#Daenerys x Daughter!OC

[fandomficsnstuff]

The Dragon's Daughter - 1

(Warnings: mentions of someone burning alive (Mirri Maz Duur), think that’s all)

Dothraki will be in bold

High Valyrian will be in cursive

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“It's the greatest poverty to decide that a child must die so that you may live as you wish.”—Mother Teresa, Roman Catholic nun

Daenerys woke up to the screaming sounds of a newborn babe, the child squealing, inconsolable as the Dothraki woman tried and tried to get the babe to calm down, the child continuing to scream and cry and flail it’s small, chubby limbs around as though it was fighting for it’s life. Daenerys felt weak, like her very soul had been ripped from her and forced back in and it pained her to sit up, Jorah quickly kneeling by her, trying to get her to lay back down and rest when her ears finally registered that the screaming and crying came from inside the small tent she was in, her eyes moving to the babe, wide with shock, unsure if she should be relieved, fearful, angry, a wave of emotions running through her. Her eyes moved to Mirri Maz Duur who entered, the woman looking down at the crying babe before looking back at Daenerys who looked at the child. “She won’t eat, won’t sleep, won’t rest…” Mirri admitted too casually while the babe screamed with misery, Daenerys looking up at her with a gentle frown “‘she’?...”

“You had twins, Khaleesi, a boy and a girl… the boy was malformed, his skin scaly, like stretched leather and when I pulled him from you, he faded to dust in my hands, rotting from inside your womb…” Mirri stated coldly before gesturing to the babe that the woman tried to calm down with no success “I wanted the same thing for your daughter, her skin like fire itself and I thought of her fate, I tried burning her to stop her unnatural cries, but she was spared with only-”

“Only what?! Give me my daughter, now!” at the Khaleesi’s demand the squealing babe was brought to her, given to her and put in her arms and instantly the screaming stopped, the sobbing continuing and uncontrollable, rosy cheeks and small tufts of white hair on her forehead, her small eyes closed, the tiny eyelashes kissing the rosy cheeks as she squeezed her eyes together as she fussed a little more before calming down in the arms of the child’s mother, Daenerys frowning at the seemingly perfect child. “What? Nothing is wrong wi-”

“Her back, Khaleesi” the woman who had held the baby stated, Daenerys frowning as she carefully unwrapped the child, lifting it up and leaning it against her breast, her eyes landing on the small scales that ran along the babe’s spine, Jorah watching with a saddened frown but it soon vanished when he saw the tears in the mother’s eyes, the utter joy. “Khaleesi?” it was a silent question, were those tears of joy or sadness, Daenerys looking up at Jorah with joy “she’s perfect, nothing is wrong with her…” Daenerys sobbed quietly as she gently rocked her daughter, the fussing slowly dying down and the girl’s eyes opened, the new mother smiling down at the babe in her arms as the child opened it’s eyes and gazed up at her, her eyes nowhere near the Targaryen lilac color, instead it was a mix of gold, like burning golden coins that had yet to mold together into one mixture, the small specks obvious, making her uncommon slit pupils stand out even more, such unique eyes, they reminded her of what she thought a dragon’s eye would look like, strong and powerful and observant, the girl’s lips stretching into a toothless smile as she reached for her mother’s silver hair, pulling gently on it, making Daenerys laugh as she removed the tiny hand from her hair, feeling it wrap around her finger, the child squeezing her finger as tightly as it could and it sent a wave of warmth through the silver haired Khaleesi. “She’s so strong already… Drogo will love her… where is he? Where’s my husband? Where’s the father of my child?” Daenerys asked with joy, looking at the three people in the tent with her, other than the babe she was holding.

Daenerys felt weak as she walked after Mirri, the child in her arms heavier than she expected but she refused every person who offered to carry the babe, not even Jorah was allowed to touch the child as it clung to her, sleeping soundly in her arms until Daenerys saw her husband. Motionless, dead-looking if not for the small rise of his chest when he breathed, not even his eyes moved. Daenerys felt tears rise in her eyes after her anger had subsided, her knees hitting the warm stone under her and she leaned closer to Drogo, carefully placing the young babe on his chest in an attempt to evoke some kind of response from her husband. “It’s our child, my sun and stars… our daughter, Rhaella, our night’s sky…” yet nothing, nothing happened and Daenerys couldn’t help but let out a small sob.

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Daenerys gently rocked the babe in her arms, fingers grazing over her chubby cheeks as the child looked up at her, almost gazing at her, it brought tears of joy to her eyes and she turned her gaze to her immobile husband. “She’s beautiful, my sun and stars… She already has your strength. Our little dragon… our white horse riding along the black night’s sky… our little white dragon…” Daenerys whispered softly, stroking the small tufts of white hair on the babe’s forehead. Daenerys was careful in placing the babe against her chest and shoulder, her eyes landing on the scales that ran along the child’s spine, her fingers grazing them softly, her eyes traveling to the four dragon eggs laid out in front of her, her cheek pressing against her daughter’s head on her shoulder, Daenerys’ lilac eyes closed as she enjoyed the warmth of her child, her only child. “Nothing will happen to you, my night’s sky… not the blade of a sword, not the change of tide, not the fire nor ice of this world, nothing will touch you, blood of the dragon, blood of my blood… the white dragon of the Khalasaar and the Great Grass Sea” Daenerys whispered to her baby, her fingers dancing alone the spine of the child. Her eyes turned to her husband, tears rolling down her cheeks as she carefully hugged the babe in her arms even tighter, making sure not to hurt the precious child, the embodiment of her love for her husband, the last remaining piece of him she had left aside from the lion skin he hunted for her.

Daenerys moved to stand up, laying in bed with her husband, their child on his chest, on her stomach, her small chubby hands grabbing at his beard, tugging at it and laughing and giggling, Daenerys watching it unfold with a smile despite the tears of sadness and despair that stained her cheeks. “She grows so fast, doesn’t she, my sun and stars? Already so strong… it’s only been a week…” Daenerys marveled, smiling at the baby girl who could barely hold her own head up, yet she tried, she tried so hard it almost made Daenerys worry for her newborn daughter. Daenerys sat up as she saw Jorah enter the tent, her hand on the babe’s spine, over the scales, as Jorah frowned at her, a look of regret on his face. “More and more are leaving every day, Khaleesi… the Khal has to recover, soon… or you won’t be Khaleesi anymore, your daughter will not be safe from their blood-lust… she will be their first targ-”

“No one will touch my child… no one will hurt my white dragon” Daenerys stated with anger, the babe beginning to cry at the change in atmosphere. Daenerys gently picked up the babe, rocking the child in her arms as she smiled down at the child who began to grow silent again. “There, it’s alright, my night’s sky…” she whispered, grinning down at the child, Jorah unable to not smile at the sight. “You’re already a good mother, Khaleesi” he praised, Daenerys smiling up at him before looking back down at the child, her smile slowly fading as she sighed softly. “What are they saying?...” she asked quietly, Jorah sighing as he sat down inside the tent, near Daenerys, Drogo and Rhaella. “They-... they call her a curse… a malformed child from the cursed union of a dragon and a stallion… they say she will devour them all in the night, as a dragon of the old days would… it’s why most of them are leaving, they fear the child more than they fear the black sea” Jorah admitted, knowing that lying wouldn’t do him any good, not to him, Daenerys or the babe in her arms. Daenerys frowned at him, desperation clear in her eyes as she gently shook her head “devour them?? She’s just a babe, she can’t even hold her own head up, yet they fear her??” Daenerys asked in shock and disbelief, Jorah sighing softly as he looked down. “Not everyone sees her as you do, Khaleesi. You are her mother, you gave birth to her, her scales and eyes are ones of beauty to you, not to them…”

“And what do you think? Are they beautiful, or cursed?” Daenerys asked quietly, her eyes on the baby in her arms that gazed lovingly up at her, making her heart swell with utter pride and joy. “She is the blood of the last dragon, Khaleesi, her scales are both beautiful and cursed, her eyes is that of the old dragons of Valyria” Jorah stated softly, Daenerys frowning down at the child before sighing “perhaps they need to see her? See that she’s just a babe, harmless… see that she’s perfect?” Daenerys asked, looking up at Jorah with even more desperation, desperate for them to accept her child, Jorah giving her a sad look. “If you wish, Khaleesi… I will stand by your side, protect her, and you, if you will” he offered, Daenerys nodding as she looked back down at her daughter “thank you, Ser Jorah…” she murmured, moving to get out of the bed, the child still in her arms until Jorah stood up and approached, giving her a sad smile. “I can take her, carry her until you are steady on your feet” he offered, Daenerys hesitating before nodding, letting him take the child and hold it as she stood up, a little unsteady on her feet at first but the second she was steady, Jorah gave the child back to her without needing to be asked. As she exited the tent with Jorah, she felt defeated, so few left, so many had parted at the mere mention of her child. “Blood of my Blood!” Daenerys shouted, the flock of people raising their heads, some with skepticism at the sight of the babe in her arms. “Some of you are afraid, scared, of my child. Are you not Dothrak?! Are you scared of a mere babe only two weeks old? Scared of a child not old enough to hold up her own head?? Blood of my Blood makes you Blood of the Dragon! She is the blood of the Dragon and the Great Stallion Khal Drogo! Your Khal! And you fear his newborn daughter? I am your Khaleesi, and this, this is my daughter, your princess! Find your courage and overcome your fear of a newborn child barely off her mother’s teet!” Daenerys shouted loudly, hearing them murmur as she turned to one of the blood riders who had remained loyal to her, and her husband, even though he couldn’t ride a horse, and she had carried a ‘malformed’, ‘dangerous’ babe. “My brother’s sword, what became of it when he was killed by my husband?” she asked quietly, the rider frowning before admitting that it was thrown out of the city of Vaes Dothrak, probably long buried under the sand. “Blood of my Blood, find it, return it to me, and to my daughter…” she ordered, the rider nodding, instantly heading for his horse as he rode harder than she had ever seen. Daenerys laid her cheek against her daughter’s head once more and walked back into her tent with her daughter, smiling down at the child as she sat next to Drogo, holding her child with one arm and placing her other hand on her husband’s chest, hoping and praying he’d wake up, that his eyes would move and settle on her, on his little baby girl, his daughter.

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Jorah couldn’t help but smile down at the baby girl, her small chubby hands locked around a strap on Rakharo’s leather, her eyes shut tightly as she was sleeping, seemingly taking well to her new sleeping place. Rakharo was one of the few Dothraki who wasn’t afraid of the two week old babe, instead he found her scales and eyes interesting, though her scales weren’t very visible with the clothes one of Daenerys’ Dothraki handmaidens had made for her from rabbit skin that one of the Dothraki men had caught and skinned. “She likes you” Jorah noted to Rakharo, the young man smiling at the old knight before looking down at the child, studying her white hair and pink face, something very uncommon to a Dothrak, their copper skin and dark hair dominating their genes, yet this child was born as white as clouds, in his words. Everything was well until suddenly the babe woke up, screaming and crying and wiggling in Rakharo’s arms, his eyes wide, unsure of what to do when out of nowhere Daenerys walked over, cheeks stained with tears as she looked far beyond defeated, like after her wedding night with Drogo, a sense of dread hanging over her head like a dark cloud. Yet she gently took the babe, seemingly holding the child against her chest, like she was trying to comfort herself despite the babe’s cries. Daenerys turned to Rakharo, eyes empty and face wet with her tears “build a funeral pyre… Khal Drogo is dead” she announced in a tired voice before walking off with the crying babe.

She walked to the spot Mirri Maz Duur had led her to, when she had first woken up and had seen her husband, the very same spot he had been laying. She sat on the now cold stone as the sun was setting, freeing one of her breasts and putting the child towards it, the crying turned to sniffles and sniffles turned to silence as the child was fed, Daenerys’ eyes were glazed over as she stared at the child in her arms, trying not to cry again, not wanting to upset the only love she had left in this world. “My sweet little dragon… daughter of the great Khal Drogo and the Dragon’s Daughter, my night’s sky… my moon…” Daenerys whispered softly to herself as she watched the babe feed, her fingers lightly stroking the white hair on the babe’s forehead, the golden, predatory eyes staring up at her and Daenerys actually managed to smile a tiny bit, feeling a sense of comfort in the eyes that should belong to a dangerous creature.

It wasn’t long until Jorah approached, hesitant to disturb the new mother as she fed her child, yet he had to, walking out in front of her, kneeling down with sad eyes. “The pyre is built, Khaleesi…” he announced, Daenerys nodding as she kept her eyes on the child. “Tie Mirri Maz Duur to the pyre… she will burn… my dragon eggs will be placed around Drogo… two at his sides, one over his head… lay the white one on his chest…” Daenerys spoke softly as she looked down at the little girl, trying her best not to cry at how beautiful the child was, scales and all. “Khaleesi…” Jorah’s voice finally made her look away from her child, looking at the old knight who gave her a sad smile “it is time” he stated softly, the sun already gone as the sky was darkening. Daenerys nodded, looking down at her child, making sure the babe had had enough before covering her breast again, standing up with the babe over her shoulder, her hand running along the scales on the child’s back, the child’s golden eyes watching Ser Jorah as he walked behind Daenerys to her tent, he gave the child a small smile and the child seemed to light up at it, gurgling and spouting nonsense as Daenerys walked into the tent with her young child, Irri following her into the tent along with Doreah. Irri helped Daenerys into her wedding dress, braiding her hair as Doreah gently rocked Rhaella. “How did you name her?” Doreah asked softly, looking up at her Khaleesi, trying to bring a smile to her lips, and she managed. It seemed as though the only thing that could make the Khaleesi smile and console her was her daughter, the scaled infant being rocked by one of her most trusted handmaidens. “My mother’s name was Rhaella, she died after I was born…” Daenerys admitted, her eyes still on the baby girl who was now sleeping in Doreah’s arms.

“When she was born, Khaleesi, I thought she’d never stop crying. She wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t sleep, refused to be rocked and calmed down… I will never forget the cries we all heard through the night and day until you woke, and when you finally held her… she stopped… like she knew who you were and had been miserable without you by her side” Doreah muttered softly, her eyes on the sleeping child in her arms, Daenerys smiling at them both. “She had the lungs of a dragon, I’m surprised she didn’t burn down the tent… her skin felt so hot that I nearly burnt my fingers after she was born, pulled from you… I was the first to hold her, her skin like fire, nearly scorching my skin” Doreah added jokingly, Daenerys frowning at first before she remembered. Remembered the way she entered boiling hot baths and felt nothing, what should have burnt her, soothed her, a smile tugging at her lips at the thought.

Fire cannot kill a dragon.

Daenerys stood up when Irri was done braiding her hair, taking her child from Doreah and walking outside, in time to see her eggs being laid by her husband, as she had commanded, the witch being dragged to the pyre. Daenerys carefully hands the baby to Doreah, leaning down and kissing the sleeping child’s head, lips lingering on the white hair as she allows herself to smile at her daughter before stepping back.

Ser Jorah approached her, worry on his face as he noted how she seemed to almost say goodbye to her beloved daughter. He pleaded with her quietly so that only she could hear his words, to let Drogo go, take her newborn daughter and come with him to see the wonders of the east. Daenerys smiled softly at the old knight, cupping his face and leaning up, kissing his cheek gently. “My daughter will not grow up without a mother, Ser Jorah” she stated softly, smiling at her child with utter love and adoration.

Once the pyre was completed, Daenerys gathered her people together, now fewer than a hundred, and declared that they would be her khalasar. Among the crowd, she sees slaves and declares them free, declaring the bonds that bind them were no longer tied around them. She announced that any among them are free to go, but that if they stay they shall always have an honored place among her khalasar. As Mirri Maz Duur was bound to the pyre, Daenerys turned to her, pouring oil over her head, a look of spite on her face as she thanked the witch for all she had taught her, turning back to Doreah and her daughter. “You will not hear me scream!” Mirri Maz Duur shouted, Daenerys turning to her, a cold look on her face as she looked at her “you will scream, for my daughter. For the son you stole from me for your own gain. For my daughter’s brother” she stated softly before turning to her child, stroking the white hairs on her forehead, smiling softly at her “Blood of my Blood, White Dragon of the Dothrak, Daughter to the last Dragon, Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, my night’s sky…” Daenerys whispered so softly that none but the baby girl and Doreah could hear her, Daenerys’ lips kissing the child’s forehead once more.

Mirri Maz Duur began to sing in a high, ululating voice at first, but her voice became a wail as the flames engulfed her and she soon fell silent. The Dothraki and Ser Jorah backed away as the smoke grew thicker and the heat stronger, but Daenerys stood her ground, her eyes moving to her child, looking for any sign of discomfort but when she saw the fire reflected in her small golden eyes, even at this distance, she knew; she is the blood of the dragon and undeterred by the fire, like her mother. Daenerys gently took Rhaella from a very confused Doreah, Daenerys gently carrying her daughter as she began to slowly walk towards the fire as sweat covered her body. Daenerys heard the crack of breaking stone as the pyre collapsed, showering her and the Targaryen babe in her arms with ash, cinders, and broken egg shells. Behind her, she can hear the Dothraki and Ser Jorah shouting, yet her child is quiet in her arms, only two weeks old and she knew that she and her mother were safe. As the pyre begins to collapse completely, Daenerys hears two more cracks like the first and walks into the heart of the fire with her sleeping daughter in her arms.

It was dawn when the fire finally died out, Ser Jorah found Daenerys with Rhaella, naked but alive and unburnt, nursing three baby dragons, one of which was protectively splayed out over Rhaella, with a third draped across her shoulders. The dragons match the colors of their eggs: cream-and-gold, green-and-bronze, black-and-scarlet and silver-and-white. Ser Jorah dropped to his knees wordlessly. He was followed by Jhogo, Aggo, and Rakharo who declare her and her daughter blood of their blood, and then her handmaidens and the rest of the Dothraki do the same and Daenerys smiled at the thought that they bowed not only to her, but to her newborn daughter.

Daenerys rose with her daughter in her arms and for the first time in hundreds of years, the night comes alive with the music of dragons, a stunned and awe-struck Jorah hesitantly walking over after getting up, eyes wide as he stared down at the sleeping child, Daenerys smiling at the child, handing Rhaella to Jorah who hesitantly held her, hissing at the burning heat that came from the child’s skin, Daenerys gently nudging her dragons away from her arms, taking the child into one of her arms, the other one holding one of her dragons and Daenerys watched as the silver-and-white dragon moved from her shoulder and down her arm, sniffing the babe and it’s white hair, looking up at his mother, almost as though he was asking for permission, and when Daenerys nodded, the dragon crawled over the babe, laying protectively over it’s sister as the other dragon crawled up to her shoulder, freeing Daenerys’ arm so she could hold her daughter with both arms, a dragon on each shoulder with the black one resting on her elbow at the child’s feet and the last one, the silver one, laying protectively over Rhaella, it’s golden eyes shining up at Daenerys and her breath nearly hitched at the same golden eyes with slit pupils that were staring up at her from the dragon, the creature sharing the exact eyes of the babe in her arms.The sound of horse hooves beating against the ground brought all eyes to the rider who had left for the sword, his eyes wide as he stared at the dragons, his burnt Khal and the unburnt Khaleesi and her daughter. He hesitantly got off his horse, the sword and it’s sheath in his hands, his movements hesitant and unsure but he approached, holding out the sword before kneeling down in front of Daenerys and her babe, head low until he heard a shriek, raising his eyes to look at Daenerys who gave him a warm smile. “Thank you, Ezzo, Blood of my Blood” she stated softly, the young rider nodding as he stood up, watching the unburnt Khaleesi with her ash-covered child, the white dragon on top, as though they were fused together and were never to be parted.

[fenrins]

im gonna be a hater tonight but idc! its a lomg one but i rlly wanted to rant 😔😔

im just gonna go right in and say it: some house of the dragon characters are unoriginal and lazy, and it pisses me tf off. im sick and tired of seeing the same oc regurgitated in this fandom bc istg half of these hotd ocs are literally just daenerys targaryen thrown back in time under a different name.

i usually dont care abt fanfic because its fanfic. nothing i can do, its probably some child having fun, but like i said im just TIRED of looking through hotd fanfics and seeing daenerys pop up as a faceclaim, and then going on to see that half (or all) of dany’s entire character is put into an oc with little to no actual originality if this makes sense.

before i get into this, what the fuck happened to the originality in original character? like genuinely? this is mainly abt one oc i legit just saw like an hour ago off of tiktok bc but still this applies to the daenerys knockoffs i (regularly) see and cry abt like my grown ass should not care but i do!!!!

starting off, the oc’s name is daenera. cool! fine! she’s not a daughter of rhaenyra which is a slay, but is a daughter of alicent and viserys which eh, good enough. we go on to find out that for some reason vizzy t and ali hate her, and at age 16 they decide to ship her off to pentos so she can marry a dothraki warlord. im not even joking. aside from that, she’s in pentos for a year, and comes back with an army of 550k and three dragons. okay hello daenerys! anyways she apparently fights for rhaenyra, but also bangs aemond, daemon, and cregan in the two year timeframe that the dance takes place in.

no one is gonna read this but my ass is mad and idgaf! i need to complain!! but anyways, i am sick and tired of the ocs that are just cheap copies of daenerys because at what point is this an original character? if youre using a faceclaim of daenerys for your character and essentially adding her entire plotline onto your oc, is it even an oc anymore? like i get being inspired to base a character off of her because dany is literally the blueprint, but copy and pasting her entire character and then going off and ignoring grrm’s established lore (yes, its a fanfic, but ive seen too many oc’s claim both cannibal AND vermithor at the same time and i am TIRED) is just lazy and boring.

i wish people did more with their hotd ocs honestly. like theres hundreds of houses and shit and actual ORIGINAL ideas one could use instead of just taking dany’s whole character and just making it their own. i dont even want to start an argument with this but i NEED to see more original characters. like im writing my own two on wattpad rn (one’s a dragonseed whos like schizophrenic idk and the other’s a mormont who slays the day away) but even then i just need more than aemond x his sister or niece or smth idk yk??

im just reiterating points ive made but man its just ughhhh

[lovebaela]

THE DRAGON OF THE NORTH - MASTERLIST

(Bran Stark x Fem!Targaryen OC)

A/N - Not gonna lie yall, I’m more productive with this story on Wattpad 😭😭 I think I might stick with posting on there instead. The chapters I’ve posted here have been slightly changed there too. I’ll put the link of it below.

https://www.wattpad.com/story/367425499?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_writing&wp_page=create&wp_uname=lovebaela

“ 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒏 , 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝑶𝒍�� 𝑽𝒂𝒍𝒚𝒓𝒊𝒂 𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒆 , 𝒊 𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒏’𝒕 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒅 .”

⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ 𝑹𝑯𝑨𝑬𝑳𝑳𝑨 𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑮𝑨𝑹𝒀𝑬𝑵 ⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Rhaella is the daughter of Mad King Aerys’ younger brother. Before the rebellion of Robert Baratheon, he fled to the Summer Isles, where he fell in love with a woman. He married her and they both consummated their marriage. Rhaella doesn’t know much about her parents, and always struggled with having a true home. One fateful day, her cousin Viserys sent her away to the Starks. Little did he know, that was the start of her journey of self-discovery.

“ 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒂 𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒌 , 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑭𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝑴𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒆 , 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆’𝒔 𝒏𝒐 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒅 . 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒐 .”

⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ 𝑩𝑹𝑨𝑵 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑲 ⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Bran is the fourth child of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully. All he ever wanted was to become a knight. He always thought one day he would join the kingsguard. That was until the day he found out he was betrothed to Rhaella. He didn’t think much of it, still able to be a warrior…until the day he became broken. All he wants is to find a purpose now in his life.

✮ ₊ Chapters ✧ ᵔ₊ 𓆪

1, 2, 3, 4

Disclaimer: I don’t own asoiaf, any pictures, or gifs that I use in the series🤍

Art by eleneyaart, fredrickruntu

Dividers by @saradika-graphics @saradika

Taglist: @lover-of-books-and-tea

[mysticalprincesskitten]

Aegon II Targaryen x OC // House of the Dragon fanfic

Yandere!Aegon, Dark!Aegon

Trigger warnings: NON-CON, DUB-CON, mdni, dark themes, bondage, kidnapping, yandere?? Targcest, OC is Viserys and Aemma's daughter, OC is named Daenerys, OC looks like Elizabeth Olsen

Part Three

The crown had changed Aegon.

No longer was he merely a youth craving his mother’s kindness, his father's attention, forever in the shadow of who he was supposed to be. Now he was King of the Seven Kingdoms, at war with his half-sister for the throne on which he sat.

Fate had forced this on him, but Aegon had embraced it. For the sake of his family, for Mother and Aemond and Helaena and their little twins, Rhaenyra could not ascend the Iron Throne. She would kill them all.

Besides. Aegon was the rightful king. Father had agreed as much finally on his deathbed; as the firstborn son, Viserys’ crown passed to Aegon. The Great Council had reinforced tradition by seating his father on the throne instead of Rhaenys, but Father, in his arrogance, opposed tradition by naming his favourite child heir. Mother said so.

If only his wife could see the truth.

Daenerys was a hellcat. A she-dragon. Since Aemond had ambushed her at Storm’s End, forcing her to dismount Grey Ghost and return to King’s Landing lest Vhagar rip her beloved dragon to shreds, Daenerys had refused to touch Aegon, to speak a kind word to him. It made him whine and whimper, a kicked dog. Daenerys loved him. She always had. She was the only one who knew him, who didn’t expect him to be something he wasn’t.

And now she wouldn’t be close to him unless he bound her to their bed.

His grandfather was a fool, but he was right about one thing — the king needed an heir. Daenerys and Aegon had been wed for a couple of years and they had yet to conceive. It had never bothered Aegon before — one less person to steal her attention from him, truth be told — but that was when he'd been Prince Aegon.

King Aegon needed a trueborn heir from his queen.

And Aegon had missed her so, so much.

“How dare you?” His she-dragon thrashed anew in her bonds. “I am not your broodmare, Usurper!”

Aegon flinched. Then the fire within his own blood met to meet hers.

“How dare I? How dare you, sweet sister. My beloved bride. We are married, whether you like it not. You are mine. Do you think I could bear for you to leave me again? I let you slip from me once and they forced a crown on my head.” His lip wobbled, even as he held her wrists tight enough to bruise. He wanted his marks on her. His his his.

She was all he had, his only good thing. Daenerys had been by his side all his life, a playmate and partner. Sometimes she insisted they include Helaena and Aemond in their play, and Jace and Luke, but most of the time, if he pouted just so, he could get her to play just the two of them, chasing each other through the Red Keep, bumping into servants and high lords alike, playing monsters and maidens and come-into-my-castle.

And when childhood faded to adulthood, his sister’s soft curves and smooth skin made him stiffen in his breeches at the worst possible moments. He found himself transfixed by the dimple of her cleavage, a faint line peeking from the silver and cream gown she wore.

His Nerys refused to wear green, but rarely donned their House colours — Rhaenyra’s colours — either. Her heraldry honoured her dragon instead, the wild Grey Ghost. She liked silver Myrish lace and ivory Lyseni silks the most, beaded with opals and moonstone. Aegon liked how her gowns looked scattered across the floor of their bedchamber.

“It’s not too late,” she breathed, violet eyes wide and watery. “We could leave, Aeg. We could leave King’s Landing. Leave the Seven Kingdoms. Fly to the Free Cities with me. We could explore new lands, taste new cuisine, where nobody from this dreary kingdom would ever find us. We could see the Dothraki Sea, the old lands of Valyria's empire. Please, Aeg. Please.”

He could see her vision clearly: clouds covering exotic lands, blades of emerald grass below. Both of them, together. How they had always been. Wasn’t that what he’d wanted before his mother marched him to his coronation?

But another path lay open to him now. What if they didn’t have to flee? The crown was heavy, but Aegon found his liked it’s weight.

He was King. Nerys was his queen. She would give him trueborn princes and princesses that would fill the Red Keep, enough to lay his claim so deep inside her she could never claw it out.

A frenzy overtook him. He crashed their lips together, and she kissed him back, Seven Hells she was finally kissing him back, finally, she loved him again, she did she did…

His tongue tasted the sweetness of her mouth, overwhelmed with the need to possess. “I love you,” he gasped, “I love you so much, Nerys…”

“Untie me.”

He stilled. Stroked silver curls from her forehead, gazing at her with pain in his chest.

“No.”

Her face grew cold. “You won’t leave. Not now. You’ve supped from the king’s cup and now you mean to gorge yourself, like you always do.”

“Enough,” he snapped. “Stop spoiling everything.” His lips returned to her throat.

“Aegon, no! Stop!”

He didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

Grandfather had spoke sense that morning during the Small Council meeting. Without an heir, Aegon’s grasp on the throne was tentative. Rhaenyra had six sons to succeed her. Should anything happen to Aegon before he sired a son, the throne would pass to Aemond.

Aegon often wondered whether his brother would be happy if he died. Aemond lusted for kingship, for Helaena and a dragon to call his own. He had two of those things already.

“Get off me!”

“Hush.” His right hand clenched her throat, the other trailing beneath her nightgown where her legs were bound together, seeking the wetness between her thighs.

“Aegon…” Nerys moaned.

“I know how to touch you, Nerys. Your body might as well be my own.”

She started to curse him but another moan strangled her words. “You disgust me.”

Don’t say that. “Do I? This tells a different story.” His fingers thrust into her.

She cried out.

“That’s it, darling. Let me take care of you."

[beautifulloverwitch]

By Fire, Sea and Blood

the untold tale of an approaching collapse

Act I: Chapter twelve: Depravity

Previous ///// Next

Summary: the realm gathers to mourn the death of a child they had long forsaken. As the commit her to ash and quickly send their condolence to the distraught heir, one question lingers in the air, what had happened to princess Daenerys?

A/n: Filler chapter, a lil something before the end of Act I!

_________________

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Daenerys Velaryon (Strong! Oc)

WC: 3.9k

Warnings: Rated +16, Death, Denial, implied rape, religious punishment.

Masterlist

The silent sisters, the strangers' wives.

Stood clad in grey around the charred body of the young princess. Hands carefully adjusting the position she was burnt into, folding her curled hands over her chest, pushing her spine gently down so that it would straighten, adjusting the remaining bent leg to lay down against the cold stone, seeming terribly indifferent to what they were doing, for they had seen every horror left behind by their cruel husband for them to clean. 

They began their work, to their fortune it would not be long, for all that was left was bone and shrunken flesh. No organs to pull, nothing to stuff full of fragrant herbs and salts to hide the smell of rot. They placed a roll of hay where her right leg should have been, to make the wrapping part ever so slightly easier.

The tired Rhaenyra stood back as she watched the silent sisters set to work. Her wavy hair cascading down her back and hanging around her gaunt face, donning a mask of defeat with her black robes and velvet headpiece etched with embroideries of red. 

They grabbed a long strip of cloth and began at her foot, tightly wrapping it, ensuring it would not slip from its place and making their way up.  

Rhaenyras eyes stared at the head, it had been days before she had allowed for the Silent Sisters to begin their work. She did not even move to console her children in the short time since her daughters return. She had spent those days raking the blackened corpse for some inkling of her daughter.

There was not a thread of her chocolate brown curly hair adorning her scalp, no flesh covering her once full cheeks, and no lips to curl up into a smile nor a frown that Rhaenyra would have given anything to see again. 

Her gaze moved up to her eyes, or atleast where they should have been. The two inky wells making doubts curl around every nerve that controlled reason, where were her eyes? She would ask herself, as she remembered their glow and their ethereal nature. The flecks of blue and yellow that would shine within the pools of purple in the right light. 

This was not her daughter.

It could not have been.

While her daughter glowed, this body absorbed all light around it, a void. A void that called itself her daughter.

This was not her daughter.

While her daughter approached the world with open arms, this body greeted its home with curled ones.

This was not her daughter.

While her daughter's eyes gleamed with wonder, those two hollows radiated a terrible omen.

This was not her daughter. 

“Rhaenyra.” 

Her eyes fluttered as she drew her attention away from the body, instead landing on the face of the man she chose.

Daemon bowed his head, not meeting her gaze, not ever meeting her gaze since her daughter was returned to her. He was ashamed, for he had failed to fulfil his first promise to her as her husband, the husband she had chosen to protect her to strengthen her.

A certain anger at herself licked at her heart, this is who she had chosen, this is the man she had long longed for, and it only cost her only daughter's life.

She glanced back towards the table back at the body, but now it was wrapped in a beige fraying cloth, tied together by brown leather. There was truly nothing left for her to recognise only a body she was supposed to assume to be her daughter.

This is not your daughter.

“It’s time.”

A tired breath left her lips before she moved away towards the door, without Daemon. He sniffled as she walked past him, paying him no mind, driving the poisoned dagger he impaled into his own chest further.

Her handmaidens patiently awaited her outside, gentle as they fixed her up, brushing away the wrinkles in her gown, tucking stray hairs behind her ears, she had not let them do anything else to her mane. 

Elinda, her youngest and newest handmaiden stepped forth as the others all stepped back, her face a mask of sorrow as she pulled the black veil over Rhaenyras face. 

They parted a path for Rhaenyra to tread, towards the field where everyone had waited, all the guests she did not recall sending letters to, excusing her from bothering to greet them.

Her children waited at the door with big glassy eyes beyond it. The poor boys received no comfort from their distraught mother and barely any consoling from their now step father.

Their grandmother had offered them and their cousins her shoulder, doing all she could to soothe this terrible grief.

But besides that they had no one other than each other.

They were not told how she had died, a decision of the kindest intention, but it had left them to imagine what horror must have taken the life of their sweet sister.

The sombre and sniffling Jacaerys held his brother close to his side, a sombreness he found difficult to maintain. He knew he needed to be strong for Luke and for Joff, but who was to be strong for him, his sister was gone, his mother was beside herself, he was alone. 

Footsteps came from behind him prompting him to look away from the outside and towards the hallway. His breath hitched in his throat as he saw the shadowy silent sisters breeze past, in their arms, the shrouded body of his elder sister.

She was so small, so still, so quiet. 

Lucerys sobbed as he saw her, his voice so broken as her name fell from his quivering lips, calling out to her as though she would arise. He moved towards her but his brother's tightening grasp kept him in his place. 

Rhaenyra walked behind the three sisters, her red eyes staring blankly ahead of herself, refusing to meet the figure in the arms of the strangers' wives.

“Dany?” 

A quiet voice came from her right, she turned to look towards the source, her eyes landed on the curly head of hair that belonged to her son, Luke, how red his thin cheeks were, how deep the lines of his anguished frown had embedded themselves into his young flesh.

Her eyes then landed on the arms around him, trailing up and meeting the startled face of her now eldest child, a truth that tasted bitter on her tongue. 

She searched around them looking for the third head of brown hair but it was not there. A space marked where she once stood between her two brothers, a space that seemed so noticeable.

Lucerys sobbed, a fresh wave of tears flooding his still wet cheeks as his sister moved past. 

“Luke,” his mother called.

His vision was too obscured to realise the figure to be his mother, she was shrouded in so much black cloth that he had mistaken her for a fourth member of the silent sisters.

He tore himself away from Jace and ran to his mother. His arms tightly wrapped around her waist as he nuzzled his face into her stomach, wetting her dress with his unending tears.

Her hand moved from her side and rested on his head, brushing through his curly locks while she continued to emptily stare at the empty space between her sons. The faint sound of her dragon’s roars outside, ringing in her ears.

Daemon joined her side, hands tightly wrapped around Dark Sister “īlon līs ōregon kostōba gō zirȳ,” We must hold strong before them he muttered beneath his breath to Rhaenyra who snapped her head towards him.

She refused to look at him as he did her, instead nodding in acknowledgement and placing her hands on Luke's shoulders, gently prying him away and lifting his chin up to look up at her. Holding a stiff lip as she saw his face aged by grief “it’s time,” she grabbed his hand in hers, to which he rested his other hand upon as well pushing himself into her side, Frowning and squirming in discomfort at her coldness “Jacaerys?” 

Jace looked away from the body as it was set up upon the yet to be lit pyre, his eyes remained agape with horror as he looked back towards his mother who offered him her open hand.

He slowly made his way to her side, staring at the ground as he felt her brush his head before grabbing his limp hand in hers.

A shuddered breath left her lips and she moved forward with her sons in hand, to bid an unwanted farewell.

The sisters descended into a field of stone that overlooked the angry seas. The sky was as solemn as those who had attended, there was no joy in attending the committal of a child. An itching guilt gnashing at their skin. 

As they passed the king a shudder of terror past his lips, for he had yet to accept the truth of this nightmare. Tears began to swell within his eyes again for his eldest granddaughter tightly wrapped in fine cloth, lifted to rest upon a bed of wood and wilted flowers.

Alicent refused to look, her wide eyed gaze plastered to the ground as she clenched the star that sat heavy on her chest. Whispers of safe travel for this poor child's soul falling endlessly from her chapped lips. 

Her whispers were challenged by the whispers of her disturbed daughter, who muttered beneath her breath a riddle over and over as she swayed around on her feet, knees daring to give way. Seemingly in disbelief of its falseness as she stared at the corpse ahead of her.

“The darkness has called and the seas have roared, to the tides she succumbs and from the tides she will rise, thrice more.”

She searched those words for comfort but they offered her none as the proof of their falseness was laid before her, so she decided to shut her eyes to the truth and trust that it would soon be proven a lie.

Aegon was quiet, uncommonly quiet, he stared at that corpse with trepidation in his eyes.

Beside him was his younger brother. Who stood tall by his brothers side, lips twisting and turning as he battled with his feelings for her. 

A twisting hurricane of hate and anguish swirled within him. He was anguished for having lost her, an anguish that denied him having ever come to hate her, but his hate for her kin, her craven brothers and her sorry excuse of a mother. It was their fault she had died, they had not kept her safe, he would even assume they had not treated her kindly. For why else would she have ever left? 

He wished that she had come to King's Landing, he wished that she had taken whichever ship headed that way. He would have kept her safe, and if she so wished it, he would have hid her away from her mother if she had come for her.

He had no sympathy for them for what right had they to grieve. ‘Twas their fault, may they suffer for it.

Many bowed their heads respectfully as Rhaenyra and her children passed by cutting through the field of umbrellas as they made their way to the front.

Syrax’s cries grew ever louder at the sight, crying out to the child that lay still and unmoving. Her song planted fear and sorrow within those who were around to hear it, some winced at how familiar it sounded.

Lances neck ached as they passed by, his chin touching his chest as he bowed his head, standing beside his father and brother. He discarded his armour for a change of noble black robes, lined with yellow. 

Rhaenyra stood ahead of her father, paying him no mind for she was too focused upon the unlit pyre. Preparing the word to fall from her tongue, but it seemed as though her mouth went dry the closer she had gotten.

The king frowned with worry as his daughter walked past. Glancing down to the two boys at her side “Jacaerys, Lucerys, here my boys, come here.”

The two sniffled as they looked his way before glancing up to their mother who squeezed their hands assuringly before letting them go, to huddle around their downhearted Grandsire.

Two more steps and all behind her had disappeared from her sight, leaving her feeling alone as she stood before that body. This felt all too familiar to her as she squirmed in her place, only now she had not her father to blame, only herself for this. 

She swore she could still here her yells, her shouts, her anger but it was all in her head.

What she would give for that corpse to rise and yell at her with her daughter's voice, prove to her that this was her daughter.

But no such confirmation would arise from it and hence, it made her next action so much easier.

“Dracarys,” she commanded her grieving dragon.

Syrax was reluctant to obey, turning to look towards her rider, croaking at her, as though she were advising her not to, to not turn what was left of her forever to ash.

A furious look crossed Rhaenyras tired face, tearing back her dark veil as she faced her dragon commanding once more “DRACARYS SYRAX!”

Syrax flinched at her command but complied nevertheless, stalking down from the stone hill she had stood on whining as  she grew closer to the pyre. A final roar passed her lips before she bathed the pyre in flames, making quick work of turning this already charred corpse to ash. 

The stiffness of Rhaenyras face quickly fell as she saw the pyre disappear into the flames. Taking steps towards it, reaching to grasp the ashes flowing about before being smited by the drops of rain pushing them to the ground.

A hand wrapped gently around her arm, pulling her back. 

She shook her head as she saw the flames clear, revealing nothing left but a broken and charred pyre. 

There was nothing, nothing left, all was gone, she was gone. 

Her body began to shake with sobs as she began to curl into herself, her mouth hung open as silent cries fell from her wet lips. 

Daemon wrapped his arms tightly around her, keeping her upright, keeping her strong, trying to be the pillar she could lean on when her knees gave way. But nothing could stop the wails that poured from her lips as she cried out her daughter's name, clutching at her rounding belly, that had begun to feel so terribly hollow.

A green little dragon looked curiously about the field as it watched from afar, croaking as a familiar scent reached its snout.

Many had returned back inside, away from the rain as the downpour grew heavy.

 

Rhaenyra sat beside the hall's hearth, staring blankly into its flames, her face still red with grief and her fingers bruising each other as they tugged at her rings. 

Daemon had left to wallow in his failures, finding no strength to stand by Rhaenyra after his terrible shortcoming.

Her sons had long departed her side, instead embraced in the arms of their grandmother, who had taken to comforting both them and their cousins.

Baela and Rhaena were beside themselves, exhausted by all this loss, only months ago they lost their mother and uncle, and now whatever hope they had for their cousin not meeting the same fate was so quickly smited.

In hushed whisper some have into their curiosity and began to speculate what terrible fate the young princess had succumbed to. Some said she was found beaten beyond recognition, the only thing that proved it was her were the shine of purple within her clouded eyes.

Some said she was found discarded in an abandoned house, her face untouched but her body defiled, and her eyes plucked out.

Some were daring and said she was burnt alive, spurned in her attempts to claim a dragon, Aegon would deny having entertained such speculation.

Lance kicked his feet against the ground as he stood beside his father and brother. Still a nagging shame gnawed at him every time he heard a sob fall from one of the Velaryon childrens lips. 

His younger brother, Alan, eyed him worriedly from the corner of his eye. He held himself tall besides his much taller elder brother. So that his elder brother would not be mistaken for being the heir to honeyholt.

He bowed his head towards his father “Might I fetch you some wine father?”

Lyman’s eyes fluttered before his face softened “that would be appreciated my boy.”

He gave him a tight lipped smile before grasping his brother's arm and pulling him along to the wine table.

Lance was surprised by the action, trying to pull his arm back from his brother. He may have had height but his younger brother had great strength. 

Alan let go once they stood before the assortment of wines, opting for honeyed wine, a favourite of his fathers.

“I know the occasion is solemn, but never would I have expected you to be in such low spirits brother,” Alan remarked as he poured three cups, offering one to his brother before taking one for himself “It has been a terribly red and wet spring this year.”

“A child has died Alan, tis not something to be pleased with,” Lance chided.

Alan raised his hands in the air “am I jumping and hollering?” He sardonically asked his brother “I am empathetic, I understand the weight of such a loss, but you, you’re acting as if you knew the princess.”

Lance squirmed, looking down at his cup as he recalled that night, feeling sick as he recalled the sound of her leg crumbling beneath his foot.

“I was one of the many that were appointed the duty of finding her,” he quickly excused, twas no lie “I am only dismayed that we had not found her sooner.”

Alan pursed his lips at his brother, resting a hand on his shoulder “You’ve been appointed an impossible task brother, for in no way does a girl survive a world like this alone,” he explained, trying to meet his brothers avoidant gaze “as bad as this may sound, I am thankful for your failure in your search, gods know I am not ready to mourn you and father yet brother.”

Lance felt a cold roll through him as he recalled hearing what had become of Mychael, felled by the hands of the Rogue and cruel Prince. Face caved in by his own helm. Lance swore he could still smell the coppery blood that had seeped and dried into the floor's surface.

“Why father and I?” he frowned as he asked, trying to forget the terrible fate of his superior.

Alan did well to hide his chuckle “Gods know his old heart would not be able to take it.”

A weak smile cracked the sombre expression on Lance's face, bowing his head as he shook it. 

Alan smiled at his brother, happy to see him smiling. He then hesitantly offered “I will be returning to Honeyholt after this, I had hoped you would join me, there is a place for you at my side, as my guard if you so wish to keep your sword and armour.”

Lance pondered his brother's offer, before recalling a task he had yet to fulfil “as thankful I am for the kind offer, I’ve still much to do here.”

Alan frowned, dismayed by his brother's answer “what else do you have to do?”

“Tis a difficult task to explain,” Lance said.

Alan breathed out a heavy breath through his nose, worry etched upon his brow as he whispered “tis not safe for you here, the dragons thirst for a toy to play with, and knights seem to be their favourite.”

Lance frowned, he would not deny the inkling of fear that had existed within him, but it was not enough for him to forget his mission. One appointed to him by the very man, who he owed his life to. He took his fathers cup and left his brother to continue his protests behind him.

Alicent moved through the ground, the desire to leave this suffocating room growing so great. She felt the room's judging eyes bore into her as she lifted her seventh cup of wine to her lips. Her composure fraying at its seems as she shrunk beneath their stares. 

Do they know? She would ask herself, do they know of my prayers, do they know of the vengeance I had pleaded from the father?

A sudden breeze came from beside her and she froze, feeling the discomforting presence of a looming Larys. 

“Such tragedy…” he spoke, a note of pity in his often unnerving indifferent voice “such potential… wasted,” he went on, pursing his lips as he reminisced “she was a favourite of my late brother’s.”

Alicent tensed shuddering as she felt her hands go cold, downing another gulp of her wine to feel some warmth.

“I can only imagine what must have happened…” He nonchalantly trailed off playing with the handle of his staff.

Her eyes snapped to look towards him, a shuddered breath leaving her parted lips as she recalled their ominous exchange on the ship returning from Driftmark “you didn’t…”

He frowned, as though offended. “I would do no such thing my queen, your wishes have not lowered themselves to such depravity.”

Depravity, that word had nauseated her.

He watched her face pale, tilting his head credulously as he asked, curiously “have they?”

Her head began to vigorously shake in denial, before quickly making her way back to the kings chair “I shall retire to my chambers for the evening, my king.”

He frowned as he looked up at her, disappointed that she had yet to approach Rhaenyra to express her condolence, he waved her off.

She was quick to leave that room, tears flooding her eyes as she felt Larys’s slimy gaze follow her out of the room.

She felt disgusted.

She ignored the worried look from Ser Criston as he tried to keep up with her as she rushed to her rooms.

Entering she saw her ladies in waiting and roared for all of them to get out, tears already beginning to streak down her face.

She slammed the door behind them and fell against it. Sinking to the ground as she began to sob and cry. She was not depraved, she was a woman of faith, she would wish no such harm to befall a child.

Her palms began to bleed as they gripped the star on her chest tightly, the point of the father, the mother, the maiden and the stranger all piercing her palm. A punishment she would happily take if it would allow her to atone.

Taglist: @takemetotheweirdness @grungegrrrl @paininmyasgard @deadunicorn159

[dragons-and-handcuffs]

Rules and Guidelines

First thing first, everyone please be respectful and kind. Opinions and criticisms are welcome as long as they are respectful and polite. If I find anything in my inbox that is disrespectful or even borderline hateful, I won't respond to them.

Almost all kinds of requests are welcome but I may not write all of them. What I write depends on my mood tbh. Different AUs are also welcome.

If I don't like a request I won't write it.

I write for almost all characters.

Don't send requests with weird kinks and scenarios. I am not going to write anything like the reader being a s*x toy to a character.

I don't write full on smut. I am not good at it.

Keep the requests simple and as detailed as possible to give me a better idea about what you want.

You can send requests for both HOTD/GOT characters and my OCs

Sometimes I will update 2-3 times a day and sometimes I won't update at all for a week or month. This is just a time pass/hobby for me, not a full-time job.

There will be some n*n c*n, in**st, angst, anything 18+ etc etc here. You have been warned beforehand. If you don't like it then feel free to block me.

Plagiarism of any kind will not be tolerated. Writers put a lot of their time and creativity into writing content for free, and it really sucks to see someone else stealing the hard work.

Both team green and team black supporters are welcome here.

Keep in mind that Game of Thrones and House of the Dragon is a fictional work. Just enjoy it and not let it impact your real life

My OCs

My OCs can be used/written in different eras and different AUs.

Viseriya Targaryen: Originally created her as Maegor the Cruel's niece. Her mother is Rhaella (OC, Maegor's sister in that era). Could use her as Rhaenyra's daughter (HOTD), or Daenerys's sister, etc. She has a thirst for power and won't hesitate to sacrifice anyone who doesn't matter to her, but will fiercely protect any she truly cares for and loves.

Rhaella Targaryen: Maegor's sister in that era. Viserys's sister in HOTD. She is power-hungry. Known as one of the most beautiful Targaryen. Wants her daughter to be queen. Taught Viserya (her daughter, OC) how to control and manipulate both men and women. Definitely not winning the mother of the year award. If she was in Otto's place she would have sent her daughter to Viserys' room. In HOTD she and Otto have an affair going on.

Aerion Targaryen: In Maegor's era he is Maegor's brother. Cruel and mad. Completely loyal to Maegor. Could be Rhaella's husband and Viseriya's father in some AUs. And Viserys's and Daemon's brother, the middle child. He may be cruel but he is winning the father of the year award. In one AU he and Alicent are having an affair, Aemond might be his son.

Maegor ii Targaryen: Maegor the cruel's son and heir. Just like his father. Has a weird obsession with Targ women, especially Rhaella and Viseriya (OCs). A complete red flag and a negative character.

Aerys Targaryen: Alicent's firstborn son and the one who usurpers Rhaenyra. Hates Viserys with all his heart. Could be Aerion and Alicent's affair child on a different AU. A Targ traditionalist and believes the throne belongs to him.

Daenara Targaryen: Alicent's eldest daughter. Married to Aerys (OC). Shares the same sentiment and views as Aerys. Some believe there is something going on between her and Ser Criston Cole. She is a warrior and would rather be on her dragon and fighting her enemy and sit in the castle and wait.

Rhaeon Targaryen: Daemon's eldest child and firstborn son. Just like his father. Hates the Hightowers and the Greens, especially Aerys. He is not afraid of taking risks and is a crazy mastermind. Has a lot of battle scars. He was present at the scene when Aemond lost his eye.

Lyra Stark: Originally created her as Ned Stark's eldest daughter. Tywin marries her against her will to get control of the North. Depending on the AU she could be a submissive who later falls in love with Tywin or a manipulator who uses Tywin to get the north. For HOTD she could be Cregan Stark's sister. For the conqueror's era she could be Aegon's third wife. For Maegor's era she and Aerion fell in love and she eloped with him the night before her wedding to another man.

Jocelyn Lannister: Originally she was created as Tywin's daughter. She is known to be extremely beautiful, cunning, and seductive. She inherited Tywin's brain and his hunger for power. On the outside, she seems kind and loving but she is actually worse than Cersei if need be.  

[fyrewcters]

a series of desirable events - alicent hightower x targaryen!male!oc

summary: Aegon Targaryen, second of his name, heir to the iron throne, eldest child of king viserys targaryen and late-queen aemma arryn, twin of princess daenerys and elder brother to rhaenyra targaryen, is offered comfort from the daughter of the kings hand.

pairings: alicent hightower x male!targaryen!oc

warnings: none, except for the unfortunate errors in my writing. I do not allow anyone to repost or translate my work onto any other platforms.

———————————————————————

Ample copper-colored curls bounced as the Lady Alicent Hightower approached her Lord fathers chambers upon his call. She entered to find him faced towards a piece of quill and parchment placed upon his desk. At the sound of the approaching footsteps he turned towards his daughter.

“My lady,” the Maester who had busied himself with the Hand’s letter excused himself.

He greeted his daughter with a hug after having noticed her trembling lips. “My darling.”

“How is Rhaenyra?” He asked as he pulled away to look upon her young face.

“She lost her mother,” she merely reminded.

“The Queen was well-loved by all,” he nodded. “I found myself thinking of your own mother today.”

“How is his grace? And the twins?” She asked after showing some hesitation.

“Very low, all of them. Which is why I sent for you,” he admitted his true motives as he sat upon a placed cushion behind his bureau.

“I thought you might go to him, the Prince, that is, offer him comfort.” He commanded more than he suggested.

“In his chamber?” She asked in a small voice at the prospect of visiting the prince. He was a man grown and there had been talk amongst the court of his visits to the Street of Silk. She began chewing upon her bloodied and ruined cuticles once the idea of a visit to him began to sink in. “I wouldn’t know what to say.”

“Stop that,” he demanded. She dropped her arms at her sides at his command. “He’ll be glad of a visitor.”

“You might wear one of your mothers dresses,” He once again demanded as he busied himself with a fresh new sheet of parchment.

Alicent merely nodded and walked out her fathers chambers.

———————————————————————

Prince Aegon was in the midst of taking another swing of the goblet containing only the richest of wines, as his uncle Daemon had described it when he had gifted it to him, when a member of the Kingsguard knocked upon his chamber door and made himself known.

“What is it?” He asked with a hint of a slur, slightly twisted but not fully drunk to the point of a headache upon the morrow.

“The Lady Alicent Hightower, my Prince.” He announced as Alicent walked in with a book in her grasp. The kingsguard closed the door behind him as he left the two alone.

“What is it, Alicent?” Aegon asked as he sat lazily upon a cushioned chair facing the open balcony.

“I brought a book,” she managed to get out. She inwardly scolded herself at the shy and nervous nature she was displaying towards the Prince, a man she had known since a young age considering he was only a few years older than her.

“Yes, I can see that,” he amused himself as he nodded his head towards the large book held within her grasp. He twisted his fingers around the rim of the goblet humming to himself.

Alicent had recognized the tune, it had been a lullaby often sung by the Queen to her children as a piece of comfort, and sometimes it was even sung to her. Alicent’s throat closed up and saddened tears brimmed at her eyes at the memory of the woman who had often treated her as her own daughter.

“Yes, I thought I might come to look in on you, my Prince.” She explained with a gulp, hoping he hadn’t noticed her nervousness.

“That’s very kind of you,” he mumbled to a point where she could hardly hear him, whilst twisting around a ring made out of pure valyrian steel. It was known that the Princess Daenerys had an exact replica of the ring amongst her own fingers, a gift for the twins from their uncle upon his return from Volantis a few years ago. “Have you seen my sister?”

She was confused at the sudden mention of his sister and assumed he had meant Rhaenyra due to her close relationship with the younger Princess. “No, I’ve not been to see the princess since nightfall.”

“I meant Daenerys. She keeps to herself most days, keeping herself from even me and Rhaenyra.” He explained with a small hint of frustration and hurt at his twin who had avoided everyone, including him.

“No, my Prince, I’m afraid I’ve not seen her.” She admitted with partial guilt.

She had often witnessed the close bond the Targaryen twins held. They were always together, one never straying far behind the other. Daenerys had hardly been seen by anyone since the death of her mother, hardly leaving her chambers and she knew this hurt Aegon, that his sister, his twin, his closest confidant, hadn’t sought him out during their joint feelings of grief and despair.

She had even overheard talk from kitchen maids and ladies-in-waiting of the Princess’s refusal to eat and inability to sleep as of late and how she had changed significantly in appearance. She was said to quite literally look like a thin and sickly pale ghost, like a walking corpse.

“Shame,” he sighed. He kept his eyes trained on the carpeted floors while an awkward silence over took them.

“I am so sorry, my Prince,” Alicent suddenly breathed out as she looked at with nothing but grief and remorse. He looked at her hesitantly whilst licking his dried lips and shaking his head in confusion.

“What is there for you to be sorry for, Alicent?” He asked in a broken whisper as his shaking hands shook his pale silver-like hair out of his violet colored eyes. She sympathized with how much sadness was held within his seemingly aged eyes, aged through his loss and sadness.

“When my mother died, all I ever wanted was for someone to tell me that they were sorry for what happened to me. So, I am very sorry.” She dishearteningly explained as she graced him a small downcasted smile.

“Thank you, Alicent.” He thanked her sincerely. “And I am also very sorry for what happened to you. I now understand the pain from the loss of a mother and am sorry for your loss.”

With a burst of confidence, she sat on the cushioned bench beside him and grabbed his hand. She smiled at him and received a small appreciative smile in return as they remained sat in silence for what felt like hours.

[duckyhowls]

Daenerys Targaryen x Fem!Baratheon(Lannister) OC - 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘦𝘯 (P2)

DuckPanda Original - PART 1 Daenerys Targaryen x Lannister!OC (Mercia Baratheon)

SUMMARY: The young queen, Mercia Baratheon, is the last living heir to King Robert after all three of her siblings die horrible deaths. As the Seven Kingdoms are on the brink of collapse, Mercia does all she can to hold it all together - though struggles arrive when the Long Night draws near, and The Dragon Queen comes for her throne. But perhaps there is a compromise they can arrange?

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Mercia stroked the soft neck of her loyal lioness, Potami, who sat committedly at her legs as the Queen rested upon the Iron Throne. 

Once again, the young queen was holding court with at least a hundred guards rowed on either side of the room, something that Mercia did just to ease her mother's paranoia. For all of Mercia's siblings had been killed, two out of three were assassinated – so she didn't blame her mother for becoming desperate to have a ridiculous number of guards positioned to protect her last remaining child.

Near Mercia's lioness stood The Mountain, only two paces left of the throne with Maester Qyburn. On Mercia's right was her uncle and her mother, staring down stoically at all of the lords that Mercia had summoned to Kings Landing to speak with.

"If the last Targaryen takes the Iron Throne, she'll destroy the realm as we know it," Mercia spoke, not taking her eyes away from her lioness whose piercing, blue gaze scanned the lords below. "Some of you are bannermen of House Tyrell, but House Tyrell is in open rebellion against the crown. With their help, the Dragon Queen has ferried an army of Dothraki to our shores. Unsullied soldiers who will destroy your castles and your holdfasts for their queen without a second thought. Her armies will burn your villages to the ground, rape and enslave your women and butcher your children."

Mercia lifted her green gaze to the many lords standing before her, all of them listening intently, hanging on to every single word that came out of her lips. "This is how Olenna Tyrell rewards centuries of service and loyalty?"

Her mother then spoke up, stone-faced. "You all remember the Mad King," she called out. "Do you remember the horrors he inflicted upon his people? His daughter is nothing less."

Mercia glanced at her mother for a moment. She hated it whenever her mother sounded so sure. Mercia, despite being the Dragon Queen's enemy, knew from the accounts of spies that Daenerys was nothing like the Mad King. From all that Mercia has witnessed through reports, Daenerys Targaryen was an anti-slavery monarch whose only goals are to free the people of the world and take back her ancestral throne. That, in itself, was different, but not mad in the slightest. Nonetheless, they had to convince the lords to join their forces with the crown. For the sake of Mercia and her family’s lives at least.

"In Essos, her brutality is already legendary." The words tasted bitter in Mercia's mouth, as she forced herself to twist these stories to make the Targaryen Queen sound like a mad tyrant. "She has crucified hundreds of noblemen in Slaver's Bay. When she grew bored of that, she fed everyone that opposed her to her dragons. It is my sworn duty before the faith to protect the people, and I will, but I need your help, my Lords."

"We must stand together," Cersei interjected once again, sounding confident and determined to convince these men to side with them. "All of us. If we hope to stop her."

The lords whispered amongst themselves for a moment before Lord Tarly stepped forward, stoic and tall as he addressed the young queen. "Your Grace, forgive me but she has three full-grown dragons. The same as Aegon when he conquered the Seven Kingdoms. How do you propose to stop them? With your lions?" Some men in the room laughed.

Mercia's hand that was stroking Potami's fur went still, and her eyes met the old Lord's. Then, she turned her head to Maester Qyburn and nodded to him.

The thin, frail man looked over at the lord, blank-faced as usual. "We are currently at work on a solution, my Lord."

Mercia stood then, clasping her hands together and giving the lords a small smile. "Please, discuss this together. Take your time, we have all day. For now, I must insist that I get off this damned, uncomfortable chair. I will call for the court again in a few hours."

Turning to her lion, she lightly tapped her hand on her thigh once. "Come, Potami."

The lords all watched the young Queen leave the throne room with the huge tawny lioness loyally trotting at her heels.

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"I am Eddard Stark," said the man that had been forced to kneel before the enraged common people of Kings Landing. "Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King." 

The man glanced towards his right, where, nearby, his eldest daughter, the Lady Sansa Stark, nodded to him in encouragement. On her left was the newly titled queen regent, Cersei Lannister, her golden hair long and ever so beautiful. She was smiling proudly at her eldest son, the newly crowned King of Westeros, Joffrey Baratheon, who stood near Eddard Stark, smirking satisfyingly at the discord before him.

Mercia watched with a frown from Sansa Stark's right as the man, her late father’s closest friend, who had been in the dungeons for days, was now being publicly humiliated. Mercia had never felt this ashamed of her brother as she did now, watching Joffrey seem so pleased at this poor man's suffering. Despite being a traitor to the crown, Mercia only had heard such kind things about Eddard Stark, that he was the most honourable and one of the most prominent lords in the country. And with every spoken word they have exchanged, even if there wasn’t much to be said, he always treated her with kindness and the upmost respect. This lord did not deserve this shame.

Looking away, down to the ground now, Eddard Stark continued. "I come before you to confess my treason in the sight of the Gods and men. I betrayed the faith of my king and the trust of my friend Robert. I swore to protect and defend his children, but before his blood was cold, I plotted to murder his son... and seize the throne for myself."

What? Mercia whipped her head to look at her mother, Cersei, who turned to look at her with a small smile, though the young girl could see the harsh warning behind the older one's green gaze. ‘Do not say a word’.  

Meanwhile, the crowd had erupted in an outroar, one peasant in the sea of people even throwing a small stone at Lord Stark's head, causing the man to gasp in pain as blood seeped through the wound and drip from his brow. Beside Mercia, Sansa gasped and grasped the princess’ hand. Mercia turned her head away from the sight, squeezing Sansa’s hand back.

"L-let the High Septon and Baelor the Blessed bear witness to what I say: Joffrey Baratheon is the one true heir to the Iron Throne, by the grace of all the Gods, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm." Through every word, Eddard Stark's face contorted, as if he were in pain of speaking falsehoods. Mercia knew of the letter and will her father had left behind, asking his friend to rule until Joffrey came of age.

The crowd murmured amongst themselves angrily, but Maester Pycelle stepped forward. "As in sin, this man has confessed to his crimes in sight of Gods and men. The Gods are just, but beloved Baelor taught us they can also be merciful." Maester Pycelle then turned to Joffrey and bowed his head. "What is to be done with this traitor, Your Grace?" he asked, spitting the words as if the man accused was some worthless demon.

The crowd jeered and called out angrily, but Joffrey raised his hand with a pleased smile, as if all this chaos excited him. Mercia knew that it did. 

The crowd went silent, and Joffrey spoke, "My mother wishes me to let Lord Eddard join the Night's Watch. Stripped of all titles and powers, he would serve the realm in permanent exile," he continued, looking to his betrothed, the Lady Sansa. "And my Lady Sansa has begged mercy for her father."

The Lady Sansa smiled softly at the King and Mercia frowned. She knew her brother better than to be someone of mercy. 

She was right when he announced his next words, and Eddard Stark's head was put to the sword and placed on a spike on the city walls for months.

Mercia never forgot the Lady Sansa's screams that dreadful day.

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Part 3 Coming Soon!

[goodeapple]

i had all and then most of you / some and now none of you

VI

"It's been 84 years..."

What can I say? Sometimes a girl just needs a 6 month hiatus, more than one breakdown, and an entire chapter rewrite to come back SWINGING.

I really hope you bitches like this. I feel like I just birthed a child.

pairing : Aemond x Ysilla (Rhaenyra'sDaughter!OC)

warnings : oh yeah, they fuckin'

word count : 12,000+

masterlist

tags : @erensfreedom221 @aiyaiy @gknj9495 @saintaliasblog

Ysilla hisses, feline-like and ferocious, as her auburn haired companion pulls the laces around her waist impossibly tighter. Her air is thin and her head spins in circles, and she misses the apologetic wince her handmaiden gifts her. 

“I’m sorry, milady, we’re nearly done.” Veda’s voice is pained, as if she’s the one being squeezed together until her guts pour from her mouth.  

Ysilla bites her tongue, exhaling the little breath she has, before unscrewing her eyes. The corners of her vision twinkle in pinpricks of black, before fading away to reveal the faded stone of her walls. She pats Veda’s hand delicately, trying to calm her maid’s worry.

“It’s alright, no need for apologies. Let’s just…” Ysilla pauses, attempting to speak without breathing. It’s more trying than one would think. “Finish with this, and get on with this blasted day.”

Veda lifts the corner of her mouth in an attempt at an agreeing grin, but the apprehensive tremble of her fingers betrays her unease. The Princess has had to be handled sensitively as of the last few weeks. Ever since returning from her ancestral home, with the newest heir to the crown held tight in her arms, the maids that doted on the young beauty for years noticed a drastic change. Motherhood alters each woman who undertakes it, but Ysilla seemed to carry a heavier load than most. Veda had to blot away countless tears on numerous nights, and she had long ago lost track of the hours spent holding the Princess’s hand, lending a listening ear to her lady’s worries while they both strived to calm an ever fussy Daenerys. The dark circles under Ysilla’s eyes matched the violet of her irises. A powdered paint the tone of her skin had to be tapped into the hollowness, lest she were to arouse worry within her close circle. And by strict order of their mistress, whispers of Ysilla’s struggles would never be heard by any other Targaryen, with special emphasis placed on a certain one-eyed devil. The women fought the burning urge to argue, only wishing for what was best for their lady, but worries of causing further cracks in the young heiress had their lips sealed like a tomb.

With a final yank and a hasty knot, Veda smooths down the cream colored shift layered over the rigid corset and steps away from the Princess. 

“Thank the Gods,” Ysilla japes. She’s grateful that Veda is helping her dress behind the partition- the day ahead of her will be endlessly vexatious, filled with visiting families paying well-wishes, spirited vendors hawking their goods, and enough horses to turn the air rank with hay and manure. This hush in her day, no matter how physically disagreeable, is a moment Ysilla will savor like a poached pear. 

She taps her nails along the stiff component constricting her, restless jitters dashing through her before huffing in defeat, teetering around to face her friend. 

Veda’s eyes go a bit wide, a bashful grin showing her endearingly crooked teeth brightening her face. She twiddles her fingers, her girlish giggle a welcome, light sound. 

Ysilla follows where her handmaiden’s gaze had been glued, and sighs a dismal breath. Her body is still something she is trying to reacquaint herself with- finding a friend in the jagged lines where her daughter had stretched her belly, in the fleshiness of her thighs that had thickened with the added weight, and something she hadn’t quite lost yet, the fullness of her chest that threatened to burst out of every gown’s neckline. 

And this morning, her breasts want to come out and say hello to the world. Ysilla whines, hands settling on hips and her lip caught between chewing teeth. Ysilla chances a glance at Veda, hoping for some help but the handmaid is occupied, a pair of boots in either hand, before one loses the war and gets tossed back into her trunk. Veda kneels at the Targaryen girl’s feet, clasping one ankle and maneuvering her foot into the leather. 

“One thing is for sure, no one will be looking at your feet, Princess.” 

Ysilla lets her anxiousness dissipate with a weak laugh. Her door opens after a knock, Ysilla unable to even voice her acknowledgement before the newcomer makes their entrance. Or, newcomers it seems, as the familiar sound of infantile babbling floats to her ears. Veda rises after securing the boot straps, curtsying low to the floor in greeting, and that tells Ysilla all she needs to know about the stranger facing her turned back. 

“Happy morning, husband. I trust you slept well to prepare for the day’s events.” Ysilla greets the Targaryen prince, palms dampening with perspiration. She hopes the soft spool of her dress is absorbent as she pats them dry. 

“I slept as well as you did, wife. With our sprog’s restlessness, I fear the pair of us will be battling yawns until the day draws to its end.” The rich sharpness of Aemond’s voice flows over her like spun silk, and Ysilla yearns for the comfort it once brought her. But a whisper shared by a kitchen maid over her morning tea stunts that joy from blossoming. 

“I hear that’s not the only thing you’ll be battling today.” The bite in her words is hungry, and she hopes it punctures somewhere deep in Aemond. 

Things between the young mother and father have been… strained, as of late. Ysilla grew jaded as the self-loathing from the night of Daenerys’ birth had dissipated, and righteous anger took root. Everyday, she struggled under the heavy weight of what her delirium nearly made her do and everyday, she poured over what should have happened instead. The maesters who had conspired to commit the unspeakable were turned to ash within hours of her daughter’s coming, but even their demises were not enough to quell uneasy thoughts. She hung all attention on every inhale and exhale, a fear she’s never known accompanying all of the cries, gasps, coughs, and sneezes Daenerys released. It kept Ysilla teetering on a tightrope of exhaustion and madness that felt thinner as the days drifted on. 

As for Aemond… Gods, she missed how her and Aemond were before. Not before their daughter’s birth, but before the night’s events had revealed the absolute worst parts of each other to the newlyweds. Her desperate attempt, his cruel words. Then after, when they were back in King’s Landing, her effort at amends and his refusal to acknowledge anything had gone awry. 

The energy that Daenerys drained from her left little to be spared for trying to fathom her husband’s distance. To then have to attempt to amend her marriage, their marriage, by herself? Feeling as if it were starting to slip into a courteously, cold union, while their beginnings rivaled the intensity of dragonfire? She felt like a shadow of herself and she hated it. 

“Mmmm, so the little birds have begun their incessant chirping early today, I see.” Aemond sounds removed from the conversation and the pinch at the back of her scalp from Veda tucking in a hair pin makes Ysilla want to scream. 

“Is it true, Aemond? Are you joining in today’s competition or not?” 

“Yes, Ysilla, I intend to do so. I apologize that I did not request your approval before I reached my decision.” The sarcasm isn’t appreciated by his wife, as her foot begins to tap. Veda doesn’t quite shoot him a warning look, as that would be highly improper, but it is just shy of a glare. 

“Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Aemond isn’t sure if his wife is attempting to be funny, but he laughs either way. Better to laugh than to continue to bicker. They aren’t at their wit's ends with each other; it leans more towards easy irritation- but it is bearable. Like sticky fingers after indulging in lemon cakes. Or the tightness of sunbathed skin after a day of dragon riding. 

“Stop squirming, Daenerys, I just laced these terrible things.” Their daughter shrieks at her father’s chiding, unhappy at being commanded and Ysilla cocks her head in puzzlement. Only one of her girl’s formal pieces has laces, and it is, of course, the one made by Aemond’s mother. The exact opposite piece Ysilla had chosen for her daughter while she was being bathed this morning. 

“That is why I laid out the red one for her, Aemond. She doesn’t care for the green.” Ysilla huffs, annoyance bleeding into her tone. She flinches hearing it, hoping Aemond doesn’t recognize it and take it as his cue to leave her be. She wants him here, even if she is slighted by his very stupid decision. She wants all three of them together, marital and parental bliss, a thought she’s dreamed of since her pregnancy began. 

“She’s a baby, Ysilla, she doesn’t know the difference.” Ysilla can’t see his face but she can hear the eye roll in his voice and it blisters her something awful. Her brow twitches. Bliss be damned, then. 

“Is that right?” Ysilla pulls once more at the oppressive fabric around her chest, righting her gown into something just near comfortable before rounding the edge of the shade, her husband and babe at last coming into view. 

Aemond must’ve been in the midst of dressing- his tunic is absent and his hair undone and flowing freely around his face. The strings to tighten the collar of his shirt hang limp, displaying the entirety of his upper chest. His eyepatch is missing, the glittering gem tossing sparkles of light in every direction. Their little girl is seemingly miniscule in his cradling arms, thick muscle corded under his creamy pale skin. 

Ysilla’s irritation ebbs, her belly twisting with want at the vision her dashing husband makes. One thing has been unchanged throughout these last few moons, and that is her overwhelming desire for Aemond. If anything, her emotions have been heightened, heavier than before Daenerys. Sweltering, sizzling she is now, her fingers a dismal help to aid in her hunger.

Daenerys’ whining cry shreds whatever may be left of Ysilla’s nerves and she stalks across the room to pluck her daughter from Aemond’s arms. 

He doesn’t protest, face carefully drawn and impassive as he hands over his wiggly hatchling. In contrast, the pupil of his eye roves over his wife’s choice of attire wildly, mouth pursing in an emotion Ysilla cannot place. 

“Is that new?” 

Ysilla rocks her babe, shushing softly, trying to soothe her upset. She blinks at her husband, turning away from him and walking about the room, bouncing as she goes. “No, it was a gift from my grandmother for my last nameday. It just… the fit is just different now, that’s all.” The embarrassment that floods her is a feeling she does not wish for. As if Aemond is not just as familiar with her body as she is- but perhaps he no longer is. Nearly three moons have passed since Daenerys’ coming and their marital bed has been simply a place for them to rest their heads. Nothing more, even though Ysilla feels the press of his manhood along her back each time she wakes. 

“I could’ve had something made for you. You need only ask.” 

Ysilla does not believe he hides any other meaning behind his words, but she has already decided her mood to be sour and her discomfort eliminates any interest in harmony. 

“I can ask on my own, thank you. And just mayhaps, it would’ve been nice to be surprised.” Aemond is quiet and Ysilla thinks he may have taken that as his cue to depart, but the sudden brush of a presence at her back stills her. 

“Would you care to elaborate on that… my love.” The sentiment is a stiff attempt for affection. The undercurrent of annoyance threatens to drench the words in a feud. 

Ysilla won’t rise to the bait- years of Jace’s prickliness, Lucerys’ hijinks, and Rhaena’s mood swings throughout childhood has steeled her resolve into not wavering to any goading. The satisfaction from not giving in to Aemond’s surging ire will make this entire terrible morning worthwhile.

Ysilla pats rhythmically at Daenerys’ bottom before turning to face the man. She locks their gazes, a demure smile the first pleasant look to grace her face in what feels like too long. 

“You should dress now, before the day grows longer. Wouldn’t want to be late for the tourney, would you?” 

Always so smart, her husband, as he relents and ends their conversation there. He takes his dismissal with a mock bow, strutting out of the room and flinging the door shut after him. For a while, Ysilla stares through the wood, swaying in place as her child naps in her arms, finally settled even if her parents are anything but. 

“Milady… Ysilla… do you need some more time before we head down?” Veda’s quietness rivals that of a mouse and even so, Ysilla startles. The younger mother presses a peck to her daughter’s forehead, love never far behind her fatigue. 

“No. Let’s do this.” 

.

.

.

The seat cushioned beneath Ysilla couldn’t be more stuffed with goosefeather lest it spill from the seams, but she still wiggles every few minutes in a dreadful attempt at finding comfort. The air is muggy, all traces of a breeze having vanished in the last hour, as the sun courses its trail through the cerulean sky. The stands are filled to the brim with bodies. The common folk surrounding the royal section are a jeering, boisterous crowd; pints of ale are passed hand-to-hand, bets placed on confident knights, and dancers twisting about to the troubadours’ tunes. As the joust stretches on, the mood seems to grow ever the more celebratory. 

Ysilla is pleased to see it- her sister’s first nameday, being celebrated by the entire city and more, a joyous day for her house. Joyous for her mother and father, a few seats behind her, crowned and carefree as they enjoy their cups and the health of their last babe. Joyous for Luke and Jace, dueling the day away with the visiting Hightower boys. And most joyous for her husband, as he has been victorious the last five rounds and not once been unseated off of his saddle. 

Truth be told, after the third round, Ysilla just grew more irritable at his lack of presence beside her and almost wished one of these knights would cause him to teeter, if only a bit. Not wanting to be reminded by a vacant chair beside her, Ysilla took her seat next to her grandparents, making a fair attempt at raising her spirits. First-born daughter and granddaughter came with its perks, and Ysilla would never deny the fact that she was spoiled in both love and company. But with Daenerys’ arrival, Ysilla was dethroned in favoritism and all but abandoned to her own thoughts. 

Grandsire Corlys is so taken with little Daenerys that he barely relents and gives her up to anyone else while he is near. He had nearly bowled Ysilla over once they made their appearance, his cane unable to keep up with him as he scooped up his newest descendant. Only to her Grandmother Rhaenys does he ever hand her over without much argument, and even that comes with some fuss. 

He tickles the tiny foot that had sprung free from Daenerys’ swaddle, swaying his locs playfully away from her inquisitive hands as the young mother vents her frustrations to the couple. 

“I am at a loss, I suppose, of how to move on from this point we’ve reached. I feel we take two steps forward only to take four back when we reach an impasse.” Ysilla sighs, watching with uninterested eyes as a Riverlands fighter tumbles into the dirt, narrowly missing being trampled by his own steed. 

Ysilla can hear the whine in her voice as she complains, and she herself grows tired of her sorrows, but today is an especially rough day and Ysilla does not have it in her to sit dutifully and clap at Aemond’s wins while he is the cause of much of her aggravation. Thankfully, Rhaenys’ patience has been fortified by years of the dealings of men and she just shushes her worries with a tender hand and an attentive inflection. 

“A child will bring either great union or a great rift to any marriage. You’re adding a whole other person to your lives- it’s natural, darling.

But with how it may start, does not always spell how it will go forth.” Rhaenys smiles a sly grin, rocking Daenerys in her arms, suddenly finding her great-grandbabe’s unintelligible noises fascinating. Ysilla frowns at the long gone gray woman. Riddles were never her forte. 

“What do you mean by that, grandmother?” Ysilla questions, knee bouncing rapidly, the eager cheers of the commoners and the neighing of horses clang between her throbbing temples. The noises grate on her nerves, plucked thin already by Daenerys’ lack of sleep and her and Aemond’s squabble. The two blatantly ignore Ysilla, causing her to huff and slump down in her chair. As much as she can with the corset’s bindings cutting into her skin.

She prays to all the Gods she knows that she’ll be back in her chambers before she knows it. Her prayers fall on deaf ears.

“Princess Ysilla, my my, how my memory does you such an injustice. You’re even more beautiful than the last time we met.” Ysilla’s misfortune is abundant this day, as she aims a startled gaze at the mystery ser approaching the balcony on horseback. His curls spring over his olive eyes like a brunette garden, full pink lips spread into an agreeing grin. Ysilla stares at him as if he will evaporate like sea foam.  

The Princess is confused and it must paint her face in a question. She looks to her grandmother for assistance but finds a perked brow of similar query. Her grandsire himself, ever a man drawn to the most elite of gossip, has stalled his cooings at her daughter and aimed his full attention at the knight. 

Ysilla figures it is time to speak, as the silence grows thicker the longer it stretches on. 

“Forgive me, my Lord. I seem to have misplaced your name.” It’s a rusted response, a not at all convincing one to boot. She tries for a grin but it is warped- she can tell by how it twists at her cheeks- all too tight lips and clenched teeth.

To his credit, the stranger takes it on the chin, and his melodic laugh eases her humiliation. 

“Of course, I was only a boy when we were first introduced. Lord Dominick Tyrell of Highgarden, Your Highness. Pleased to make your re- acquaintance.” 

The night of her ball on Dragonstone comes to mind, Ysilla cycling through the endless lords she greeted and dismissed, and a somewhat lankier, more timid young lord conjures from her memories. The blood red roses he had with him then are with him now, however, this time, the lush green stems are braided into a crown and multiple flowered heads adorn the botanical ornament. 

“Lord Tyrell, my most sincere apologies. You certainly have grown since then. Welcome to my home.” Stunted and sweet, her mother’s influence resonating in every terse word. Ysilla holds her sight on the posy he carries.

“I am charmed by your recollection, and I thank you for your hospitality. Before I take my turn on the field, I do have something to ask of you, Your Highness.” Lord Tyrell rolls his shoulders, as if reading himself to undertake a mighty feat. Ysilla’s heart drops. Oh no.  

He presents the gilded blooms, redolent and beauteous. “Your support would grant me the strength of a thousand soldiers, and allow me to spear through any rival facing me. Of this, I am most certain. Would you do me the honor of blessing me with your favor, to prove to you my worth as the ultimate lord of my house?”

Ysilla feels the heft of her family’s stares, heat creeping up her neck. She would rather jump into a dragon’s mouth than be in this position. 

“Not to be overt, my Lord, but you are aware that a Lady’s Favor, if not being bestowed upon family, is generally given by, ehm… by an unmarried Lady.” Ysilla sweeps her hand down herself in a show, attempting to drive her point through the man’s thick skull with a polite dignity. A mistake she commits as she draws his gaze to her figure, and all of his focus centers on her chest. 

Ysilla’s face darkens, an indignant frown downturning her visage. She slaps her palm over her cleavage, the smack on her skin startling the Tyrell. He blinks rapidly, flexing his hold on his stallion’s reigns, blushing deeper than that of her banner’s colors. Rhaenys hides a laugh in her husband’s shoulder.

“As well, I am unaware of who your opponent is. As next in line to be Queen, I must express benevolence to all of Westeros and be fair to my future subjects.” Lord Dominick’s face is crestfallen, even if he tries to hide it beneath his curls. He nods, murmuring an apology at his misstep. Her scowl is heavy on her face, but seeing him wilt like a parched flower has a sharp pinch in her heart dispelling her anger. Ysilla grasps at her fleeting animosity, but it is as if she’s trying to bottle the wind. 

“Who will be your match, my Lord? Mayhaps I will… indulge your whims if I am able to meet your challenger.” Ysilla grumbles, eyes narrowing as Dominick bursts back to life, smiling a grand grin. She has to learn how to be meaner.  

.

Aemond doesn’t give a shit about tourneys. 

They’re pointless occupations of time, flamboyant affairs to give those who attend them an excuse to drink to excess and gorge themselves until the point of spewing. Even worse, the dueling is a farce. Quarreling for show, competing for the accolades of people who Aemond doesn’t give two shits about. But in a time of peace, with no wars and no conflicts to satisfy the violent tendencies of men, today is a day of anticipation for most. Aemond pities the fools who look ready to collapse in excitement. It doesn’t stop him from entering into the contest though. 

He has been bristling with unnerved energy for weeks, snapping at squires and shouldering stableboys out of his path with no remorse. If he doesn’t fight, fuck, or feast sometime soon, he’ll drive himself mad with his own battling brain. Mud splattered, sweating like a hog, and muscles tuckered and spent, Aemond unlatches his helmet, satisfied with his wins. He tosses it to one of his bannermen, accepting the congratulatory cheers from his company with a not-quite-there smile. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he finds a curious image. A knight, capturing the attention of the royal sector of the stands, a curvaceous figure rising among the seated to entertain him. A woman, with flowing black hair, pops of color littered sparsely throughout the strands. 

Aemond yanks on the reins, the powerful beast beneath him so easy to control in contrast to Vhagar. He ignores the questions from his men as he trots towards his family, the refined features of his wife’s face becoming clearer as he approaches. 

Ysilla’s attention hones in on him, a flickering alarm being masked after it colors her eyes a shade darker. The trespasser turns around once his companion’s attention seems to shift.  

“Prince Aemond, congratulations on your victories today. I can only hope to do as well as you.” The younger man bows his head, showing respect that he obviously does not mean. If the crown in the hand that he angles away from Aemond is telling enough, it seems that this man was asking for a Lady’s Favor. And the budding amusement in Rhaenys’ expression shares that it certainly wasn't she who was asked. 

The Lord is but a boy in a too big coat, breastplate a tad ill fitting and gaping around his chest. Aemond will aim there and pray his lance severs the skin and that he’ll choke on his own blood as he lay dying. 

“No need for hoping, little lord. The journey from Highgarden must've been long. And to come all this way for the second Princess of Queen Rhaenyra?” Aemond’s eye cuts to Ysilla, who hangs on every word he utters. The fatigue flees his body, the thrill of a fray bubbling in his blood. “Who better to receive you, than I?” 

The swallow the Tyrell takes is audible, and Aemond flexes his grip on the reins. 

“But you have… have you not retired for the day?” The Rose's voice is three octaves higher than before and Aemond grins, urging his steed forward, pushing the boy further into the wall. Aemond’s towering stature blots him out of the sun, and even though she is not with him, he can feel Vhagar’s anticipation in his veins. Predator cornering prey.

“What kind of host would I be to not indulge my guests, and if you want to best the best, here I sit.” Aemond wishes to continue advancing, to squash him like the insect he is, but he retreats after a moment, letting the threat swimming in his words engulf the lord in fear.

The Rose peers back with wide eyes, lips bloodless and thin and Aemond can see the turmoil churning behind his stare. Aemond giddily hopes the boy will simply faint off his horse, and give the observing crowd a good laugh. A cap ‘n’ bells would pair nicely with his curly mane. 

Ysilla catches the crown tossed at her on instinct, eyes widening as she realizes that Dominick Tyrell has sealed his fate. He gives her a final embellished bow before riding to his corner, his men hastily rushing to prepare him. Ysilla worries a stem between her fingers, thumb catching on a thorn, the pain cutting clear through her headache. 

Aemond’s horse whinnies, stomping at the ground as if in anticipation for what’s to come. Ysilla looks to find her husband awaiting her attention, an intensity in his stare that makes her gulp. She wonders idly if House Tyrell has a particular funeral custom that they hold dear.    

“Enjoy the show, niece.”

.

.

.

Ysilla is panting, hands fluttering over her stomach, her waist, her chest, attempting to settle her racing heart. Her chambers are blessedly empty, Veda left behind at the tourney to assist her grandparents with Daenerys, her other maids off washing sheets or repairing the stitches on her gowns’ bust lines. 

The door bursts open behind her, and she is so absorbed in her own thoughts that the fright is lost on her.  

“What the fuck was that about, hmm?” Aemond is a furious frenzy, his gloves flying across the room, helmet clanging where it lands by the unlit hearth. Blood of not his own is splattered like paint over his face, white hair braided back for battle. His armor left a trail from the courtyard to the castle, and Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk had struggled to collect all of the metal pieces and keep pace with their fuming liege. 

“What, Aemond?” Ysilla questions, exasperation laced in her voice. Her beloved sneers, and it’s unfair that it does nothing to discount his exquisiteness. 

The men barrel down the track towards each other, as close to flying as Dominick will ever be but to Aemond, it feels slower than running. He takes advantage of the seconds as they tick by, angling himself further to the side, preparing to accept a blow that Aemond knows will come because this boy is fighting for love. No matter how childish and no matter how ill-suited, the eyes of a suitor are heavier than that of an entire city. The Dragon Prince knows the feeling well. The lances take aim, rising before impact as the men draw together.  

“Your tits, practically at your chin. No wonder he thought it appropriate to approach you.” Aemond knows the fucker wasn’t thinking at all. One look at Ysilla in that dress and Aemond had nearly swallowed his tongue and dropped his daughter. Upon finding her this morning, it took every ounce of self-control not to filet open her corset and take one of those bountiful breasts into his mouth. 

Ysilla wants to strike him. Her palm itches with the urge, ants biting across the grooves, making her dance with irritation. 

“Oh… fuck you for even saying that!” 

Ysilla tries to rush by Aemond, headed for anywhere not occupied by a one-eyed highborn whose life’s mission seems to be to drive her to madness. But his hand lashes out, shackling around her wrist and halting all attempts at an exit. 

“Do not walk away from me when I am speaking to you.”

Ysilla entertains the thought of spitting in his eye, but decides that might be a bit much. 

“You are not ‘speaking to me’, you are accusing me of seducing the Tyrell boy and for what? As if he does not look just as young as Luke, and as if I am not married to you!” She wrestles against his hold, desperate to get away from him. Aemond can tell, as he clutches even tighter to her. The bones in her wrist will surely throb tomorrow and a sick part of him hopes she bruises. Hopes that when Ysilla looks upon the purple shadows, that she’ll remember it was him who nearly cut a man in two for simply requesting her favor. 

“Is he even alive? Did you kill him over a silly tiara of roses or did you maim him just so that each time he looks in the mirror, he’ll never forget your face?” 

It’s a cowardly thing to say. A veiled callback to a childhood scuffle gone terribly wrong. Ysilla knows it but even as Aemond glares at her with the animosity of a foe rather than a spouse, she can’t bring herself to care. Because at least he is looking at her. 

“Do you even care to know?” Aemond’s grip had loosened with her previous questioning but Ysilla does not take her chance to flee. She stabs her pointer finger into his chest, the undershirt he dons translucent with exudation. “Does it even matter to you, that you may have squashed out a life over nothing more than a handmade headdress?”

Ysilla laughs, incredulous and edged, and the fury erupts in Aemond once more.

“You need to come down from that throne you’ve placed yourself on, dearest. Come down and face yourself- as if you didn’t like it. As if you didn’t enjoy it.”

Ysilla is shaking her head before he is even finished, a backwards step advanced on by quick feet. A cat chasing a mouse. 

“No-”

“Yes! You did. I saw it. Saw the way your breaths quickened, the way your gaze hung on every swing of my sword, the way you practically moaned when the herald pronounced me winner. I could practically smell your slick from there.” Her back meets the room divider, Aemond looming over her, Ysilla drowning in his shadow. She’s always smaller, swept up in his towering frame, but Gods, she never feels less than. 

“I can smell you now. You are mine, from here,” Aemond’s thumb sweeps over her heart, the spilling skin hot to the touch. “To here.” He cups her sex through her dress, pressing the heel of his palm into her. Ysilla’s breath skips in her throat. She’s aching, wetter than a river; has been since this morning, the glimpse of his naked chest enough to spark her fire. But even through the swirl of lust, her nose starts to sting with salt. 

“Then act like it!” Ysilla spits, furious at the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. She wants her rage, wants it to race through her veins and burn away this jealousy, this inadequacy that has been lingering for months. She doesn’t want the weakness that hides in the droplets. 

Aemond’s brow raises so high Ysilla thinks it may tangle in his hairline. He stills, sliding his hand from the front of her neck to the back, thumb starting soothing circles at the tense muscle he finds there. 

“Explain, Ysilla.”

His wife breaks their stare, blinking speedily, trying to dispel the pooling water. Aemond will not have it. They’re here, now, alone and he will not waste this opportunity. He sways closer, knocking his forehead at her temple, the scent of almond blossoms in her hair cloying, masking her natural perfume so heavily it makes his nose curl. He wants her as she is, has always wanted her that way. 

“Tell me, ñuha jorrāelagon. I can take it.” 

“You’ve been…” Ysilla’s voice wobbles; she’s crumbling like ancient stone. Her fury is being washed away by the clouds in her heart, flames extinguished by sorrowful rains. “So distant.” 

A dam cracks, hopeless sobs churning and tossing her words. “Why have you not spoken to me? Why do you seem so occupied with other matters? Why do I feel as if I were to try and clutch you closer, you would slip away from me like sands on a dune?” 

Each word is a lance to the heart, a dagger in his eye. He didn't intend to be cruel, maliciousness a thought never even crossing his mind. Ysilla had needed space, time, distance- he hadn’t been kind in his terror, in the moments when the horror of what so nearly transpired threatened to obliterate him. He wished to take it back, to comfort rather than chide, but words spoken cannot be unsaid, so he withdrew. Punished himself with desolation that he didn’t realize flogged two in place of one.  

But Ysilla is so different from him. He should’ve known; it is in the way they were raised. His mother loves him wholly, no secret he is the preferred child out of the three she bore. But even if he didn’t wish to, he recalls watching his eldest sister raise her brood as if it were the grandest present ever bestowed upon her. With a flourish of love that at no time seemed to run dry, and encouragements with no attached strings uttered in abundance. Ysilla was nursed on attention and comfort, where Aemond had to find a way to endure on the scraps he was tossed. 

For all his smarts, he could be a daft fucker. His brother would agree if anyone would listen to him. 

“Ysilla. Sweet girl, I am sorry. That was never my intention. You are the only one in my sight. You have been since the very moment I laid my eyes on you. You are the first thought I have upon waking, and the last name on my lips upon parting.”

Ysilla’s eyes crinkle at the corners, a coughing laugh aiding in easing the tension, her tears slowing as she blots them on the handkerchief her husband provided. Aemond hums softly, pleased with the sound. 

“Eye, don’t you mean, husband?” Ysilla doesn’t mean to poke fun, and she tenderly traces around her husband’s scar to assure him of her emotions. She wants his disguise off, can’t stand it when the patch mars his beauty. His malformation is just as much a part of him as his celestial locks, his mighty height, his ivory pallor. She wants him genuine and bare and naked- in all the ways that she loves.  

“No. I do not mean that. It’s always been you. With two eyes, with one eye… dragon, no dragon… from boyhood to now… Seven be damned, my intended place is wherever you take me.”

Ysilla knows it is not the rushing emotion that has made her lightheaded. Aemond could be a poet in another life, she is certain. The way he conveys his thoughts and feelings is enough to steal the very air from her lungs, or leave her doubled over and gasping for more.

“I…. burn for you, Ysilla.” The declaration rushes out of Aemond as if it pains him to keep it inside. Exertion plagues each word, his lungs shriveling as he vocalizes the yearning tearing him apart. 

“Do not let me go, Aemond. Please, please.” Ysilla drops her chin, sealing herself to her husband’s chest. 

Aemond chuckles wetly, fist winding through her curls and clutching her to him. He has to anchor himself down, and relish in the vigorous pluck of her heart beating along his breast. How wild that not quite an hour ago, he maimed a man who thought it wise to intrude on what is his. They would never know, the crowds the people the realm, how this one woman, this beauty with midnight hair, this dragon with amethyst eyes, this belle with a smile that the stars paled to, brought him to his knees in rapture. 

Does Ysilla not see? How holy she appears to him? Life bursting from her pores, radiating in the whites of her eyes and the gusts of her breath. He awakens still, even night after night of having her at his side, gasping and soaked in sweat, the memory of Daenerys’ birth flashing like lightning strikes in his mind. The only thing that settles him from slicing a blade across his throat in lunacy is when he catches the ever-steady lift and fall of her chest. 

Ysilla rises from her gloom, pillowy lips pecking at his chin, and then up to the corner of his mouth. The heat from her thumbs smears the once dry droplets of blood up the dips of his cheeks. Like oil on a canvas, she paints her dragon in shades of red, highlighting the sharp edges of his features, coloring him in with the splatters of his violence. 

She whines as their lips meet, shivering as their tongues brush, mapping familiar territory as if never before visited. 

Ysilla’s talons cut into his back. Aemond can feel the paper-thin fabric begin to give under her crazed clutch. He presses her further into the wooden divider, threatening to send them over as the furniture begins to teeter. Aemond dreads to part from her but he needs to ask her, needs to hear her voice command him to do exactly what she desires of him. He sucks blemishes up her jaw, lips leaving her at last to speak along her ear. 

“What beautiful, tell me what you need.”

Ysilla cries, attempting to rid him of his clothes without separating from him. 

“Need to ride you, need you as deep as I can take you.” 

They’re moving together before she finishes, mouths reconnecting so desperately their teeth clink. Ysilla’s shoulders shake in a smothered laugh, and Aemond smiles into her lips. 

Aemond sprawls on the side of the bed, Ysilla standing in between his spread knees. Even with him this low, he still only needs to raise his chin a tad to keep their lips locked. It never fails to spur Ysilla on, how absolutely tiny she feels when she smothers herself in his physique. They both go for their respective laces, Aemond making quick work of his breeches, his boots kicked off and banished under the bed. 

Ysilla tears away from him, growling as she does, lips puffy and breaths labored. Aemond goes to nibble at her neck but his wife takes a step back for good measure. Her fingers fly over the knots tying her in, concentration pinching in her brow. 

“I despise this fucking corset.” 

Aemond tsks a rebuttal, drinking in the vision she makes, stroking his weeping prick. 

“Mmmm, I might have to disagree. Motherhood becomes you, niece. The swell of your hips, the mount of your arse, the budding of your breasts.” Aemond chokes his cock, the head purpling with unquenched desire. “Truly a woman to die for.”

Even as Ysilla’s core clenches around nothing, Aemond’s sultry words nearly causing her to collapse, she keeps working at loosening her bindings. Her thighs rub together under her dress, the slide of her underclothes a tease more than a relief. 

Aemond’s impatience gets the better of him, going for the knife he keeps in the bedside drawer. Ysilla’s hand flies to his wrist, maternal reprimand present on her flushed face. 

“Don’t even think about it.” Ysilla warns, dropping a kiss to occupy him from ruining another piece of her wardrobe. With one last tearing pull, the torturous binder falls away, and Ysilla inhales so deeply she fears her ribs may crack apart. 

“Finallyyyy.” Aemond hisses, halting her relief as he drags her back to him. She’s out of her dressings before she can blink, her poor gown another victim of Aemond’s temper and her small clothes a companion to the tattered fabric pooling around her ankles. Ysilla thinks to scold him and she has half a mind to, before her thoughts go blank as her husband suckles her breast into his rapacious mouth. 

Aemond grasps her by her thighs, palms spanning the skin beneath her cheeks, rolling the flesh there with calloused hands. His mouth continues to work at unraveling her so soon, laving her nipple with his tongue before pulling at the bud with keen teeth. 

Ysilla winds her fingers through his hair, unplaiting the silver strands to free them around his face. The wisps tickle at the slope of her chest, Aemond trailing down to nip at the tender underside of her breast. She yanks him back with a gasp, squeezing at his jaw tightly to keep his gnashing teeth together. 

Aemond whimpers, the delectable sound something Ysilla wants to eat up like a sweet treat. He blushes at the vulnerability he let escape, but his pupil is blown out, betraying the longing he’s keeping inside. Even his sacred stone glows brighter, the sapphire seeming to pulse in time with the blood thickening his cock. 

“‘Sillaaaa,” Aemond whispers, trying to sway forward to bury his face in the valley between her breasts. Ysilla doesn’t allow him this divinity, controlling him with the grip under his chin. She’s winded, stroking the cut of his jaw before urging him backwards with a soft push. He listens, Gods willing, and she crawls after him, moving until he meets the pillows and reclines there in wait. 

Her knees mirror his hips, seating herself on his lap to make herself comfortable before she lines up his bobbing cock with her entrance. Ysilla takes him all down in one go, damn near creaming as his intrusion feels entirely natural but at the same time brand new. 

“Fucking hell, you feel so good. Always stretching me out until I think I’ll split in two.” Ysilla gasps, hand coming up to roll her tits in her palm. Aemond groans, the sound choking off as Ysilla’s other hand tightens around its new place at his throat. Her hips rock harder, dragging him in and out of her, a slick burn that makes her grit her teeth. Her cunt presses hard against Aemond’s pubic bone every time she careens forward and the pleasant sting she gets at the pressure pulls at her insides. 

It wouldn’t matter if he was even awake, Aemond thinks, watching through a low-lidded eye as his wife fucks herself on him. He is simply a toy, a tool for her pleasure. The thought should slight him, pinch at his pride but it just makes his cock jump harder, makes him plant his feet on the bed and spread himself further open for Ysilla to use. 

Her head rolls forward fluidly, mouth hanging open and spiraling locks askew. Her gaze is glazed, pouring heat and unflinching want over him. He looks delectable, veins straining at attention, poised and at the ready. Ysilla rolls forward faster, a breathy series of gasps escaping her, brows coming together in vulgar concentration. She needs to cum, her entire body teetering on desperation, wound up and tense for an endless amount of hours (of days, weeks, truthfully but who's counting?)

Need, need, need. Want, want, want. 

Aemond’s being so good for her, such a perfect Prince that it damn near sends Ysilla over the edge but Gods, it’s just not enough. She needs a bit more… a good push to finish her.

“You looked every bit a king out there today, my love.” Ysilla whispers, palms sliding warmly over Aemond’s pectorals, nails catching on his nipples so sharply that Aemond hisses and jerks his hips up. “You sliced through that Rose’s stem like he was nothing.”

Aemond bares his teeth, canines sharp and burnished. The grip he has on the pillow behind his head flexes. Ysilla smiles. 

“He is nothing. I made him into nothing. Thinking he could ask for your favor, that you would lower yourself to accept such a notion.” Aemond rocks up harder, Ysilla’s vision whiting out at the sharp jolt and her cunt clutching at him in commendation. 

Yessss, more, more. It’s the right direction, she’s nearly there. 

“I don’t know…” Ysilla sways back, the muscles in her thighs tightening as she reclines upon her husband as if he is the iron throne that the Seven Kingdoms bow towards. 

“He could’ve grown into quite a catch, before your handiwork. I could imagine what the ladies of the Court saw that interested them so.” Ysilla snickers meanly, dizzy with her husband’s closeness and the molten pleasure in her loins. The shadow that passes over Aemond’s face is lost to her bravado, and she’s pulled backwards before she can blink. Her scalps screams at the sting of Aemond’s fist rooted in her hair, the bones in her back creaking at the abrupt bend she’s forced in to. 

“Does that please you? That when you speak of another man while I am inside you, it makes me want to kill?” Aemond’s voice is cold but he is aflame, perspiration not even daring to slicken his brow. Ysilla can’t see him, and that stabs at her, but she feels the graze of his nose along the underside of her chin and shivers. 

“Who would’ve thought my fair niece would turn out to have such whorish tendencies.” He nips at her in punishment, the fine skin stinging in response. 

Ysilla claws at his arm, wanting to be freed. Wanting to push him back down and ride him until his eye rolls back, and her’s do too. But Aemond is unwavering and he yanks again with his fist, sending home the point to not test him further. Ysilla still wants to, but that is only because his lessons leave her so delightfully sated. 

“Is that what you are, Ysilla ? A whore for me to use?”

Ysilla gurgles under his grip, growing so wet it feels as if a wave has crested in her cunt. He pulls her further in a bend, her head nearly laid amongst the bed now. Aemond glares down at her with a deadly desire pulsing in his eye, and Ysilla spreads her thighs as wide as they go. His pupil flickers to her movement, her desperate rocking against his cock for even a spark of relief angers him. He sneers. 

“Use your words, little demon. Tell me what you are or I’ll fuck you until the sun sets and never let you break.” Aemond sees emotion pool in her eyes then, Ysilla’s lip wobbling and her chest heaving as she attempts to draw in calming breaths. He battles a smirk, fondness attempting to creep into his timbre and his hold, but he wars against it just as he had the Tyrell weasel. All in the name of his wife, would he slaughter a million men and then defile her in their sheets to make sure she knows who she belongs to. 

“I’m only for you. Forever been for you… my husband’s whore.” Ysilla chokes out, desperate tears dampening her hair as they tumble over her temples. Aemond can’t help himself and he doesn’t want to as he brushes his lips over both of her fluttering eyelids. A show of kindness before he unleashes the beast within.

“Then maybe I should treat you as such.”

Her world goes right side up as she’s flipped, Aemond’s fist unrolling once to ease the tightness of his hold but then he’s pushing her down into the bed, arm slinging around her hips and pulling her back end up against him. He guides himself back inside her, all sopping wetness with no resistance and husband and wife both inhale deeply at the joining. 

“Yes Aemonddd, harder.” Ysilla moans brokenly, face pressed firm into the sheets. 

“Any harder and I’ll fuck you through the bed.” Aemond rumbles a laugh, thumb stroking the slip of skin behind her ear. He feels better already, just mere minutes spent with his wife enough to soothe the sore from too long apart. They are one in the same- a grave mistake to not have them be joined like this each and every night. They’ve both been too high strung, too snappy and prickly. Fucking out their frustrations a habit they have neglected- Aemond will make sure it does not happen again. 

“So wanton, so desperate. What a pretty picture you make, wife.”  

Aemond is unseated and the gasp that tears from Ysilla’s dry throat is ragged. She propels herself forward in her chair and she thinks she would be up and over the ledge if her grandmother’s grip on her arm didn’t keep her in place. He’s on his feet at once, haste written in his every move. Dominick swings himself down from his perch, and the herald announces their battle. The crowd sounds their elation, and even a few of their family voice their support. Aemond draws his long sword out of its holster like a dragon unfurling it’s tail. One fluid motion and in the blink of an eye, steel meets with a metallic cling! and the two are locked in a dueling dance.  

“Unnnhh , fuck Aemond, yessss.” Ysilla is being loud, much too loud for a late afternoon summer day where people are milling about enjoying the tourney. The doors to their balcony are still propped open. She can hear the clopping of hooves against the dirt. 

Aemond snarls, thrusting faster into his pinned wife’s form. His cock slips easily in and out of her, her essence spreading between them and dripping down to the inside of her knees. She’s so open and willing for him, accepting him without a fight. Underneath him, joined as one, just as she should be. Right where she belongs. 

“Yessss, Ysilla, take it like a good bitch.” 

Ysilla wails, nails ripping into the sheets her head is burrowed into. Every thrust of Aemond pushes the air out of her lungs, makes her face burn hot and pleasure curl her toes. 

“Give me another, my love. Kostilus, ñuha dāria. Let me pump one more inside of you so I can fill you up every, single, night.” Aemond punctuates every word with a punishing thrust of his cock and Ysilla pants like a hound in heat. Her vision blurs with tears, wet gasps pulling in her throat. Her naked chest is completely flush with the linen, back arched like a bow, every nerve pulled taut as she’s curved herself to accept her husband’s onslaught. 

This is what Ysilla craves, when her duties as a mother, a wife, a successor grow too heavy. To be held down and made to take, take, take it until her mind goes foggy and the one thing that matters most is the pleasure scorching through her. 

“Ae-mond, please, fuck, I can’t take it.” 

“Liar. Yes you can. And you will. Just for me.” 

She’s too full like this, cunt stuffed but Aemond is still trying to be impossibly deeper in her. His cock has never not made her ache the morning after a midnight escapade, but she feels as if he is coming up her throat. Trying to prove the point that he will be the only man to make her feel this delirium.  

“Gods, Aemond, don't stop!” 

“‘Don’t stop’, ‘I can’t take it’. Which is it, little one?” Aemond’s voice is mocking and the demeaning chuckle he releases into her ear makes Ysilla shy away, face burning and burrowed in the bed. 

Muffled words mumbled into her elbow has Aemond slowing (but not stilling- he can’t, he’d go mad if he stopped fucking her) and sliding his palm under her jaw and around her throat. He forces Ysilla’s head up, the tips of his forefinger and thumb digging into her cheeks. 

“What was that, sweetling? I didn’t quite catch that.” Aemond can’t help himself from bringing her face up to his mouth, licking a hot stripe from neck to temple and then trailing the tip of his angular nose from her ear down her jaw. He’s missed her terribly. 

Ysilla groans, needy and petulant, but there’s a rumble hidden in the sound. A growl of contempt, a warning to not poke her when she’s still sore from their earlier fight. 

“I said, you prick,” the power in Ysilla’s voice is dampened by the domineering grip pressing to her airway. “Make me take it until I can’t, kepus.” 

She rolls her hips back against him, and Aemond laughs darkly. She is such a perfect partner for him, a truly amazing mother to their girl. He can’t wait to do this forever. 

“As you wish, pretty thing.” Aemond braces one foot on the bed, nails digging into the supple flesh of her arse. The arch of her is so good, making her open and ready to be used. He can’t help but recall that this same position was what seeded Daenerys in Ysilla’s womb. With how deep he is, it is no wonder that his spend took root. 

Ysilla’s hips stutter, her walls squeezing around her husband’s hung cock as the splitting slide of him becomes too much to take. She breaks apart, screaming obscene praises for all to hear, every nerve in her cunt singing as Aemond refuses to falter in his stride. 

He moves somehow harsher, deeper, spurred on by her undoing. The headboard knocks thunderously at the stone, the frame squeaking in protest at the pace the duo have set. Aemond grips the edge of the bed with a frantic vigor, blanketing over Ysilla, coating her in his sweat as he pummels her cunt. Ysilla’s hand shoots back, colliding with his belly, and Aemond can’t figure if she’s pleading with him to relent or spurring him on for more. 

“Jaes, Ysilla, cum for me again. Let me take it all.” Aemond mouths at her shoulder, teeth sinking deep just to give him something to anchor to. If she had the ability to form words, the most carnal of curses would pour from her, shouted or whispered, she isn’t sure. 

“Lord Dominick Tyrell has conceded! Prince Aemond has won the duel!” The herald’s bellow falls silent from the crowd’s roar, the screams sound monstrous, sadistically hungry for more. Aemond is shocked that an overwhelming part of him aims to appease them, twist his greatsword about and cleave the boy’s head into twin pieces. Hungry he is too, but his hankering for blood falls second to another. He strides in the direction of the royal seats, steady and straight towards the figure waiting there.  

Ysilla tosses the wreath once he is close enough, watching through hooded eyes as it seems to float down on the wind. Time slows in its ticking, the crowd quieting to lower than a whisper and fading from sight as she watches Aemond. He catches it, the crown careening into his fist as if it was secured there with a thread. He crunches the wreath without hesitation, the petals plummeting from their bloom only to be muddled to nothingness under his boots. They hold each other’s gazes, for how long neither of them know. Ysilla spins suddenly, stalling to say something to the Sea Snake and the Queen Who Never Was, before she disappears from his sight.  

Aemond goes for the tunnels at once, the cheers and praises unimportant and unneeded. He passes his men, their hoots and howls sidelined, shedding his armor as he heads for the castle. 

Aemond doesn’t stop thrusting, not even after Ysilla has shattered for the fourth time, not even after he himself releases inside her after what must be a lifetime. He carries on, sliding through the mess they’ve made of each other, being propelled on by the passion that never seems to cease when it comes to his beloved.

.

.

.

Otto Hightower glares at the door as if it has personally affronted him. 

The lewd hollerings of the Prince and Princess cannot be contained behind the wood, slipping underneath the door like smoke and coming up to curl around his ears. The guards mirror each other in face and stance, breathing gargoyles holding vigil at behest of their future King. 

Otto sniffs, spinning on his heel and stalking down the hall when a figure rounds the bend in front of him. 

“Cole, finally, an ear that can be lended. My daughter seems to evade me at every step, I have not spoken anything besides pleasantries with her in nearly half a year. And forget speaking to my second grandson, as he seems to be endlessly occupied with his marital duties.”  

The knight winces at the moans and groans echoing in the hallway, his spine stiffening as he realizes who resides in this corridor of the Red Keep. He was simply wasting away the day, patrolling the barren halls of the castle while most were occupied with the celebrations outside, when he strayed too far from his customary route. 

Otto starts down the hall, leading away from the perverse sounds and Criston only follows him in order to pay some privacy to the… exuberant couple enjoying their time together. The old lord casts one final abhorred glare towards the royal apartments, before addressing the quiet man beside him. 

“You and I need to talk.”

“You and I need to talk.” 

Rhaenyra’s brow came up to arch in a question, not deigning a spoken response.  

“About what exactly?” She refused to cross her arms, attitude tampered down by highborn grace.  

The hate laced in Criston’s gaze never failed to steal a bit of her breath. Once, a very long time ago, love and adoration had been there, had turned those simple brown eyes rich and stunning. To be looked at like that made a young girl’s heart soar higher than any dragon and a taste of that was hard to forget.  

“You know what.” Criston took a step into her chambers but Rhaenyra refused to budge. Not in this house, not in her house would she tolerate that fucking disrespect. She didn’t have to take any more of those contempt filled looks, the snide comments he whispered to Alicent all those years spent in King's Landing. He could eat fucking Dragonglass and enjoy it for all she cared. 

Rhaenyra set her shoulders, chin high and gaze bitter. Criston clenched his jaw, staring hard through her with a revulsion that would topple a lesser woman.  

“I don’t think you wish to have this conversation in public, my Queen.” 

Bitch. Whore. Monster. Rhaenyra hears them all, hidden behind her title.  

“What. Conversation?” Gritted teeth are hard to get words through but she does so all the same. Her patience was thin and he was keeping her from her grandchild- her granddaughter.  

Criston blinked at her, an unhappy grin that showed all of his teeth pulling at his features horridly.  

“About Ysilla… Rhaenyra.” He leaned closer. She could feel the coolness of his breastplate through her corset. She stomped down a shiver.  

“About how I just helped that girl deliver her child, and all I could think of was what my mother looked like when she was birthing my sister. That the way her face scrunched in pain nearly unseated me, because it was like a memory pulled straight from my head.” Criston breathed out harshly, tremors causing his hands to shake in their leather confines.  

“Because that is my face, on her face.”  

Rhaenyra flinched as if he’d slapped her. She almost wished he had, so she could form a plausible excuse to tell her husband, and have the knight’s head separated from his body. So she wouldn’t have to have this conversation- one she’s never counted on having.  

“I…”  

She thought to lie, to call him foolish and imaginative. To sneer and scoff and dismiss. To push past him with her granddaughter in her arms and shower her with love, and then find Ysilla and do the same. But the time had finally come, the dreaded day that’s waited for her like a hung blade, coming loose to swoop down and dice apart her well-crafted life. Her tongue was thick in her mouth, words failing to come to her aid. The young queen angled herself off to the side, and pulled the door open far enough to give the two a wide berth.  

Criston hesitated, fearful that she would attempt to slam it in his face and bust his nose wide but she kept still, fingernails gripping the grain for dear life.  

He hurried in, his bloodied cloak bundled on the sheets capturing his attention immediately. He was at the foot of the bed without thought, pulling the wrap tighter around the babe. This dastardly stone dungeon was as drafty as a cliff side: the fire in the hearth had barely started to kindle and he could feel the chill through his garb.  

The blood was tacky upon her cheeks, turning a dusky burgundy that threw off her bronzed skin. Criston wasn’t able to catch the true color of her eyes on the beach, but with her lids closed and lashes fanned out, it was easy to conjure up the image of oak brown irises. The ones he’s seen in his own reflection.  

“Tell me that I am mad. That my mind has spun an impossible thought. That it must’ve been a trick of the moon’s light. That you haven’t… that she isn’t…” Criston sounded near pleading and Rhaenyra felt ill. He stared at Daenerys like she was a snake poised to strike, but too, as if she were a cool oasis in an endless desert. A warring heart, trapped in a man of hate.   

She had to force herself to breathe.  

“Ysilla’s name is Dornish.” 

One beat of her heart, two, three.  

“I wanted her to know one piece of you. Even if it wasn't your name, even if it wasn’t your face… it felt like I owed you…” Rhaenyra swallowed past her tongue. “It felt like I owed you at least that.”   

Criston’s breath whooshed out of him like the wind out of a sail, knees buckling as he collapsed into the chair in front of the fireplace. 

“Gods above…”  

Years flashed in his mind, dates tallying themselves as he did the math. “Then you were- that means-” 

Rhaenyra’s nod drew him into silence, the weight of her agreeance crashing down upon him like thunder.  

“I was already with her at mine and Laenor’s wedding. I started to swell before Daemon and Laena were wed.”  

A bee’s buzz could’ve knocked him over. “He knew? Laenor?” 

“He did. It took some convincing on my part; Joffrey’s death still so fresh for him when my moonblood stopped coming. He didn’t want any part of you in our life but the moment he laid eyes on Ysilla… he did it for me and he did it for her . ” Rhaenyra swallowed hard, jaw tightening in an old ache, long ago sent off to Pentos. “He was a good man.” 

Criston stared at her. It dawned on Rhaenyra that this was the first time they had been alone, truly alone together, since the night of Ysilla’s conception.  

“Does she… does she know that I’m her…” Criston trailed off, brows coming together, trying to think back on his and Ysilla’s meetings. If there was any small thing he was too daft to pick up on.  

“No, she doesn’t know. There’s always been doubts, I can see it in her eyes. We’ve never discussed it. I’ve been too much of a coward to do so. So I’ve left it to her.” Rhaenyra’s candor spilled from her before she could stop it, and she winced. She advanced on wobbly legs, reaching for Daenerys, plucking at the stubborn sand caked on a drying blood patch on the cloak. The grit of it rolled under her nails, thick and pasty.  

It was odd, to voice something that had been trapped in her heart for nearly twenty years. A simultaneous sense of freedom, of lightness wholly overshadowed by the wrongness of the timing.  

Criston’s stare turned cold, an all-too familiar look Rhaenyra knew, and she braced for the freeze.  

“I deserved to know.”  

Rhaenyra scoffed; as if it were so simple.  

“She deserved a father! This isn’t about you or me, Criston, it was about the little girl who was born into this world an heir to a heavy crown. Born into a family not seeing eye-to-eye. Born to a man that would rather spit in my direction than bow to it.”  

Criston didn’t flinch but the righteous rage dimmed in his eyes.   

“In a different world… mayhaps I would’ve gone with you. Taken you up on your offer and sailed to Essos, ran away from all of these duties and obligations. A little girl that smelled of oranges and sea salt and cinnamon clinging to our sides, and growing up with a spirit of a wanderer.” Rhaenyra tucked Daenerys tightly in her arms, bringing her close to her chest, tears that she would never let fall brushing at her lashes. Rhaena would return any moment and this conversation would stay between grandparents, granddaughter, and the four walls of this room.  

“But I didn’t. I chose a different path. One I do not regret, not even an ounce. And what I do not regret most of all, is raising Ysilla with all the love that my heart had to give her. Which was enough for both me and you. That is something I’ll never apologize for, Criston.” Rhaenyra turned swiftly, exiting through the door, and pulling it shut behind her. The sudden silence threatened to deafen the knight.  

Criston sat and thought. He sat until the morrow’s sun burst hot and bright through the window’s glass, until the seagulls squawked at their day’s catch, until every droplet of blood left behind from his daughter stood apart from his clothes like the day against the night.  

Criston slid his gloves off, gripped them so tight that the leather squeaked, before tossing them into the fire.  

“Cole, Gods, are you even listening to me?” Otto hisses. Criston blinks away the past, gaze fixing on the fuming older man. They’ve come to a halt, far enough away from the twin sers that neither man can catch note of another lecherous noise. He finds that he has to fight a sneer of irritation from furling his lip, a foreign response that doesn’t feel as unwelcome as he feared it would.

“That girl has bewitched my grandson. Aemond was once the epitome of a ruler and now he is but a lapdog, playing puppy to every wicked whim she casts upon him. The Small Council has been picked apart and replaced, all of our allies scattered to the wind. And with Alicent seemingly back under Rhaenyra’s wing, I fear that it is only you and I left to protect the realm. Ysilla will be the end of House Targaryen. I can sense it. I know it to be true.” Otto waxes on, so engrossed with the sound of his own voice that he misses entirely the dimming civility in Criston’s expression. The animosity in his posturing, the squaring of his shoulders. The knit of his mouth as he voices his rebuttal. 

“The end of House Hightower, I assume you to mean.”

Otto stops short, twitching his head to the side in the beginnings of bewilderment.

“Pardon?”

“Well, it is not only Ysilla that represents House Targaryen, but her daughter now as well. And from the sounds of things in that room,” Criston fights off a cringe, shoving away the unwelcome pictures that evoke in his mind. “Daenerys will not be the only one in line after her mother. And if not them, then Jacerys, then Lucerys, then Joffrey, then any one of Rhaenyra’s children will hold steady over the Realm. It will never be Aegon, it will never be Aemond.” Criston pauses, readying the nail in the coffin, boring his eyes into that of a man whose lust for power would never be quenched. 

“It will never be you, Otto. It will never be anyone but Ysilla and then her daughter to wear the crown, unless something is to happen. And nothing, will happen to them, as I stand here breathing.” 

Otto appears as if he might blow away in the wind, and Criston wishes it were that easy, but he is no fool. Not anymore.

“You have gone mad, Cole. Once and for all, you have at last gone mad and fed yourself to the Dragons.” The disgust in Otto’s delivery cannot mask the trembling of his tone. 

“Those words are treasonous utterings best kept silenced… my Lord. Do well to remember that before you open your mouth again, or I do fear whatever you may voice could find its way to the Queen’s ear.” Criston feels dizzy, elation and terror warring in his head as he brushes past the former Hand of the King. Everything he has known and abided by for the last eighteen years is abandoned, burned and buried with the final words of his speech still reverberating in his skull. A part of him mourns, regret attempting to find a chink in his armor. 

But even so, with the crushing weight of his own duty upon his shoulders, not just to the crown now, but to that of a girl who has gained an eternal guardian in her corner, he keeps walking. He puts one foot in front of the other, and keeps his stride. Away from his mistakes and on to nobler intentions. 

.

.

.

“We’re missing the feast.” Ysilla hums, strewn across Aemond as if she were a weighted fur. Every inch of them is pressed together, not an item of clothing in sight, skin against skin and breaths in tandem. Aemond caresses the dip of her back with lazy fingers, tickling the dewiness left behind from their coupling. 

“My hunger has been sated, ābrazȳrys. And if any cravings shall arise,” Aemond brushes his knuckles along the rise of her cheekbone. Ysilla gazes back upon him with unbridled adoration. He never would have thought a heart could threaten to burst as often as his, and continue to beat just the same. 

“I shall simply spread your thighs and eat until I am full again.” 

Ysilla smirks, gaze hooded and dark, mouth finding his for a short, albeit fevered kiss. If she didn’t love to look at him, her ear would find the rise of his chest and rest there, let the thunderous thrum lure her to sleep. But to turn away now would feel like parting too soon, so in place, Ysilla drops her chin along the tail end of his sternum and tucks her breasts along his stomach. Aemond sends his knees farther apart, fingers lacing together behind his head to keep him upright and mooning over his woman. 

“We’ll be alright, you and me. Us three.” Ysilla whispers it like a secret, her nails tracing phantom lines over the ridges of Aemond’s torso. The tone of her voice is strong and unwavering, even if it is spoken softly. But all the same, a sliver of uncertainty worms its way between the letters. Aemond is silent, letting the ambient sounds of the festivities fill the space instead of his response, and Ysilla’s heart twinges coldly before dual hands cradle her face. Ysilla aims misty eyes at her husband, tongue tucked tight behind her teeth in worry.  

“We’ll be better than alright. You and I… our daughter… we will live this life together in such a way that our love will be undeniable. We are the beginning of the next era in our house’s dynasty and there will be no uncertainty from the lineage we will spawn. And when it comes our time to rule, we will do so with the strength and sovereignty passed down from those before us, and after, our daughter will rule like no other before her. I promise this, ñuha prūmia. In this, I will never fail you.”

The lump in Ysilla’s throat is larger than that of a peach pit but yet sweeter, and the exhilaration that ripples from her full heart feels like the greeting of an old friend. 

“Aemond the Beautiful Bard.” Ysilla laments, the sentiment teeming with affection.

“Ysilla the Dragon Tamer.” Aemond declares, restless spirit slowing with serenity.  

“Daenerys the Cherished.” The parents manifest, their future endless in its prosperity and remarkable in its unity. 

.

ñuha jorrāelagon 

my love

Kostilus ñuha dāria 

Please, my Queen

kepus 

uncle

Jaes 

Gods

ābrazȳrys 

wife

ñuha prūmia 

my heart

[livingdreams97]

Daenerys Targaryen -- "The rightful heir." (part 1)

Daenerys Targaryen x Male reader/oc

Summary: Tiryon Lannister asks his queen for a favor: to help his missing nephew in a questionable way and just as his sister; Cercei proclaims the iron throne. The favor is to save his nephew and create a union between the heir of the House Baratheon and the mother of dragons.

Words: 3.835

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NOTE: If you see any spelling mistake im sorry, english is not my first lenguage and i try to do it the best possible.

POV Narrator

House Baratheon of Storm's End is a noble house of the Stormlands. With the emblem of a sable-crowned deer, on a field of gold and the motto “Ours is the Fury” .

House Baratheon gained renown when Robert Baratheon, head of House Baratheon and lord of Storm's End, led a rebellion against the Targaryen Dynasty and emerged victorious.

King Robert married Cercei Lannister, with whom he later had four children and a bastard son out of wedlock. All the king's children were completely different from him in appearance, they were blond, blue-eyed and had features identical to their mother's. All but one; the oldest.

Y/n Baratheon has always been completely different from the rest of his siblings, from his physique, to his personality and to the treatment he received from both parents. He had brown hair like all Baratheons, his eyes were green and brown.

In fact, from the day of his birth, they discovered a disease in his eyes, a disease that only made him look more identical to his Baratheon blood. The prince was born with Heterochromia, thus having the right eye of a leafy green color like the forest and the left of the color brown characteristic of his surname.

His physique at a young age was identical to that of his father, when he was his age and had a healthy physique. He had a personality very similar to his father, playful but serious when he should be, he knew how to behave when he was told, he liked to enjoy the little things and he has a heart that is too big.

King Robert saw in Y/n the perfect son, he saw himself reflected in his little fawn and from the day of his birth; It became his most precious possession. Especially after the rest of his children were born and none had a single faction similar to his.

And on his deathbed, the only one King Robert wanted to see and the only person he wanted to say goodbye to was his first son. The son who should have reigned after his father's death, but who, due to guilt and insecurity, did not accept the crown. An act that would bring consequences and great regret on the part of the young deer.

While Y/n was his father's sweetheart and his clear favorite child, his mother was the complete opposite and she never missed an opportunity to show her contempt for her first child behind closed doors.

When Y/n was born, his mother was in love with him and his eyes. Cercei spent hours and hours looking into the different but mesmerizing eyes of her first cub. But a year later, after the birth of her second son Joffrey, Y/n faded into the background and was never her mother's priority never again.

When Cercei saw Joffrey's blue eyes and blond hair, she knew what that combination meant. In Joffrey she saw herself and her brother Jaime reflected in the child. As her children grew and two more were added to the family, the clearer was Cercei's contempt for her first heir.

Y/n didn't look like a Lannister, it wasn't one of her cubs but a deer and she didn't want him. Especially when Joffrey began to adopt a personality very similar to his mother's and became everything his mother wanted him to be.

The day Joffrey died in his mother's arms, everything around her ceased to have so much importance and a part of her died with her son that day. Y/n tried to take the throne, but his mother forbade him and made sure he felt the guilt of his father's death, to prevent his coronation. And he got it.

Then it was Myrcella, the sweet and innocent only daughter of the lioness. A twisted death and in the form of a cruel revenge. Ellaria Sand poisoned Cercey's only daughter, through a kiss and an irreversible effect poison without the antidote.

Tommen was the next to reach the throne, but it did not work out very well when the Red Sparrow appeared and severely punished his mother for her sins. Cercei herself carried her youngest son into the arms of death, when she destroyed the Sept of Baelor and with it the beloved of her last two living children.

And that leaves us with now, where a Cercei Lannister is crowned queen after the explosion of the Sept of Baelor and a Y/n Baratheon is locked in the dungeon to prevent his coronation.

Daenerys POV

Tomorrow we leave Meereen for Dragonstone, my home and the home of my family. Home of the Targaryens, where dragons soared through the skies and my family was alive. Oh at least until King Robert Baratheon started the rebellion and usurped what is rightfully mine.

Tyrion: Your Majesty, can I talk about something with you? - asks knocking on the door of my chambers and sticking his head out.

Daenerys: I didn't think there was anything left to say after our talk a couple of hours ago.- I comment confused, stopping helping Missandei to pick up my clothes and alluding to our conversation about leaving Daario in Meereen ruling on my behalf.

Tyrion: And there wasn't.- He assures me entering my chambers and walking towards the wine table.

Daenerys: So what do you want to talk about? - I ask confused, walking towards where she is and sitting in one of the chairs.

Tyrion: Five minutes ago a letter arrived from King's Landing.- he announces, pouring himself a glass of wine. -A letter reporting the death of Tommen Baratheon, the coronation of my sister Cercei and the alleged disappearance of my last living nephew.- He informs me, sipping his wine.

Daenerys: I'm sorry for the death of your nephew Tyrion.- I assure him with a small sad smile. -The coronation of Cercei was something that we both saw coming, what I don't understand is why mention your other nephew.- I comment confused.

I have known Tyrion for a year and he has hardly ever talked about his family. The times he has done it has been to make a negative comment against his sister and father. His nephews are something he rarely talks about and when he does he never mentions them much.

Tyrion: I am afraid of the well-being of my nephew, my queen.- He assures me with some concern. -He is the only one who can take my sister's crown and his disappearance could not have happened on a better occasion for Cercei.- he tells me. -I fear for the life of my nephew, he has never been very loved by his mother and as much as he is her last living son, my sister does not have much esteem for his life.- he explains to me and I avoid opening my eyes surprised by what that my hand is insinuating.

Daenerys: But it's her son, I don't think that your sister, no matter how bad she is, inflicts pain and less death on her own blood.- I deny scared by the idea of it.

Tyrion: And believe me I wish that was the case.- Agrees with me. -But I know my sister, I know her ambitions and what she is capable of doing to get what she wants.- he assures me and I see the slight panic in her eyes.

Daenerys: You fear that your nephew is dead or is going to die so that Cercei keeps the crown.- I say a little unsure, understanding what he means and receiving a nod. -And what can I do? - I ask interested and wanting to help.

Tyrion: Just take him in.- He answers me simply and I look at him confused.

Daenerys: Take him in? What do you mean by that?- I ask in confusion.

Tyrion: The letter has reached Varys from one of his contacts, in the letter they report on the disappearance of my nephew and the extra presence of guards in the castle dungeons.- he tells me calmly.

Daenerys: But I still don't understand what my role is in this.- I comment still confused with the situation.

Tyrion: Varys has contacts in the city, contacts that can free my nephew and put him on the first ship to Dragonstone or a nearby port.- He explains to me and I see where he is going.

Daenerys: And you want me to take in one of the sons of a traitor, a usurper and the same person who kicked my family out of his home.- I assure myself, getting up from the chair furious.

Tyrion: I know it's a lot to ask my queen, but as the saying goes for you; it also does it for my nephew.- He comments, leaving the glass on the table. -You are not your father and you cannot be blamed for what he did in the past, therefore; my nephew should not be judged for the acts of his father as you have not been for those of your father.- It reminds me of the phrase that I myself have repeated several times.

Daenerys: I know you're right about that, but I don't think I can trust the son of my enemy.- I deny going out to the terrace of my rooms.

Tyrion: Please my queen.- he asks me leaving behind me. -I'm not asking you to trust him, but to trust me and give my nephew an option.-  he says pleadingly.

Daenerys: I don't think it's the best time Tyrion, we're just a little bit away from getting my throne and proclaiming my position as queen.- I remind him seriously.

Tyrion: That's why my nephew can help you proclaim the throne.- he says quickly.

Daenerys: How can your nephew help me? - I ask without understanding.

Tyrion: Y/n Baratheon is the only legitimate son of King Robert, he is the true heir to the throne and believe it or not, he is very loved by the people in King´s Landing.- he answers me quickly.

Daenerys: I don't know Tyrion, I'm not sure.- I say a little worried. -Because if he is the heir, he has never before risen to the throne and has allowed his brothers to be kings?- I ask curiously.

Tyrion: The day his father was attacked by a wild boar, he was hunting with Robert and blamed himself for his death.- he tells me with a small grimace. -He refused to accept the crown because he felt guilty, at that time Y/n was 17 years old and seeing his father, the only person who really wanted him to die before his eyes destroyed him.- he explains to me and I can't help but feel sorry for him.

Daenerys: And then, because Tommen was crowned and not Y/n? - I ask interested.

Tyrion: I don't know, my queen, but I wouldn't doubt my sister's presence in her decision and in the coronation of Tommen instead of Y/n.- He answers me and I think for a few seconds.

Daenerys: Okay.- I nod letting out a sigh. - Tell Varys to get a ship to take him to Sharp point and you will go look for him on a ship to take him to Dragonstone.- I tell him seriously.

Tyrion: Thank you very much, Your Majesty.- He thanks me with a huge smile before running out of my chambers.

I stay silent for a few seconds, enjoying the views of meereen for a few last moments and going back inside my bedroom. I see Missandei putting away my clothes and I go back to help her pick up.

Missandei: It is very generous of you to help young Baratheon, Daenerys.- She assures me with a shy smile.

Daenerys: I don't know if it's generous or not, but I just hope it doesn't bring me problems.- I whisper with a sigh.

I hope that Tyrion does not betray me and his nephew tries to assassinate me on the orders of his made. I don't want to regret opening the doors to both of them and ending up having to kill them both for treason. I just hope this doesn't blow up in my face.

POV You

I don't know how long I've been locked up in the dungeon, I don't know if it's been just hours, days, weeks or months. All I want is to die. I don't want to remember, I don't want to think and above all; I don't want to feel

I have lost everything, I lost my father and the only father figure who loved me almost seven years ago. I lost my only sister, the most innocent and joyful person I've known a little over a year ago. I've lost the only brother who showed me affection and appreciation for nothing, practically the same time I've been locked up here.

But that's not the worst of it. Not only have I lost my last brother, but I have lost the woman I loved and who loved me forever. Besides that I lost them the same day.

I know that many would be surprised and would raise their voices in contempt if they knew the truth. If they only knew that while my beloved, Margaery Tyrell was publicly with my brother Tommen and privately with me.

It wasn't my brightest idea to fall in love with my brother Joffrey's fiancee, but I couldn't help it and I don't regret it either. I have never been as happy as with Margaery; like when we spent sleepless nights in my rooms, talking, reading books and making love for hours.

For her I was going to declare my right to the throne after Joffrey's death, so I could be with her and we could marry. But my mother reminded me that if I wasn't even able to protect and save my own father, how could I protect an entire kingdom.

I had to watch as the love of my life married my younger brother, while I watched from a corner and suffered in silence to see the person I loved marrying my own blood.

But that didn't mean anything within the four walls of my bedroom, Margaery kept coming every night and we showed how much we loved each other. Or at least we did, until my mother had the Sept of Baelor destroyed with Margaery and the Sparrow inside.

That was the last thing I saw, before my mother's guards entered my chambers and brought me to the dungeons. The green color of wildfire and how the Sept was exploding being my last memories of the outside.

I can't sleep, remembering that deep green and Margaery's face smiling between my sheets every time my eyes close. So to avoid remembering, I avoid sleeping and close my eyes for no less than two seconds.

I jump where I am sitting on the floor, when I hear the door close and see how it begins to open. I just mentally prepare myself for what's to come, knowing that the only three times that door has been opened it hasn't been to feed me; but rather so that my mother's soldiers beat me to know what my place is.

I swallow hard, when I see two soldiers enter the dungeon in a rush and clearly in a hurry.

XY: Get up.- one of them orders me and I can only look at them confused. -Get up.- he growls, approaching me and pulling my arm up.

XY2: We don't have much time, we only have twenty minutes until they realize the lack of soldiers at your door and that you've disappeared to get on the ship.- the second explains to me, imitating his partner, when he sees that I can't walk very well and helping me to walk.

Y/n: Where are we going? - I ask with a hoarse voice, for not having spoken in time and for the lack of water.

XY2: First you'll go to Sharp point and there they'll pick you up to go somewhere.- He answers me walking quickly and securing my arm around his shoulders.

Y/n: But who is going to come for me? - I ask completely confused and with a cloudy mind.

Probably due to the lack of food, water, light and lack of movement since I've been in the dungeon.

XY: We think that Varys, we owed him a favor and you must be important to him, because he asked us to get you out of here.- He answers me with a slight grunt.

They hurriedly walk through the underground corridors of the castle, carrying me on their shoulders and carrying me towards the small beach behind the castle. Once outside, I see that it is night and I can see a small boat on the shore of the beach.

They lift me onto the boat, quickly stripping off their uniforms and pushing the boat out into the water.

XY2: Now we'll get you on a bigger ship and you'll have to hide in a box until they tell you to leave.- He informs me and I nod seeing the castle where I've grown further and further away.

I don't know how much time has passed since they put me on the ship, they put me in a box with holes in the hold and they left me locked up here. What I can tell is that there is a big storm, by the way the ship moves and by the sound of thunder.

The only positive part of this is the bread and water that I have been given as soon as I have been put in the box. My stomach and throat greatly appreciate those two things.

Suddenly one of the walls of the box opens, causing me to fall on my back and jump out of the box suddenly. I widen my eyes in surprise, fearing that it was someone helping my mother and that I would give myself to her again.

But my eyes fill with tears, when my eyes connect with familiar blue ones and a smile full of affection. I throw myself at my uncle, hugging him with all my strength and ignoring the pain in my body as I do so.

Y/n: You're alive, mother said you were dead.- I whisper separating myself from the hug to see better. -You're older.- I comment and he laughs yes in response.

Tyrion: And you look horrible.- He says to me, pointing at me, and it's the first time I've seen my clothes.

What used to be a dark gray jacket of good linen, with a black shirt underneath and black pants; it is no longer what it was before the dungeon. Now I'm just wearing the shirt, pants and shoes.

The shirt is dirty and torn in some places, where the guards grabbed me or where they made a cut where you can still see the dried blood. While the pants are just dirty and slightly torn at the bottom.

Y/n: Where have you been? - I ask confused.

Tyrion: It's a long story and I'd rather tell you at another time.- He answers me seriously. -Now we have to get out of here and take you to Dragonstone right away.- he informs me and I try to get up, but my legs fail me and I end up falling to the ground on my knees.

Y/n: I can't.- I whisper, feeling the pain in my muscles.

Tyrion: Wait two seconds.- He says and leaves the cellar with quick steps.

Not much happens, until my uncle comes back with a soldier and he puts my arm around his shoulders. With the help of the soldier, the three of us walked out and, crossing a wooden bridge, got on the next boat.

Tyrion: Soon we will arrive at the castle, where you can take a bath and where you can clean those wounds.- Points to one of the cuts that can be seen thanks to the hole in the shirt.

Y/n: Thank you.- I whisper sitting on the chair and trying to keep my eyes open.

Tyrion: When was the last time you slept or ate? - He asks me, clearly worried.

Y/n: I don't know.- I answer honestly. -I haven't eaten or slept since the explosion in the Sept of Baelor.- I comment and I see how he opens his eyes completely surprised.

Tyrion: Y/n that was a week ago.- he whispers and I open my eyes in surprise. -I think the best thing would be to take you to one of the cabins so you can sleep a bit.-  he says, getting up from his chair.

Y/n: No.- I quickly refuse. -I don't need to sleep.- I assure him with open eyes.

Tyrion: Y/n it's not true, you do need to sleep and you would agree with me if you saw yourself in a mirror.- He points to my face and I look away.

Y/n: I'm fine.- I assure her in a whisper, swallowing hard and refusing to sleep.

Tyrion: I'm your uncle, I've known you since the day you were born and I know when you lie.- He points out, approaching me and sitting back in his chair. -What's wrong? Why don't you want to sleep? - He asks me worried.

Y/n: I can't.- I admit without wanting to look at him.

Tyrion: But why can't you? - He asks me, clearly interested and worried about my state.

Y/n: Because every time I close my eyes, the only thing I see is the vibrant green color of wildfire and her face.- I answer in barely a whisper, feeling my eyes water again and my throat close.

Tyrion: Whose face? - asks without understanding anything.

Y/n: Her face.- I answer without wanting to specify.

Tyrion: I don't understand Y/n, you have to be more specific and tell me the face of who you see.- he asks me and I bite my lip to avoid crying.

Y/n: Margaery.- I whisper almost without a voice, feeling a tear slide down my cheek and fall on my hand in my lap.

Tyrion: Oh nephew.- he whispers getting up from his chair and approaching me to place his hand on mine. - Everything will pass, love and losses hurt for a while, but then that pain disappears and just becomes a ghost of memory. - He assures me, leaving a squeeze on my hand and trying to comfort me.

We sit in silence for a few moments, with me crying for the first time since Tommen and Margaery died. One week. It's been a week and I don't know it. Did they have a decent funeral?

Y/n: Why are we going to Dragonstone? - I ask, breaking the silence and wanting to talk about something else.

Tyrion: Because the next queen of the seven kingdoms awaits us, your future ally and the woman who will change the world.- He answers vaguely, but I am very tired both emotionally and physically; how to ask for more

Do you guys think that the parts are too long? Or they have a good lenght?

[samieree]

Born in Flames || Game of Thrones

OC x ?😏

The young former Princess Visenya, and now Maegelle Targaryen, after the death of King Robert I Baratheon can finally come to King's Landing without fear of death at the hands of Robert, who has vowed to kill any Targaryen he can.

Exactly, "any Targaryen he can"…

He hasn't been able to touch Maegelle since Tywin Lannister took her to Casterly Rock and she was under his care for the next seventeen years, raised to be against her real family. Even her changed name is to make her realize who she should be.

But will she listen to it? After all, she had spent her entire life with the murderers of her family…

Introduction

Maegelle (Visenya) Targaryen

The only surviving child of the late Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell.

The first woman named Visenya since the conquest of the Seven Kingdoms, who was miraculously saved from death by Tywin Lannister before the Mountain could hurt her.

She was just a baby, she doesn't remember anyone from her immediate family. However, thanks to her servant Selaria, she knows the truth about her parents, her ancestors and their language.

She was secretly learning valyrian, following the traditions of her family and where they came from.

After the death of Robert I Baratheon, the best and worst period of her life begins at the same time... A time when she will have to fight for herself, perhaps even with her family...

The silver-haired daughter of Rhaegar, who had never even met her. Visenya Targaryen.

Prologue

"Ah, how beautiful it would be to leave them all and go on your own!" King Robert Baratheon said as he sat down in a chair at a table spread out on the grass.

"I'd go with you." His longtime friend Eddard Stark replied, sighing softly and looking at the fields stretching out around him.

"So what do you say about that? Just us and our swords, and of course the wenches in the taverns to warm a little our old bones." Robert suggested, taking advantage of the food spread out on the table.

"You should have proposed that twenty years ago."

"Ugh..." he sighed and threw something on his plate. "We had our wars, women... But never youth."

"I remember it a bit differently..." Ned replied, making his friend laugh and then he smiled at the memory of the past.

"Including that one wench, how was she?" At this point Ned's mood turned a bit, but he didn't let it show. Nevertheless, he stopped listening a bit to what Robert had to say to him later and replied immediately.

"You mean Bessy?" He asked, as if looking at his friend, but his thoughts were somewhere else.

"Yes, Bessy... Thank the gods for her and her tits." they laughed lightly. "And how was yours? Alina...? Ugh, you know who I mean, bastard's mother."

"Waila."

"Of course... She had to be good to make Stark forget his honor." Robert noted. If he only knew the truth... "You never said what she looked like." maybe because she wasn't there?

"And I won't." Eddard declared, looking away from his friend and focusing again on the field and the forest in the distance.

"We were in the war." Robert began. "We had no idea if we would survive it." He seemed to be trying to comfort a friend who was all too good at hiding the truth. "You are always too strict with yourself and probably if I were not the king, you would have hit me." he said finally.

"And that's the worst drawback of your being king." He replied, smiling slightly.

Would he actually hit him? Who knows, but Ned himself felt he wouldn't have done it, despite everything Robert said. Even if it adds credibility to his lie.

"Believe me, it's not the biggest flaw..." Sighing, he reached into one of his pockets for a piece of folded paper. "A messenger arrived at night." He handed Stark the letter and leaned back on the chair.

"Daenerys Targaryen..." Ned read as he unfolded the paper. "...she married a Dothraki khal." He looked at the letter a moment longer, raised an eyebrow for a moment, and folded it back on the table. "You want to send her a wedding gift?"

"Yes, a knife, preferably a sharp knife and immediately with a hand that will use it..." he growled angrily, sipping a little alcohol, as was his habit often.

"It's just a child." Ned said dismissively.

"Which will soon spread her legs and start giving birth." His friend added.

"Wait... You are serious?"

"Fully, is it such a disgrace? It was a real disgrace what the Targaryens had done to the Starks, led by Rhaegar Targaryen and what he had done to your sister Lyanna! My beloved, destined for me!" Evidently Robert was irritated about the Targaryen. He leaned over the table a little and added one more sentence with fury in his eyes. "I will kill every Targaryen I can get my hands on!"

"You're not doing very well, three of them alive, including one in Westeros." Ned commented, making his interlocutor even more angry.

"Because bloody Tywin Lannister keeps her in his stronghold, hiding her from the world! And over the sea it is said that Khal Drogo has a hundred thousand warriors!"

"Even a million dothraki aren't a threat to us as long as they are on the other side of the sea, without ships!" Stark tried to explain it all to him as simply as possible, raising his voice a little at him to make it clearer.

"But there are still people who call me a usurper. If a young Targaryen ever stands on this land, there will be some rogues to support him.

"If. And yet he will not cross, the Dothraki believe that great water is poisonous. And even if he miraculously succeeds, we'll push him over to sea." Robert fell silent after his friend's words, and after a moment of watching him, he drank again.

Honestly? He didn't quite know what to think about it. It irritated him immensely that he couldn't kill this bloody lineage to the end, especially the person he had on the same continent. Once... He almost made it once, when he saw her when he arrived at Casterly Rock. But still the fucking child got away with her life, and she still dares to breathe in these lands. An innocent child? Idle talk, they've killed so many Targaryen children already and they've just decided to spare her? There had to be a purpose for it, he just couldn't get there yet.

"War is coming, Ned." Robert finally said, deciding not to share his thoughts after all. "I don't know when or with who, but I'm sure we will fight." ~ -> Chapter I "Home?" -> general masterlist -> Game of Thrones/House of the Dragon masterlist

I won't tell you with who Visenya's gonna end up, because... Well, there will be a few love stories across the book 😅 Enjoy

But I can give you a small spoiler of who will show up in the book 👀 ↓

Ser Arthur Dayne

[fandomficsnstuff]

The Dragon's Daughter - 16

(Warnings: some fighting and mentions of blood, angst, more angst and some teeth rotting fluff at the end)

Dothraki will be in bold

High Valyrian will be in cursive

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ezzo watched with distaste as Tyres smirked at him while having his metal armour fitted, turning to look at Rhaella as she prepared, wearing light armor he was proud to say that he had made himself, her Valyrian sword ready to be picked up by her. “I do not like him” Ezzo admitted quietly, eyeing Tyres again with suspicion before looking back at Rhaella “neither do I-”

“Then why are you doing this, hm? Why are you entertaining this?”

“Okay, so maybe I like him a little. He showed you respect which is more than any of the others have, he has no problems with women fighting and dueling and he has humor, what is the problem? Besides, we’re in the Riverlands, Ezzo, not beyond the Wall.”

“The problem is that I don’t trust him” Ezzo whispered softly, leaning closer with a pleading look in his eyes “do not trust him. Do not let him get too close” he whispered even softer, Rhaella studying him, seemingly finally taking his concern seriously as she nodded. “I’ll be careful, I promise” she whispered before taking her sword, turning around to face Tyres in his full suit of armor, making her smirk. “Are you sure you don’t want to change?” she asked teasingly, Tyres smirking “are you?” he teased back before putting his helmet on, Rhaella smirking with amusement, Ezzo watching as she placed her feet as he’d taught her, ready, her eyes locked onto Tyres and any move he made, her body tense, like a spring ready to go off at the slightest touch. Tyres charged forward, swinging his sword at her which she dodged with ease, the battle going on like this, neither of them truly getting a hit in, until she did. It felt like it had been hours, her frustration growing at the lack of actual contact she’d made, so she resorted to much more…unorthodox moves. As he swung his sword she moved all the way around him instead of just to the side where she could swing her own sword, instead now she kicked him from behind, making him stumble and when he turned, his sword swinging with him it met her own sword, the sound of Valyrian steel singing in the hallway as well as heavy pants and breaths. Rhaella backed up and leaned away as she willingly gave in with her sword, Tyres stumbling forward, not expecting the sudden lack of resistance, and she easily kicked him again, placing him on the ground where she quickly kneeled on his breastplate, ripping his helmet off and pointing the tip of her sword at Tyres who stared up at her with wide eyes.

“I yield! I yield” he shouted quickly, Rhaella panting heavily as she lowered her sword and leaned back, moving her knee off of him as she nodded to herself “you’re a great fighter” she complimented, getting up, offering him her hand and when he took it, she helped him stand up. “So are you. Who taught you to fight like that?” he asked, Rhaella nodding in the direction of Ezzo with a smirk “he did, and the Queen’s consort, my step-father Jon Stark” she admitted while turning to face him, stretching out her hand to shake his. And then she felt it. Her brows furrowed and she looked at the arrow poking through her shoulder and it was as though when she actually saw it, only then did she truly feel the pain, her legs stumbling, her grip on her sword faltering and instantly someone caught her, someone cold and hard. She gritted her teeth as the pain continued to grow, eventually letting out a yell of pain, feeling someone warm and sturdier catch her from behind, holding her up as she clutched her shoulder that had the arrow. “Find the archer” Tyres ordered, Ezzo hesitating, only leaving when Rhaella nodded, Ezzo already darting off in the direction of where the arrow had been fired, people scrambling around, preventing the guards from approaching the princess, creating a curtain of panic. “I got you, I got you” Tyres whispered as his hand tugged loose the dagger he had hidden, Rhaella already closing her eyes with pain as she groaned, trying her hardest not to cry, actually on the verge of calming down, it was an attempt on her life but it was just that, an attempt, all was well now except for that damned arrow in her shoulder. Until she felt another sharp pain. This one much, much worse, her eyes widening and she screamed until her throat was sore, tears running down her cheeks as she fought against Tyres’ grip on her, struggling against the knife he dug into her shoulder, trying to pry off one of her scales from the side, hoping to cut in through her skin and cut under her scales to pry them off, struggling with the effort until someone pulled him away, Unsullied guards pinning him down on the ground as Ezzo hurriedly picked up Rhaella in his arms, studying her bloodied shoulder while she leaned into him, sobbing and crying and he hesitated before grabbing the arrow, yanking it out and dropping it, holding her close as she screamed at the pain she felt, his arms wrapped around her as she groaned and clenched her teeth to withstand the pain.

It wasn’t long until it was like a storm was approaching, rapid winds whipping about the hall and then it happened. The stone ceiling collapsed, dust covering everything like a veil, blinding everyone and when it settled, the roar of a dragon filled the crumbling hall. The white of it’s scales against the sun cast a blinding glow around the dragon, it’s mouth open wide as it roared, fire sparkling in the back of it’s throat, a dangerous light at the end of the cavern that was it’s mouth. While everyone fled, those who had not been crushed under the creature, that is, Ezzo picked Rhaella up, walking over to the dragon with hesitant steps. Never had he truly been this close to the beast, to any dragon, in fact. Raemor roared at him in warning until he noticed who was in his arms, a shaking and pained Rhaella. Raemor lowered his head as smoke blew from his nostrils, Ezzo quickly placing Rhaella on the floor next to Raemor’s head, Rhaella quickly scrambling to the dragon’s side, curling up against it as closely as possible, the dragon almost purring as it leaned closer to her, it’s eyes closing slowly, enjoying the closeness. Ezzo looked over his shoulder at the Unsullied and Tyres, the Unsullied having stayed put even as Raemor had crashed through the roof, having grown considerably over the twelve years since Daenerys took King’s Landing and was crowned queen. Ezzo nodded his head towards Raemor and Rhaella, the Unsullied picking up a reluctant Tyres, Tyres whimpering in fear as he was pulled forward and placed on his knees in front of the princess and the large beast. Raemor opened his eyes to glare down at the cause of the blood on Rhaella’s shoulder, the princess opening her eyes and Tyres let out a shaky breath of terror at the sight of them side by side. Rhaella’s braided hair was undone, hanging in front of her face in long locks, her eyes almost glowing with anger, one of her hands bloodied as it rested over where he had tried to cut off her scales. Tyres gulped audibly, his body beginning to shake as Ezzo helped Rhaella stand, Raemor lifting his head a little, opening his mouth, the heat of the fire within could roast a thousand boars if they were close enough, and Tyres was almost close enough. He could feel the heat on his skin, sweat forming at his forehead.

“Princess, what would you like us to do?” an Unsullied asked and she clenched her free hand into a fist, staring down at Tyres, not looking away from him until she moved to walk around Raemor’s gigantic frame, he almost rivalled Drogon in size, whom in turn was said to be Balerion the Black Dread come again. It wasn’t long until Rhaella’s head popped up on top of Raemor in the saddle, her eyes, despite their fiery golden shimmer, was ice cold “take him to King’s Landing, feed him well and keep him unharmed, I want him healthy for when Raemor will tear his flesh apart” Rhaella spoke calmly, the Unsullied soldiers nodding before forcing Tyres to his feet, forcing him out of the now empty and collapsed hall, Rhaella turning to Ezzo, her gaze softening a little and he gave a nod, about to walk around her and leave with the Unsullied when Rhaella spoke up. “Ezzo” she called, the man in question stopping, turning to look up at her “I’ll see you in King’s Landing, I’ve entertained this spectacle for my hand in marriage long enough. I need some time alone… I’ll see you at the dragon pit in two day’s time, tell them to prepare my coronation… and tell my mother not to worry… or send out her entire Queensgarde for me… I need this time alone” she informed before holding onto the saddle she was in, Raemor letting out an ear-piercing roar, flicking his large tail in obvious disapproval at the princess’ wounds, his head turning to look around at the crowd of people, most of whom were too horrified to move and inch. He lifted his head and turned to look at Lord Braxt, who had been hosting the entire thing, the man gulping at the sight and he flinched when Raemor roared at him, as though scolding him for letting all of this happen, before turning around, beginning to march out the large stone double doors, taking flight just as he exited, Rhaella steering him straight for the Isle of Faces. She’d been there once before shortly after her mother was crowned, having read about the place in one of her books back in Essos. An entire island filled with Weirwood trees. It was said to be ill-omened but Daenerys had taken Drogon and flown with Rhaella all the way to the southern Riverlands. The closest they had ever gotten was a shoreline where only a hint of the island could be seen, which of course did not satisfy the young dragon princess, but it felt peaceful anyway.

It didn’t take long on dragonback to reach that very same shoreline, Raemor landing, letting out a ferocious roar, announcing their presence before looking around as Rhaella climbed down, landing on the grass with a muffled thud before looking up at her dragon, the massive creature turning it’s head, looking down at her, lowering it’s head and Rhaella smiled softly, reaching a hand up, her fingers touching the scales on Raemor’s nose before dropping again. She tried to reach over her shoulder to where the wound was but she winced when she tried, a heavy sigh leaving her as she looked towards the water nearby, looking around before looking back up at Raemor “keep an eye out, okay?” she asked softly before walking towards the river bank. She knew that he probably couldn’t understand her, but maybe he could, because he lifted his head high and looked from side to side occasionally, as though he was on watch.

She got into the water and kneeled down to her shoulders was submerged, her thick brows furrowing at the pain she felt and she hesitantly reached up and around her shoulder, biting through the pain and discomfort to gently caress the bleeding skin, careful to not tear anything while trying to wash off the blood, a sigh leaving her when she finally felt that maybe that was enough, her hand back at her side as she walked back towards Raemor. She looked around the seemingly deserted, untouched land surrounding her, a small sigh leaving her as she looked up at Raemor, stepping closer to him as he lowered his head, almost as though he was in complete sync with the princess, his head lowered enough for Rhaella to lean against his snout, feeling his warmth course through her, pure fire in the shape of flesh. It made her wonder… did he feel as suffocated as her? As constricted? As tied down? The raw power and force of the fire he was made from, trapped in measly flesh, a bond forged between them from the funeral pyre of the great Khal Drogo… was it nature? Instinct? Fate? Or was it forced? The right set of circumstances allowing the bond to be made between them, a dragon and a weak human.

Raemor grumbled quietly, the sound coming from deep within the creature, almost as though he could hear her thoughts and what she thought of herself and disagreed, a smile forming on her lips at the idea. “I miss Essos” she whispered, sighing lightly, her eyes closed in a serene kind of peace that only her dragon, her other half, her brother, could give her. “I miss the sun… I miss-... I miss the view from the Pyramid, and I miss Missandei” she whispered, feeling the sting of tears form in her eyes and Raemor purred quietly, nudging his head carefully closer to her and she smiled, opening her eyes to look up at him with tears in them “I know…” she whispered, leaning her forehead down on his scaly hide, her eyes closed again, a few tears falling down her cheeks and onto the grass below. “Is this all I am?... A thing to be bought… a brood mare to be mounted whenever my husband feels like it…” she whispered, mostly to herself, biting the inside of her cheek to not sob at the thought. After a few seconds, Rhaella sighed heavily, leaning back and wiping her eyes of tears, looking back up at Raemor, her hands still on his warm, scaly hide, bringing her a sense of comfort. She looked around before moving to the dragon’s side, climbing up to the saddle on top, getting settled before sighing. “Let’s find somewhere…” she muttered, Raemor shaking his head as he lifted it, purring quietly, as though asking her where she wanted to go and she smiled. “We’ll find somewhere…” she muttered, leaning down and running her hand over the scales on his back before gripping the saddle once more as Raemor took flight.

---------------------------------------------------

Rhaella was quiet as she sat in the clearing, watching the small fire burn in front of her as she laid against Raemor’s side, feeling the heat of both fires on her body, keeping any cold at bay should it dare to reach for her. Her golden eyes reflected the flames and the longer she stared at it, the more conflicted she felt. She hesitantly leaned off of Raemor, the dragon’s eye opening to watch her, watching her lean closer to the fire in front of her, her hand raised, hesitantly. Raemor lifted his head when he saw that she was hesitating, turning his long neck to hover his head above her head, casting a long shadow, shielding her from the moonlight and she smirked, feeling a hint of comfort when she looked up. “I’m okay” she assured, the dragon purring before lowering his head and laying it back down on the tall grass, the clearing barely big enough to host him but they had both figured it out.

She sighed and leaned back against his side, continuing to just stare into the fire with a frown on her brows. “What am I to do?... Mother wants me to marry… the Queen wants me to marry… but I do not wish to” she whispered hesitantly, her head turning to look at Raemor as he rested his head on the ground, eyes shut and she smiled softly at the sight before looking back at the fire. “I wish sleep came that easily to me” she muttered to herself before sighing. She sat up once more, hesitantly reaching towards the fire, her heart beating in her chest and she hesitantly held her hand out over the flames. She felt the heat, but not the pain, the pain she had never felt before, the pain she had only heard people describe. A part of her wished she knew what it felt like to be burnt… if only so she was aware of the pain. But no pain came. Not even as she lowered her hand into the flames themselves, holding it almost near the embers and she hesitated before picking one of them up, her heart beating rapidly in her chest as she held them in her palm, the fire gliding over her hand as though it was merely air, the embers glowing in her hand, reflecting in her eyes and she closed her palm, feeling a rush of heat run through her when she crushed the embers, their warmth seeping into her bones and she looked over her shoulder at Raemor.

No.

She was a dragon. She was the Dragon’s Daughter. She was a Targaryen, the house of Old Valyria, she was a dragonrider and the daughter of the Khal above all other Khals. She was the heir to the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, the daughter of the Queen, future ruler and protector of the Realm. She would not be reduced to livestock being sold at an auction.

She dropped the crushed embers back into the fire before wiping her hands on her dress, standing up and moving over to Raemor’s shoulder, crawling a little under his wing, laying against him, his entire body almost enveloping her like a cocoon, keeping her warm as she finally drifted off to sleep, feeling the low hum every time Raemor breathed against her, his warmth a soothing lullaby.

[royslannisters]

TWISTED FAIRYTALE : chapter one

pairings: jaime lannister x fem!oc , cersei lannister x fem!oc

warnings: birth , mentioned abuse

words : 1.1k

HOUSE MARILL , words was "the wind flows" that was sworn to house targaryen since centuries before the birth of rhaenys targaryen the mad king's only daughter before daenerys was born. the current living members are remus marill who was known as the blue venom as he was what people would call the worse tywin lannister , the other living member is his daughter alys marill the only daughter of remus whom he hated as when his wife lucelia died after giving birth to alys.

remus head rose up when he heard the door a maiden came out holding the crying alys as the maiden looked at remus "no"he kept saying as he ran inside "lucelia"he yelled rushing over to his dying wife "take care of her"lucelia chocked out her hand held by remus that dropped "no no no"remus kept saying the sound of alys could be heard behind as the maiden tried to calm her "shut that devil up"remus yelled

"i don't care kill her strangle her"remus yelled at the maiden who kept holding alys "are you crazy"joanna said frustrated with remus behavior then she stood infront of the maiden "she killed her"remus yelled "it's not her fault SHE'S A BABY"joanna yelled while remus was walking back and fourth "she is your daughter she is my bestfriend's daughter and most importantly your heir HEIR TO MARE RUINS"joanna yelled

Mare ruins was the most beautiful place in westros with its huge castle which was ontop of a hill going a bit down , the gardens everything was beautiful in it even tho when you hear mare ruins you would think the place would be horrible

that was for alys growing up always neglected or emotionally abused by her own father when a day never went by where he didn't blame her for mother's death. the only mother love alys could ever get was from joanna who was lucelia's bestfriend , that was how jaime's hatred for alys started he never liked how his mother would spend her free time with alys as he always called alys the motherless which was a nickname cersei created jaime and alys bickered growing up always.

Rhaenys targaryen the second daughter of the mad king , aerys always hated his daughter he hated the idea of a women on the thrown that he removed her as heir banishing her claim forever.

rhaenys and alys became friends immediately as they first met at the Anniversary Tourney in King's Landing in 272 AC, held to celebrate Aerys's tenth year on the Iron Throne

as all four grew up rhaenys would find herself slowly falling for cersei she never knew how yet the cold mean cersei always found confront in rhaenys. it wasn't that far till alys found out about jaime and cersei , unlike cersei and rhaenys who always were nice to eachother alys jaime hated eachother fought any chance they got but even tho jaime hated alys there was no doubt of

that

yet he would always confess his deadliest sins to her no matter what

even tho rhaenys alys knew of the incest they never said a word even tho alys always used it against jaime yet rhaenys never used it against cersei yet she was extremely jealous of jaime being with Cersei

rhaenys was standing beside the column looking at jon Arryn's body. she looked to the side seeing jaime and cersei there a thought entered her head but she shook it off then someone stood beside her "they both would be capable of it"alys softly said as she stood beside rhaenys "but on what motivate?"rhaeys added alys opened her mouth to protest but nothing came out which made rhaenys chuckle walking past her "but in my defense"alys said running after her , the twins watched from afar cersei fist's were clenched as she cracked them together "i sometimes wonder if they are together"jaime added "why would rhaenys be with a wench like alys"cersei replied in jealousy

alys rhaenys watched the encounter between robert and ned , they were now in the north alys rhaenys included. alys rolled her eyes when jaime took of his helmet it was always his way of showing of "not here"rhaenys whispered to alys then watched how robert simply ignored cersei "take me to your crypt. i want to pay my respects"robert said to ned "we've been riding for a month , my love"cersei said which cause rhaenys to raise her eyebrow "surely the dead can wait"cersei added but robert ignored her and simply nodded at ned

alys heared the sound of moaning coming from a room and opened to see jaime beside the table drinking and tyrion beside some whore "really already?"alys raised her eyebrow at tyrion who nodded. the only one alys was close with besides rhaenys was tyrion he was her what you would call boy bestfriend both having the same fate. "great you"jaime said drinking rolling his eyes but alys simply ignored him "the feast is at sundown"alys said as she stood against a collum "i'm sorry i've begun the feast a bit early"tyrion said then continued "and this is the first of many courses"he said which made alys immediately face palm "i thought you might say that"jaime cut in then walked to the door "but since we're short on time"he said then open the door "come on girls"jaime said as more whores entered giggling while alys looked at Jaime with disgust then the girls jumped to tyrions bed and jaime pulled alys by her wrist out

at the feast alys was sat beside rhaenys whose eyes didn't leave cersei's. then rhaenys noticed cersei's face when robert kissed some northern and rhaenys softly held cersei's hand from under the table and cersei's held her fingers tight. alys was beside the wine table she noticed jaime and ned's conversation she knew immediately jaime was probably starting it out of anywhere she rolled her eyes then drank her wine then jaime walked towards her "dear god"alicent groaned "aah watching me from afar"he said pouring himself a drink also "don't flatter yourself that much"alys said then looked around on the other hand jaime didn't like how alys stared at some man from afar so he cleared his throat "must be already inlove with me"jaime added which obviously made alys want to kill him "you wish"alys said finishing her cup then walking back beside rhaenys

later the next morning alys was in her guest chambers her head rose up as she heard the sound of her door open it was jaime she immediately realized and sat back "oh dear god what did you do this time"

[lovebaela]

THE DRAGON OF THE NORTH

Chapter 1: A New Life

masterlist l next

(a/n) hello! I decided to restart my “Ice and Fire” fanfaction because I have so much more ideas for a better story :) even though it’s discontinued, if you would like to check it out here’s the masterlist! I hope you guys will enjoy this one 🤍 I’m working on the masterlist for this series right now!

UPDATED VERSION OF THIS CHAPTER IS ON WATTPAD

https://www.wattpad.com/1439910833-dragon-of-the-north-b-stark-𝐢-a-new-life

Divider credit: @dingusfreakhxrrington @valeskafics

°❆⋆Bran Stark x Targaryen OC .ೃ࿔*:･ CW: fem!oc, betrothal (forced marriage), topics of abuse and racism, angst, a lot of fluff, smut (I’ll try lol), and murder.꙳·❅°*˖ Rating: Mature audiences - The mature moments will happen later on. In the beginning, it will mostly just be cute fluff.⋆⁺₊❅.

Why must the gods be so cruel to me? What could I have possibly done to deserve this life? To be sold off like a slave by my own flesh and blood…I’ll never forgive Viserys. Without Dany, I am alone. Without love. I want to go home. But…where do I belong? The summer isles? No, that can’t be my true home, I never had the chance to live there. Do I belong anywhere?

Daughter of the mad king’s younger brother. Rhaella never knew her mother. She died after giving birth in the Summer Isles, killed by assassins under the command of the new king, Robert Baratheon. When he found out Rhaella’s mother was pregnant, he wanted both of them dead. Rhaella was smuggled out of the isles and sent to her cousins, the last Targaryens.

“I know you’re upset,” Lord Eddard Stark said, placing his hand on top of hers.“But please, believe me when I say this. I will never let anyone harm you. You are under my protection now.”

Rhaella gave him a weak smile back. Rhaella, the same name as the Mad King’s sister and wife. Daenerys gave her the name. Viserys despised the idea of his mother’s name given to the likes of a foreign girl. Even though she was still a Targaryen, he only considered her half and not pure. She took after her mother, with more summer isle features. Her skin wasn’t pale, instead, a light amber and tan that would get even darker in the sun. She had long silver curly hair, unlike her cousins who had straight silver blonde hair. The thing Rhaella hated the most was her eyes. Instead of being a pretty violet color, she had dark purple eyes that almost looked black.

Rhaella looked away from the carriage window to make eye contact with Lord Stark, “My Lord?” She asked, “Why did you accept my cousin’s offer to take me?”

“Well, you see,” he explained, “The rebellion caused great loss for everyone. So many people, loved ones, dead. Especially your family, unfortunately. I’ll never forgive him for his order of murder. When the king found out 3 Targaryens were still out in the world, he wanted you all dead. I wanted to prove to him that even though Areys was mad, that doesn’t mean you all don’t deserve to live. By taking you in and marrying one of my sons, we can show him that you are not our enemies. It took him a while to be fully convinced, but he agreed to let you live.”

”But, my eldest cousin,” Rhaella said. “He…he wants to take the seven kingdoms. I’m not sure how, but that is his plan.”

”I highly doubt he is a true threat,” Lord Stark said.

”you’re right,” she admitted. “He can be a big coward at times.”

That comment made him chuckle.

He has a nice smile, very warm and welcoming. Even though he did come off as cold before.

“Will I have to marry now?” Rhaella asked.

“Oh gods no!” He chuckled, “you are far too young, my son as well.”

“Will he like me?”

“I believe so, you have nothing to worry about. Bran is a good kid. He will treat you right.”

Once they made it through the gates, the carriage stopped. Lord Stark exited first so he could get the door for Rhaella. He gently held her hand as she took her steps down. Once Rhaella looked up from the steps, she saw the Stark family before her. Not letting go of her hand, Lord Stark approached his family to introduce their special guest.

“This is Rhaella Targaryen. As you all know, she will be with us now. Treat her as you would treat each other. If anyone disrespects her, let me know.”

They all nodded. A very handsome older boy approached her, “Hello, my lady, I am Robb,” he told her, “I hope you enjoy Winterfell and welcome!” Before walking away, he kissed her hand. That made Rhaella blush, “T-Thank you.” He had blue eyes and dark auburn hair. It was so dark you could barely tell if it was red. He had to have been the most beautiful boy she’d ever seen.

An older girl walked up to her gracefully, “Hello,” she smiled, “my name is Sansa. I hope we can grow to be like sisters! Maybe even brush each other’s hair, make dresses together, and so much more!” Rhaella gave a slight smile back, “I would love that!” Then a girl, who looked not too older than her, approached saying, “My name is Arya! Don’t worry, we don’t have to do girly stuff together. There are other ways to have fun!”

Then, she met Rickon, the youngest in the family, and their mother Lady Stark. “Oh my goodness,” she exclaimed, “aren't you just a lovely thing? Such a beauty.” Rhaella blushed at the compliment, thanking her.

She must be lying to me. I mean, just look at me! The journey to Westeros was so long that hair became wild and poofy.

”You must be frightened,” Lady Stark said. “Trust me, I never favored the cold myself. I still don’t, but you grow to appreciate it.”

Rhaella couldn’t keep her eyes off Lady Catelyn Stark’s features. Like Robb and Sansa, she had long auburn hair and pretty blue eyes. Her gown was also blue, making her eyes stand out even more.

“Where is Bran?” Lord Stark asked his wife.

“I told that boy to stop climbing,” she explained. “Brandon!”

“Sorry mother!” A voice yelled from above, “I’m coming down!”

When Rhaella looked up, she examined him. He looked to be the same age as her. He had dark brown hair and eyes with freckles on his face. He approached her and bowed, “Welcome to Winterfell, I hope you will take a liking to it.” “Thank you,” she replied.

The atmosphere quickly grew awkward. The two children didn’t know what to say to each other.

Lady Stark took Rhaella’s hand, “You must be exhausted, here, come with me.” She guided Rhaella to her bed chamber and had the handmaidens start a bath. After the bath, she laid on her bed for a quick nap.

After waking up, the handmaidens helped her get into a gown for dinner. The dress was purple with roses embroidered across the neckline. Then, they helped her with her hair. They clearly did not know what they were doing. They aren’t used to doing curly hair like Rhaella’s, but they managed to make something of it. They brushed out her curls, putting them in a half-up-half-down style. The ponytail was braided and put into a bun. After the handmaidens left the room, she looked at herself in the mirror.

I don’t even look like myself anymore.

Tears began to fill her eyes, I just want to go home.

She bolted out of the room, not knowing where she was going. She ran outside the big castle but didn’t dare to leave outside the castle walls. She eventually found an area that stood out to her. The whole vibe was strange as if something or someone was watching her. It was nothing but an old forest with no snow. In the middle of it, was a pool and a tree. A tree she’d never seen before. The huge tree was white with red leaves and a face carved into it. She stared deeply into the tree’s eyes for a while.

Is it staring back at me?

She snapped out of it, shaking her head, and climbed up the tree to sit on a huge branch.

Without Daenerys, I am lost. She didn’t know how long she’d been crying in the tree for, but she didn’t care. Winterfell wasn’t her home.

“Rhaella?” She heard a voice ask.

When she looked up, she saw Bran with a concerned look on his face, “w-why are you crying?”

She wiped her tears. “Sorry, I just miss my sister…how did you know I’d be here?”

“I like to go to the godswood, and climb up this tree,” he said. “Whenever I like to be alone and think. I’m sorry you had to leave your sister.”

“Well, she isn’t my sister, not really,” she admitted, wiping her face. “We are actually cousins. We just call each other sisters.”

He sat next to her, “my family was worried about you. They thought you might have ran away.” He nervously chuckled. “I…I know that we are to be married one day. The idea of marriage scares me.”

She doesn’t respond, only looking down at her hands as she fidgets with them. “I have something for you,” Bran showed her a beautiful blue flower. “That was the reason I was climbing.” He told her. “I wanted to give you something as a gift. I was going to give it to you at the dinner table but here. If I hurt your feelings not being there to greet you, I’m so sorry.” Rhaella took the flower and sniffed it.

“It’s called the winter rose,” he continued. “A rare flower that can grow around the castle.”

“It’s so beautiful,” she smiled. “Thank you.”

”You know, just because we’re betrothed doesn’t mean we have to be in love right now or anything,” he said. “Let’s just be friends!”

”Yeah I’d like that!” She said.

”And just so you know,” he whispered. “I liked your hair better before. Your curly hair is much better.”

She laughed, “You and me both.”

”You’re laughing!”

”So?”

”This is your first time laughing here,” he said. “You have a nice smile.”

”Thanks, Bran,” she said. “You know, my eldest cousin ,Viserys, told me and Dany that you guys were evil monsters. But, you guys aren’t monstrous at all!”

Before Bran could respond, they both hear a voice from down below calling for Bran. An older boy who looked the same age as Robb. He was very handsome with black curls and dark eyes. “I found her Jon!” Bran shouted.

”Well, what are you sitting around for? They are all waiting for you two!” The two of them climbed down from the tree and walked with Jon.

“Forgive me, my name is Jon Snow,” he told Rhaella. “Welcome to Winterfell.”

”I never heard of the last name ‘snow’ before,” she confessed.

Bran began to explain, ”That last name actually means he’s a…well—”

”Bastard.” Jon said. His voice was cold and somber.

”I don’t know what that means,” Rhaella said. “But Viserys called me that sometimes, I assumed as an insult.”

”It means that my father, Lord Stark, had me with another woman. I wanted to meet you when you arrived, but Lady Stark thought it would be disrespectful.”

Rhaella couldn’t help but feel awful for him. There was something about Jon Snow that made him stand out. As if they had a connection. She wondered if Jon felt it too.

“You said that Viserys called us evil,” Bran said. “Then why did he want to send you away to us?”

“He hates me,” she answered. “He saw you guys as an opportunity to get rid of me…”

Once they all made it to the dining hall, all eyes were on Rhaella and Bran. “Well, aren’t you just beautiful?” Catelyn smiled. “Please, have a seat.” Bran escorted her to her chair and went back to his. Before Jon could leave the Hall, Rhaella asked, “Can Jon eat with us please?”

”Ah, I see you met him while you were gone,” Lord Stark said, amused. “Would him eating with us please you?”

Rhaella looked over at Jon, whose eyes lightened up. She looked back at Lord Stark and gave a nod. He looked over at Lady Stark, “What do you say?”

She looked into Rhaella’s sparkling eyes and sighed, “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt…”

Rhaella gave a big smile. Jon pulled a chair next to her whispering, “Thank you Rhaella.”

“I hope you like the dress,” Sansa said. “I made it myself! I wanted to test my embroidery skills and decided to make you one!”

“It’s beautiful,” Rhaella told her. “You should teach me!” Sansa nodded gleefully.

“You know, we all thought you ran off and escaped!” Arya laughed.

“I…I didn’t mean any trouble or offense, I apologize.” Rhaella announced, standing up from her chair and bowing her head. “It was rude of me.”

“No,” Lord Stark said. “You have every right to feel the way you do. Your life changed right before your eyes. But please, believe me when I say this, we are here for you.”

“Aye.” Robb agreed. “If you are having trouble with anyone or anything let us know.” She thanked the both of them for their kindness.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what was it like outside of Westeros?” Catelyn asked.

Rhaella told them everything. Even about the abuse Viserys had done to her. He always yelled at her for the littlest things. The worst thing he ever did was sneak into her bedchamber with a knife. He threatened to cut out her insides if she didn’t cooperate with his plan to send her to the North.

They all had concerned looks on their faces. The abuse never got to her until explaining it out loud. She really did have it rough.

“That doesn’t matter anymore.” Arya said. “You are with us now!”

“Safe and sound,” Sansa added.

Rhaella didn’t realize she was smiling.

”So, Rhaella…you said you were from the Summer Isles right?” Theon asked.

“Yes, why you ask?”

He smirked at Robb before asking, “I heard the women there are quite breathtakingly beautiful?” She could have sworn she heard him whisper “and have nice bodies.”

”Well, I’ve never actually stayed there, I had to flee because of the King,” she explained. “But from the books I’ve read and from what I heard from some servants in Pentos, yes, the women there are quite beautiful.”

”I also heard that they have a passion for love making,” he said. “Maybe I gotta visit there sometime-.”

”Theon!” Lady Stark snapped. “Don’t be disrespectful-.”

”Oh that’s okay!” Rhaella reassured her. “You’re right, Theon! They do have a passion for it. If I were to stay in the Isles, I would have been a prostitute myself!”

Sansa and Lady Stark almost choked on their food, as Robb, Theon, and Jon bursted out laughing at the table. She didn’t understand what was so funny, but she laughed along with them.

”What’s a prostitute?” Rickon asked, innocently. That made the boys start crying from laughter. Theon even fell out of his chair.

”Y-You’ll know when you’re older!” Lady Stark said.

”You’ll fit in with us just fine, child,” Lord Stark said. “Welcome to the family!”

°❀⋆Daenerys.ೃ࿔*:･

Daenerys never felt more lonely. She missed Rhaella, her real family. She’d never forgive her brother for what he did.

“Daenerys!” Viserys shouted.

He entered her bed chamber, “do not tell me you’re still upset about that savage.”

She felt rage enter her body as he said those words. “She is not a savage, she’s my sister,” she replied softly. “And I don’t understand why you sent her to our enemies.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” he said. “We both know that’s not true. She’s our cousin. Daughter of our uncle and whatever foreign whore he married. She’s not a pure Targaryen like us, Dany. And she never will be. I gave her away because we need allies, even if they are enemies. The Starks are a strong house, and I knew that Lord Stark would gladly take her in. The fool won’t even know of my plans to destroy him and his dear friend Robert.”

Daenerys always considered Rhaella her sister, even if it wasn��t true. They spent all of their time together, never leaving one’s side. It felt like it was yesterday, the day Rhaella arrived in Braavos as a baby. Viserys wanted nothing to do with her while Daenerys cherished her. She had no idea why Viserys was so upset about naming their cousin after their mother. It was only a name after all. She always thought it was much deeper than Rhaella being a “savage.” She never dared to ask him though.

“I have good news.” He announced. She examined his face, his grin looked devious. Truly it wasn’t good news. “I found you a husband,” he said. “His name is Khal Drogo, Magister Illyrio said. A Dothraki savage. When you two wed, I’ll have his army. We can finally go home, sweet sister.”

Home.

All she ever wanted was a home. A home with Rhaella, where they could finally be happy together. With her gone, Daenerys wasn’t sure if it would be home without her.

“And what about her?” She asked him.

“The savage?” He scoffed. “Those Starks have her now. I don’t care what they do to her. As long as we have our alliance with the North.”

Daenerys wanted to cry, but she stayed strong. I will meet her again, one day.

°❆⋆Bran ೃ࿔*:･

It had only been a couple of months, but for Bran, it felt like he had known Rhaella his whole life. Rhaella also grew close to his sisters but mostly Arya. The three of them were inseparable. Rhaella even taught them some of the Valyrian language. Some nights, the three of them would stay up and read history books about Targaryen history until they got caught by the Septa. For fun, they liked to go sledding and have snowball fights. The older Stark boys and Rickon joined them sometimes, but never Sansa. Ever since Rhaella arrived, Sansa and Arya fought less. It’s like wherever she went, she spread joy. That’s one of the traits Bran liked about her.

Now, everyone is preparing for the arrival of the King.

He overheard his father saying that the King was almost there. Bran felt sorry for Rhaella because she was so stressed out. “What will he do to me?” She asked. He always reassured her, “You are under our protection now, the King approved of you. Don’t worry about a thing.”

At that moment, it was time for Bran to practice his archery. He hasn’t been getting any better. He wanted to show his family he could hit the bull’s eye. First, only Robb was watching him. Then, came Jon and Rickon. Before he knew it, his parents came to watch as well.

“Keep practicing, Bran,” Lord Stark insisted. “Go on.”

Jon leaned in towards Bran, placing his hand on his shoulder, “Alright, father is watching.”

Jon looks over and sees Rhaella and Arya watching as well, “and her…” he whispered.

Bran took a deep gulp. He didn’t like to get teased about Rhaella. They only do it because we are to be married. We are just friends, good friends.

Bran nodded and started to aim his bow and arrow at his target.

“Relax your bow arm…” Robb commented.

Just before Bran could release the arrow, someone else’s hits the target and another shoots right through it.

All of the boys turned their heads to see Rhaella and Arya giggling. “Hey!” Bran yelled. The girls both curtseyed but quickly took off once they saw Bran chasing them. The kids kept on playing until their father took all of the boys to see an execution. Bran was finally old enough to see one.

“Are you scared?” Rhaella asked him as he was mounting his pony.

“I’m not sure.” He answered honestly.

But I can’t be afraid. My father told me I won’t be a boy forever. I’ll be a man-grown soon. I mustn’t be afraid. I need to be brave. Like Robb and Jon. Wolves are never afraid.

Taglist: @lover-of-books-and-tea

[mysticalprincesskitten]

Aegon II Targaryen x OC // House of the Dragon fanfic

Soft!Dark!Aegon II Targaryen x OFC, kinda Yandere!Aegon

Trigger warnings: darkish themes, bondage, kidnapping, kinda yandere?? Targcest, OC is Viserys and Aemma's daughter, OC is named Daenerys, OC looks like Elizabeth Olsen in my head, also total self-insert

Part 2

Bound to Aegon's bed, Daenerys slept often. It was the only activity left to her.

Her dreams were a patchwork of memories. The day she claimed Grey Ghost. Fits of nerves and flutters in her belly kept her awake the whole night prior during the voyage to Dragonstone. Father had promised she, Aegon and Aemond could attempt to bond with a dragon - providing they were “bold enough.”

“I shall claim Vermithor,” declared Aegon. In her dream he was nine years of age, three years younger than Daenerys. Tufts of silver hair straggled over his eyes, lit like lilac flames. “You see! I shall descend the Dragonmont and seek out the old king’s bronze beast, then I’ll fly him over Dragonstone for Father to see.”

Aegon buzzed, thrilled, but Daenerys was pensive. What if she failed to bond with a dragon? Rhaenyra had Syrax, but Daenerys’ cradle egg had never hatched. Was that a sign from the gods? Was she never to be as worthy as her sister? Was her dragon's blood tainted somehow?

She glanced at Aemond and saw her fears reflected in his eyes.

Aegon noticed her somber mood. “You can ride Silverwing,” he reassured her. “Then we can be Jaehaerys and Alysanne come again. The smallfolk will cheer for us when we fly over King's Landing.”

But it was not Silverwing who bore her weight above the clouds that fateful day. Daenerys had fled the Dragonmont after overhearing Ser Criston Cole hissing about her sister to the queen, Alicent nodding her agreement and spitting her own barbs at the heir to the Iron Throne. They would never dare say anything in Rhaenyra's presence. Her sister spoke with Syrax's strength, fillied with the golden dragon's fire. Daenerys wished she could be strong like Rhaenyra. Fleeing the Dragonmont, driven by a desperate urge to be as far away from the green queen as she could, she’d been clambering the jagged cliffs of Dragonstone blissfully alone when Grey Ghost found her.

Daenerys didn’t notice the grey dragon land next to her, at first. A flicker of silvery scales pale as morning mist danced in her peripheral; when she turned, the dragon stood devouring a plump green trout.

Grey Ghost was much smaller than Silverwing and Vermithor, smaller than Syrax and Seasmoke, her goodbrother Laenor’s grey dragon. Grey Ghost finished devouring the trout, then met her gaze with golden eyes. And Daenerys had known.

Father roared with laughter to see her riding the wild dragon. Saddeless, Daenerys clung to Grey Ghost with hands and thighs, as another dragon soared up to meet her. Aegon had claimed a dragon, as he said he would - not Vermithor, but a splendid young beast with golden scales and pale pink wing membranes.

Another memory followed. She was on dragonback once more; Grey Ghost had grown and so had she. A familiar roar shook the sky. Sunfyre, the beautiful golden dragon Aegon had claimed, banked in the clouds and levelled beside her. From his saddle, Aegon winked and yelled something lost to the wind. Daenerys grinned, blew him a kiss.

And then her feet were on sold ground again, her hands trembling slightly at the eyes of a crowded sept full of people all fixed on her, high on the dais in her wedding silks. Aegon brushed a silver curl from her face as he wrapped a black-and-red cloak blazoned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen over her shoulders. The queen had tried to insist Aegon cloak her in green - to distinguish her maiden's cloak from her wedding cloak, she reasoned - but Daenerys dug in her heels until Father relented. She would marry Aegon Targaryen, not Aegon Hightower.

Aegon's touch comforted her. Suddenly it was just the two of them, only the two of them; they were the only people in the world, their lips roaming each others, his warm hands on her breasts, cupping between her thighs…

Daenerys shifted, sighing as she floated between sleep and waking.

The hand between her thigh was firm and unyielding, persistent in its pursuit of pleasure.

“Mmm… Aegon…”

A chuckle behind her broke the spell, wrenching her back to the present.

“See? I knew you weren’t mad at me really.”

“Get off me!”

Aegon sighed. “I spoke too soon.”

Candlelight cast a dim light in the king’s bedchambers. Aegon lay behind her on the bed, shirtless, his breeches unlaced. The pale skin of his chest shone like moonglow.

“You do not get to touch me,” Daenerys snarled, “not anymore!”

Aegon glowered. “You are my wife.”

“I am your hostage.”

“Can a queen be hostage in her own royal keep?”

“You are a fool. Rhaenyra will come. She and Daemon will bring fire and blood to this city now that you have stolen her throne.”

Aegon sighed. He sat up, tears in his eyes.

“Rhaenyra would have put me and my family to the sword the moment she was crowned. So long as a trueborn Targaryen son lives, her claim to the throne is weakened. You know she has never held any love for me.”

He was correct there. Even Daenerys could not defend her sister in that regard. Daenerys remembered running into her sister's arms for maternal comfort after the death of Aemma Arryn.. Rhaenyra's arms held comfort for Daenerys, but not Aegon. One time, after they had been playing come-into-my-castle in the godswood, Aegon had tried to hug Rhaenyra, returning from a flight on Syrax, as Daenerys had. Their sister had looked at the little boy like he had greyscale. “She would not have killed you in cold blood. Your mother and grandfather have been filling your ears with poison to further their ambition. They want the throne for themselves. For House Hightower, not House Targaryen."

"You believe Rhaenyra would have allowed us to live?"

"No man or woman is so accursed as the kinslayer.”

“Even if Rhaenyra had not called for my head, Daemon would have.”

He was correct there, too. Daenerys had faith in her sister, would vouch for her. She could not say the same for Daemon.

“War was inevitable,” Aegon exclaimed softly. “Please, Nerys. I need you. I cannot walk this path alone.”

His hands returned, wine-stained breath ghosting her face. “And the king needs an heir…” he whispered.

[beautifulloverwitch]

By Fire, Sea and Blood

the untold tale of an approaching collapse

Act I: Chapter eight: necessary.

previous ///// next

Summary: Rhaenyra is left haunted by the taunting truth as she watches her children grieve a living man.

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Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Daenerys Velaryon (Strong! Oc)

WC: 7.6k

Warnings: MDNI, depictions of death, Daemyra smut.

Masterlist

Corlys was away from the bedchamber he shared with his wife Rhaenys, he found it difficult to bear another moment in that room. The air was too dense with grief, too full with his culpability of everything that had happened. His mind began to play tricks with him, as he stared at the swaying body of his anguished wife he felt the burning touch of his ashened children clawing at his arms and neck, their rasping voices croaking out to him ‘have we no place in your desires.’

He stiffened his neck, refusing to turn to look at their gaunt faces, for what would he even have to look at. His daughter's skull was stained with ash and his son's skin shrunken around the flesh beneath.

He had tried, he had tried to come to his wifes aid, to mourn with her, he was Laenors father, he had a right to grieve, he was as much a victim of this poisonous grief as his wife was. Or so he had told himself.

He refused to believe he was guilty of anything, of thrusting his children towards the imprisoning flame and away from the salvation of salt. The gods have long written their fate, and what power does Corlys, the wealthiest and one of the most powerful men in Westeros have over fate?

No, it was not his fault, and whatever shred of self blame existed in his mind, he was quick to tear out. 

Guards came in and out of his chambers, reporting to him that they had not found the traitor knight that had murdered his son. An odd thing, for he would often receive reports in his hall, surrounded by his greatest treasures, and hoisted above all who came to seek an audience with him upon his driftwood throne. 

Instead he was a pitiful sight of a lord, hunched over in his seat, head in his hands, still in his clothes from the night prior, his eyes sunken and tired but he did not deserve the comfort of sleep. 

His prized hall, the physical manifestation of his vanity, was now tainted with the blood of his son, splattered across it. 

His skin would crawl with an urge to flee the hall whenever he spent a mere  second in it, the rancid stench of his son's burning flesh seeped into the wood of his throne and the walls. 

The Maester warily entered the room, approaching the distant Corlys who had begun to retreat in the safest confines of his minds, where the walls were thick enough to block the taunting voices of his greatest mistakes. Walls thicker than the ones that had deterred the warnings of his worried wife.

“My lord?” The maester asked, receiving no answer “My Lord?” he asked again as he approached.

“What?” 

The old man tensed in his place as he heard the sullen voice of the sea snake. He heaved in a deep breath, stammering as he told “I’ve prepared ravens to be sent to the lords of Westeros, invitations to your sons committal-.”

“No.”

The Maester choked on his words at his lords answer, stuttering as he repeated “no?”

“Is the word foreign to you?” Corlys asked, his hardened gaze still on the hearth he had yet to put out, he had begun considering removing every hearth within his castle, finding the mere sight to irk him. 

“Of course not my lord, but, I would imagine your… fallen heir would receive a public committal, would he not?” the maester questioned, baffled by his lord's answer.

“He would, wouldn't he…” Corlys muttered to himself, glancing down at his clenched palms before returning his venomous glare towards the heart “but he won’t, we’ve all seen what happened the last time, I will not have the memory of my heir smothered by another crazed outburst, or childish quarrel,” he sneered as he recalled how quickly his daughter was forgotten, the realm to distracted by gossip about the queen having gone to madness “no, this will be a private procession, we will send ravens of this… unfortunate news afterwards, until then house Velaryon will accept no visitors.”

“Of course my lord,” the Maester turned to leave but recalled one final thing “what of the ship at the harbour?”

Corlys frowned “What ship?”

The maester grimaced uncomfortably as he reminded “you requested that a ship be prepared for your son and granddaughter, for their return to Dragonstone,” Corlys tensed in his seat as he recalled that his granddaughter had been stowed away in her chambers, alone for the entire night “do you wish to call it off? So that the princess may attend the committal?”

The Sea Snake's lips twisted to the side as he contemplated to himself what to do with the poor girl. She was not safe here. It was best that she leave, to be spared from the wrath of the grieving Rhaenys. No one will know of this necessary action,

“No, have them ready and I expect a guard of two men to accompany the princess so that they may safely escort her to Dragonstone,” he answered, picking at the flaked wood of his chair, frowning at the imperfection.

“Of course my lord,” he responded, bowing his head before rushing out of the room.

Corlys sighed, knowing that he could not settle into the silence just yet “squire!”

He was changed out of his night clothes, and into his normal attire, spare for his hair, his rope-like strands sprawled around his shoulders, and fell around his face. He put on a long black coat over his shoulders before tiredly sauntering out of his room, closely followed by his guards. Their senses heightened as they scanned their surroundings, the example made of the guards from the night prior, the guards that had failed to fulfil the simple requirement that their station had required, was enough incentive to better themselves.

A sense of dread had filled the man, who had been in worse situations. Tentatively, he reached his hand up to knock at the door, worried when he had received no answer from the girl inside. He sent a glare to the two guards that had been posted outside of her bedchambers.

Their eyes widened with fear “My lord we have not left our post, the princess is inside,” the trembling guard assured.

Corlys looked them over one last time before knocking the door again, he called out to her with the gentlest voice he could muster  “Daenerys, it is I, your grandsire…” no response came from the other side “might I come in?”

Seconds past before Daenerys unlocked the door, hiding behind it as she let her grandsire enter, once he was inside she walked back to her bed, facing the wall of windows as she sat. Corlys worried gaze followed her as she left. He shut the door behind him and glanced about the desolate and cold room. He glanced towards the hearth, no wonder the room was so cold, the fire had been put out and a blanket covered the carved stone. Books littered the floor beside the long chair that faced the hearth, seemingly pushed to the floor from what he could see. He looked towards where Daenerys sat still on the bed, swaying back and forth.

His hands itched as he thought of what to do, what could he do to help a girl mourning the loss of her father. He cautiously moved to sit beside her. 

Daenerys stiffened as she felt the mattress shift beside her, hours had passed and the room was so still, so quiet, she did not know whether she welcomed the disturbance or not.

Corlys clasped his hands in his lap, pursing his lips tightly before speaking, feeling awkward as he has yet to know how to approach such a delicate situation “have you gotten any rest?” he asked.

Daenerys was too tired to give him a sardonic remark, she had thought her sunken and red eyes were enough to show him that she hadn’t “no, I wasn’t tired,” she muttered.

He hummed “I suppose that is good, that way you will sleep during the long trip back to Dragonstone,” he was sly with his words, telling it to her straight.

She frowned at his words ``what?” she asked. She realised how long she had been staring out of those curtained windows, with the ache that spread through her neck as she turned to look at her grandsire “but the committal, am I… am I not to attend mine own fathers committal?” she asked, anxious to hear his next words, dreading his answer.

“I’ve decided it will be a private procession, for my wife and I” He pursed his lips, he was a fool to think it that easy “and I think it best that you return to Dragonstone, it would be safer for you there than here.”

She shook her head, her lips mouthing a silent ‘but he’s my father’ her eyes darted about his face as she processed what he had just told her “but-, has he not been found yet?” she asked him.

“No, but my men will not rest till that traitor is found,” he assured the bewildered girl “I’ve issued a reward of ten thousand golden dragons to whoever brings me the man's head.” 

She shook her head, unsatisfied by what he had told her “he was to return to the stepstones-.” 

“And he will be apprehended if he dares to go there,” he said, adamant on dismissing her worries.

“What if he’s never found-.”

“That is for me to worry about,” he sternly interrupted, discarding her worries, he sighed before resting his hand on her shoulder “Our thirst for vengeance will be sated, I promise you, but leave that to me.”

Her lips twisted shut, still dissatisfied but found it pointless to argue with her grandsire, and rather disrespectful to doubt a lord. She asked “is grandmother alright?”

A long sigh escaped him as he stared at her, slowly shaking his head in answer.

A sheen of tears covered her lilac eyes as she imagined what her grandmother must have been going through at this very moment, having lost her two children in such a short period of time “can I go see her, before I leave?”

He took her small hand in his as he carefully told her, readying himself for the flood that might soon follow “I think it would be for the best that… your grandmother sees no one, she is not well, and she needs time to… grasp what has happened,” he stopped when he saw her lips begin to tremble and her eyes begin to shine with heavy tears “In a few months, you can write a letter to her, if you wish.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, battling the urge to cry. She wished she could be with her grandmother, so she would have someone's hand to hold as she walked through this conclusion of love. Right now it felt as though she was stumbling and she had not even made it halfway. 

She slowly recoiled her hands from him, looking back towards the glowing curtains, her tired voice asking him “when do I have to leave?”

“The ship is being prepared, I will escort you to the harbour when you are ready,” He told, knitting his brow as he watched the despondent Daenerys retreat into herself. He considered reaching out to the distant girl, but thought it best to leave her alone, have her mother guide her through this instead. He stood up and looked down at her, pitifully.

“I am so sorry child.” 

Daenerys tilted her head towards him, her gaze falling to the ground as she watched him step away from her line of sight. The door clicked shut behind him as he left.

She grimaced as she felt ugly sobs begin to push against her lips. She glanced over at her tear stained pillow, her trembling hand slipped beneath it and wrapped around the cold handle beneath. She pulled out her fathers dagger, she hid it fearing it would be taken away from her. 

Her eyes skimmed over the sheathed dagger resting in the palms of her hand, her gaze falling upon the silver Seahorse wrapped around the cyan hilt. Heavy tears fell from her burning eyes at the sight, sobs beginning to rake through her body in between her groans of anguish. She held the dagger close to her beating heart. Curling into herself as she hunched over, wanting for nothing, but to shrink away from this cruel world. 

Helaena Targaryen.

Friend.

Aemond Targaryen.

Friend.

Harwin Strong.

Friend.

Laena Velaryon.

Aunt.

Laenor Velaryon.

Father.

So many names to remember.

A storm had begun to roll into the gullet, its menacing dark silhouette lining the horizon east of driftmark, where Daenerys had spent hours staring out into. East, where she was to go with her father, the place she had dreamed of venturing into for years, the place she had long pictured in her wonder fueled mind, and a place that would remain forever within the confines of her imagination.

She stared out onto the eastern horizon with a solemn look on her face, her hands tightly clenched around her fathers dagger beneath her cloak. 

Corlys watched her from afar, thinking to himself that she was too close to the edge of the port for his comfort. 

“READY THE SAILS!” 

Those words were a sign that it was time for her to leave.

Corlys called out to her “Daenerys!” she turned to look at him from where she stood “it is time!”

She sighed, paying one final sharp glance across the narrow sea before making her way towards her Grandsire, he brushed his hand over her head before guiding her towards the ship, where her two temporarily appointed guards awaited her. 

She paid them no mind, for her gaze was plastered to the ground, vacantly staring at it, she had not imagined grief to be so tiring. Corlys rested his hand on her shoulder, turning her to face him, giving her a tight smile that faltered when he had received nothing in return. Hesitantly, he pulled her in for a short yet awkward hug, one she had not returned for her hands were too busy hiding the dagger beneath her cloak. 

As he pulled away he spoke his last words to her “safe travels granddaughter.”

She nodded in appreciation “pay my grandmother my condolences, please grandsire.”

He tentatively nodded “of course.”

She walked up the ramp and onto the deck.

Corlys kept his pitying eyes on her as he spoke to the guard “did you hear what had happened to the men that had the nights watch the night prior?” he nonchalantly asked them.

The two men gulped but kept their composure, as they were trained to “yes my lord.”

“Good, so I needn’t explain myself when I say this,” he took a step closer to the two men, his gaze darkened as he looked at them both “If I so much hear that you’ve glanced away from my granddaughter during your watch, know that I will have you flogged and debased in the streets of Spice Town before I have you armoured, bound and thrown out to sink to the deepest and darkest parts of the sea,” he calmly threatened, glancing between the two, satisfied by the beads of sweat forming on their brows “I should hope the both of you heed my words before my creativity finds its limit.”

The two men nodded their hands before rushing upon the boat, frantically searching for the dark haired princess. 

Corlys sighed to himself, paying a glance to the stormy horizon before leaving the harbour and returning to the haunted, empty and desolate confines of one of his greatest achievements, High Tide. 

The dark room of the princess of Dragonstone was Rhaenyra holding her coat tightly around her body as she stood before her blazing hearth, her damp hair cascading down her back and sticking to her sweaty face. Ethereal hues of blue and welcoming tints of warmth shining off the Valyrian facets of her face. Even though Rhaenyra was in Dragonstone, she could not help but have her thoughts return to Driftmark, to where her daughter had been. She knew that Daenerys would be the one to bestow upon them the news of Laenors death, such terrible news to rest on the shoulders of a child. She found it difficult to move about her day with the heavy guilt weighing on her chest. Her sweet daughter adored her father, Daenerys cherished him more than her, a truth she eventually succumbed to over the passing years. She had hoped there was someone to console her once she had found out, but it saddened her to believe that no one had, and instead surrendered to the fact that her daughter was to sit alone with her grief. 

Hands slid around her waist and up her body, one hand resting on her tense shoulder while the other rested just beneath her breast. A calming embrace as she rested her hand upon the one engulfing her shoulder.

Daemon in his name day suits stood behind Rhaenyra as he embraced the absent woman. Her stiff shoulder relaxing beneath the press of his forehead against it. The smell of their coupling lingered in the air around the secluded room.

A contented sigh left her lips as she fell against him, she had not realised how long she had desired such a feeling, to feel safe again, her worries burning away when she was within his secure embrace. No longer did she need to hide behind necessary courtesies, tight smiles, and needing to worry about an appearance not true to who she really was.

Daemon, as impatient as the rogue prince was deemed to be, had awaited this moment for years, for their paths to not cross, not pass by, but to forever intertwine. He relished that she was finally where he had always wanted her to be, in his arms, no sea, no sky, no king could tear them apart again. They will stand together within the walls of fire they had built, walls none would dare pass through and neither will leave, lest they choose to burn.

Rhaenyra, as carefree as she may have felt, could not shake away the worry that had grasped her. Her daughter was alone, unaware of the rusted and poison laced knife of grief hurling her way. 

“Do you think he told her?” she asked, still staring at the flames.

Daemon hummed “He would be fool to draw any suspicion to her,” he sighed as he burrowed into the side of her neck. “He would be wise to keep his mouth shut, and let the girl stay blissfully blind to the truth.”

Rhaenyra scoffed in disbelief “bliss?” she questioned.

He stepped away from her, allowing her to turn and face him, seemingly used to the nude sight. He reached for the thin throw that rested over his chair and lazily sprawled it across his lap.

“Need I remind you why we have done this?” he asked her, earning himself a frustrated huff from the woman before him.

“No, I don’t need reminding,” she told him, “but my children… I refuse to subject them to this false grief.”

He sniggered “in many ways their grief is false.”

She gave the man a warning look before saying “once Daenerys arrives, I will tell them all.”

“You can’t.”

“It is of little consequence if they know.”

“But it is crucial that they don’t,” he explained, standing up from the chair, holding the cloth around his waist “we will be burdened by the truth that Laenor lives, but your children will not, their unfeigned grief will help us and help them,” he said, trying to meet her avoidant gaze “their grief will garner sympathy from the realm and dampen the whispers that you were responsible for his murder.”

She pondered his words, hating how her mind agreed with him. She is the heir to the iron throne, she has a duty to the realm, but her desire to shield her children from this ugly grief clashed with this duty. 

She eventually surrendered to her duty, saying to herself aloud “what mother would kill her children's father?”

Daemon gave her a proud smile, cradling her face in his hands as he pressed his forehead to hers “exactly.”

Rhaenyra sighed as she rested her forehead against him, her hands resting against his scar littered chest.

Daemons soothing strokes to her cheeks, kneaded away her fears, her eyes sliding shut as she settled into this very moment. ‘How much longer must this last?’ she asked herself.

The two could say that they belonged to the other as much as they wished, it was only a matter of time before they could be torn away from the other again. This room of flames they had built had a door, and they have yet to make a key.

She could not think of that right now, she did not want to imagine the pile of letters beginning to grow at her fathers bedside, she did not wish to picture herself at the side of anyone else but him. She wished to sink comfortably into his world, a world without fear, a world where she was forever safe.

She touched her lips confidently against his own, parting his cat-like smirk with her tongue as she pushed herself against him. The two melding together in an all too familiar dance they have been having these past few nights. As her fingers slid up to dance around his jaw, his hands slid away from her face, and down to her shoulders, pulling with him the hem of her lazily put on robe along with him. A hum of satisfaction escaped him as he heard the cloth fall heavy on the ground.

He heaved her up into his arms, comfortably situated between her legs as he guided her back to the bed. Too eager to lay her down comfortably on the already soiled sheets.

He tossed her down upon the bed, forcing her already spread knees further apart. Moaning at the sight of his seed seeping from her wet cunt. He hooked his arms beneath her knees and pulled her towards him. Smirking as he saw the playful glint in her half lidded eyes. 

A throaty chuckle escaped her as she linked her ankles behind him, her hands running through her hair as she sprawled it around her. 

Her brows knitted as she saw him marvelling at her while he kissed along the length of her thigh, she clasped her hands over her stomach as she teased “So eager to leave again uncle?” she asked, running her toes along his back “I suppose I could write to Ser Criston, I imagine him bored to death by the unexciting company he has been surrounded with.”

Daemon gave her a warning growl, not appreciating the reminder “I had hoped to only relish in this…” he mumbled, hovering down just above her face, his lips a taunting distance away from her own. Rhaenyra was too busy craning her neck to reach his lips, to notice him lining his rigid cock against her entrance.

She cried out at the intrusion, cupping her lips to muffle her scream. The empty halls of Dragonstone would have carried the sounds of their unholy pleasure all across the castle, To the ears of their sleeping children.

Daemon's face contorted with relief as he fought the urge to collapse, his pleasure was interrupted as he saw her cup her mouth, stifling her whines. He let her legs collapse at his sides, his hand reaching up and tightly gripping her wrist, tearing her hand away from her mouth and pinning it above her wrist.

“Do not hide it, do not hide these sounds,” he said between heavy pants “you are the heir to the iron throne, you do not feel shame.”

Her brows knit with confusion and worry “but- what if someone hears-? Oh!” she groaned as he harshly thrust into her.

“Nyke jāhor colour zōbrie mandia mele rūsīr pōja ānogar,” he assured, grunting with every slow thrust he made. She moaned as she heard him speak in her favoured tongue, in the words of their ancestors. I will colour dark sister red with their blood

A shuddered moan escaped her quivering lips as she felt him press his hand against her womb, that pressure along with the feeling of him pummelling into her with abandon, sent her for a spiral as her eyes rolled back into her skull.

Daemon wanted her to relinquish her fears, wanted them all to be set alight and turned to ash, he would not have his wife-to-be afraid with him at her side. He wished to purge that feeling from her, for her to forget its existence.

“Issa dāria jāhor daor gīmigon zūgagon, ziry jāhor sagon zūgagon,” he mumbled before crashing his lips against hers, a clash of teeth and a mess of tongues. My queen will not know fear, my queen will be feared

Her free hand slid down to the round of his ass, clawing at it as she reached her blinding peak the fifth time that night. A guttural cry falling from her gaping mouth, her trembling legs falling limp at Daemons sides. His hips stuttered as he reached his end, his heart swelling as he saw how Rhaenyra had looked at him through the haze of her euphoria, a look of adoration, of a freed longing.

He groaned against her parted lips as he spilled his seed within her. Riding this high that could never grow old with languid thrusts.

Rhaenyra squeaked as he continued his movements, prodding at the spot where all her desire swelled with excitement deep within her.

The sounds of their soft pants cut through the comfortable silence between them. Daemon heaved her up the bed before settling beside her resting his arm beneath her head. 

A tired smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she turned to look at him, the rays of first light seeping through the parted curtains and painted their shining skin with a warm glow.  

The sun arose, marking the beginning of a new day, and they have yet to be torn from one another. Nor will they ever be separated for as long as Daemon would be known as the Rogue Prince. 

A quick knock came at the door, and dread had tainted Rhaenyras tiredly content face. She quickly sat up from where she layed, ignoring the beautiful ache that tore through her body. She missed the disappointed look on Daemon's face, who hated how fast the mask had slipped upon her face.

“Yes?” 

“Your grace, a ship has been sighted off shore,” the guard informed “a long gallion flying a silver seahorse.”

Rhaenyra glanced back towards Daemon, who arched his brow “Daenerys.”

Daenerys’s gaze was fixed east for the entire day on the ship back to Dragonstone. Refusing to enter the captain's cabin for shelter and rest. She could not find sleep, how could she if her mind had been bombarded with so many emotions. How can one feel sad when they are angry, feel love when their love is absent, how can she possibly manage this emotion if she did not know which one she was truly feeling. She felt like a fool for even attempting to advise her mourning cousins on how to grieve their mother

She had hoped the smell of the refreshing sea would distract her for even a moment, from the troubles that plagued her, from the many names that beat against her skull. She did not know if she was thankful or not, her grief gnawed painfully at her heart, but their names seemed to echo in her mind. 

She should have been thankful.

But she was not, she instead felt angry and wounded in a way never before had she experienced. This was not fair, why would the world do this, why would they smite so much of what she had loved and not let her atleast try to fight to protect it.

‘How stupid is that?’ she asked herself ‘what could I possibly do to protect anyone.’

She shook her head as she admitted the harsh truth, she was only a girl with purple eyes and what could her eyes possibly do to protect her family. 

She hated the gods for this cruelty, robbing her of all she loved and giving her nothing to protect it with. 

“Princess, we’ve arrived,” one of her guards told.

She frowned and glanced to the front of the ship, they had already arrived at the harbour. Her eyes ran over the massive structure of dragonstone, her eyes beginning to water as she realised it was one occupant short. She sniffled before turning to look back out onto the hued horizon, the sun rising from the distant east.

She heaved in a deep breath before prying herself away from the railing and towards the ramp. The guards closely followed her as she began to make her way off the ship.

As she reached the top of the ramp her eyes widened when she saw a familiar face. Her mother stood waiting for her.

A wave of relief washed over the tense Rhaenyra at the sight of her daughter, but she could not help but mourn the change in her. She had barely recognised the daughter that had lost the glow of joy that had always adorned her young face. The skin around her eyes rubbed raw from what she had assumed was crying.

Daenerys stared at her mother for a few moments, in disbelief of the sight, the haunting thought of losing her had planted a seed of unspeakable fears within her young mind. She ran down the ramp, charging towards her mother before the world could tear her away from her grasp. The action startled her two appointed guards who had failed to stop her. Fresh tears had begun to spike her eyes as she rushed towards her mother, whose arms lay outstretched before her.

Rhaenyra stumbled back as her daughter latched onto her, wailing in her arms as she finally allowed the dam to collapse, Longing to be held in her agonising grief.

Rhaenyras heart shattered at the sound of her cries, she stowed away her knowledge of the truth and asked her distraught daughter “Dany, my sweetest love, what's wrong?” she asked, holding her daughter's red face in her hands.

Daenerys could barely speak, her fit of sobs and hiccups impeding her, her face a mess of tears and snot “its father-...” she whined at the mention of him “he's gone, he’s dead, he-.”

“Sh…” Rhaenyra shushed, pulling her back into her arms, hiding her from the prying eyes of everyone on the harbour who had begun to whisper and stare at the princess of Dragonstone. She thought she had imagined the worst of what her daughter could have been experiencing, how wrong she was. 

‘Your father is alive, he is safe Dany.’

She desperately wanted to say, but she knew she could not. She draped her cloak around her daughters shoulders, keeping her close to her side “Let’s go home, hm? get you settled back in?” 

Daenerys had not been capable of agreeing, still impaired by the sobs that had grown near painful, her arms tightly wrapped around her mothers waist. Rhaenyra nodded appreciatively towards the two relieved guards before turning to make her way back to Dragonstone, muttering sweet assurances to her daughter the entire way back. 

Daenerys sat stiffly on her chair, staring at the stained wood, Lucerys was crying in his mothers arms while Jace sat quietly beside his sister, a look of sorrow on his face as he looked down at his clasped hands on the table. 

Jacaerys was solemn in his mourning, he knew that Laenor was not his father, but he would not deny that the man had done his best to be one for them. He found himself growing angry, he was robbed of two fathers in such quick succession.

Lucerys was distraught once he had heard the news of his fathers death, the poor boy feeling the weight of his fathers inheritance settle uncomfortably on his weak shoulders. An inheritance that while others may have been excited for, he was anything but. He hated the blood that stained the seat he was to sit some day, splattered so soon with his fathers blood and soon or late his grandsire may follow. He did not want it, he did not want to have a throne, or this birthright if it meant that everyone around him needed to die for that to happen. 

The cold hand of duty was reaching out for him too soon, making the boy feel the need to grow up within a day and a night, a process by which he knew not how it even began.

“Why did this have to happen?” he cried out, his voice muffled against his mothers shoulder “why?”

Daenerys squirmed in her seat, glancing over to where her mother sat before having her gaze returning to the wooden grains. Her fingers painfully twisting the lobe of her ear as she tried to block out the sounds of her little brother's heart wrenching cries.

Rhaenyra did not know what words could possibly soothe her distraught children, what genuine words of guidance could she grant if she knew what had happened was a lie. She ran her hands through his knotted curls and drew calming circles on his shaking back, resting his head in the crook of her neck. 

“How did he die?” the angered Jacaerys questioned aloud, looking at his mother before recalling that it was his sister that had been there.

Rhaenyra stiffened at the question, staring at her squirming daughter, she frowned when she saw the look of disgust on her face as she scrunched up her nose.

“Jace,” she spoke, sending the boy a look of caution as he met the gaze of his wary mother.

What do I say? How can I describe the unimaginable sight? To my two young brothers of seven and six?

I could not keep my eyes fixed to one place as it kept flashing across my eyes. The body charred beyond recognition, the warm hands that held me when I was afraid were left twisted with agony, the proud grin that would shine from his face, his face…

His face was gone, there was nothing for me to recognise, nothing to say goodbye to, I did not even get to say goodbye! Gods, why was I so tired that night? I should have pinched myself to stay awake, till I bled if needed be. 

How interesting his stories from that night seem now, how eager I am now to read through another book with him, to have him put my knowledge of ships to the test again.

I wish to have done so much more with him, but he is not here to call for.

All we had dreamed of doing together, turned to ash with him.

I swallowed my sorrow and smothered this hurricane of emotions as I lied to my two brothers “Grandsire told me that he had died fighting, honourably.”

How dizzying this anger I felt had been, seeing that cravens face flash past my eyes. My fathers dearest friend, closest companion second to me, murdered him in such a manner and ran away, too scared to face the consequences of this grave misstep. 

May the stranger show that cruel wretch the same mercy he showed my father.

“He died a brave man…” Rhaenyra quickly followed her daughter's short answer, worriedly looking her once over.

Lucerys shook his head, mumbling “he should not have died at all…”

Rhaenyra clasped him closer to her “I know my sweet boy…” she muttered to him, resting a kiss on his head.

Jacaerys pursed his lips as he saw his sobbing brother before looking at his quiet sister. 

He tentatively reached for the hand resting on her knee, gently holding it in his. It had worked once with his cousin, he prayed that it would work with his dear sister.

She looked down at their joined hands, the gentle touch of her brother pulling her back into this room. For a moment, she had found his tender touch was rather comforting, but her curious mind interrupted this kind interaction with a terrible picture, what would it have felt like to hold the charred hand of her father.

She recoiled at the thought, imagining the feel of the jagged and flaking skin against her palm sent an unnerving chill through her body. 

Jace was startled by how she had torn her hand away, scooting to the furthest side away from him in her chair, itching to get away, to be alone.

They spent hours in that room, Rhaenyra reminiscing with her two sons by the hearth, while Daenerys had her back to them all in a corner furthest away from the blazing hearth. 

Dinner was eventually brought to Rhaenyra’s chambers, where she watched her uncommonly quiet children pick at the food, their plates having barely been filled and barely eaten. Her hands clenching around her own unused utensils while she watched her children wallow in this terrible affliction of an emotion.

Their unsatisfied appetite combined with the exhaustion of anger and sorrow had them tired. Rhaenyra had made quick work of tucking them in for the night, muttering a quick prayer to the mother, asking that she shield their minds from this grief while they slept. She watched over her sons till their eyes fell closed, gently cleaning Lukes face of the dried streaks of tears, and wiping away the tears that Jacaerys had attempted to hide.

This day was agonisingly exhausting, to have to look at her children's faces, to have to watch them cry because of her. She fought to repeat Daemon's words in her mind.

‘It is for the best.’

Those words have only grown to irk her with every tear that fell from her children's eyes.

As she made her way towards her daughter's room, she guiltily prayed that she had already fallen asleep.

As she opened the door, her heart fell at the sight of seeing her daughter sitting on her bed, staring blankly out her half open window. Her blankets, a trailing mess towards the covered hearth.

Rhaenyra shivered as the cold washed over her “Dany, you’ll get a fever!” she rushed towards the hearth, uncovering it so that she may set it alight.

“No!” Daenerys roared, her eyes wide with fear as they locked with the uncovered monster.

Rhaenyra flinched at the guttural sound, never had she imagined such a sound emerge from her daughter. As she looked over her face she was startled by the terror in those once innocent eyes, what force could have done that to her, what sight had this cruel world bestowed upon her young daughter?

 She carefully returned the cover where it had been frantically secured, Watching her daughter's features relax with relief as she did so.

Daenerys gulped when she saw the hideous sight had been covered, fixing her gaze back towards the window.

Rhaenyra frowned as she watched her daughter's odd behaviour, the slight sway in her posture, the way her eyes darted about as though they had been dancing around a sight she found too unbearable.

“Dany…” she whispered, picking up the discarded blanket from the ground as she made her way towards her. Sitting beside her still daughter “you will get a cold my love,” her soft voice said, wrapping the blanket around her daughter's stiff shoulders before pulling her into her side. If she would not use her hearth, Rhaenyra would do her best to offer her own warmth to her daughter.

Daenerys did not answer her mother, she was not wrong so she had not seen a reason to argue.

Rhaenyra sighed as she saw her daughter still away in her mind. 

The poor girl could not wander away from this emotional turmoil, so instead she would wander into the winding corridors of her mind.

“Dany…” she called out “Daenerys, talk to me please.”

Daenerys squirmed as she felt herself being pulled back here, to where her grievous wounds festered.

“I know you are hurting,” she sympathised, her thumbs kneading away at her arms “but my love… this hurt… it cannot be mended in silence.”

Her eyes squeezed shut and her nose scrunched again, muffled whines coming from her pursed lips. The sound the likes of a wounded animal. She began to tremble as the terrible memory startled her once again.

Rhaenyras brows knitted as she heard the noise, the sound of hurt she would learn to call it.

“I saw… I saw…,” Daenerys mumbled through her quivering lips.

“Saw what?”

What did you see Dany?

What such thing could have left you like this?

I did what I could to still her in my arms, but she kept rocking back and forth. I squeezed her into me, hoping to take this feeling, to absorb it into me and unburden her.

She huffed out a shaky breath, looking behind her, as I followed her fear-stricken gaze it landed on the covered hearth. There was nothing there, mayhaps there was a frightening critter, need I call for it to be cleaned?

“He was there…” 

He? 

Oh no.

Oh, please no.

I turned to look at her face, pleading for her next words to not confirm my fears “who was there…”

The corners of her lips downturned into a deep frown, grimacing at the taste of her next words “he died there, he burned there.”

I had not felt the tears seeping from my widened eyes “who Dany?”

“Father…” she succumbed to her sobs as she looked at me, the truth finally out “I saw him, I saw his body, I saw him burn-,” interrupted by her own sobs as she cupped her ears , beginning to curl into herself “I heard his screams.”

That is what she had seen, that is the sight that had scarred the precious eyes of my sweet daughter, because of me, the terrible consequence of this necessary choice that almost bordered on selfishness.

Gods, what have I done, why did I let you stay my sweetest love.

I winced as I heard my heart plead for me to tell her the truth of it. ‘Your father is well my sweet girl, he’s gone some place safer, safer than he ever was here.’

No, this is necessary, painfully necessary, but why did they have to endure it and not I?

As I looked at her, I found myself succumbing to a grief, a true one. Tears fell from my eyes as I mourned my daughter's innocence.

A cry left my lips as I pulled her into my arms, holding on so tight as to keep whatever was left of her scarce innocence. I rocked her shaking body in my arms, hoping for her whines to seize.

As I thought of ways to set that candle of innocence within her alight again, I hummed a familiar tune to her.

Laenor had told me everything I needed to know, that Daenerys had long kept secret from me. Had she known of this I would imagine her furious and dejected by her fathers doings, but we had no choice, these secrets may have been the greatest detriment to her.

It irked me to know that she had trusted him more than I, the bond between them I have yet to understand to this day. I knew the truth of her blood, she had not a drop of Velaryon in her, she was a Targaryen that was drawn away from fire and lured to the sea's escape.

The sea.

She always longed to cross it, to see the world beyond it. To wander would be a more fitting way to describe it, and now without her father that may never happen, unless.

“Dany… look at me,”  I whispered, pulling away and cradling her red face in my hands, attempting to knead away the lines of her anguish “I know you’ve always wanted to cross the narrow sea, to see the vast world with your father, for it to no longer be a story in that mind of yours,” would this be a mistake? “You have been patient enough all these years, I suppose it would be cruel for it to be all for naught,” maybe she will forget when the time comes? “When you turn five and ten, I will appoint to you a ship, and gather the finest sea men to be a part of your crew,” her frown turned from one of sorrow to confusion “with them, you will be allowed to sail across the narrow sea, to venture into the safer regions of those lands.”

Her eyes darted about as she considered my offer, I hope she did not find it insensitive. I eagerly waited for her answer, I suppose she liked it. Her sobs grew softer and her whines had stopped, but her face was devoid of emotion. I could only compare the empty look in her eyes and the frown on her lips as defeat.

She looked back out her half open window, before speaking the words that drove the poisonous  knife of guilt deeper into my heart.

“I wanted to return with precious memories.”