose. 

Thinking of you has always meant the resurgence of the memory of the goodbye you refused to grant him, of waking to the reverberating cry of Vermithor as he took to the skies with you on his back and flew you away to Dragonstone; or the memory of your disappointment and your sorrow as he avoided your gaze and your words when you met again in Driftmark.  

Yet now the memory that comes forth in his mind is another. 

You smiled at him, daring and entirely too proud. But how could you not be, when you both knew he would oblige? How could you not be, when he hadn’t been able to tear his gaze from your lips since you had asked him for something as simple as a kiss? And your voice was softer than he’d expected -or perhaps he remembers it softer than it was, perhaps he sees something else when desire was all there was-, warmer than it had ever been, when you whispered, I want it to be you. 

And what harm can your name do that his own mind hasn’t inflicted upon him already? What ruin can the uttering of such a familiar word bring that the memories haven’t wrought already? 

So he says your name. Willingly, rationally, for the first time in years.  

He thought the foolish refusal to utter your name aloud kept you distant, kept the memory of you, the idea of you, as something far from him, gone from him. But he realizes now, with the shape of your name parting his lips and the taste of memories staining his tongue like ash; that you have been a distant memory, a distant dream, for a very long time. 

And the knowledge that you chose him, the helpless hope that blooms somewhere in his chest, they cannot do a thing against the horrifying certainty that the future he wanted, the future he mourned, is lost to him regardless of your choices now. 

What can he give you now, that that Tyrell knight the rumors say you were so enamored with cannot? How can he not fail whatever expectations you have of him, as he has failed all others? How could you want him now, as what he has made out of himself in these years you’ve spent apart? 

It was a comfort, he realizes now, thinking you lost. The comfort of knowing he couldn’t fail you, couldn’t earn your scorn when he had merely your indifference. 

A bitter, wretched little laugh leaves his lips then, and he turns his head -to hide, perhaps, the tears brimming in his eyes, the weakness his mother so loathes to see from him- and looks out the window towards the distant skies. 

Alicent doesn’t move, merely stands taller, prouder, and presses, 

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” 

Of course, this is what he fucking wanted, but nearly four years have gone by since he asked to be allowed to marry you and was refused. Even if some part of him wants it, wants you, still, it matters not. 

It is what he wanted, before. Before everything got worse, before everything got louder, harder. Before he got worse. Before you forgot about him. 

His mother approaches him then, and though he jumps when he sees her reach for him out of the corner of his eye, she grabs onto his forearm and speaks again, forceful, determined, 

“Listen to me, Aegon. Your sister has secured her hold on the Seven Kingdoms, both through the strength of her dragons and through her eldest children’s diplomacy with the noble Houses,” His mother tells him, but he cannot hear her, not over the warring thoughts of finally, finally, finally, and too late, too late, too late. “Rhaenyra has allowed for this to happen because she wishes to extend an offer of peace, and you cannot squander this opportunity.” 

He turns to her and asks, quietly, forlorning, “Why now?” 

“What?” 

“Why now?”

Why now, that everything is worse? Why now, that he has become this? 

For a moment, a flickering moment gone in the blink of an eye, he thinks he sees sadness, sympathy, in his mother’s warm gaze. For a moment, he believes she will offer words or touch in the way she hasn’t before, in comfort or in reassurance. 

But her gaze falls from his, and her grip on his arm -too tight, almost bruising, yet wanted, needed, if it is all he can get- loosens as she lets go of him. 

“The betrothal will be announced when the tour is over. The wedding in a week’s time from then.” She tells him, detached, not unlike a messenger delivering a missive. 

And with that she leaves his apartments. The door sounding echoes in his mind, and he is left behind with a loneliness he doesn’t know where to put, and a hope he doesn’t know how not to fear. 

Thank you for reading! I hope you liked it, and I would love to hear your thoughts!

I am endlessly fascinated by the greens and their deeply weird dynamics, and I hope I did them a modicum of justice, even when changed in this AU and despite the influence of fanon in my interpretations of them.

[mysticalprincesskitten]

yeah so I’m fully looking forward to Rhaenyra dying at this point

[mysticalprincesskitten]

┊ㅤㅤㅤㅤ┊ㅤㅤㅤㅤ┊ㅤㅤㅤㅤ┊ㅤㅤㅤㅤ┊ㅤ┊ㅤㅤㅤㅤ┊ㅤㅤㅤ ♡ㅤㅤㅤ ┊ㅤㅤㅤㅤ┊ㅤ┊ㅤㅤㅤㅤ♡ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ♡ㅤㅤㅤ ┊ㅤ♡ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ♡ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

*ㅤ ── ୨ 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍 𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐒 ୧ ──ㅤ *

⌗ 𝓨𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓱𝓬 ⁝ 𝓦𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝔂 𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓱𝓾𝓻𝓽 𝔂𝓸𝓾? ( ♱ )

ㅤ ㅤㅤּ ᵎ ˳ ⊹ 𝓪𝓮𝓰𝓸𝓷 𝓽𝓪𝓻𝓰𝓪𝓻𝔂𝓮𝓷 ۫ 𔓗 ۫ ﹫

He does, but he can’t understand that he’s hurting you.

He may threaten you, but he would never do anything that actually hurts you.

The problem is that he doesn’t know the difference between good and bad.

He can’t understand that his actions can be harmful.

He doesn’t see any problem with forcing himself on you.

He’s delusional.

He doesn’t see it as punishment but as a reminder that you love him.

He’s not rough; he’s very gentle with you.

He thinks you’re crying because of pleasure.

He kisses your tears away and tells you how much he loves you.

ㅤ ㅤּ ᵎ ˳ ⊹ 𝓶𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓬𝓱𝔂 𝓰𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓻 ۫ 𔓗 ۫ ﹫

He does, and he means it.

If you try to run away from him, he's going to punish you.

Other than that, he's always gentle with you.

He doesn’t feel guilty.

He thinks you deserve it, and it’s your own fault.

He’s the type to leave you alone in a dark room without food.

He would never physically hurt you, except when he’s punishing you.

When your punishment is done, he’s going to be his loving self again.

He bathes with you and then gets you your favorite food and drink.

He feeds you while you’re sitting on his lap.

You always cry when he does that because you’re hurt and confused.

He always puts everything down when you cry and lets you rest your head on his chest.

He lets you cry while he whispers sweet nothings in your ear.

@midnight-st4rs 2024. Don't copy, repost or translate any of my works here or any other websites

[mysticalprincesskitten]

Alys: "I'm no woman at all, I'm a barn owl, cursed to live in human form."

Aren't we all, girly.

[mysticalprincesskitten]

What could have been...