#The Hightowers are about Defiance

[fadingstudentbananacookie]

Aegon II Targaryen - The Last Dragonlord

Mother / Maia Baia, House of the Dragon, Fire & Blood / George R.R. Martin, A Storm of Sword / George R.R. Martin, Bhagavad Gita / Vyasa, Sister Sable / T. Mountebank

The Coronation of Aegon II by Basitien Lecouffe DeHarme The Depiction of A Pheonix by Friedrich Justin Bertuch Ouroboros by zarathus Battle of Rook's Rest by iasve Baela Targaryen and Moondancer by Dough Wheatley

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

Is there a better place for a king to make an heir than on the iron throne? Aegon would be so into that 🥵🥵

I haven't posted a Aegon request in a moment! There is not enough of him on here

Warnings: 18+, smut, throne sex, p + v, dirty talk, unprotected sex

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

You were sitting at your desk, responding to a message received by raven from your father when there was a knock on the door. Setting down your quill, you stood and went to the door, finding Criston Cole on the other side. 

‘’Your Grace. The King is requesting your presence in the great hall,’’ Ser Criston informed you, his new Hand of the King pin proudly displayed on the left side of his breastplate.

‘’Thank you, Ser Criston.’’ You gave him a nod of acknowledgment. 

The guards guarding the doors bowed their heads to their Queen and opened the door for you. Inside, the room was lit with a number of torches and seemed larger than usual. Mayhaps the absence of court attendees gave this illusion. Straight ahead of the doors, at the very end of the room, was the ugly heap of swords where sat the man you loved. Although, sitting wouldn’t be the word you would employ to describe the way Aegon was sitting. He was practically sprawled in the throne, his back slouched against one side, with one leg draped lazily over the armrest and the other hanging down. The Conqueror’s crown sat atop his white head, and you were surprised it had not fallen. 

You walked down the length of the hall, your footsteps echoed off the stone walls.

You paused a few steps from the throne. ‘’You’re going to cut yourself sitting like that, my darling,’’ you warned, mindful of the sharp swords used to make this throne. 

It was known to all of Westeros that whoever rested upon it must be careful not to make any sudden motions or else risked injury or even death. That very cut on King Viserys had been the trigger and downfall into his sickness. You didn’t want that to happen to your King husband.

Aegon shrugged, nonchalant as always. ‘’The throne doesn’t fear me.’’ His eyes glinted with a mix of mischief and defiance as you approached. 

‘’Just be careful,’’ you said softly. ‘’The Seven Kingdoms cannot lose their King so soon. I cannot lose you so soon.’’ 

‘’I am not as fragile as my father. I sit very comfortably here.’’ Aegon reached a hand out to you. ‘’Come.’’ 

You climbed the few stairs and he shifted, moving his feet to the ground to sit properly before pulling you down with him and sitting you down on his lap. Aegon’s hands found home on your thighs, covered by your dress, and began to run teasing circles over with his thumb. 

A few days ago, the Great Hall was filled with people as you were crowned King and Queen, but now you were all alone. 

‘’I’ve missed you at the small council meeting,’’ he said, his tone suddenly tender. ‘’Listening to everyone moaning about money, criminality in the city, and alliances for hours makes me want to take myself out. I would rather spend my morning riding Sunfyre or stay in bed with you. Speaking of bed.’’ Aegon brought his lips close to your ear and half whispered. ‘’Do you remember what I said on my coronation day?’’ 

He brushed your hair to one side so that it exposed your neck, and placed a number of kisses there, causing you to smile at his sweet touch. 

You leaned against him, feeling the warmth of his body through his clothes. ‘’That Rhaenyra would get burned to a crisp before sitting on your throne?’’ 

‘’Yes,’’ Aegon agreed with a soft chuckle, pressing a kiss over your shoulder. ‘’But that was not what I was meaning.’’ 

You took a moment to think, trying to remember every conversation you had on the day of his coronation. He had shared his fears as a new King as you were helping him get ready and the pressure his grandsire, Otto Hightower, was putting over him. Removing him as Hand of the King was one of the best decisions Aegon made.  

And then it hit you. A desire he had voiced to you in the secrecy of your bedchamber with nothing but his crown on his head. 

You glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. ‘’Now?’’ 

Aegon grinned, and you felt yourself getting aroused at the thought of having him in the throne room — on the Iron Throne. It was probably blasphemy to the crown, but Aegon was the one wearing the crown. If he wants to have sex on the Iron Throne, he will. 

‘’There is no better place to create an heir than the throne he will one day sit on, is there?’’ he asked, one hand going up your torso to palm your still clothed breasts. ‘’I've been thinking about this since the Conqueror’s crown was put on my head.’’ 

‘’Your wish is my desire, my King,’’ you said, shifting so you were straddling him. Your new position was causing the skirt of your dress to bunch, but you ignored it. It was a matter of seconds before Aegon would push it up and get his hands between your legs. 

His eyes sparkled with lust at your words. This was exactly why Aegon picked you for wife and not the sweet daughter of a Lord his mother wanted him to. You were just as twisted as him in your fantasies. He loved how willing and eager you were to please him, to do crazy things with him, it fueled his desire even more. 

You crashed your soft lips against Aegon’s, his hands on your body tightening as he felt desire spread through his blood. It always surprised you how quickly he could get hard. He plunged his tongue into your mouth and fiddled with the laces of your dress, blindly figuring out how to loosen them and free your breasts. Taking all of your clothes off would be too time consuming, but he couldn’t have sex without having his hands on your breasts. That was simply not a possibility. 

Aegon broke the kiss briefly to speak. ‘’I need to touch you,’’ he groaned, pulling harder at the laces of your dress. 

You reached behind your back to help him out, and pulled the bodice of your dress down your body, revealing your naked breasts to him. Aegon's eyes devoured you, his gaze flickering over every inch of your skin. His thumb brushed over one of your pebbled peaks before pinching it, making you hiss. 

Aegon's eyes flicked up to meet yours as you scolded him, but his smirk only grew wider. He did it again, harder this time, before he wrapped his lips around your nipple, tending to your sensitive bud. A soft moan slipped from your lips as your fingers threaded through Aegon's hair, tugging lightly as he sucked and nibbled on your nipple. Each touch sent jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He growled softly as he felt your body respond to him. His free hand squeezed your other breast, kneading it roughly as his tongue flicked over your hardened peak.

You arched your back, pressing yourself closer to him. ‘’Aegon,’’ you breathed, your voice a mix of need and impatience. 

His hand left your breast, trailing down your body, over the curve of your waist and hip, and finally slipping under the skirt of your dress. His fingers found your wet cunt, and he groaned against your skin. 

‘’Always ready for me,’’ he murmured, his voice thick with desire. His fingers teased your folds, dipping inside just enough to make you gasp, but not enough to satisfy your growing need. ‘’Always so responsive.’’ 

You bucked your hips against his hand, wordlessly begging for more. It’s not been a full day since you last had sex, but your body was craving Aegon. 

Beneath you, you could feel him through his breeches, his cock hard and begging to be let out of its confine. You reached between your bodies, working on undoing the ties of his breeches, the sound of fabric shifting barely heard over the rapid beat of your heart. His cock sprung out, long and thick for you and you wasted no time directing it between your legs, needing him. 

You wrapped your hand around him, guiding his weeping tip towards your entrance. He lifted your skirts and grabbed your hips, lifting you slightly to help position himself. When his cock brushed against your entrance, and you both moaned at the contact. You sank down on him with one smooth motion, his cock stretching you and filling you up completely. The sensation was delightful. 

A sigh of pleasure left your pink lips as you lifted yourself nearly off of his cock before slamming down again. Aegon’s grip on your hips tightened, pressing you flush against his so your soft breasts were squished against his chest. He attached his mouth under your jaw, kissing and nibbling as you bounced on him.

Your movements were fervent, each rise and fall on Aegon's cock sending waves of pleasure through you both. 

‘’You like that, uh? Fucking yourself on your King’s cock,’’ he asked.

You grabbed Aegon’s shoulders for support, going faster. ‘’Yes,’’ you breathed, your breasts bouncing from your movement. 

The room was filled with the sounds of your moans and the slap of skin against skin, and echoing outside the halls. Being quiet was not something you had mastered yet. 

Feeling your legs starting to hurt from the pressing into the steel of the throne, Aegon reached under your dress to grab at your ass, fingers digging into your flesh, guiding you as he pounded into you. He reached deeper than you did by yourself, making you throw your head back with a cry. 

‘’Ah, yes! Oh Gods—’’ Your voice bounced off the walls, causing a flush tint to appear on the faces of the guards standing outside, hearing the echoes of your moans and groans. 

Your cunt tightened around him, Aegon’s name leaving your lips over and over again as his cock slammed into you. Your thighs trembled as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through your body. 

‘’I'm so close,’’ you informed your lover, feeling the coil of pleasure tightening in your core. 

‘’Then come for me.’’ 

His mouth crashed on yours as his fingers found your clit, rubbing it in tight, fast circles, pushing you closer to the edge. You moaned, your walls tightening around his cock, heightening the sensation as he continued to pound into you. The combination of your moans and the feel of your body milking him drove Aegon over the edge. With a deep groan, he released inside you, his warm seed filling you completely as your walls clenched around him, drawing out both of your climaxes.

Aegon’s head dropped on your collarbones as his body stilled, his crown falling from his head and clattering on the floor beside the throne. He laughed against your skin.

‘’You think this was enough to secure an heir, or do we need to schedule another round?’’ you asked, running a hand through his hair.

—

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[necronomicorn]

Scorned Sympathy ( Aegon II Targaryen x Reader)

Fandom: House of the Dragon, Aegon II Targaryen x Fem! Hightower! Reader

Summary: Alicent Hightower's sister has always hated the King, and transversely, he has hated her back. But, that all changes after he returns from Rook's Rest.

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: none? I think, I don't know, its HOTD but mostly hurt/comfort and fluff

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They say that burns are a sacred death. The death of  dragon riders, honoring them among the living, and the dead. In his history lessons, Aegon had heard it was peaceful. Yes, there was supposed to be a screaming,  agonizing pain, but as flesh burned away, it took nerve endings with it, leaving them to feel nothing, numb. 

But Aegon hadn't been so lucky, he had only wished he had died back on the battlefield, died on impact of the flames. Then he wouldn't have had to suffer through spiraling to the ground, snapping his bones, or feel his armor being peeled away after it had merged with his flesh. He wouldn't have had to sleep nearly every hour of the day, waking up only to experience excruciating pain, relearning to walk when every step made him cry out in agony. 

The once comforting walls of his bedroom had turned into a torture chamber as he was forced to his feet by the Maesters, only to hobble around the confinements of those walls, good hand gripping the cane with enough force to drive splinters in his hands and cause his knuckles to turn white.

He cried out as the Maester pushed him into another step, holding him upright as best he could. Larys Strong stood in the patch of sunlight in the room, giving him an angelic halo, ironic as it was his devilish idea to make Aegon start walking so soon, only weeks after he had returned to the Red Keep.  

"Impressive," the club-footed man says, heads turning in his direction, "But I'm afraid you must work harder."

Aegon screams as Larys reaches around his other arm, cries of pain sounding like twisted laughter as together, they move him another step. Burned tissue stretched as they did, a blinding pain seeping through his barely-healed broken leg. 

The men pause in their persistence as the large bedroom doors swing open, silver-draped guards pushing them back to reveal the figure of Y/N, the youngest Hightower daughter. Her frame was draped in a long black gown, tied around her center with a golden chain that stopped several inches above the hem of her skirts. Long copper hair draped down her back, just as her eldest sister, yet that was where the similarities stopped. 

While Alicent was looked up to, a regal Queen of the realm, her sister had all but denounced her high-blood status, working in the streets as a herbalist, giving medicine to the poor, healing wounds, and delivering children. It wasn't until Viserys had died that Alicent welcomed her into the castle, for her protection, she had explained, though no man nor woman would dare to touch the 'witch'.

"Return the King to his bed, my Lords," the woman says, striding into the room, hands folded neatly in front of her gown. 

"The King must regain his strength, my Lady, he must practice," Lord Larys calls over his shoulder, dismissing her command.

Y/N smiles curtly at his defiance, "How would you like to disfigure your other foot, Lord Layrs?"

The man stops, struggling out from underneath the King's arm, "The King-"

"The King is too busy moaning in agony to give a shit about what you think," the woman interrupts, a boldness frowned upon in the castle, "Return him to bed, and leave us. I'm sure there are whispers to attend to."

Reluctantly, the Maester carries Aegon to his bed, allowing him to fall back onto the sanction of his covers. The Maester moves to lift the King's legs, despite his protests, earning a painful cry as they hit his sheets.

Vhisrya watches as the King rolls to his untainted side, arms curled up against his chest in defeat, body trembling as whimpers escape his scarred lips. The Maester exits quickly, Lord Larys slowly following, glaring at her with every step. It is only when she hears the large doors latch shut behind the men that she makes her way over to the King's bedside. He resembled a small child more than a man, curled around himself in loosely fitted clothes, eyes squeezed shut as his body shook.

He takes a ragged breath as he senses her presence beside him, eyes opening just the slightest to glare at the black-clothed woman, "Come to finish me off, witch?"

The witch makes no remark against him, only motioning for the boy to sit upright in the bed. He does so, grunting in pain, bracing himself on his good arm as he slides up to prop his back against the headboard. 

Y/N makes note of his trembling hands, the way he still insisted on putting up a bitter front despite not being able to move even a foot without collapsing in pain. It reminded her of his father. 

Regardless, she reaches for the buttons of his nightgown, pulling them apart hastily till his chest was exposed. Blistering red wounds stretched across the expanse of his left side, charred and black in some places, while in others, the skin had been cut away in jagged marks from separating melted armor from the King's flesh. 

"What-what are you doing?" Aegon trembles, fear lacing his voice. 

The woman's eyes move from his chest, to his face. He watched as they drifted from his swollen eyelid, to the top of his head, where silvery-blonde hair parted from vibrant burns, to where his ear once was, reduced now to a small lump that opened into his eardrum. He knew it was hideous, he wouldn't lie to himself, trying to persuade his own mind that he was still the beautiful boy the kingdom worshiped. He knew that if he healed, he couldn't even be seen in a pleasure house, not even the whores wanting to be fucked by a monster such as himself.

"Your grace?"

A soft voice draws him out of his own mind, one that was nearly unrecognizable coming from the woman beside him, "I have an ointment, one that should assist in healing your burns. But, I require you to remove your sleeves."

"Can't", Aegon grunts, talking becoming an exhaustion.

"I can assist you," the woman cooes, dragging the soiled fabric down his good arm first.

Aegon whimpers as her hand moves to his burned side, gently peeling the fabric from his neck, then down his shoulder, drawing near his bicep. He could feel the fabric stick to his skin, the pus that leaked from his wounds drying, attaching itself to the coarse fabric.

"I'm going to lift your arm," the woman says, earning a series of pleading "no"'s as she does.

The prince groans in pain, feeling the blistering skin stretch, muscle burning as she peeled the fabric away from his body, letting it pool around his waist.

Y/N could see the King's murderous gaze as she finished, pulling his arm back immediately, heavy breaths filling his chest, followed by shaking exhales. 

She makes haste, placing a mortar on the nearby table, filling it with oils and herbs, grinding it till the scent fills the room, overwhelmed by lavender. The King watches as she pulls a small vial from the pocket of her dress, opening it to reveal a nearly clear, thick liquid.

"What is that?" the King asks, the filth of his mind overpowering common sense.

Y/N looks back to the burned man, unaware he was watching her, "It's dragon saliva. Something in it prevents the dragons from being burned when they breathe fire, and proves itself to assist the healing process quicker than the Maester's brew alone. It only took me so long to bring it to you as your brother won't let me near his dragon, Sunfyre has not returned from Rook's Rest, and Helaena won't speak to me as she thinks I had something to do with your son's beheading."

Her last words come out as an aggravated shout, making the boy flinch. With a deep breath, she regains herself, carrying the mortar to his bedside, black dress fanning out on the sheets beside him, "I apologize, your Grace. You all think of me as some plague here to ruin the sanction of your home, yet Alicent refuses to let me leave the castle walls."

It was strange, hearing his mother's name be used so plainly, everyone else referred to her as the Queen, even Aemond and him referred to her as  "your Grace". 

Aegon clears this throat as the woman begins to spread the paste across his chest. It burned at first, but not to the level of the Maester's concoction. Perhaps dragon saliva was the key.

"She believes you would flee to Rhaenyra, aid her conquest for the crown," he grunts, intently gazing at the greenish mixture spread across his skin.

"And she is right," Y/N states plainly, "Rhaenyra is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, and you have usurped her crown."

"I could have your head for that," Aegon jokes, a faint smile, one of the first since he had returned, spreading across his lips. 

The woman smiles back, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she continues to coat his torso, " I could have already had yours."

"Why haven't you, then?"

The hand that holds the brush hesitates, as Y/N searches for an answer. In all honesty, she has had many opportunities to kill the man, yet the thought never truly crossed her mind. She takes a deep breath before continuing her strokes, "You may be a monster- the sins you have committed are so terrible that you'd burst into flames if you ever set foot in the Sept. But, I know you did not choose to be King, just as I did not choose to waste away in this castle. I do not wish to punish you for something you cannot control, you have suffered enough."

Aegon says nothing, only faint whimpers coming from his lips. His breathing stilled as the woman traced a line of ointment across his face, delicately placing it across the edge where untouched skin met charred flesh. His body jolts as she accidentally brushes over an open wound on his cheekbone, where his helmet had melted, merging itself with his flesh. Despite how careful the Maester had been when removing it, deep gashes still marred his face. 

The King yelps in pain, eyes shut as the oils burn their way through his open wound, sending a new wave of intense pain across his face. His body curls against itself, a position he found himself in more and more often these days. But rather than digging the nails of his good hand into the palm of his fist, he found a softer, more delicate hand in his , softly stroking the back of his hand with her thumb, "I'm sorry."

Aegon whimpers, the comfort of her touch calming the scarred boy. It was rare that he obtained touches like these, not even from his mother, despite how much she claimed she loved him. No, she was more focused on being Queen than being a mother.  His wife was the same way, more fascinated with her bugs than her husband, only laying with him when they were forced to produce an heir, before returning to her own quarters in solitude. He would watch Helaena with their own children, interacting with them, holding them, reading to them, only wishing that his mother had done the same. 

So Aegon welcomes the warmth of the witch, clutching her hand with the intention to never let go until his scars had healed and he could hold his head with as much dignity as a true king. "Tell me a story," Aegon whispers, distracting himself from the pain that stretched across his body with every breath.

Y/N smirks, placing the mortar between her legs so she could continue placing the ointment with his hand still clutching her own. 

"Once upon a time, there was a beautiful Princess, who was locked away in a tower guarded by a fierce dragon. Her parents, the King and Queen, missed her dearly, and declared that any knight who were to rescue her from the dragon's keep, would marry the lovely Princess.

Not far from the kingdom lived a beast, alone. He was happy that way, till a power-hungry Lord wished to take the beast's land for himself. Upset, the beast made a deal with the Lord, in exchange for his land, the beast would rescue the Princess from her dragon's keep, so the Lord may marry her. True to his word, the beast saved the girl, yet as they traveled back to the Lord's castle, the beast found himself falling in love with the Princess."

Beside her, Aegon's breath slows, muscles relaxing against her grip, yet his violet eyes stay fixated on the woman. He listens to her intently, soft voice ringing through the silent room, as airy as wind blowing his curtains in the night. 

"One night," Y/N continues, brushing the ointment across his scarred forearm, "The beast sought to confront the Princess, yet when he came to her cabin, he heard vile words coming from her mouth, ones solely describing such a monster as the beast. Furious, he gave her to the Lord, returning to his swamp alone. Yet, he couldn't forget the Princess, as even if she despised him, he loved her. So, he returned to the Lord's castle the night of the wedding.

As the sun fell that night, the beast watched as the beloved Princess transformed before his eyes, to a beast herself. Cursed by a witch many years before, the Princess turned ugly, monstrous, every night, the curse only to be broken by true love's kiss.

Together, the beast and the Princess slayed the Lord, and wed that night. Yet, when she kissed the beast, her appearance remained disfigured. The Princess then realized, that love's truest form was not based in beauty, but in happiness. She returned to the swamp with her beloved beast, and the two lived happily ever after."

Vhisrya finished her story with a smile, placing the brush back in the mortar. She looks down at the King, whose eyes were shut. For a moment, she thinks he has fallen asleep, but Aegon grunts, indicating he is still conscious, "Was there a moral to that story?"

He had only thought of the question after listening to one of Jaehaerys's lessons, one of the few times he was sober while the sun was still high in the sky. It made him feel like a child himself, curled along his tutor's side as she read him tales of past Kings.

The woman beside him rolls her eyes, placing her hand atop his own, "The moral is that even though someone may appear hideous, it does not make them a beast."

A deep flush overtakes Aegon's body, understanding her words. Still, he purses his swollen lips, "What if one's insides are as hideous- as hideous as their outsides?"

"Then that is truly a monster," Y/N replies, watching as the boy's face turns to a scowl.

A few moments of silence pass before the woman lets out a heavy sigh, "The beast was known for killing villagers set foot near his swamp, yet after he rescued his bride, he never killed again. He changed, Aegon, and you can too."

A chill is sent up Aegon's spine when she says his name. Like the rest of his court, she only addressed him "your Grace", and even when she did refer to him indirectly as "King Aegon", spite laced her words, bitter as poison. In every sober moment he had believed that she had hated him, yet her presence and aid in his time of need dismissed the notion from his mind entirely. 

Not even his mother had looked at him for this long, or made conversation so kind. Aegon had seen her, several times, hovering behind the Maester's as they tended to his wounds, yet she never dared to approach him, so close to his gnarled flesh. He couldn't blame her, he knew it was hideous, and the Queen's stomach was not meant to see such obscenities. 

In all honestly, neither should Y/N, but her previous line of work made her accustomed to such sights. The King swallows thickly, pain stretching up the left side of his neck, causing him to let out a small whimper. 

He feels the woman's hand stroke through his matted hair, hair that hasn't been brushed, or even washed in days. It shamed him, that he was incapable of keeping up his own appearance, needing the hands of servants to take the place of his own in combing his hair, washing him, dressing him, feeding him. 

"Will you stay with me tonight?" he whispers, discarding the last bit of dignity he held.

Y/N looked to the boy below her. There was a vulnerability in his eyes that she had never seen before, a glisten of sadness, despair, hopelessness. "Of course."

Aegon grunts as the weight shifts on the bed as she lays beside him, on his good side, not wanting to damage him in his slumber. The tormented King watches as she discards her jewelry on the furthest bedside table before fluffing a pillow to join him in the bed. Her long hair splays across the pillow as she grasps his hand, leaving several inches between the two of them. 

"Come closer," Aegon pleads, pulling gently on her hand, as much as his muscles would allow without excruciating pain.

"I don't want to harm you," Y/N says quickly, concerned etched in her features. 

"You won't" Aegon replies, sinking into the warmth of her body pressed against his own.

His body aches from his burns, the ointment only soothing his pain so much. It was nights like this, when Aegon couldn't sleep, when his body caused him so much trouble that he trembled and moaned until the morning sun rose. But as he curled against the woman, his pain began to subdue. He knew it wasn't literal, that her presence made his hurt go away, but he wished to believe it that simple, that she was his cure.

Y/N listened to his wheezing breaths slow as she held him, hand tight in her own. She felt the King's nose bury itself against the nape of her neck, a small grunt escaping his lips. She could feel his  chest rise and fall against her own as the King falls into a dreamless slumber. 

Darkness fills the room as the final candle burns low, the witch finally closing her eyes for her own rest, holding the broken, tortured boy in her arms, keeping him safe through the night. 

[novaursa]

okk hear me out!

gwayne x daemon daughter // kink repro

We all remember the tournament in s1, just imagine viserys decide that his niece (who is younger than nyra maybe 16) should marry sir gwayne to make more strength between their houses.

time pass they fell in love in oldtown and they raided Daeron as their own. They all come back when Luke was name heir of drifmark (during the audience). Daemon is furious to see her with gwayne.

But their chamber is right next to daemon and nyra, and at night gwayne is way more than ready to make understand that she is his 😏🔥

In Defiance of the Dragon

- Summary: When your uncle, King Viserys, promised your hand to Gwayne, your father was least pleased about it.

- Paring: targ!reader/Gwayne Hightower

- Note: For more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 4 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @holdingforgeneralhugs

The air in the tournament grounds is drenched with the scent of crushed flowers and churned earth, the banners of noble houses fluttering like the wings of restless dragons. The sun casts a golden shine over the scene, making the polished armor of the knights gleam like fire. You stand at the edge of the royal pavilion, a place of honor, though it feels more like a cage at this moment. Your heart pounds in your chest as the king—your uncle, Viserys—raises his hand to command silence.

The crowd hushes, anticipation hanging in the air. You can feel the weight of a thousand eyes upon you, but none as heavy as the gaze of Ser Gwayne Hightower. His presence is unmistakable even among the throng of knights, his armor adorned with the sigil of his house, the beacon of the Hightower shining bright against the steel. Your breath catches as you meet his gaze, a fleeting moment that seems to stretch into eternity. There is something in his eyes—an unspoken promise, a plea for understanding.

Viserys’ voice booms across the grounds, his words carrying the weight of royal decree. "Today, before the tilts commence, let it be known that my beloved niece, the daughter of Prince Daemon Targaryen, shall be wed to Ser Gwayne Hightower. This union shall strengthen the bond between our noble houses, binding the blood of Old Valyria to the steadfast walls of Oldtown."

A murmur ripples through the crowd. Otto Hightower, standing beside the king, allows himself a thin, satisfied smile. The whisper of steel, the low hum of murmurs, and the occasional startled cry from the gathered lords and ladies mingle with the pounding in your ears. Beside you, Princess Rhaenyra and Lady Alicent Hightower exchange a glance, though their expressions reveal little. You know Rhaenyra's thoughts well enough; her small hand squeezes yours briefly, a silent assurance.

Your eyes dart to the stands where your father, Prince Daemon, lounges. His posture is deceptively relaxed, but you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers drum against the arm of his seat. His eyes—those unmistakable violet eyes—burn with an intensity that sets your nerves on edge. When he rises from his seat, you feel a tremor of fear run through you, though you fight to keep your face composed.

Daemon’s voice, sharp and cutting, pierces the air. "I would face Ser Gwayne in the first tilt. Let us see if this union has the favor of the gods."

The crowd roars in approval, eager for the bloodshed and spectacle that is sure to follow. Gwayne’s gaze shifts, now locked onto Daemon’s. You see the flicker of concern in his eyes, quickly masked by the steel of resolve. He inclines his head, accepting the challenge with a courtly grace that belies the danger he now faces.

You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry. The fear gnaws at you, a beast with claws that rake against your insides. You force yourself to remain still, even as every instinct screams at you to intervene, to do something—anything—to protect Gwayne from your father’s wrath.

Alicent notices your distress, her voice a gentle whisper in your ear. "Do not fear, my lady. Ser Gwayne is a skilled knight. He will honor you in this contest."

Her words are meant to comfort, but they do little to soothe the storm raging within you. Your eyes dart between the two men who now occupy your every thought—the father who has always shielded you with his fierce love, and the knight who has stolen your heart with his quiet strength. What would your father say if he knew how often Gwayne had filled your thoughts, how often you had dreamed of a future together, away from the politics and dangers of the court?

As the knights prepare for the tilt, you can barely breathe. The cheers of the crowd fade into a dull roar in your ears, and all you can focus on is the two figures facing each other across the field. Daemon’s black armor, dark as night and adorned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, stands in stark contrast to Gwayne’s silvered plate. The dragon against the tower—a battle that feels all too symbolic.

Rhaenyra leans in close, her voice urgent and low. "You know your father, sister. He won’t hold back. You must steel yourself."

"I know," you whisper, though your voice trembles with the effort of holding back the fear that threatens to overwhelm you. You cannot let anyone see how deeply this affects you—not Rhaenyra, not Alicent, and certainly not your father.

The trumpets blare, signaling the beginning of the tilt. The horses rear, their hooves pounding the earth as Daemon and Gwayne charge at each other. Time slows to a crawl, and you can only watch, helpless, as the gap between them closes.

The impact is thunderous, the sound of steel against steel ringing out across the field. The force of the blow unseats Gwayne, and he crashes to the ground in a heap of armor and dust. Your heart lurches in your chest, and you rise to your feet, barely aware of the gasps and cries around you.

"Gwayne!" you hear yourself cry out, the name escaping your lips before you can stop it.

The crowd is on its feet, roaring with excitement, but all you can see is Gwayne, motionless on the ground. The world blurs as tears well in your eyes, but you blink them away, refusing to show any weakness.

Daemon circles back, his expression inscrutable behind his helm, but you can feel his eyes on you. This was no accident; he wanted to make a point, to remind everyone that no one—Hightower or otherwise—would take what belonged to a dragon without consequence.

But then, Gwayne stirs. He rises slowly, his movements pained but determined. Relief floods through you, but it is quickly replaced by a renewed sense of dread. Daemon is not done—not yet.

Before you can react, Gwayne is back on his feet, his eyes locked onto Daemon's. The defiance in his stance is clear—he will not yield, not even to a prince of the blood. You feel a swell of pride for him, despite the fear gnawing at your insides.

Daemon, sensing the mood of the crowd shifting, raises his lance once more, ready for another pass. But this time, something in Gwayne’s demeanor gives you hope. His gaze flickers to you for the briefest of moments, and you see the silent vow in his eyes—a promise to fight for you, no matter the odds.

The horses charge again, and this time, Gwayne meets Daemon’s strike with a fierce determination. The impact is brutal, but Gwayne holds his ground, refusing to be unseated. The crowd roars its approval, the tension in the air is felt.

When the dust settles, both knights remain in their saddles, battered but unbroken. It is Daemon who finally raises his hand, signaling the end of the tilt. There is no victor, no vanquished—only two men who have tested each other’s mettle and found themselves equally matched.

The relief that washes over you is overwhelming, and you sink back into your seat, your hands trembling in your lap. You dare a glance at Gwayne, who inclines his head to you with a slight, weary smile. It is a small gesture, but it fills your heart with warmth.

As Daemon dismounts, he casts a long, lingering look in your direction. There is something unspoken in his gaze, a challenge, perhaps—or a warning. But for now, you do not care. You have seen Gwayne survive your father’s wrath, and that is enough for you.

For the first time since this day began, you allow yourself a small, secret smile. The road ahead may be fraught with danger and intrigue, but you will face it with the courage of a dragon—and with Gwayne by your side.

You stand at the window of the Hightower, looking out over the sprawling city of Oldtown, where the cobbled streets wind like serpents beneath the autumn sun. The air is cool, tinged with the salt of the Whispering Sound, carrying with it the scent of the sea that you’ve come to know so well. The bells from the Starry Sept toll the hour, their sound reverberating through the stone walls of your home.

Your home. It’s a thought that still brings a small smile to your lips, even after all these years. The Hightower is vast, imposing, and ancient, its walls steeped in the history of Oldtown and the Hightowers themselves. Yet within these walls, you have found something unexpected—peace, and more than that, love.

Gwayne is beside you, his hand resting on the small of your back, a comforting weight. His touch is gentle, yet there’s a strength in it that you’ve come to depend on. He’s watching you with that soft expression that always melts the last of your worries away, the lines of his face relaxed, his grey eyes bright with the warmth of the afternoon light.

“He’s arrived,” Gwayne says, his voice low and calm, a grounding presence. You turn your head slightly to meet his gaze, the unspoken question in your eyes.

“Prince Daeron,” he clarifies, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Alicent’s letter arrived this morning, and they’ll be here within the hour.”

You nod, the familiar flutter of anticipation and duty stirring in your chest. Prince Daeron, the youngest son of Queen Alicent, sent to Oldtown to be raised and educated under the care of your husband’s family. It’s a great honor, of course, but more than that, it feels like a trust, a bond that ties your houses closer together.

Gwayne’s hand moves from your back to your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. “He’s young, but from what we’ve heard, he’s bright and eager to learn. He’ll thrive here, I’m sure of it.”

You smile at his optimism, leaning into him slightly. “We’ll make sure of it,” you reply, your voice carrying the quiet determination that has grown within you over the years. Oldtown has become a sanctuary of sorts, a place where you and Gwayne have built a life together, despite the stormy beginnings of your union.

You can still remember the day of the tourney, the way your heart had pounded with fear as your father had chosen Gwayne as his opponent. The memory lingers like a shadow, but it’s one you’ve learned to live with, just as you’ve learned to live with the man who became your husband.

Gwayne, sensing the shift in your mood, squeezes your hand gently. “He’ll have the best tutors, the finest training. And he’ll have us.”

“Yes,” you agree, turning your gaze back to the city below. “He’ll have us.”

The grand hall of the Hightower is filled with the warmth of a roaring fire, the stone hearth dominating the room. The thick tapestries that line the walls soften the sound of footsteps on the stone floor, and the smell of spiced wine and roasted meat fills the air.

Daeron is smaller than you expected, a boy of perhaps seven years, with a mop of silver hair that falls into his eyes. Those eyes, so much like his mother’s, are wide with curiosity and just a hint of nervousness as he stands before you and Gwayne.

“Welcome to Oldtown, Prince Daeron,” Gwayne says, his voice kind but formal, as befits the occasion. He kneels slightly, bringing himself closer to the boy’s level, a gesture of respect and warmth that seems to put Daeron at ease.

The boy glances up at you, his lips parting in a small, shy smile. “Thank you, Ser Gwayne,” he replies, his voice small but clear. Then, turning to you, he adds, “My lady.”

You kneel beside Gwayne, reaching out to take Daeron’s hand in yours. His fingers are cold, and you can feel the slight tremor in them. “You’ll be safe here, Prince Daeron,” you assure him softly. “This is your home now.”

Daeron looks up at you, his young face a mix of emotions—fear, uncertainty, but also trust. It’s a look that tugs at your heart, and you find yourself wanting to protect this boy, to give him the guidance and care that only family can provide.

“We’ll take good care of you,” you promise, your voice gentle but firm. “Just as we would our own.”

The boy nods, and you can see the tension in his small shoulders begin to ease. He looks around the hall, taking in the grandeur of the Hightower, the vastness of the space that is now his home. There’s still fear in his eyes, but there’s also a glimmer of something else—hope.

Gwayne rises to his feet, offering his hand to you. “Come,” he says to Daeron, “let’s show you the rest of the Hightower. There’s much to see, and I believe the maester has prepared something special for your arrival.”

Daeron hesitates for just a moment before he takes Gwayne’s offered hand, his small fingers gripping tightly as though seeking reassurance. You stand beside them, a silent guardian of this new bond that is being forged.

As you walk through the halls, Gwayne points out various tapestries, statues, and paintings, telling stories of the history of the Hightowers and Oldtown. Daeron listens intently, his earlier nervousness slowly melting away under the gentle guidance of your husband.

When you reach the maester’s chambers, you’re greeted by the sight of a table laden with books, scrolls, and an array of strange instruments that immediately capture Daeron’s interest. The maester, a kindly old man with a beard as white as snow, greets Daeron with a deep bow.

“Prince Daeron,” the maester says warmly, “I’ve prepared a special lesson for you, one that I think you’ll find quite interesting.”

Daeron’s eyes light up with curiosity, and for the first time since his arrival, you see a genuine smile on his face. He looks up at you and Gwayne, his eyes shining with excitement. “Thank you,” he says, his voice more confident now.

Gwayne squeezes your hand, and you can’t help but return the smile. This, you realize, is what it means to be a family—not just by blood, but by the bonds you choose to create. In this moment, with the warmth of the fire and the promise of a new beginning, you feel something settle in your heart, a sense of fulfillment that you hadn’t known you were missing.

As Daeron sits down with the maester, already engrossed in the lesson that has been prepared for him, you and Gwayne share a look, a silent understanding passing between you.

And in this moment, as you both watch Daeron eagerly absorb the knowledge being offered to him, you know that you wouldn’t have your life being lived in any other way.

The halls of the Red Keep are as imposing as ever as you and Gwayne make your way through the corridors. It's been years since you last walked these halls, and yet they feel as familiar as ever—haunted by memories both bitter and sweet.

Gwayne’s hand rests on your elbow, guiding you through the maze of the castle with practiced ease. He’s dressed in the colors of his house, the green and silver of the Hightowers, his expression calm and composed as always. But you know him well enough to sense the tension beneath the surface, the way his gaze sharpens when he hears a distant sound, always vigilant, always protective.

You both turn a corner and nearly collide with a small entourage, led by none other than Rhaenyra herself. She’s flanked by her husband—your father, Daemon—and their children, their steps purposeful, their expressions tense. Rhaenyra’s silver hair gleams under the flickering torchlight, her violet eyes widening slightly in surprise as she sees you.

“Rhaenyra,” you greet her, your voice soft but steady, betraying none of the uncertainty you feel. So much has changed, yet seeing her here, a part of you yearns for the easy camaraderie you once shared as children. 

“Cousin,” Rhaenyra replies, her voice warm despite the strain visible on her face. She glances at Gwayne and then back at you, her gaze searching, perhaps for some sign of how the years have treated you. “It’s been too long.”

“Far too long,” you agree, your eyes flicking to Daemon, who stands slightly behind Rhaenyra, his gaze locked on Gwayne. There’s a tension in his stance, a stiffness that wasn’t there before, and you know immediately that your father is displeased.

Daemon’s eyes are dark, and though he remains silent, the disapproval is clear. His gaze travels from Gwayne to you, then back again, lingering on the clasped hands between you and your husband. A muscle ticks in his jaw, and for a moment, the air seems to thicken with unspoken words and unresolved history.

“You’re back in the capital for the petitions, I presume?” Rhaenyra asks, breaking the silence, her tone carefully neutral. The mention of the petitions brings you back to the grim reality of why you’re all here—the matter of Driftmark, and the question of succession that has thrown the court into turmoil.

“Yes,” Gwayne answers before you can, his voice firm. “We came as soon as we heard.” He glances at Daemon, his expression respectful but guarded. “It seems the crown’s decision is in favor of your son.”

Rhaenyra’s face softens at the mention of Lucerys, but before she can respond, a voice from behind her interrupts. It’s Jacaerys, his young face set in determination. “The matter should have never been in question. Luke is the rightful heir to Driftmark.”

You see the fire in his eyes, the same fire that once burned in Rhaenyra at that age. It’s both heartening and concerning, especially now, in these treacherous waters.

“That he is,” you say gently, offering a smile to Jacaerys. “And it’s clear to anyone with eyes that he’ll make a fine lord.”

Before Jacaerys can respond, Daemon steps forward, his presence commanding attention. His eyes are locked onto yours now, and there’s a storm brewing behind them, a mix of emotions you can’t fully decipher. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, carrying the weight of a warning.

“You’ve found happiness in Oldtown, I see.” The words are directed at you, but his gaze shifts to Gwayne as he says it, his tone laced with something darker. “Though I wonder if the cost was worth it.”

You feel Gwayne’s hand tighten around yours, a subtle gesture of support. “Happiness is not something to be questioned, Father,” you reply calmly, meeting Daemon’s gaze without flinching. “Nor is the loyalty I hold to both my families.”

Daemon’s lips twitch, almost as if he’s about to say something more, but Rhaenyra places a gentle hand on his arm, silently urging him to hold his tongue. There’s a brief moment where it seems he might ignore her, but then he lets out a slow breath, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

“We’re here to support our family,” Gwayne adds, his voice measured, addressing Daemon directly now. “In whatever way is needed.”

Daemon studies Gwayne for a long moment, the silence between them stretching thin. Finally, he gives a curt nod, though the hardness in his gaze doesn’t entirely soften. “As you should,” he says, the words clipped, before turning back to Rhaenyra.

“Come, we have business with the king,” he says to her, his voice brooking no argument.

Rhaenyra hesitates, her gaze lingering on you for a moment longer. “We’ll speak later,” she promises, offering a small, genuine smile before following after Daemon, their children trailing behind her.

As they walk away, the tension slowly dissipates, leaving you standing beside Gwayne in the dimly lit corridor. You exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, leaning slightly into your husband’s side. Gwayne wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you closer, his warmth a comfort against the chill that lingers in the air.

“That went… better than I expected,” Gwayne murmurs, a touch of wry humor in his voice, though you can hear the relief beneath it.

“He’s never going to fully approve,” you say quietly, your eyes fixed on the spot where your father had stood. “But he’ll have to accept it.”

Gwayne turns to you, his expression softening as he looks down into your eyes. “I don’t need his approval,” he says, his voice firm. “I have you, and that’s all that matters.”

You smile at that, a genuine smile that reaches your eyes, banishing the last of the unease. “And I have you,” you reply, your voice filled with the love and certainty that have grown between you over the years.

The heavy oak door of your chambers shuts behind you, a soft thud echoing through the room. The warmth of the fire flickers across the stone walls that dance in tandem with your heightened pulse. Gwayne stands before you, his emerald eyes sharp and intense, still simmering with the tension of your earlier encounter in the halls. He says nothing as he approaches, but the way his hand reaches for your waist and pulls you flush against him speaks volumes.

You’ve grown accustomed to the feel of him—the strength in his embrace, the heat of his breath against your skin—but tonight there is something different, something more urgent. The lingering traces of your father’s displeasure hang between you, and you know, without words, that it fuels Gwayne’s every movement.

His lips descend upon yours, fierce and claiming, tasting of the wine shared at the evening’s feast. You respond in kind, your hands weaving through the thick strands of his hair, pulling him closer, as though you could erase the earlier tension through sheer proximity.

His hands roam across your body with practiced familiarity, fingers curling around the ties of your gown, loosening the laces with deliberate slowness. Gwayne leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice low and rough. “I will make you scream for me tonight,” he promises, and the unspoken words hang heavy in the air—Let him hear.

Your heart flutters in response, not with fear, but with anticipation. The thought of your father just beyond the walls, likely brooding over his anger, stirs something within you. How often had Daemon whispered venom into your ear about the Hightowers, about how they were a poison slowly strangling your family? And yet here you are, wrapped in the arms of one who bears that very name, bound to him not only by vows but by something far deeper, something that even your father’s fury cannot tarnish.

Gwayne’s touch turns rougher, more insistent, and your breath catches in your throat as he lifts you with ease, laying you down onto the bed. The covers crumple beneath your weight, the mattress giving way as he settles over you, his eyes burning with a hunger that matches your own. “I want him to know,” he murmurs against your neck, his lips trailing fire down your throat, “that you belong to me.”

Your back arches involuntarily, and you bite down on your lip, the need to hold back your cries warring with the knowledge of who might hear. Gwayne’s hands grasp your hips, his grip possessive as he moves against you with a rhythm that leaves you breathless. Each movement, each deliberate thrust, is a challenge—a challenge to the walls that separate your chambers from those of your father and his wife.

The pressure builds inside you, the familiar heat coiling in your belly, and you grasp at Gwayne’s shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as you fight against the wave of pleasure threatening to drown you. His mouth hovers over yours, demanding, coaxing you to give in, to let go.

And then you remember—Daemon’s chambers are just beyond. The thought of his reaction, of his barely concealed rage at the idea of you finding joy with a Hightower, sends a thrill through you. You gasp aloud as Gwayne drives into you harder, his breath ragged in your ear, “Louder,” he commands, his voice a mix of authority and need.

You close your eyes, letting the sensation wash over you, letting the sound of his name tear from your lips, louder than before, louder than you ever have. You imagine the look on your father’s face, his fists clenched in helpless fury, and the thought sends you spiraling into a pleasure so intense it nearly blinds you.

Gwayne’s name tumbles from your lips again and again, each cry more fervent than the last, as he brings you to the edge and beyond. You feel his satisfaction in the way he groans your name in return, his hold on you unyielding, as though he could anchor himself to you through sheer force of will.

When it’s over, when the last echoes of your cries have faded into the night, you lay beside him, your body spent and trembling, but your mind still racing. Gwayne’s hand rests possessively on your hip, his chest rising and falling with the remnants of exertion. “He heard you,” he says, his voice tinged with satisfaction.

You can only nod, the thought of what tomorrow might bring swirling in your mind. But for now, there is only this—only you and Gwayne, and the knowledge that whatever storm your father’s ire might bring, you would weather it together.

In the silence that follows, you curl closer to Gwayne, your fingers tracing idle patterns across his chest. “Tomorrow…” you begin, but your voice trails off.

“Tomorrow,” Gwayne echoes, his tone firm, reassuring, “we will face whatever comes. But tonight, you are mine, and that is all that matters.”

You smile softly at his words, closing your eyes as sleep finally begins to claim you.

[idkyetxoxo]

Daemon Targaryen - Rumours

Summary - Tensions rise as the princess grapples with the weight of whispered accusations regarding her virtue, all stemming from her uncle Daemon. With her reputation and future at stake, she must navigate this landscape, knowing that one wrong move could spell her ruin. 

Pairing - Daemon Targaryen x Targaryen reader

Warnings - Sexual content (slight)

Word count - 2252

Masterlist for Daemon • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

"I cannot tolerate threats of murder against anyone who dares to question me," I declared, my steps echoing through the solemn chambers.

"And why shouldn't I?" Daemon retorted, his voice challenging, as I sank onto a nearby chair, rubbing my temples in frustration. 

"My father can not keep cleaning up your messes," I reminded him sharply, the consequences of his actions pressing heavily upon me.

"He questioned your virtue, sowing doubt throughout the realm," Daemon argued, his words cutting through the air with precision. 

I exhaled wearily, acknowledging the uncomfortable truth in his accusation. It was an open secret that Ser Criston Cole, my sworn protector, harboured a dangerous fascination for Queen Alicent Hightower, seeming almost like her puppet.

"Alicent Hightower has never shown warmth towards me," I admitted bitterly, realizing that my position as heir to the Iron Throne threatened her son's safety.

"She manipulates him like a pawn in her twisted games," Daemon continued grimly, his expression darkening. I moved to sit on the edge of my bed, the gravity of the situation sinking in.

"He wasn't entirely wrong, uncle," I conceded through clenched teeth, frustration tainting my voice as Daemon smirked knowingly.

"They don't see it that way," he countered coolly. "Ser Criston Cole is sworn to you, it becomes a problem when he spreads whispers about the princess and future heir throughout court."

"He's being manipulated into it. Threatening him openly only gives credence to the very claims he seeks to spread," I explained, my tone pleading for understanding.

"You seem to be defending him a lot," Daemon observed, his tone shifting slightly, a curious challenge lurking beneath the surface.

I cocked my head to the side, curiosity sparking in my own eyes. "Are you jealous?" I asked, a teasing lilt to my voice.

He smirked an expression that danced between amusement and defiance. 

"Of him? Never." His words hung in the air, rich with unspoken implications, the tension between us simmering just below the surface.

"Besides, the princess's virtue has been tarnished, hasn't it? You played a role in that," I added, gesturing towards Daemon, who burst into laughter.

"As I recall, it was mutual," Daemon insisted, his voice carrying a hint of amusement that brought a faint smile to my lips, a reminder of the night that lingered in my memory as a treasured blur.

A knowing smile tugged at my lips. "Indeed, but we both know the consequences if our secret were to be exposed. It would undoubtedly create quite a stir," I replied, stepping closer to him, the air thickening with unspoken understanding.

Daemon leaned back slightly, his smirk deepening as he spread his legs, inviting me closer. I moved between his parted thighs, settling onto his lap with delicate grace. My hands instinctively found his neck, fingers lightly tracing the curve where his jaw met his throat.

"You're playing a dangerous game," Daemon cautioned, murmuring softly, his hands sliding around my waist, drawing me closer until our bodies were pressed together, the undeniable heat between us palpable.

"As are you," I countered softly, leaning in to brush my lips against his earlobe, feeling his steady breath against my cheek.

"As I recall, you're the one who said, 'The princess gets what the princess wants,'" I whispered teasingly into his ear, feeling his sigh against my cheek, his chest rising and falling with a hint of arousal.

He chuckled softly, and I couldn't help but smile, satisfied with the reaction I had provoked.

"And what does the princess want now?" he breathed, his voice low and husky, sending a thrill down my spine.

I met his gaze, a smile playing on my lips as I whispered, "Whatever she desires," before capturing his lips in a kiss that ignited a long-held passion between us. 

As our kiss deepened, the world around us seemed to dissolve into the intensity of our connection. I felt Daemon's fingers threading through my hair, his touch sending shivers down my spine. My own hands grasped at his shoulders, pulling him closer as if trying to meld our bodies into one.

His touch ignited a wildfire of desire within me, and I arched into him, my body responding eagerly to his caress. The air between us crackled with electricity as his hands wandered boldly, tracing the curves of my body under the fabric of my dress.

"Aren't you a sight," he murmured against my lips, his voice low and husky with desire intensifying the heat that coiled in my belly.

A gasp escaped my lips as Daemon's hands found their way beneath the fabric, parting my thighs with confident ease. I trembled at his touch, my breath hitching as his fingers explored, igniting sparks of pleasure that raced through my veins.

His smirk against my mouth only fueled the fire burning between us, each touch a promise of more to come. The need for him clouded my senses, making me ache for him in a way that was almost unbearable.

I undid his belt, his laughter soft and teasing. "Eager princess?" he asked, amusement colouring his voice.

All I could muster was a nod, anticipation coursing through me as I raised my hips, letting him slide off his pants. "You have no idea," I replied, my voice trembling with desire.

Lowering myself back down, I began to move, a slow, tantalizing grind against his crotch, teasing and testing his restraint. His reaction was immediate, a guttural groan escaped his lips, his head falling back in sheer pleasure.

"Don't tease," he managed to growl, his hand finding its way to the back of my hair, fingers tangling possessively. 

Smirking, I leaned in close. "Your wish is my command," I whispered, my voice low and sultry.

Positioning myself, I invited him to enter me, the tension between us mounting with each passing moment. 

"Daemon," I whispered breathlessly, feeling the heat of his desire matched by my own. "I want you."

His eyes darkened with need, and he shifted beneath me, guiding himself to where I ached for him most. "As you wish, my princess," he murmured, his voice thick with longing.

Just as the heat between us reached its peak, a sharp knock on the door shattered the moment like a cruel awakening. We broke apart with startled gasps, hearts racing as reality crashed back in around us.

Daemon's jaw tightened with frustration, his eyes locking onto mine in silent urgency. "Ignore it," he urged, his voice rough with need.

I hesitated torn. Another insistent knock followed, louder this time. The sound was followed by a cool voice calling my name, Alicent Hightower, the Queen herself, requesting entrance.

My heart raced as I hastily adjusted my dishevelled appearance, exchanging a quick, knowing glance with Daemon. He leaned back casually, a smirk still lingering on his lips, though his eyes held a glint of mischief and anticipation. 

The charged atmosphere in the room seemed to pulse with unspoken words, a dance of secrets hovering just beneath the surface.

"Enter," I called out, my voice betraying none of the tumultuous emotions raging within me. 

The door creaked open, revealing Alicent's composed figure framed in the doorway, her expression inscrutable as she swept her gaze over us. The air shifted, heavy with the weight of our previous exchange.

"Princess," she greeted me evenly, her eyes narrowing imperceptibly as they lingered on our rumpled appearance. "I trust I am not interrupting anything... important?"

"Not at all, Alicent," I replied, inwardly steeling myself for the conversation that was sure to follow. "What can I do for you?"

Alicent's gaze flickered between us for a moment longer, a subtle tension hanging in the air before she spoke again. 

"May I speak with you privately, Princess?" Her tone was polite yet tinged with an underlying urgency that sent a chill down my spine, a reminder of the balance of power we navigated daily.

I glanced at Daemon, silently urging him to leave us alone. He gave me a smile, his touch lingering briefly on my hand before he turned and left the room without a word, closing the door behind him with a soft click that echoed in the silence.

Alone now with Alicent, I faced her with a composed demeanour, though my mind raced with apprehension and uncertainty about what she might know or suspect. The room felt smaller, the walls closing in as her piercing gaze bore into me.

"Of course," I replied calmly, my voice steady despite the turmoil within. Each heartbeat resonated in my ears, a reminder of the delicate game we played.

Alicent stepped further into the room, her gaze unwavering as she regarded me with an intensity that made me uneasy. 

"I'm aware of the whispers circulating at court," she began, her voice measured yet edged with steel. "Rumors that cast doubt on your virtue." 

The accusation hung in the air, thick and suffocating.

My heart skipped a beat, but I maintained a serene expression, feigning innocence. 

"Surely you don't believe such baseless gossip," I responded evenly, though inwardly I braced myself for the inevitable confrontation, the collision of truth and deception that loomed ahead.

Alicent's frown deepened, her gaze piercing through my facade with unsettling clarity. 

"I need to know the truth, Princess," she pressed, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Are these whispers founded in reality?" The weight of her question felt like a blade, sharp and unyielding.

I met her gaze squarely, holding back the urge to falter under her scrutiny. "Of course not," I replied firmly, my tone unwavering. "How could you even question my maidenhood?" 

The words tasted bitter on my tongue, a necessary lie that threatened to unravel me.

Alicent's lips tightened into a thin line, a flicker of disappointment crossing her features before she masked it with practised composure. She knew I was lying, but there was little she could do in the face of my denial.

 With a subtle nod, she straightened, her expression regaining its usual calm facade.

"Very well," she said coolly, her voice carrying an undercurrent of warning. "But remember, Princess, appearances can be deceiving. Guard your reputation carefully." 

The warning hung like a storm cloud overhead, a reminder of the fragility of my position.

Rising to my feet with a resolve I hadn't felt moments ago, I squared my shoulders and met her figure with a firm gaze. 

"Might I remind you, the king, my father, has named me heir. Such whispers, as you say, could easily be construed as treason," I argued assertively, watching as a flicker of concern crossed her features.

"My reputation is mine to worry about," I added, emphasizing each word with a deliberate calm that belied the tumultuous emotions swirling within me. 

It was a statement of autonomy, a claim to the power I held, however tenuous it might be.

With that caution hanging in the air like an unspoken threat, Alicent turned on her heel and left the room, the sound of her retreating footsteps echoing in the silence that followed. The door clicked shut with a finality that left me breathless.

I allowed myself a moment to gather my thoughts. The encounter had left me on edge, and I knew I needed to address another loose end before things spiralled further out of control.

Summoning my resolve, I called out for Ser Criston, my voice firm and authoritative. Moments later, there was a knock at the door, and the knight entered, his expression respectful but curious. He bowed deeply, awaiting my command.

"You wished to see me, Princess?" he asked, his voice steady.

"Yes, Ser Criston," I replied, "We need to discuss the rumours circulating at court."

His expression tightened, a flicker of concern passing over his features as he approached me. "What rumours?" he asked, though his tone indicated he was well aware of the gossip.

"The ones that question my virtue," I stated bluntly, watching his reaction closely. His eyes met mine, worry reflected in their depths.

"I assure you, Princess, I have done my best to quash such rumours," he said earnestly, his hands clenched at his sides.

"Your best may not be enough, Ser Criston," I replied coolly, my voice low and dangerous. "These whispers threaten my position and the stability of the realm."

He straightened, a determined look settling on his face. "I understand, Princess. I will ensure that no one speaks ill of you."

I took a step closer, my gaze never leaving his. "See that you do," I warned, my voice dropping to a whisper. "And remember, Ser Criston, I know where your loyalties are supposed to lie. Do not give me any reason to doubt them."

A shadow crossed his face, but he nodded resolutely. "You have my word, Princess."

"Good," I said, my tone softening slightly. "You are dismissed."

He bowed once more, backing away before turning to leave the room. I let out a slow breath, hoping my words had been enough to secure his silence and cooperation.

With Criston gone, I turned my attention to the hallway, my gaze scanning the shadows for any sign of movement. As if on cue, Daemon appeared, leaning casually against the wall, a proud look on his face as he observed me. His presence was both reassuring and disconcerting, a reminder of the dangerous game we played.

"Well done, Princess," he remarked, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. "You handled that beautifully."

I walked toward him, my steps measured and deliberate. "You shouldn't be here," I said softly, though a small smile tugged at my lips.

"Couldn't resist," he replied, pushing off the wall to stand before me. 

"Go now," I urged softly, glancing down the corridor. "We can not afford any more suspicion."

"Until next time, Princess," he said, his voice a low promise.

A/n - Crispy Cole’s  got a track record of questionable loyalty and bad timing x

[zendayacolemann]

-He changed his mind. -I wanted whatever you impressed upon me to want. -And I clung to it in defiance of you, I think, who so disdained it. -I have been a piece that you moved about the board.

ALICENT HIGHTOWER + TV Tropes (insp)

[sankta-wraith]

Dreams Didn’t Make Us Kings, Dragons Did

A rewrite of that Daemyra scene in 1x10. This will use some dialogue from the original scene, because it had potential, but it will be (hopefully) more in character.

“The enemy have declared war! What are you going to do about it?” The room fell silent. Rhaenyra looked up, meeting her husband’s eyes. She could feel her Small Council watching her, waiting to see what she would do with such defiance. Daemon held her gaze, the rage in his beautiful lilac eyes fading slightly. She could have sworn she even saw a flash of regret, buried as quickly as it came. “Clear the room.” She did not look to see that the command was obeyed, her tone had left no room for argument. Daemon paced near the hearth. Rhaenyra could feel his frustration, it filled the room like smoke from a funeral pyre. Rhaenyra crossed the room, drawing closer to him. “Does the promise of war excite you?” Daemon turned to face her, “You cannot bend the knee to the Hightowers. They stole your birthright.” His voice was softer than before, but it still carried the edge of his anger. But it is not me he is angry at, she thought. He believes the Hightowers had my father killed, and he blames them for Visenya’s death. He seeks revenge, and he wishes for me to do the same. She had hoped he would be able to put aside his bloodlust, at least until they could be sure peace was not possible, but Daemon had never been one to deny himself vengeance. “If you could take the Iron Throne without putting Otto Hightower’s head on a spike, would you?” He responded with a question of his own, “Are you not angry?” The sharpness had returned to his voice, but with it came confusion, as though he genuinely believed her to hold no resentment over the taking of her throne. “So I should declare war because I’m angry?” She let an edge creep into her voice, a reminder that she was a dragon as well, and his Queen. “No. Because it’s your duty as Queen to crush rebellion.” At that Rhaenyra felt her patience ebb. Yes, it was her duty to crush rebellion, but was it not also hers to hold the realm together? Her husband seemed to have, rather conveniently, forgotten that particular obligation. “You know that my oath reaches beyond our personal ambitions.” Daemon said nothing. He simply looked at her, a question in his eyes. “A Song of Ice and Fire,” she clarified. The understanding she had expected did not dawn on his face. Instead, he went completely still, fire beginning to kindle in his eyes. “What?” He moved so that he was behind her. “The coming war against the darkness in the North,” Rhaenyra turned, forcing him to look at her, “The Conquerer’s Dream.” Still there was no recognition in his face, no sign that he knew what she spoke of. “Viserys shared it with me when he named me heir,” she added. The flames in his eyes flared at that. For a moment, Rhaenyra thought he would shout, or break something, but then the rage in his gaze flickered out, like a torch in the winds. All the energy seemed to leave him at once, and he stalked to the nearest chair, throwing himself into it with an angry scoff. Rhaenyra said nothing, but she was beginning to suspect the reason for such a reaction. She watched as Daemon took a pitcher of wine from the table, waiting until he had drained a glass. “He never told you, did he?” The silence that followed was answer enough.

She bit back a wince. Daemon had spent most of his life attempting to earn his brother’s trust, only to lose it with stupid jokes and moments of drunken foolishness. Rhaenyra knew better than anyone how much each banishment had hurt him. Learning that her father had never trusted him with this crucial piece of information had to be salt in the already painful wound his death had caused. She drew closer to where he sat, glaring at the fire, and took his hand in hers. “Daemon-” “No,” he cut her off, “He never told me.” He laughed bitterly. Rhaenyra ran her thumb over the back of his hand. His grip on her fingers tightened. “He was often…wary of you,” she said softly, “but he loved you. Every time he banished you, he was desperate to have you back within a moon.” Daemon laughed again, the sound full of grief and pain. Rhaenyra felt her heart clench. “He loved me, but he did not trust me. Do not try to deny it, Rhaenyra. His whole court knew it. Those fucking Hightower cunts knew it.” He stood suddenly, one hand going to her waist, the other coming up to cup her face. “My brother,” he said softly, “was a slave to his omens and portents. Anything to make his feckless reign appear to have purpose.” Rhaenyra frowned slightly. “I do not think-” “You saw it for yourself, Rhaenyra. He killed your mother, or do you not remember?” She flinched at his words, and regret flashed in his eyes. “Iksan vaoreznuni, ñuha prūmia,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to hers. She felt herself relax at the familiar touch, and the High Valyrian from his lips. “Nyke gīmigon, ñuha jorrāelagon.” She whispered back. He drew back slightly, so that he could look her in the eye. “But you cannot deny that prophecies did your father no good. He tore our house apart, left us divided.” Rhaenyra sighed. “Yes he did.” The admission took something out of her. She sighed again, leaning into her husband’s touch every so slightly. Daemon looked at her, a sudden intensity it his eyes. “I will not allow the same to happen to our family,” he vowed. “Kirimvose,” she whispered. Daemon pulled her close, the hand that had been holding her face moved to cradle her head. Rhaenyra buried her face in the crook of his neck, and he pressed a kiss to her hair. “Dreams didn’t make us kings,” he murmured against the silvery-gold strands, “dragons did.”

High Valyrian translations

Iksan vaoreznuni, ñuha prūmia: I am sorry, my heart.

Nyke gīmigon, ñuha jorrāelagon: I know, my love.

Kirimvose: Thank you.

[horizon-verizon]

Alicent is such a pussy ass bitch, “the beacon burns green when House Hightower calls their banner to war,” she wore a green dress to Rhaenyra’s wedding to signal her allegiance to her house over her husband’s and as a call to arms, and since then, she wore GREEN EVERYDAY, but now that the war that she’s been instigating for 16 years pops off, she suddenly wants to wear blue, fuck off to the forest, and pretend like it’s not what she wanted. I truly can’t stand her mosquitamuerta ass.

"mosquitamuerta" -- I searched it up, means someone who 's doing something shady but makes themselves look innocent and not responsible for it.

Yeah, that's my other issue with Alicent. I have said several times how the green dress moment made no sense for several reasons[twitter, this one more about how she would never have chosen that particular dress], Alicent of episodes 6-7 show a "warring" Alicent. It's not just that she would never choose to wear that dress and not for the color, but it's that the writers nullified Alicent's whole arc of her becoming a true direct and rounded threat towards the blacks when we get to the 8th episode.

Or maybe they were forced to nullify it and make nothing of it after episode 7 bc they erroneously positioned the conservative "rebel". Or that it inevitably fell apart.

There is a huge difference b/t bk!Rhaenyra wearing her black dress in clear, broadcasted self-affirming defiance to the woman who is trying to get her removed from her position using her gender against her VS show!Alicent "rebelling" because Rhaenyra refused to endanger herself and tell the truth about her, Cole, & Daemon. Rhaenyra was not complying to those sexist calls made by both fans AND those who had to have been at court & went closer to the queen's party for her to just give up. This is itself a knock against patriarchy.

Whereas with show!Alicent--though yes she is clearly trying to convey she won't try to fit herself into the Targaryen family, work for the royal family's interests more, make herself more "Targ"--it is also true that she ends up still trying to genuinely [key word] trying to make Viserys comfortable, make herself his perfect wife, follow what she thinks was his wishes (and I'm talking about before he died and after episode 5), etc.. She, unlike red-black-dress-bk!Rhaenyra, is still sincerely trying to abide by the patriarchal feudal status quo's principles of wifely obedience/solicitation to punch down on Rhaenyra, the "rebel". Thus, yeah, Alicent's green dress moment just transitions into the downward spiral she vaults herself on.

It would have made way more sense for Alicent to confront Otto, the person who actually ruined her life by pimping her out to Viserys. No, she is in a repressed delusion and probably would never, but that's exactly my point--this moment is supposed to be a clarifying moment where we the viewer/reader see who has been the victim, who the harasser, who the protagonist, who the antagonist, who the beleaguered, who the harasser. Giving that to the woman who will unfairly abuse Rhaenyra for basically not complying with an abusive system as perfectly as she should is self defeating, opposite of what this story is about, and discourages female self assertion through a distortion and using a token woman to do that job for you. Look, it's a woman doing this, and a terribly abused woman, too, she has to be right! Rhaenyra is the one who should have "done her duty" and not lie to Alicent! Meanwhile, Alicent's father is trying to get Rhaenyra removed and Alicent, back in episode 3, did not tell Rhaenyra that Otto is basically forcing her to visit Viserys and become his wife. No, Alicent was telling her to not mind the political plots of the men, or mind men's business when Rhaenyra is heir (and must concern herself w/politics!) AND Otto is one of those Rhaenyra has to watch out for but Alicent is actively preventing her from doing so!! And not even purposefully, which does not make her impressive, but sad. Which isn't fun and a total downgrade from her orig self.

...Plus, Rhaenyra of the show didn't even understand wtf Alicent was doing with the green dress bc on her end she still thinks Alicent doesn't know bc Alicent has not let anyone know what Cole said to her...by contrast, it is likely that bk!Alicent understood Rhaenyra's message in her wearing the black dress at her anniversary.

That moment of episode 5 was peak gaslighting, male gaze, & manipulation.

[towriteloveontheirarms]

The other woman (I could protect you part 2)

part 2 of 4 || series masterlist || previous part || next part

pairing: Aemond Targaryen x maid!reader

synopsis: King Viserys is finally gone, but with his passing the troubles for Aemond and you have only begun.

warnings: mentions of performing sexual acts, period typical mysoginy, secrert marriage

word count: 1.4k

The night Aemond leads you down to the sept of Baelor, long after everyone had gone to sleep ironically enough is the night of Viserys´ death. The only person beside the two of you there is an intimidated looking Septon, that swears he would not tell anyone of what they were about to do. You can see in his eyes that he thinks this is wrong nonetheless, but what does it matter. If the seven wanted to judge you for the things you had done, so be it. You were not scared of them. The ceremony is held short. Only the necessary words are exchanged as to decrease the danger of a guard or anyone else catching you. Aemond holds your hand the entire time. His single lilac eye glassy and wet with unshed tears of happiness over the fact that you had agreed to wed him. Overjoyed in fact. When he leads you up to his chambers, that you now share, you are surprised to see all your things there already.

Through your surprise, you feel his trembling fingers undoing the laces of your dress. The dark blue satin slides down your body to pool at your feet. You step out of the fabric and turn towards him. Your lips capture his in the first kiss you share as newlyweds, while your hands make quick work of his clothing. The leather is cool underneath your finger pads.

“I must admit I am not as experienced as other men my age.” Aemond whispers his confession into the dimly, candle lit room.

“I will teach you.” She replies in a low rasp. From then on make sure to take it slow.

Aemond is different from Viserys, you can´t help but notice. All Viserys did was take. Even things that you never would have wanted him to take under any other circumstance, without any regard for your pleasure, let alone your well-being. The only care you received from him were the gifts he sent the following day. Alongside a tea, that as the maid told you, was brewed with the most care by a maester. Aemond on the other hand was gentle and sweet, yet passionate. He asked if what he was doing made you feel good and let you guide him to were you wanted him. He beckons words of praise from your lips continuously and once you had both finished, he holds you close until you both drift off to sleep. Still the image of Viserys doing unspeakable to you haunted you in your dreams that night.

It is a wonder that your marriage stays a secret for as long as it does, which is not very long at all.

However the day of Aegon´s coronation everything goes south fast. The day had been a mess from the moment it started. Beginning with the common folk being rushed into the sept almost forcibly, to Rhaenys hurting gods know how many during her escape on Meleys and now this. Your new husband and you had been called to Alicent right after the end of the ceremony, where she questioned your place at his side for everyone to see. The queen dowager was pacing furiously in front of you and Aemond, trying to process what her son had just told her, while Otto Hightower´s face was expressing only one readable emotion. A very clear distaste pulled the corners of his mouth downwards.

“I cannot believe this. This level of defiance is unheard of. Truly, this is something I would have expected from your brother, not you. And to think of the shame. First Viserys parades her around, bringing shame and humiliation to our family. Your father willingly put my reputation at risk. And now you wish to do the same. Despite seeing how her presence has affected us for years.” Alicent´s words are broken up by unbelieving chuckles. To say she wasn´t happy about what the two of you had done was a harsh understatement. Not that either of you had expected her to be.

“Mother…” Aemond tries to get a word in to calm her down, but it is to no use as she continues to speak in a frenzy.

“Not to speak of the fact that it was entirely improper for her to be alone in a room with any man. We thought more of you, Aemond.” Otto finally gets a word in between Alicent´s enraged rant. His voice is equally as cold as the look in his blue eyes and it sends a shiver down your spine, where one of Aemond´s protective hands rests.

“I have heard enough. Did you stop to think once that she might have done this solely to keep her non existing claim on our money? That she does not truly love you, but the power that is attached to your position as a prince of the seven kingdoms?” She massages her temples, as the crease between her eyebrows deepens in exasperation.

“With all due respect, your majesty, but I fail to see how you are able to speak about my feelings towards your son. As you have never truly looked inside my mind. Or spend a day in my body. I admit that what I did with the late king was wrong, however he decided to treat me the way he did himself. I did not ask to be given gifts or be paraded around.” You finally find your words again to defend yourself.

The newfound courage is met by an outraged look on both the Queen dowagers and the hands face and surprise by Aemond.

“The love I hold for prince Aemond is much bigger than the love the two of you could ever be capable of feeling for anything.” Your voice raises and for a moment you aren´t even sure if all you did this for is your own selfish gain. For as the words leave your mouth you feel your heart beat higher and a warmth spread throughout your entire body.

You realize you had felt like this for the past days. Ever since Aemond and you had consummated your marriage you felt your cheeks heat up whenever he so much as laid his eyes upon you.

“She is right, mother. Whatever I do with my life is none of your concern. I am a man grown now and I love her. That is all that matters.” Aemond speaks up as well now. Judging by the reaction it gets him, it is the first time he has spoken up against his mother and grandsire.

“Aemond…” Alicent tries to say something though she has to cut herself short due to still bring speechless at the whole situation. Otto however does not.

“You will stop with this nonsense this instant. On the morrow we will get this marriage annulled. You will get married to Floris Baratheon as you have promised Lord Borros and you better make sure we will never have to see this… harlots face in the keep or in King´s landing ever again. Have I made myself understood?”

The way the hand towered over you from his height alone would be impressive enough to shut you up under any other circumstance, but right now is not the time to stand down. If you aren´t sure of it before, Aemond´s headstrong gaze further assures you of it. Even though his hands tremble even worse than they had in your first night together, the palm of his hand that holds yours starts to sweat and he swallows heavily.

“I will do no such thing. I understand you are angry, mother. I know you cannot understand me for the choices I made, but I do not care. For the first time in my life I am happy. Truly happy and understood. And you can say or do naught to change this. I will stay with my wife.”

You squeeze Aemond´s hand reassuringly while he speaks. The look you give him is filled to the brim with gratitude. You let your husband lead you out of the room. Your gaze hardening consistently as a realization strikes you.

No matter your or Aemonds true feelings, all of them would only ever see you for your mistakes. To the whole of the red keep you would always be the woman that king Viserys used to embarrass Alicent Hightower and now to break the promise towards Borros Baratheon. You would always be the other woman.

[howyouloveyourdragon]

one of alicents Brothers don't love otto much and know he can only cause problems. both him and rhaenyra feeling dissatisfied with their fathers, they get married and ruin ottos plans one by one. in this situation I can not see the reader hightower son being the one otto wants near the throne cause he would not be able to easily manipulate them. Headcanons and thanks for writing

hey anon! thank you so much for this ask i was really looking forward to writing it <3 i am really loving alicent's y/n brother rn

pronouns: he/him warnings: none other than parental issues that i can think of but please correct me if i'm wrong! A/N: i could barely stop myself writing im so obsessed lmao, the amount of errors i got from this

you were never one to indulge in your father's ambition as he paraded you after another won tourney and beckoned your sister as though she were not a Queen now and much higher in position than he would ever be

you rolled your eyes and huffed, folding your broad arms across your chest

you roam your stubborn eyes across the room as Otto attempts to entertain his fellow Lords and more importantly, ask about their daughters

your eyes widened when they caught sight of your father approaching with Lord Borros Baratheon, you ducked and began crawling under a series of tables hurriedly and regardless of how ungentlemanly it may seem, you turn your head quickly straight after peeking over your shoulder only for it to meet something hard and a yelp to sound from in front of you

your lips part in surprise as a silver head of hair comes into view, a porcelain hand flying to her forehead. The woman groans and you recognise that familiar voice. "What is wrong with you?" Rhaenyra Targaryen uttered with a huff and met your dark eyes with hers of violet. Your mouth gaped before you felt a hard hit to your shoulder, your brows pinched together. "What was that for?" You asked with a guttural groan. Her steel gaze remained. "You hit me first!" She threw back in a childish hiss. You scoffed. "Mine was an accident." You retorted only for her to drive her lips into a thin line and slump on the floor. "If I find that I am concussed, I will have yor head." Rhaenyra grumbled and you begrudgingly settled. Her eyes shot to yours.

"Move. I was here first." "No." She lets out a gruff chuckle in shock. "Excuse me?" "No." Her eyes narrow into slits at your defiance. "I am your future Queen." "Sorry." Your murmured and flushed pink. You looked down bashfully and picked at your rough fingernails. You turned oblivious as her eyes rolled across you inquisitively. She hesitated but her lips open quicker than she can think–not that that is unusual. "You are Y/n, aren't you? Not Gwayne, his jaw is wider." You snickered and nod. Her lips twitched upward without her consent. She leans on her left hand and smiles charming as she can manage. "I suppose I can allow you a sliver of my company since you are clearly so desperate for it." She grins playfully at your protesting lips and the way your body stiffens at the familiar shoes beneath the table. Her brows raise and she almost gives up her own hiding just to see the look on your face if she pushed you into his sight. Soon the feet retreated however and a breath of relief propelled out of your throat. Rhaenyra watches you carefully. You intrigue her infuriatingly enough. She nudged you with her knee enough to catch your eyes. "Why are you hiding?" You asked curiously "I could ask you the same thing." Your princess teased. "Ah then who am I to deny my future Queen?" She hates how her stomach twists in knots at the title passing your lips. Her breath hitches. "My father is..." You struggle to find the word, using your hands to gesture uselessly. "domineering?" It sounds more like a question and she briefly wonders whether she knows your father better than yourself.

that's the first time she has ever had a full conversation–or possibly one at all–with you but Rhaenyra doesn't regret it as she notes the stiffness of your brow and your unexpectedly soft voice

she finds herself listening to you intently until the night is over

she even forgets you're both supposed to be hiding and laughs boldly which results in a share of wide eyes as two pairs of rough hands haul you both out from under the table

your fathers have never looked more disappointed as you glance sheepishly at one another

you both are sent to your respective chambers but before you leave, her soft hand shoves a piece of parchment in your hand and smirks as you stare after her

your father blocks your gaze when he wrenches a grip on your neck and drives you back to your quarters

you open your palm to find the crumpled paper has her scribbled handwriting 'Meet me in my chambers', you grow a grin and obey like the obedient subject your dear father wishes you to be

you decide to take unorthodox methods to do so however and climb up the walls to her window, clutching to vines and stones alike

she almost thinks you're never going to come before your tumbling inside

she snickers and beams as she brings you through and like clockwork the cycle repeats in secret and neither of you are particularly good at hiding the budding relationship between you

until the dreaded year that her mother passes

she had seemed so excited and humoured as you beat her uncle's arse into the ground, wielding a sword to his neck unless he chose to yield and the princess' forever favour strapped to you securely

you couldn't bite back the smirk until your eyes settled on the missing figures

her brows furrowed and her gaze followed yours

you still remember how her body tensed and panic became summoned to her face

how she had bolted away

and the moment you found out how slowly the hand had told the King? Without haste or worry regarding the Queen? That was when you pledged the deepest loyalty to Rhaenyra, bending the knee before she was even pronounced heir

and she pledged herself back to you in a much different manner

and when she is announced heir, it is not your father you stand beside but rather the Velaryons

and so with every visit to her chambers you share new promises and old vows

it is difficult to juggle the romantic affection for your princess and the friendship with your siblings but you manage

one night you approach your father's chambers to request permission to begin courting but instead you hear something much darker

the lump in your throat largens and when your sister bursts through the doors with trembling fingers, you don't take any time to embrace her

with every planned visit to the King, you take her to Rhaenyra's chambers instead and personally escort her on her travels

it's a dutiful side to you that Rhaenyra has never seen to you before, you had always been as rambunctious and rebellious as she and yet so kind and soft when it came to Alicent

the both of you smirk at Otto when Viserys announces his engagement, you personally delight in the clench of Otto's fists

you can't call him your father anymore

not after that

it's late at night with Alicent asleep and strewn across you both when you interlace your fingers with her own and grin at her

"If I didn't know any better, I would think we were the most intelligent in the realm." you snicker and she raises her brows playfully. "Oh?" she asks and you hum mischievously. You nod and look down at Alicent's gentle face. "I think we should put our team to it's limits." She glances at you sceptically and agrees

and so the first of many occurrences begins

the first he attempts without any remorse; separating you and The Realm's Delight

first by steering potential matches at you and when that fails, he suggests an alliance with House Velaryon after Viserys' rejection of Laena who you have grown fast friends with

he insists upon allowing Laenor to at least court the princess and the King agrees quickly and desperate to repair old wounds

so again you devise a plan to diverge her suitor's attention and lucky for you your old friend Laenor Velaryon is also not pleased with the possible arrangement

however she needs a chance to catch his eye and you have the perfect plan

Your gaze roams her face as you cup her cheek, both of you laying in bed. Her soft skin, her soft eyes, sloped nose and plush lips. "If you grace me by your mere presence alone I will lay every flower at your feet," You start and her breath hitches. "but if you agreed to wed me then I will fight against the swords of a thousand just to secure your heart and if you wish it, your crown."

it is early in the morn when Rhaenyra is rushed into the throne room and sees you knelt before her father with your head bowed

and that's when she hears it, eyes snapping to her father's face

"This man wishes for your hand in marriage." Viserys announces, standing and watching her carefully. Your gaze flickers up at her and softens. It's not long before she swallows her pride and takes slow steps forward. Her hands engulf yours without a second thought.

Otto notices of course as you pull away from him

he decides to direct your sister's place instead, he begins his second beginning conquest; taming Daemon Targaryen and producing a Targaryen heir

reluctantly and uncharacteristically he acts in favour to the request of Daemon annulling his marriage to Lady Rhea. He may hate the man but he needs protection and a male Targaryen heir

Rhaenyra is still a woman and he knows that there will always be an uprising, if he can manage to coax Alicent once more into a Targaryen's embrace he will be able to succeed the throne with Hightower blood

lucky for you, you have an ally who is very keen to assist you

it seems that Laena Velaryon has held affections for the prince from afar and is happy to snatch his attention herself

it's at the engagement banquet that she makes her move Otto can do nothing but grit his teeth as he watches and whispers into Alicent's ear but she's slowly beginning to resent him and slip out of his grasp

it's not long before the wedding is being planned and Otto is growing more and more desperate

then Viserys' wife is announced to be pregnant and much to his luck it's a boy

perhaps his own children will not listen to him but what of this child? he may not be Hightower blood but that doesn't mean he cannot commend his intelligent advisor and future hand

he just needs to sneak into the child's head and gain his favour

a mentor if you will

he attempts to sabotage the wedding by encouraging his spies to seek out you both but any rumours they begin to spread are instantly shut down and discredited

Rhaenyra begins to take a stronger interest in her siblings and Alicent surprises everyone by joining the faith of The Seven

she has newly devoted herself to the faith as a Septa, away from the cursed childbed and dreaded expectation of her father

Otto takes advantage of this yet again however and insists with the King that your wedding to Rhaenyra be in a ceremony in the Sept but you have other plans, sneaking through passageways with your closest comrades and performing an intimate Valyrian ceremony in the dead of night

you brandish your wounded palm proudly before the court and revel in their shocked faces and whisperings

Otto turns red in the face and even more once he sees little Aegon and Helaena peek out from behind Rhaenyra's traditional garments

and when the many years pass and Viserys the peaceful is sent to a new realm, Rhaenyra glides down the large throne room with you, deja vu coursing through the air as you stand beside the Velaryons beaming at her

[fadingstudentbananacookie]

It's hilarious how Daemon and Rhaenyra's grandchildren carry the Green's legacy in spirit by destroying House Targaryen through internal conflicts decades later.

Aegon IV grows up to be far more extreme and gluttonous than Aegon II could ever be, coupled with a greater degree of cowardice (Aegon II would never). His sister Naerys is a little Helaena/Alicent-coded, but her cousin Daena mirrors Alicent more than I could imagine. And I am precisely talking about book!Alicent here.

Both Alicent and Daena were unapologetic in their pursuit of power after years of abuse and neglect, demanding the realm recognize their sons as kings by birthright. Neither of them gave two fucks about starting a civil war and I call that a slayyy. Go, my queens!

If Daena had been more like Rhaenyra, believe me when I say I wouldn't have liked her as much. It's their defiance that makes both Alicent and Daena more compelling characters.

I don't necessarily think Daena would have liked Alicent, but she would have definitely felt grudging respect and admiration for her courage.

Daeron the Young Dragon is just like Daeron the Daring (both are extremely popular among the nobles and the smallfolk). Both died young and were eternalized. Baelor the Blessed is obsessed with catholicism and guilt to a point that would even scare Alicent and Criston.

Aemon the Dragonknight is essentially a more refined, though not necessarily cooler, version of Aemond One-Eye. Aemon literally stood aside while his sister endured years of sexual and psychological abuse from her brother-husband. Aemond would never have stood by if Aegon II had tried to harm Helaena. His loyalty and protectiveness towards his sister would have driven him to intervene. Their love stories are similar too, with many fans shipping Aemond with Helaena, and Aemon with Naerys.

Elaena is intriguing, but there's not much to say about her or her sister Rhaena.

Daemon and Rhaenyra's grandchildren are worse than the Targtowers in every aspect. Alicent (the Hightowers) and her children de-stabilized House Targaryen during the Dance, but Rhaenyra's grandchildren did so much worse by starting a civil war that lasted for generations to come. Team Black got the realm and power back, and they still fucked up. Again.

Another intriguing aspect is that Alicent and her children had legitimate reasons to resist and fight for Aegon's claim to the throne by feudal right—even if those reasons were fueled by spite and revenge. Alicent endured years of sexual abuse from Viserys, bearing children he barely acknowledged. She was humiliated in court and called "mad" when her son lost his eye, and Rhaenyra's son faced no repercussions—not even a slap on the wrist.

The Targtower children were neglected by their father for years and were practically forgotten when Rhaenyra lived in the Red Keep with her sons in tow. (And if you think Rhaenyra didn’t use her father’s love and rejection of his other children as a political machination, then you’re an absolute idiot.) If usurping her throne was the biggest fuck you they could give Rhaenyra and Viserys, then I fully support it!

Despite their complicated and angry feelings towards each other, the Greens would never act on them to cause significant harm. They understood that they only had each other for support and protection. But Rhaenyra's grandchildren, who were also in a similar situation, harbored outright hatred for each other for no reason! You'd think after the Dance, they would have learned a thing or two about the importance of family, but the gang didn't give a single fuck LMAO.

Daemon and Rhaenyra's grandchildren didn't have significant opposition. House Targaryen still held substantial power and ruled over the other Great Houses. Although they had to be more cautious without having dragons to threaten others, the internal strife could have been avoided if Daena and her sisters had been treated like actual human beings rather than cattle. (If Alicent was treated better and her children were acknowledged by Viserys and the rest of his family). The lack of care and respect towards them sowed the seeds of war, leading to the internal conflicts that ultimately weakened the dynasty.

The generational cycle of abuse and neglect within House Targaryen is one of the main key reasons why they were driven to extinction in merely three centuries. House Hightower and House Baratheon only did so little to show their true color.

Rhaenyra's claim that "The only thing that could tear down the House of the Dragon was itself," couldn't be more accurate!

[gameofthronedd]

People still being convinced that the Alicent-Rhaenyra feud was because Alicent was jealous/upset that Rhaenyra had sex makes my head hurt, honestly.

Alicent confronted Rhaenyra about the brothel because she was concerned about Rhaenyra and her position. One of their first scenes in Episode 1 was literally a precursor to the Episode 4 scene; Rhaenyra is rather flippant about her political position, not as visibly concerned as Alicent thinks she should be, whilst Alicent is visibly concerned and frustrated that Rhaenyra isn't as engaged or serious about it. It's literally copy-and-paste in terms of the same general mannerisms.

Alicent isn't frustrated or pissed that Rhaenyra had sex. She's aware of the way politics work and the prejudice and consequences that could come from what is rumoured about Rhaenyra. And she goes directly to Rhaenyra to find out the truth and to help her (she even says "I only want to help you").

I also think people forget how the confrontation ended. Rhaenyra and Alicent come to a resolve the problem and Alicent believes Rhaenyra's side of it. Heck, Alicent even verbally emphasises what we were meant to pick up - that it's about the politically ramifications of a princess being seen in a brothel being sexual with her uncle.

And the "green dress moment" is a consequence of several factors.

One, the obvious is that Rhaenyra did not tell Alicent the entire truth and the person she slept with was Criston, not Daemon. Keep in mind that Criston is a member of the Kingsguard, sworn to chastity. Two, the consequences of believing Rhaenyra were pretty steep for Alicent. Her father lost his job inadvertently because of Alicent, meaning that she is pretty much entirely alone at court.

Three, it's a matter of trust and vulnerability. Alicent cared about Rhaenyra enough to go to her and try to get the truth and to help her. She trusted what Rhaenyra said and expressed this to Viserys, taking Rhaenyra's side even when Viserys doubted Rhaenyra. And then it turns out that Rhaenyra was not telling the whole truth and that Viserys also went behind Alicent's back because he believed Rhaenyra did do something.

With her father gone, Alicent is well and truly isolated, especially since she now perceives that she cannot fully trust Rhaenyra or Viserys not to keep things from her or go behind her back.

I think it's also necessary to consider Criston. A member of the Kingsguard who broke his vows with the Princess, showing once again that Rhaenyra is rather unconcerned about the rules and laws of the land and court. I think also the fact that Criston told her the truth but Rhaenyra, someone she trusted and perceived to be a friend, did not.

All of this combined with Otto reminding her of the brutal realities of feudalism no doubt triggered anxieties for Alicent. She has children to think about now and those she thought she could trust are no longer completely trustworthy.

The "green dress" moment is a moment of strength and independence and defiance for Alicent, and a way for her to carve out an identity for herself. Alicent is politically-conscious and she knows she needs support, which is why she turns to the Hightowers in a symbolic and defiant display.

It's not about Alicent being jealous about Rhaenyra having sex or about Alicent being a raving misogynistic "tradwife". It's about trust and politics and Alicent building up a defence to protect herself and her children against any potential threat.

[sapphire-writes]

Dragon's Bane (part 3) ~ Aemond Targaryen

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Velaryon(Strong)!Reader

word count: 1.4k

warnings: language, sensual themes

note: the long-awaited part 3! I think I shall do part 4, I really want to see their wedding! thanks for being patient and for all the love I read every comment I get! hope you enjoy 💚

masterlist

Dowager Queen Alicent’s eyes are wide when Aemond presents you to Aegon in the throne room. Aegon smirks at the sight of you, his eyebrows lifting in amusement. 

“How did you manage this, brother?” Aegon asks, his voice full of curiosity. 

“Our niece is desperate to wed me,” Aemond announces, causing your neck to whip around towards him. The look in your eye is murderous. There are murmurs throughout the crowd at Aemond’s statement. 

“Is this true, niece?” Aegon asks, the crown of the conqueror atop is silver head. His seated position is lazy, limbs spread out across the Iron Throne. 

That is my mother’s chair.

Anger courses through your limbs, causing your hands to shake. Aegon frowns.

“Have you taken her tongue, brother?” Aegon asks, “I do not recall her so quiet.”

“That would be unwise,” Aemond says, shifting from one foot to the other. Aegon nods in agreement.

“Ah yes,” he says, biting his lower lip as he observes you, “would be a terrible loss for such a pretty girl.”

You do not trust your voice, contending to glare up at your uncle. Aegon’s smile only grows at your continued silence. 

“Kneel before me niece,” he commands, gesturing towards the floor. Your lip curls into a snarl.

Alicent watches you, your unwavering defiance, how your knees shake where you stand. You remind her so much of Rhaenyra it feels as though a fist has wrapped itself around her heart. Aegon tilts his head to the side. 

“Kneel before me, and I shall grant what you desire,” Aegon tells you, “you may marry my brother.”

You bite your lip, tasting copper. You refuse to cry. You will not give the greens the satisfaction of seeing the daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen cry. 

You glance toward Aemond. He is looking straight ahead, and does not meet your eye. Gritting your teeth, you relax your body, letting yourself sink to your knees. You bow your head, avoiding Aegon’s smug grin. 

“A pretty sight, I’m sure my brother shall enjoy it,” Aegon says, glancing towards Aemond. Aemond leans forward, nodding at Aegon’s words. He glances at you only then, watching the blush blooming on your cheeks. Aemond is sure this is due to the anger you are holding inside of you, threatening to spill over. The blood of the dragon is strong indeed. 

“Surely, we need to keep her under watch,” Otto Hightower says. He stands next to his daughter, watching you kneel. 

“A black cell is certainly no place for my niece,” Aegon says, pouting, “much less so my brother’s wife.”

“She shall stay in my chambers,” Aemond drolls, walking over to you. You let your eyes move from their spot on the floor, sliding up towards his face. Aemond holds a hand out to you, his face revealing none of the emotions he feels. Though he cannot help the thrill that runs through him, the stiffening of his cock, at the sight of you on your knees before him, glassy-eyed and full of rage. 

It ignites a feeling of desire inside of him he did not deem possible. 

You reach up and take his hand, rising to your feet. 

“Keep Prince Aemond doors heavily guarded,” Otto commands a goldcloak who stands near him, “and what of her dragon?”

“What about her?” you snap, breaking your silence. Otto’s eyes meet yours but Aegon breaks into applause.

“She speaks!” he says merrily, clasping his hands together. You feel your hands curl into fists. 

“Confine the beast to the dragonpit,” Alicent says, fiddling with her fingers. You’ve seen your mother perform similar compulsions, twisting the rings that adorn her fingers. It sends a sharp pain piercing through your heart. 

“Come,” Aemond says, wrapping a hand around your forearm, “let us return to our chambers.”

Aemond begins to lead you from the throne room, Aegon chuckling darkly behind you.

“Do not do anything I wouldn’t do, brother,” he says, sending a shiver down your spine. Aemond keeps his hand on your arm the entirety of the walk back to his chambers. Your chambers. Your prison cell. 

Two goldcloaks trail behind you and position themselves outside of Aemond’s doors, closing them behind you both. You turn to face him.

“That served no purpose,” you snap, irritated beyond belief.

Aemond presses a finger to your lips, silencing you.   

“The walls have ears,” he murmurs. The goldcloaks are right outside. He ushers you through the antechamber, deeping into his bedchamber away from listening ears. 

“We received approval to wed,” Aemond says, pouring a glass of wine, “that serves quite a purpose, if I recall our previous conversation.”

Your mouth twists into a frown.

“When shall we be wed?”

Aemond shrugs at the question. 

“Aegon is always in the mood for a feast,” he says, taking a sip from his cup, “soon, I would believe.”

He motions to the furniture around the room. 

“You are free to make yourself comfortable,” he says. You remain standing. He shrugs, dropping his frame onto a chair. 

“We need a plan,” you tell him, crossing your arms. He lifts a brow at you. 

“We have a plan,” he tells you, taking another sip from his chalice, “we are to marry.”

You scoff at him. 

“And then what?” you ask, incredulously.

“Surely your mother has explained what lies in the marriage be-” he begins before you wave his hand to shush him. 

“I know what happens,” you grumble, cheeks flushing. Not that you planned on actually doing any actual marital duties with Aemond. But the thought sent fire coursing through you. 

“We need not abide by any of that,” you snap at him. Aemond wets his lips before rising from his chair. He walks over to you, standing face to face. 

“There shall be a wedding,” he murmurs, moving a strand of dark hair from your face, “there shall be a bedding.”

Your stomach churns with nerves. You gaze up at him. Your mother had explained what lies within the marriage bed, an idea that sent fear shooting through you once you were in the presence of your previous betrothed, Cregan Stark. The idea of laying beneath a man as he had his way with you sent terror racing through you veins. 

But standing in front of Aemond, something different pooled in your stomach at the thought. Something warm, curling inside of you. Desire. 

Aemond kept his hand on a strand of your hair, running the dark lock through his fingers. His violet eye met yours. 

Suddenly, you wondered if he felt it too. Through the hatred and disdain, did desire for you reside in him as well? You felt your stomach sour as you gazed upon him. Luke.    

How could you think these things, feel these things about your brother’s murderer? You pull away from him, tearing your gaze from his, and walk towards the fireplace.

“Does that frighten you?” Aemond asks. 

“What?”

“The thought of our bedding,” he tells you. You shake your head. 

“We shall do our duty,” you tell him, watching a muscle in his jaw clench. His eye rakes over your body, as though seeing through the gown you wear. It is one of Helaena’s, a pale blue. Aemond enjoys the color on you. 

“Aemond?” you call, and Aemond blinks his eye back toward your face. Your lips are parted, cheeks flushed. Aemond hums in response. 

“Come here,” you beckon. Aemond does what he is told, before you once more in a few strides. The heat from the fire kisses your cheeks, the golden light dancing in your dark eyes. Aemond feels bewitched as he looks upon you. 

“I would like to try something,” you whisper and he nods, a look of confusion on his face. 

You lean forward slightly and Aemond recoils, as prepared for you to strike him. Your eyes widen, the blush on your cheeks darkening. You look towards his lips and he realizes what you wanted. 

Slowly, Aemond leans down towards you, and you reach up behind his neck to assist him with connecting his mouth to yours. Your hand tangles itself in his silver locks, grasping at the nape of his neck. Aemond’s mouth is gentle, he kisses you softly. He wraps a hand around your waist, pulling you closer and angling his head to deepen the kiss. When you feel the smooth muscle of his tongue enter your mouth, your lower stomach erupts in butterflies. 

A content noise leaves your lips as Aemond’s other hand pushes against your lower back. You continue kissing, silhouetted by the fire roaring beside you. You finally pull away, staying closely wrapped around Aemond, breathing in each other’s breath. 

“I still hate you,” you murmur against his lips. Aemond’s lips curl into a smirk.

“I hate you right back.”

taglist: @bellaisasleep, @the-phantom-of-arda, @polireader, @savinasavers, @maylaysia109, @tempt-ress, @m00n5t0n3, @writemeoutofreality @krispold @lonadane, @happinessinthebeing

[dany-is-my-queen]

A Question of Loyalty XIII

Rhaenyra Targaryen x reader, Alicent Hightower x reader

Word count: 5.6k

Summary: When dragons of green and dragons of black dance, you have to choose the color that suits you best.

"You have an insatiable inclination for suffering and rejection," Daemon trailed off. "You, as a princess, can have any maid, any lady, anyone at all. Why do you persist in being fixated on her?" He reproached her.

"You don’t understand, dear uncle. You have never experienced the depths of love before," Rhaenyra retorted.

"No, I have not. But I would never grovel after a woman—I would simply find another to take her place," Daemon stated with an air of self-assuredness.

"She cannot be replaced. Do you believe she harbors feelings for Alicent?" Rhaenyra inquired, her voice filled with a fragile vulnerability.

“I cannot say," Daemon responded.

Later on ~~~~

Rhaenyra regally positioned outside your apartments, appeared as a vigilant guard.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" The silver head asked, laden with.. disappointment.

"I did, princess," came the reply, a hint of regret.

"Skoro syt issi ao evading issa, issa riñnykeā? (Why are you evading me, my lady)” Rhaenyra's voice quivered, hurt and frustrated.

"I— I'm not. I thought you might need some space," you stammered, reflecting your uncertainty.

"You can't even bring yourself to look at me," She exclaimed.

"Princess, if you'll excuse me—"

"We need to speak.”

"I don't want to cause you pain, Rhaenyra," you admitted.

"You've already done so. And still do," She declared, conveying a sense of woundedness.

Frustration boiled within Rhaenyra, reaching its peak as it consumed her. She took a step forward, bitterness invading her. "So, it is Alicent, isn't it? The reason you're pulling away from me. Ivestragon issa se truth! (Tell me the truth)”

Caught off guard by the intensity of Rhaenyra’s accusation, you struggled to find the right words. Your resolve faltered as Rhaenyra closed the distance between you, tauntingly brushing her lips against yours. The air crackled with tension as you resisted the urge to surrender to the magnetic pull between them. Every fiber of your being yearned for the taste of her lips, but you held back.

Rhaenyra's voice, now laced with defiance and desire, whispered against your lips, "If you truly feel nothing, then prove it. Kiss me, and let me see the truth in your eyes."

Your heart pounded in your chest, torn between pining and self-restraint. With an anguished sigh, you mustered all your strength to resist. "No, Rhaenyra," You managed to utter, thick with longing. "I can't. Not when it's tearing us apart."

Rhaenyra's eyes blazed with pure frustration as she stepped back, hurt etched across her face. “You deny me even this," she whispered.

As Rhaenyra turned away, your heart shattered into fragments, the weight of your.. unresolved emotions seemed to suffocate the room.

"Tell me, then. Tell me why you can't give me what I need," Rhaenyra demanded.

A pained expression crossed your face. "Rhaenyra, it's not about Alicent," you confessed. “You deserve so much better. I believe there are great things awaiting you, and I fear that I would only hold you back, trapping you.”

Rhaenyra's eyes filled with determination as she shook her head. "Bullshit. I don't just want you to love me," she pleaded. "I want to love you. I want to make you happy. I know I can. Please, Y/N, don't push me away."

Tears welled up in your eyes as you looked into Rhaenyra's pleading gaze, seeing her unwavering commitment. It was a choice you had to make, torn between your fears and the overwhelming desire to be with the one who held your heart. You took a deep breath.

"You have an extraordinary capacity to love, and I know you could give me everything. But I can't bear the thought of holding you back. I fear that if we do this, I will be the one who hinders your path, who keeps you from reaching your fullest potential. You are the princess of the Realm, everyone has expectations. We could never be together.”

Rhaenyra reached out, gently taking your hand. "You're wrong," she said. "I want to be by your side. The blood of the dragon courses through our veins, connecting us in a way that no one could even fathom. Even if you were a commoner, I would love you the same. Please.”

“Princess..—“

"Fuck it," Rhaenyra proclaimed. “To the realm and to the gods, I say damn them all. The opinions and expectations of others hold no sway over the love I have for you."

Your heart throbbed as you felt the weight of Rhaenyra's love, stirring a longing deep within. Not because it was too much, but because you felt every single ounce of that love for her in return, it ached like a bitch because you were just as madly in love with her, yet you knew better, and you were the one with the strongest will here. You had to do what was right.

"I'm sorry," you finally uttered. It was a bittersweet.

Rhaenyra's pleading attempts ceased, and a sadness settled upon both your features. You watched as her figure receded from your sight.

Would it really killed you if you kissed?

—

Alicent glared at Otto from across the dining table, her narrowed eyes seething. She found his suggestion completely absurd and it made her blood boil. "What?" she countered.

Otto maintained his composure despite her clear frustration. "What? Your brother would be a perfect suitor for Lady Y/N. He would make an excellent husband for her, and they would ensure the continuation of our house's lineage in case anything catastrophic were to happen."

Alicent scoffed, dismissing his words with a hint of condescension. "My brother and Y/N are strangers to each other," she retorted haughtily, shaking her head dismissively, indulging an old habit of picking her nails.

Otto was undeterred. "Their lack of familiarity is irrelevant," he declared in a stern and grave tone, befitting his commitment to this notion. "Do you realistically think that she would ever marry you? You dwell in a world of mere fantasy, Alicent.”

His words struck her like a weighty load, shattering her equanimity and leaving her feeling incredulous. The mere thought of Y/N being whisked away to wed her own sibling was simply inconceivable, given such an alternative.

"You can't be serious," she said, her voice trembling with anger and disappointment. “Do you not take my feelings into account at all?”

He began, trying to reason with her. "Pragmatism must dictate that we prioritize the welfare of our house over sentimentality."

"I simply can't believe you would even contemplate sacrificing Y/n's happiness.”

“It’s not as if you will cease warming up her bed. I would expect you to do so, out of respect for your brother.” Alicent derided. Otto emitted a heavy sigh, evidently exasperated by their discourse. "I realize your attachment to her, Alicent," he articulated, trying to console her. "However, we must undertake what is imperative to secure the future of our House. The union between Gwayne and Lady Y/n is the optimal approach to achieve that objective. Considering the ongoing war, we require an alliance through marriage.”

“She will not betray us, she will not betray Aegon. Yet, what if she flees once she discovers your attempt to betroth her to Gwayne?”

“At that point, you will intervene. You will persuade her.”

“No. I refuse. I am no longer willing to be a pawn in your machinations, I am no longer inclined to blindly accede to all your pronouncements. Especially when it concerns her,” she declared with resolute detachment, departing from the chamber.

She would not endure it, not anymore.

—

As Aegon dismissed Otto as his Hand, a sense of.. disquiet seized you. You had never harbored any fondness for Cole; he embodied a callousness that paid no heed to the sanctity of human existence.

You recalled the incident from years past, the altercation between him and your deceased brother's paramour, Ser Joffrey. The brutality with which he met his untimely demise — where was the justice in that?

The Queen, to your everlasting chagrin, extended her clemency to him. The matter still gnawed at you.

Notwithstanding the imminent repercussions, you knew you had to assert yourself. "Your Grace, might I proffer the suggestion of appointing another as Hand of the King?"

"And whom would you propose, my lady? Someone unswayed by the caprices of my mother & grandsire?" he sneered.

"A candidate endowed with level-headedness and commitment to the welfare of the realm," you conveyed.

“And who might that be? Do you have a suitable choice in mind?" he inquired, his tone on the verge of hostility.

"Perhaps you might contemplate appointing Lord Lannister in his stead, Your Grace. Cole is a volatile and impetuous individual, his mental state perennially awry."

"I am the King, and I shall act in accordance with my own discretion. Cole has safeguarded me since my infancy.”

"I beseech only for the best interests of the realm, Your Grace.” you asserted.

“I may well have another candidate in mind. Another that has been there for me since I was but a babe.” he persisted, perplexing you as you raised an eyebrow. “You.”

You widened your eyes, uncertain of how to respond.

“The Lords rejected Rhaenyra as their Queen, for she was a woman. I believe the same holds true for me, in this situation, Your Grace. The Council will not accept it.”

“I was my father first male descendant. You have demonstrated your loyalty. You possess the aptitudes befitting the station.”

“I am deeply honored, Aegon.”

“I’m not doing it to honor you. I need you, Y/N.” Aegon frankly let on.

—

Otto, flabbergasted by the news of Aegon appointing you as Hand of the King, bellowed at Larys in disbelief, "Is he truly out of his mind? Appointing a woman? A bastard? This is preposterous!"

Unbeknownst to them, Alicent had been discreetly eavesdropping on their conversation, her curiosity piqued by their heated exchange. No one has told her anything yet.

“The young King yearns for the tender affection only a mother can provide. His own subjected him to physical abuse whenever an opportunity arose. He desperately craves the presence of someone who will stand by his side, devoted to him and his remaining family."

“He cares not for his sister's well-being. His focus lies in seeking retribution for his son and ensuring the protection of his daughter. Yet he keeps whoring around.”

Nodding, Larys acknowledged Otto's point, "Indeed, my lord. For the time being, it is imperative that Haleana conceive a male heir swiftly. We cannot afford a repeat of past circumstances. And as for Y/N, it still astounds me that she chose to remain in King's Landing. Her supposed loyalty, tainted by her illegitimate blood, proved to be far from steadfast.”

Otto, deep in thought, mused, "One wonders how long her loyalty will endure. Complete trust in her is an ill-advised notion. Hence, my intention to unite her with my son through marriage."

He continued, "It appears that we will be unable to rid ourselves of her presence anytime soon.“

“She is well aware of the consequences should she attempt to flee. She understands the gravity of risking her parents’ reputation.”

Nodding in agreement, Larys replied, “What is the life of a bastard girl against a Kingdom?”

“You ought to maintain a respectful distance from her. The Dowager Queen.” With a subtle hint, he added, “Though your private meetings have proven advantageous for us, allow some time to elapse,” Otto suggested, “and then gradually rekindle your visits to her. Adapt your approach, my lord, and let your actions speak of change.”

Meanwhile, Alicent found herself at a loss for words. Not because of your new appointment, but rather due to the revelation that you were a bastard — a fact she had been unaware of until now. The questions swirled in her mind. Had you been ignorant of your own heritage? No, you knew. Had you intentionally kept it hidden, a testament to the lack of trust you placed in her? Moreover, the realization that her father was willing to subject her to the clutches of such a monstrous individual struck her like a blow. She couldn’t shake off the feeling of being treated as nothing more than a disposable rag doll. It left her feeling sickened to her core.

—

The next morning, you found yourself in the library of the Red Keep, meticulously gathering books on the previous Hands of the King. Though the selection was limited, one particular tome caught your eye—a fascinating account of Septon Barth, the trusted confidant of King Jaehaerys. In his forty years of service, he had amassed immense wisdom and prosperity. You hoped to glean some of that insight to fulfill your newfound role.

As you delved into your reading, the Queen Dowager entered the room, acknowledging the two caretakers present. Thankfully, Aemond, who has been a source of tension between you, was absent, deviating from his usual habit. The wounds inflicted by his actions were still fresh, and he knew it.

Alicent took a seat in front of you, and you stole a glance at her, sensing her commanding presence. Addressing her affectionately, your eyes remained fixed on the text before you.

"My love?" you called out, your attention split between her and the book.

"Y/N, I must discuss important matters with you," she said, causing you to look up and find an expression on her face that left you puzzled—was it disbelief?

"Aegon believed it best to make the announcement today. I should have informed you immediately; it wasn't meant to be a secret—" you began, but Alicent interrupted, clearly preoccupied with something other than your appointment as Hand.

"Secrets still linger between us," she lamented, her words striking a chord. You raised an eyebrow, studying her closely. In that moment, as you observed her intently, Alicent's anger dissipated, her countenance softened. She stopped herself from being harsh or reproachful because she recognized your worth and understood that you had your reasons for not divulging the “news” earlier, just as she had her own with the unsavory affair involving Larys. Fear, rejection, shame... Alicent would wait for you, at your own pace. You were in a good phase of your relationship, and she didn't want to spoil it.

"Alicent?" your voice seemed distant, and seconds later, she snapped back to reality, meeting your concerned gaze. You had gently placed your hand on top of hers.

"Uh, yes, don't worry about it. I comprehend the need for an official announcement. It's not a major issue. By the way, congratulations, my lady. My son has made his first wise decision during his reign."

"Thank you for your understanding."

"Y/N... my father intends to betroth my brother Gwayne to you," she confided.

"What?" you replied, astonishment etched on you.

Alicent heaved a weary sigh. "He just mentioned it now. As you know, I vehemently opposed the idea and argued with him. However, he appears resolute... though I doubt that impulse will persist now that you hold the position of Hand.”

Otto's prior blackmail had already strained your patience, and now this? It was the final straw.

"Why would your father propose a marriage between your brother and me? What does he stand to gain?"

"A formidable alliance. A dragon."

"But you've already tamed the dragon," you quipped, injecting a hint of humor to alleviate the tension. She let out a soft chuckle.

"Let's speak seriously, Y/N."

"I am being serious. I won't entertain the idea, and I believe you know that. So, your father shouldn't harbor false hopes or attempt to orchestrate anything, as it would be in vain."

"He commanded me to persuade you into accepting, but I made it abundantly clear that I am no longer his puppet. I would never force you into something like that, or any other situation, for that matter," Alicent assured you sincerely.

"So, your father needs to witness us tangled in the sheets to understand that we have no interest in men, then?" you punned, pretending to maintain a serious tone.

"Quite amusing," she remarked.

"In that case, I'll go and request your hand in marriage, and he better give his blessing if he hopes to solidify an alliance with House Velaryon," you continued jokingly, momentarily casting aside the weight of your true parentage. Alicent played along, offering a lighthearted response.

“That might partially appease him," she replied, a hint of amusement dancing in her eyes.

—

The afternoon was shrouded in clouds, casting a somber hue upon the castle, it’s become regular. As the weeks passed, Haleana gradually regained strength, alleviating the burden that had weighed her down. A difficult decision was made to safeguard her little remaining daughter, Jahaera, sending her away from the capital in secret until the storm subsided.

Haleana seldom granted others access. With you, trust came naturally.

You reminisced about the days when she spoke passionately about her fascination with insects, marveling at their intricacies as if they held the key to an enigmatic world.

There was an unmistakable resemblance between Haleana & Rhaenyra, not just in their physical features, but also in the gaze they shared.

"Have you ever considered taking a ride on our dragons?" you asked, a warm smile gracing you. The question caught her off guard, and her surprise was evident. "I've always believed that Dreamfyre and Silverwing would get along splendidly."

"I thought that was an adventure reserved for my brothers or nephews," she responded, a hint of regret coloring her words. Your expression shifted to one of sorrow.

"I would cherish the opportunity to embark on such an adventure with you. It's invigorating to embrace new experiences, don't you agree?" Sympathetically, Haleana nodded.

"Sometimes, I find myself wondering... how different my life would have been if my mother had accepted the marriage between Jaecerys and me," she mused. Intrigued, you looked at her intently. "Perhaps all of this chaos would have been averted, or it might not even be happening at all." A profound silence enveloped the room as you pondered her words. "Aegon would have chosen another to be his wife. His claim would have remained intact. Although it was never his desire."

"Jace would have made you the happiest lady in the Seven Kingdoms. I am certain of it," you responded with genuine conviction.

"He is a fine young man. Baela deserves him. While I don't know your nieces well, I sense their exceptional nature. And Rhaena... she would have been happy too, with Luke," she concluded.

“Perhaps in another life. A life where everything is vastly different, and everyone finds their happily ever after."

“You can still find yours, Y/N. With my mother. I know how deeply she loves you."

"And I love her dearly, my dear."

"That's how love should feel, shouldn't it? Strolling through a meadow adorned with vibrant flowers, the sun's gentle warmth caressing your skin, and the rhythm of your beloved's heartbeat becoming the sweet melody that intertwines with the songs of birds and the whispers of the breeze." Haleana's words wove a tapestry of melancholic memories, transporting you back to that fateful day when you and Alicent wandered through fields together. It was a moment of pure bliss, witnessed by Haleana as if she herself had experienced it. She had never seen her mother happier or more content than in that fleeting spring day with you.

You harbored no ill will toward Aegon, but sadness washed over you, knowing that your dear Haleana deserved such joy. Yet, her husband, could never grant her that.

"Oh, my precious girl. I just know that destiny has something extraordinary in store for you.” You promised.

—

The first “triumph” achieved as the Hand was the proposal of a visionary strategy aimed at streamlining the movement of your father's fleet, which had hindered access to vital maritime trade routes. The Stepstones, although not officially under the jurisdiction of the Iron Throne, presented an opportunity for persuasion through ceding those islands. It wasn't a relinquishment of your rightful territory, merely a diplomatic maneuver. Furthermore, understanding the need for improved communication and collaboration, you pledged to establish a place for dialogue and understanding within the Royal Court, bridging the gap between continents.

While they ultimately acquiesced to your terms, a surge of apprehension appeared, concerned about the potential loss of your father's loyal soldiers for the accord you had forged.

In one of the sessions, Cole brazenly voiced a controversial opinion, advocating for the immediate decapitation of all those who had voiced support for Rhaenyra. "We cannot stoop to the level of cold-blooded murder," you countered, asserting your stance.

"It is a display of weakness to spare them," Cole persisted, his attack directed at you. "They won't alter their convictions, my lady. And we both know you lack the fortitude to make the necessary decisions," he taunted.

"Choose your words wisely, Lord Commander," the King interjected. Turning towards you, he desperately sought your counsel. "What then, do you suggest we do with them, lady Y/N?"

"Let them be confined in their cells, treated fairly according to their standing. Over time, they will have no choice but to reassess their allegiances. This is not coddling; it is an act of mercy, granting them the chance to witness our aversion to wanton destruction of the Kingdom. By abstaining from vengeance and sparing the lives of their Lords and Ladies, we deny their Houses the fuel for hatred and the thirst for revenge," you concluded, your head held high, while Alicent regarded you with pride. The others in the room appeared disinterested, some offering merely subtle nods.

"May they not test my patience before its very limits," Aegon declared.

Larys, ever the opportunist, interjected himself back into the Council's affairs, asserting his indispensability to prevent the King's reign from crumbling, given his vast network of connections and cunning. He extended an apology to Alicent and maintained a cautious distance from her. Though you despised his proximity, the King accepted him once more.

"If he dares to approach or even glance at you, I shall shatter his face, again.” you exclaimed in annoyance after a meeting. Alicent embraced you, placing her head gently upon your shoulder.

"I know you will always defend my honor. Yet, the last thing I desire is to see you harmed," she whispered softly in your ear.

"He doesn't intimidate me."

"It is not he, directly, that concerns me. He wields influence, and I dread any ill befalling you 'by accident,' my love."

"Do you believe he is foolish enough to attempt it? Or dispatch someone to inflict harm upon me? A Targaryen?" you spoke your mother's name with a hint of double meaning. "I possess a dragon, my dear. And it has been far too long since it relished a hearty feast."

Both you and Alicent found peace in the knowledge that Daeron remained in Oldtown under the care of Ormund Hightower, Alicent's uncle.

Though you missed him deeply, you understood the stakes involved and the perils that would accompany his presence. While he possessed the skills to join the fray and potentially assist his brother, you strictly forbade his participation. Being the dutiful child he was, Daeron honored your wishes and refrained from soaring upon Tessarion's wings.

You knew that safeguarding Daeron's life and ensuring his continued growth were paramount.

—

Rhaenyra found herself at a loss, her mind tangled in a web of uncertainty. She couldn't fathom your involvement in the recent assault against her family, and yet news of your ascension had reached even the shores of Dragonstone. Leaving her taken aback.

However, despite the tempest raging within her since Luke’s murder, she resolved not to advance towards King's Landing. Her paramount concern was to protect you.. She hesitated to unleash fire and blood upon the capital, fearing that in doing so, you would inevitably become entangled in the conflict. And she simply could not bear the thought of Daemon attempting to extinguish your life once and for all. Even amidst the chaos, you remained one of her utmost priorities.

No, she would never allow that.

With a heavy heart burdened by the weight of her decisions, she made a resolute choice. Little Y/N, would be sent to the Vale, seeking sanctuary in the alliance with Lady Arryn. She contemplated extending the same protection to her two younger sons, Viserys and Aegon, convinced by Rhaenys. Together, they were dispatched to the impregnable Eyrie, escorted by her most loyal knights. She had to keep them safe, even if it meant enduring separation for an extended period.

In those moments of respite from the maelstrom that engulfed her, she found doted on the presence of her lovely baby. Rhaenyra cherished those precious, tender moments, cradling and soothing her, listening to the gentle cadence of her breathing as she slumbered. It was during these tranquil interludes that brief moments of calm pierced through the chaos, if only for a short while.

"Nyke gīmigon bony tubis, issa beloved hāedar, y/n jāhor rhaenagon ao. Se ziry jāhor find isse ao nykeā beacon hen jorrāelagon se ōños. (I know that one day, my beloved girl, Y/N will meet you. And she will find in you a beacon of love and light)” she whispered like an incantation every day, her voice heavy with longing. Thoughts of you occupied her heart.

The Black Queen yearned to see you, to trace the contours of your face with her fingers, to have you by her side. Yet, at the same time, she harbored a profound fear of encountering you. In your presence, she felt her strength waver, her resolve crumble. For you, she would relinquish any crown, any throne, any war. Such vulnerability was deemed unfitting by her advisors and those who depended on her.

Within her being, an immense wound festered, a wound that you had inflicted upon her when you were but fifteen. Instead of healing over time, this wound had grown into an abyss, a constant reminder. Time, it seemed, held no power to mend such a deep-seated hurt.

Resentment seeped into the depths of Rhaenyra's heart. In her time of dire need, when she required your support, you had turned your back and departed. The days stretched on, devoid of your return, and still, she waited.

She acknowledged the mistakes she had made, the pain her actions had inflicted upon you. To some extent, she understood the weight of your burden. Thoughts of writing you a heartfelt letter, an apology permeated her mind. Perhaps, within its ink-stained confines, she could offer a chance to escape together with her children. But she knew such a decision would be born of selfishness and one-sided desires. No words could ever be enough to bridge the chasm that had grown between you. So, with tears streaming down, she tore the unfinished letters into tiny fragments, tossing them into the fireplace. In the solitude of the night, her sobs mingled with the crackling of the burning paper, as her lonely shadow offered the only companionship.

Perhaps, she mused, expressing her feelings face to face would be easier, carrying far more significance than mere ink on a page. Perhaps, by looking into your eyes, she could convey the depth of her emotions without anything or anyone standing in the way.

Still, she continued to wait.

—

Your war strategies proved futile in preventing Cole from devising his own tactics.

"Your Grace," you exclaimed, "Ser Arryk was a knight of great valor and loyalty. Sending him on this mission was a grave mistake."

"I knew you would not understand. Hence, I did not seek your counsel or opinion," he retorted.

"This could have quelled the rebellion. We had nothing to lose by attempting it," Lord Lannister chimed in.

You bit your tongue, suppressing any inappropriate outburst. Alicent, always perceptive, averted her gaze, shielding you from betraying your emotions.

But you would never have consented or condoned such an act. You harbored no desire for harm to befall the Blacks, which, given your position, may seem redundant.

"My lady, do not make me regret the choices I've made. This goes beyond honor and mercy. We are in the midst of war, and severing the snake's head swiftly is imperative," he admonished.

"And who was the intended target?" you demanded.

"Her bastards. Whoever he could reach first," he coldly replied.

Once again, you clenched your teeth, biding your time until the meeting concluded, yearning for a breath of fresh air.

Days passed without any attack from Rhaenyra.

After capturing Rosby and Stokeworth, and subsequently sacking Duskendale, Cole's next move was toward Rook's Rest—a revelation that reached your ears belatedly.

It was evident to you, in an instant, that it was a trap. Rhaenyra would not risk her children's lives to rescue Lord Staunton, and Daemon remained entrenched in Harrenhal. It would likely be Rhaenys, your mother, who would extend her aid.

Once again, you found yourself kept in the dark. Hastily, you penned a letter, forewarning the Blacks of the impending danger, imploring them not to offer assistance this time. But alas, it was too late.

Vhagar and Sunfyre were absent from the capital, prompting you to hasten to your mother's aid. Mounting Silverwing for the first time in months, apprehension and fear coursed through you as she soared with newfound speed, astonishing for a dragon of her age.

Your heart trembled in your hands, fully aware that Meleys would stand no chance against two fully grown dragons—perhaps against Vhagar, but along Sunfyre, none at all.

In that moment, loyalty to the Greens vanished from your thoughts. Everything faded away, and all that remained was the determination to arrive in time and thwart the brewing catastrophe.

Finally, you reached the scene, observing the battle unfold just below. The castle was besieged, with archers and men-at-arms scattered throughout. Your attention was drawn to the massive scorpions pointed skyward, ready to strike their target.

Anxiety surged within you as the dragons were nowhere to be seen. Then, as if the gods granted a brief respite, the clouds parted, and there emerged your mother. But where were the Targaryen siblings?

"No, mother," you whispered, overwhelmed and unsure of how to proceed, the chaos engulfing you.

Rhaenys immediately noticed your presence, guiding her dragon closer to yours. "My dearest child, my firstborn," she murmured.

"Mother! It's a trap, a trap! Retreat immediately, leave!" you cried out with all the strength that remained, your voice echoing through the air. There was no trace of anger or resentment in her eyes; only joy at seeing you once more.

The Red Queen, already bore the marks of numerous arrows lodged in her body.

You knew well that your mother would never retreat like a coward, for she possessed a spirit untamed by fear. In a swift motion, she turned Meleys, just as Aegon and Aemond descended upon them, emanating an aura of ferocity.

You longed to match that swiftness, to come to her aid, but Silverwing suffered a direct hit from an iron bolt in her left wing. Cole had clearly ordered his forces to target you as well. Arrows rained down upon you, forcing you to dodge and weave, desperately trying to evade them. Yet, one pierced your lung, stealing your breath. You realized you had neglected to wear the necessary armor for this encounter. Another bolt found its mark near Silverwing's neck, followed by yet another in the same spot. The dragon let out a pained roar, losing balance and preventing you from directing her toward the unfolding battle just miles away.

Silverwing unleashed her fury upon the battlefield, her fiery breath engulfing the enemy forces. Hundreds of men met their demise. The bowmen, with their weapons raised, were reduced to ashes in mere moments. Even Criston, fell before your dragon’s wrath.

With determination, you attempted once more to guide her closer to the red dragon, but an arrow found its mark in your spine, searing pain through your body. You hadn't given a thought to your own safety, consumed by the urgency to save your mother. Silverwing's descent was inevitable, her ability to take flight hindered by a sky enveloped in smoke and flames. The three dragons vanished from plain sight.

Had you been there, there might have been a glimmer of hope. With you, perhaps the outcome could have been different.

The assault on Silverwing ceased, and with a gentle pat on her back, you dismounted, running toward your mother, oblivious to the agony that coursed through you. There was no one with her.

In those fleeting moments of desperate hope, you believed she might still be alive, battered but breathing. You yearned for her to utter one of her comforting phrases, to wrap your arms around her, shielding her from anyone who sought to harm her. As you sprinted toward her, beseeching every god known to you—the old ones, the new ones—for a miracle, you clung to that hope.

Meleys lay lifeless, shattered by the fall, her broken form strewn across the ground. And nearby, another figure, charred and unrecognizable, lay motionless. It could have been someone else, anyone else. But you knew it.

You fell to your knees before them, tears pooling in your eyes, refusing to accept the reality that unfolded before you. Despite knowing deep down, you held on to denial, unwilling to acknowledge that the figure before you was your mother.

Silhouettes began to gather around, the hushed whispers of onlookers enveloping you. But you could not tear yourself away from her side. The world around you blurred.

Your heart bled. The war had claimed its toll yet again, and the price paid was your beloved mother.

~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist: @nnightskiess @loveislove4 @evattude @lethal-minds @sophiexoxsblog @claymoresword @tired-ninfa @glorioushamsterqueen @alicenter @newcaptainofsquad9 @pindoris @oh-thats-cute @rxscpctals @laenordeservedbetter @voniikg @bugwritesstuff @letlovee-in @urmomsgirlfriend1 @valenciavv @the-camilucha @joliettes

[novaursa]

Gwayne Hightower Masterlist

main list

- A Rose in Oldtown - Gwayne steals a rose and allows it to grow strong in Oldtown. - mature 16+

- The Crimson Sky - When Gwayne was ordered to go to Rook’s Rest, you followed him. - explicit 18

- Down by the River - After a forgotten betrothal with Aemond, you found love and comfort in your uncle's arms. - explicit 18+

- In Defiance of a Dragon - When your uncle, King Viserys, promised your hand to Gwayne, your father was least pleased about it. - explicit 18+

- Of Gods and Blood - Your mother, Alicent, sent you to Oldtown, to protect you from Rhaeyra's whims. Only for you to find comfort in your uncle’s arms. - explicit 18+

- A House Divided - During a tourney your father organized for the birth of his heir, your heart found a flame in Ser Gwayne Hightower. - mature 16+

- A Flame in Exile - Your mother and grandsire have sent you away to Oldtown. You were too unruly like your uncle Daemon, they said. But Gwayne never shied away from fire. - mature 16+

- The Wild Heart - You introduce Gwayne to your dragon, Grey Ghost. - mild 13+

- The Big Bad Wolf of Duskendale - You and Gwayne tell your children a bedtime story about the dragon princess and her knight. - mild 13+

- Divided Banners - When the Dance came you picked your half-sister. And now you have to face a price for choices made. - mature 16+

- The Kiss of the Hightower - On your way to the capital, you and your uncle had other intentions than observing the road. - explicit 18+

- Behind the Chamber Door - Ser Criston was appointed to guard you by your sister, Queen Alicent herself. He overhears something that makes him confront both you and his heart’s desire. - mature 16+

Works (targ!reader/Gwayne Hightower) below are listed in chronological order:

- Echoes of a Promise - When Prince Daemon Targaryen challenged Ser Gwayne Hightower during the tourney, that King Viserys I orginazed for birth of his heir, it was not just to humiliate and spite Otto. It was because of you. - explicit 18+

- Chains of the Crown - Gwayne promised to marry you. A promise he couldn't keep. - explicit 18+

- Between the Flames (1) - You and Gwayne see each other after years of separation, as King Viserys I organizes a hunt for his son's nameday. But time is a cruel mistress. - mature 16+

- Between the Flames (2) - Gwayne and you rekindle your flame as a celebratory hunt proceeds. - explicit 18+

- Skyfall - Baela and you chase after Cole and his men. You fall from the sky straight into Gwayne's arms. Literally. - explicit 18+

- The Flames We Carry - Ser Criston Cole expected for Rhaenys and Meleys to appear over Rook's Rest. To Gwayne's horror, Rhaenyra sent her sister instead: you. - mature 16+

- Where Banners Fall - After your fall at Rook’s Rest, Gwayne takes you to safety and some hidden things come to light. - mild 13+

- The Blood We Choose - Gwayne brings you to Dragonstone, to your sister. But it is Daemon who awaits you both. - mild 13+

- The Flames We Share - You tell your son the truth. He has more than the blood of dragons in his veins. - mild 13+

- The Chains We Break - Otto Hightower comes to negotiate the release of his son. Daemon does not humor him. But you and your sister are dragons as well, who answer to neither gods or men. - mild 13+

- Where Honor Burns - After the tragedy Above the God's Eye, you decided to go to King's Landing, in hope to prevent more bloodshed. Even if it means your death. - explicit 18+

- The Cost of Fire - The conclusion of the Dance. Where Gwayne and the reader married under watchful eyes of the Seven. - explicit 18+

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 77

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 77: Haunted by the Daylight

AO3 - Masterlist

Aemond quietly made his way into the council chambers, his footsteps barely echoing in the vast, solemn room. There, he found his grandfather, the Hand of the King, situated in his usual seat at the King’s right hand. His posture conveyed deep thought, his elbow resting on the armrest, fingers tapping a rhythmic beat against his temple as he seemed to be contemplating weighty matters.

The King’s chair, along with the others, stood vacant, save for the wine cups scattered about–an indication of an adjourned session. Only Aegon’s cup showed signs of use, its contents gone save for a few drops at the bottom. 

Near one of the stone columns, his mother stood noticeably isolated from the center of the room. Her posture rigid, the tension in her frame palpable. She fidgeted with the ring on her finger, her actions betraying her inner turmoil. Her brow was furrowed, her lips pressed tightly together in a clear sign of discontent. As her eyes lifted to meet Aemond’s, they revealed a mixture of dejection and concern, reflecting the gravity of the situation that weighed heavily upon them both. 

Aemond positioned himself in front of the council table, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture radiating a sense of annoyance. He felt sidelined, his exclusion from the council meeting stinging particularly after he had spent hours patrolling the skies on Vhagar. The scent of smoke and dragonfire lingered on his clothing, and his hair bore the wild, windswept look of a dragonrider freshly descended from flight. 

Otto Hightower looked up from the letter he had been scrutinizing, his expression marked by discontent. “Your mother’s attempts at diplomacy appear to have yielded no results.”

At these words, Alicent’s expression tightened further, her jaw shifting as if she were biting the inside of her cheek in frustration. Her fingers, previously twirling her ring anxiously, now shifted to absentmindedly pick at her cuticle. 

The sight of his mother’s distress stirred a protective urge in Aemond; he wanted to reach out, to take her hand and gently stop her from picking at her skin. However, he remained motionless, his single eye fixed intently on his grandfather, maintaining his composed demeanor despite the turmoil swirling within him. His jaw clenched tightly, his frustration mounting.

Otto delved deeper into the troubling news, his voice steady but grave. “We’ve received a report from Gwayne that Rhaenyra has been crowned and has gathered her nearest allies at Dragonstone. We presented our terms to her…”

Otto held up a small, rolled piece of parchment, flicking it onto the table, letting it roll over its surface. “She has refused our offer of peace, and instead presented her own terms for our surrender.”

Otto's demeanor grew more serious as he reached for a small, rolled piece of parchment. With deliberate motion, he flicked it onto the table, letting it roll across the smooth surface as it slid towards Aemond. He reached for it.

“She has rejected our offer of peace,” Otto announced, his voice resonant with a note of expectancy. “Instead, she has had the audacity to present her own terms, dictating the conditions of our surrender.”

Aemond unrolled the parchment, his eye scanning its contents carefully. The implications of this defiance were clear, setting the stage for a conflict that seemed increasingly inevitable. With a flick of his wrist, he let the parchment fall back onto the table, its message clear and its consequences unavoidable. He then folded his hands behind his back, adopting a posture of readiness and contemplation. 

“And what are we do do about it?” Aemond questioned, taking a deep, steadying breath, his jaw setting in a firm line–a telltale sign of his mounting resolve. His shoulders squared, reflecting a sense of determination and readiness to confront the looming challenges. 

He was keenly aware that each passing moment brought them closer to the brink of war–a prospect he not only welcomed but felt thoroughly prepared for. This was a battle he saw not just as a duty but as an opportunity to demonstrate his valor and leadership. The weight of this realization settled on his shoulders, yet he carried it as a warrior would his armor, with a resolve as firm as the iron gates of a fortress.

Prepared for war, Aemond embraced the prospect of battle and the pursuit of glory that accompanied it. Like numerous men and second sons before him, he would carve his name into history through the crucible of war. He saw the impending conflict not merely as a challenge, but as an opportunity. It was his chance to prove his mettle, to earn honor and respect, and secure himself a place in the annals of history–to be remembered. He was ready to make his own indelible mark and ensure that his name, too, would be remembered alongside great king’s and warriors. 

Otto sat up straighter in his chair, his posture aligning with the gravity of his next words, eyes as hard as the stone that made the foundation of the Red Keep.

“As Rhaenyra consolidates her power and allies, we must do the same,” he stated with a clear decisiveness. “Hence, I am sending you to Storm’s End.” Otto’s directive was sharp and unyielding, outlining a strategic move designed to strengthen their position and extend their influence. “There, you will secure a marriage alliance for Daeron with one of Lord Borros Baratheon’s daughters.”

Alicent’s response was a quiet murmur of disapproval, her head shaking subtly as she glanced down at her hands, visibly troubled by her father’s directives yet restrained in her dissent. 

Despite this silent protest, Otto remained resolute. “It’s imperative that the Baratheons do not align themselves with Rhaenyra and her cause. We cannot afford to lose the Stormlands, do you understand?”

“I do,” Aemond responded, his nod firm and his expression serious, fully aware of the critical nature of his mission. 

“There can be no mistakes in this,” Otto emphasized, standing up with an air that suggested the discussion was concluded. “You leave at dawn.”

He began to collect the letters and various parchments, his movements quick and precise as he readied to leave the council chambers, no doubt heading to his office to continue his preparations. 

As Aemond turned to follow suit, Alicent called out, “Aemond.”

Her voice echoed softly across the room, her gown whispering against the stone floor as she approached with a measured grace befitting her status. Her footsteps clicked in a steady rhythm, yet her shoulders bore a trace of weariness, tension evident in her frame–and more so on her face.

Otto, who had been halfway out of the room, paused at the sound of her voice. He turned to cast a narrow, penetrating glance back at them, his eyes sharp with a cold discernment–a silent warning. Lingering for a moment in the charged atmosphere, he finally exhaled and continued on his way, the door closing soundly behind him. 

Alicent stood before Aemond with a dignified grace and authority expected of a queen, her hand poised gently on her bodice, signaling both composure and concern. He watched her carefully as subtle expressions played across his mother’s face–her eyebrows slightly furrowed and raised at the inner corners, her mouth downturned at the edges–each minute change painting a clear picture of her inner turmoil.

“As the Hand has emphasized, there’s no margin for error,” Alicent asserted, her voice conveying a calm yet urgent resolve. She reached out, her fingers delicately smoothing the fabric of Aemond’s doublet in a comforting, maternal gesture. “It would be naive to think Rhaenyra won’t also be sending her envoys. You must reach Storm’s End before they do.”

Her eyes, large and earnest, met his with an intensity that underscored the seriousness of her words. “She will surely try to persuade Borros Baratheon to honor his father’s old commitments, but remember, we have more substantial offers for him. Ensure you present our terms convincingly and secure his alliance.”

“You needn’t worry, Mother, I will secure a Baratheon alliance,” Aemond assured her firmly.

“Lord Borros might not be…” Alicent began, her voice wavering as the lines of worry deepened around her mouth. “He may not readily accept your betrothal and subsequent marriage to his brother’s widow. It is crucial that he remains unaware of any past… dalliance between the two of you, and he must never suspect your involvement in his brother’s death.”

Her hand came to rest gently over his heart, her touch laden with concern. In response, Aemond covered her hand with his own, his gesture offering reassurance and a silent promise to heed her caution. “I will be careful. I promise.”

“Despite Rhaenyra’s rejection of our terms, I am adamant that we should not be the aggressors in this conflict,” Alicent declared resolutely, her words imbued with a sense of urgency to make her son understand. “We should not be the ones to draw first blood, nor will we be the ones to start this war. Let them reveal their true nature to the realm.”

Aemond gave his mother a nod of acknowledgement.

Laying in her bed, Daenera shifted, her eyes drawn to the flickering flames in the hearth. The room was dimly lit, the fire casting dancing shadows across the walls, which were adorned with faded tapestries depicting dragon’s in flight. The scent of burning wood mingled with the faint traces of yellow chrysanthemum-scented candles, creating a soothing ambiance to the night. Yet, despite the calm setting, a restlessness pulsed within her, her skin tingling with alertness as she exhaled a weary, frustrated sigh. 

Nearby, Lady Mertha, her nominal lady-in-waiting, slept soundly in a chair. Her chestnut hair, streaked with silver, was neatly tied in a bun that served as a makeshift pillow against the wooden back of the chair. An unfinished embroidery project lay in her lap, the needle halted mid-stitch in the fabric of a delicate blue iris. The soft, rhythmic snores emanating from her seemed to chafe at Daenera’s frayed nerves. 

As she lay there in bed, listening to the endless snoring, her thoughts drifted to a darker place. She imagined rising, seizing her pillow, and pressing it over the face of the old hag until she ceased to struggle, and then holding it just a moment longer to ensure the silence was permanent. Yet, she resisted, even as the thought tantalized at her fingertips, urging her to rid herself of the woman who veiled cruel remarks and poised insults under the pretense of servitude. Indeed, Mertha was a faithful servant–to the Queen Mother and the Faith, not to Daenera. 

However, she knew that murdering her keeper would bring nothing but fleeting self-satisfaction. It would label her a murderer, likely leading to even stricter confinement, stripped of the few luxuries and freedoms she still enjoyed. Moreover, Mertha would surely be replaced by someone even more intolerable. With Mertha, at least, Daenera knew her adversary’s ways and how to navigate them. 

Despite these rationalizations, the relentless itch of frustration remained, gnawing at her as she lay awake in the quiet of the night. 

Restlessly, Daenera turned onto her other side, squeezing her eyes shut in a futile attempt to block out the tumultuous thoughts swirling within her mind–thoughts that always seemed to simmer beneath the surface of her consciousness. Her jaw clenched as she willed herself towards the elusive relief of sleep, but it eluded her, slipping through her grasp like wisps of smoke. Instead, her mind was besieged by the relentless storm of memories and anxieties, holding her captive in her own turbulent thoughts. 

Her thoughts spiraled in a tempest, replaying the recent calamitous events that continued to haunt her. Each replay brought fresh pangs of what might have been, had her plans not crumbled into despair. The bitter taste of betrayal lingered acutely on her tongue, a poignant reminder of her misplaced trust in Larys. She chastised herself for the naive assumption that their unacknowledged familial ties could serve as a dependable foundation for trust.

As the night stretched on, Daenera lay awake, tormented by her choices and their fallout, each scenario playing out in her head like an relentless echo of what could have been–a cacophony of could-haves and should-haves that offered no solace, only the sharp sting of regret. 

The betrayal by Aemond cut the deepest, its sting harsh and relentless as he forced her into a corner–into a marriage she had no choice but to accept, effectively chaining her to the Greens, to him. While Daenera could understand the political motives behind his actions, understanding them did little to mitigate the sharp, persistent ache that throbbed within her heart every time she saw him. 

And despite her best efforts to banish him from her thoughts, he weaved his way into her mind–how he had wrapped his arms around her to restrain her from running to Rhaenys, and, in some convoluted way, to protect her. She recalled the way he had positioned himself between his mother and herself. She remembered the tenderness with which he held her, the way his head tilted towards hers, resting against her, allowing his warmth to envelop her–his hand on her stomach, protecting and claiming.

Yet, amidst the turmoil, a distressing truth gnawed at her–a truth she hesitated to acknowledge even to herself. Under different stars, freed from the shackles of duty and deceit, Daenera knew she might have chosen Aemond willingly. This, perhaps, was the most excruciating betrayal of all–the betrayal of her own heart against her better judgment. 

Yet, it was not just betrayal that haunted Daenera’s sleepless nights. 

The shadows of the departed loomed large in her thoughts, each name a heavy echo in her heart. Viserys, Joyce, Darvin, Edam, Kevan, Sithric–each memory a sharp stab of grief. 

The circumstances of their deaths haunted Daenera, each loss made a specter in the back of her mind. The image of Joyce’s lifeless body, harsh ropes suspending it in a cruel mockery of peace, was permanently etched into her memory, alongside the horrific scene of decay that had befallen the bodies suspended in the inner courtyard. It seemed as though the ghosts of the dead lingered in the shadows of her room, their cold, dead eyes watching her relentlessly. 

The dim light from the dying hearth cast eerie shadows on the walls, enhancing the surreal and ghostly quality of her restless contemplations. Most haunting, however, were the ghosts of those not yet dead. Her thoughts strayed to her family, wondering if Rhaenys had managed to reach them with the news of the usurpation and whether they were not rallying their forces, preparing to retaliate against the injustice that threatened to engulf her. 

Dread and longing intertwined within Daenera whenever she thought of her family. Her mind churned with questions about how they were handling the usurpation–whether they had received the coerced letter she had been forced to pen. Above all, she harbored a fervent hope, almost a prayer, that they would recognize the letter for what it truly was: a fabrication, filled with nothing more than hollow words dictated by her captors. 

Her brothers would have undoubtedly been the first to rally for her rescue. She hoped that Daemon would temper their fiery spirits, preventing them from taking rash actions that might endanger their lives. She imagined her mother, consumed with worry, possibly even considering conceding to the usurpers’ demands just to ensure her safety. However, Daenera clung to the hope that Daemon, or Jace, or Baela, or Rhaena–someone, anyone–would persuade her mother against it. 

She had to remind herself that her mother was strong. Despite the gnawing fear and the strategic considerations that might tempt a less resolute soul, her mother would not yield; she would not bend the knee to the usurpers. Daenera clung to this belief, drawing a measure of strength from the imagined resilience of her family, despite the distance that separated them.

The ache of missing them was a constant companion. 

The horrifying thought that they might meet the same grim fate as Joyce and the others–that their lives might end at the end of a rope–stirred a deep well of fear within her.

Tears prickled behind her closed eyelids as she wrestled with these fears, her body lying motionless on the bed yet her mind trapped in a tortuous cycle of apprehension and despair. The night offered no reprieve, with each haunting thought acting like a specter at the periphery of her awareness, ensuring she continued to remain awake.

There was no solace to be found in sleep, it seemed. 

Her eyes snapped open once more as an especially loud snore shattered the fragile silence that enveloped her. Frustrated, Daenera sat up abruptly, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders in disheveled waves as she scowled at her sleeping warden. With a huff, she pushed the covers away, resigning herself to the sleeplessness of the night, and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The cool touch of the stone floors greeted her bare feet as she stood, moving with a silent grace that conflicted with the clamor of her heart. 

Daenera walked purposefully to where her slippers lay discarded, slipping her feet into them before wrapping herself in a yellow silk robe–one of the few pieces of her own clothing she had been allowed to keep. She then draped a blue shawl, adorned with intricate patterns, over her shoulders, the fabric providing a slight warmth against the chill of the night air. 

Daenera approached the chamber doors, their imposing frames seeming to beckon her forward. With a delicate yet determined touch, she pushed them open, a faint creak escaping despite her efforts to be silent. As she peered into the corridor beyond, her gaze locked with that of the guard stationed outside her door–a man whose name she neither knew nor wished to learn. His face shifted from a look of wariness to one of surprise upon seeing her. 

“I can’t sleep,” Daenera declared, her voice imbued with the weight of a demand rather than a mere request. Her eyes met his, asserting her intention. “I wish to take a walk.”

The guard hesitated, his lips parting as if he were about to refuse, but Daenera cut him off before he could formulate his objection.

“You’ll be with me the entire time,” she continued firmly, her voice dictating terms, not seeking permission. “I’m merely in my robe and nightgown; I’m not planning an escape. Besides, a walk has to be better than standing there all night, staring at the walls, wouldn’t you agree?”

His brows lifted slightly as he processed her words, and after a brief pause, he begrudgingly nodded in acceptance. 

With a slight, mischievous smile, Daenera stepped through the threshold into the hallway, leaving her behind her slumbering warden, who would undoubtedly be in for a shock of surprise upon discovering her bed empty–if she woke at all. The smile on her lips grew at the thought. 

The hallways of Maegor’s Holdfast were eerily quiet at night, deserted except for a lone servant who glided silently through the corridors, making scarcely more noise than a ghost. The shadows in the hallway seemed to challenge the flickering torches that staved off the darkness, creating a play of light and shadow that danced across the tapestries that littered the stone walls. Despite the deep shadows that clawed against the dim light, Daenera was not afraid; rather, she found a certain solace in the cloak of night and the solitude it offered–similar to the many nights she had spent with Aemond, seeking the solitude of a world of darkness to shield them from the days judgments. The night seemed to grant a type of freedom, a respite from the watchful eyes of the day, and she embraced this fleeting liberty with open arms, even as the guard’s footsteps echoed behind her, a constant reminder of her constraints. 

They descended the grand staircase of Maegor’s Holdfast and made their way through the courtyard. Daenera paused in the middle of the open space, her gaze fixating on the banisters that were now clear of any ropes. The only remnants of their grime presence were the faint traces of rot that seemed to linger in the air. 

Since Aegon’s crowning and the hanging of her men, Daenera had spent her days standing resolutely in the middle of the courtyard. This act of defiance–or perhaps self-punishment–served as a reminder of the injustice of the situation and a means to honor the lives that had been so brutally taken. She had stood vigil, watching their faces until they became indistinct, the flesh turning a disturbing, discolored hue. She watched as their bodies began to bloat, their features becoming near unrecognizable, their fingers turning an unnatural black as flies swarmed their orifices. The process of decay was relentless, and soon the stench permeated the entire courtyard. 

The heat of recent days had only exacerbated the situation, intensifying the smell rather than diminishing it. The air, thick with the stench of death, made the courtyard almost unbearable as the process of rot quickened unnaturally under the oppressive heat. Flies had then taken to swarming the bodies, obscuring the men’s faces. 

Mertha had tried to coax her away from the gruesome sight, but Daenera had refused to move. To endure the overwhelming odor, the old hag had resorted to carrying a small pouch of herbs to hold under her nose, trying to mask the scent. 

Daenera couldn’t deny the impact the sight and smell of decay had on her. Even now, when she thought of their rotting corpses, the scent of putrid flesh seemed to haunt her nostrils. 

In an effort to mitigate the grisly aftermath, the Hightowers had finally removed the bodies the day before. They had placed several braziers and bowls of incense throughout the courtyard, attempting to cleanse the air of the pervasive stench of death.

Drawing in a deep breath of the now fresher air that swept through the open courtyard, Daenera turned her face upward, gazing at the vast expanse of stars. It was a clear, beautiful night. With a momentary pause to appreciate the serene sky, she then made her way towards the doors of Maegor’s Holdfast, the night air providing a small reprieve from the heaviness that lingered around her. 

They made their way to the Red Keep, their footsteps silent, ghost-light as they glided through the veil of night. They ascended the stairs and moved through the intricate, labyrinthine corridors of the Keep. The silence was punctuated occasionally by the servants, recently released from the dungeons following the coronation, who bustled about their duties. The soft echo of their hurried footsteps and their hushed exchanges briefly infused a sense of life into the otherwise sober environment. 

Rather than returning to the relative comfort of her chambers, Daenera pushed open the towering doors to the throne room. She and her guard stepped into the vast expanse, enveloped immediately by the encompassing darkness. The room seemed to swallow them whole, its shadows stretching out like living entities, reveling in their dominion over the space. The throne room, usually a place of power and ceremony, now felt like an immense void that echoed with the quietude of the night. 

As Daenera and her guard moved deeper into the throne room, a chilling sensation enveloped her. The fine hairs on her arms stood on end, and an involuntary shiver ran down her spine. Moonlight seeped through the tall, narrow windows, casting weak rays of pale light through the overwhelming darkness. 

The Formidable stone columns rose around them like silent sentinels, their towering forms casting judgment on all who tread within. If the Hightowers allowed it, Viserys might one day find his place among the kings of old, becoming another sentinel within this grand space. Tradition dictated that kings were etched in stone, immortalized in the heart of the Red Keep to serve as eternal reminders of the past. Yet, the Hightowers, seemingly intent on reshaping the legacy of House Targaryen, might allow this tradition to slip into the shadows, consigned to be a footnote in the forgotten annals of history, much like their attempts to obscure the rightful line of succession with their lies. 

In the absence of any living presence, Daenera felt neither solitude nor solace. Instead, she felt profoundly lost–adrift in a vast ocean of emptiness, floating beneath a starless sky. She was surrounded by an endless expanse of darkness, while foreboding, unseen waves churned ominously below. 

Pausing before the imposing Iron Throne, Daenera wrapped her arms tightly around herself, seeking warmth and some semblance of comfort as she faced the highest seat of power. The pervasive chill of the room seeped deep into her bones.

She sensed his approach not by sight but through the soft resonance of his footsteps echoing ominously in the vast space. She hard the subtle command he issued the guard, a quiet authority that prompted the guard to discreetly retreat to the entrance of the throne room. 

Aemond’s footsteps echoed as he neared, each step resonating through the cold stone floor, sending shivers down Daenera’s spine and raising the fine hairs on the back of her neck. As he reached her side, his presence seemed to envelop her, a tangible force prickled uncomfortably beneath her skin–prickled with a familiar, comforting sense that she forced out of her mind. 

“Can’t sleep?” Aemond’s quiet inquiry sliced through the stillness of the night. Daenera felt the question encroach upon her, the words prickling against her skin like the cold that clawed at her bare legs.

Within the hushed, expansive confines of the throne room, Daenera’s response was a mere whisper, each syllable heavy with the burden of their fraught circumstances. 

“How could I when I am being held hostage?” Her tone was sharp, yet the night’s quiet seemed to soften the edges of her anger, smoothing the usual bite of her words. “Rest doesn’t come easy when an injustice has been committed–less so when my warden snores.” A trace of cold humor laced her voice, a fleeting attempt to lighten the gravity of her situation. “I see them when I close my eyes…”

“Is it so strange that you see them, after you’ve spent days staring upon them?” 

Daenera’s gaze snapped towards Aemond, her eyes narrowing sharply. “They were good men. Honorable, and they deserved someone to stand vigil for them.”

Aemond’s voice carried a challenging tone as he responded, “They were good men, perhaps, but your vigil wasn’t solely about honor. It was as much an act of defiance.”

She met his gaze with an icy stare. “It worked, didn’t it?”

There was a brief emergence of a cruel smirk on her lips–a fleeting expression that quickly faded as her ire fell to the wayside. Her vigil had been a calculated display of defiance as much as it was a way of honoring them. The spectacle she created by standing vigil was minimal enough to avoid direct punishment, yet potent enough to unsettle those in power. The bodies, which would likely have remained hanging in the courtyard for a day or two more, had been taken down sooner because of the discomfort her actions had caused. She had effectively forced the Hightowers’s hand. 

In the stillness of the night, there was a peculiar vulnerability, as if the moon’s light allowed them to cast aside some of the hostility and animosity that cloaked them during the day. It was just her and Aemond, alone in the shadows of the night, which provided a strange sort of solace, a temporary escape from the day’s harsh realities. 

Within this nocturnal reprieve, Daenera found herself easing into the moment, her demeanor softening into a semblance of playfulness. 

“It brings me a strange sort of solace, imagining the discomfort that Aegon must endure while seated upon the throne,” Daenera mused, her gaze remaining upon the imposing seat. “I can’t fathom how anyone might find it comfortable, with the sharp edges of those blades and the sheer coldness of hard iron…”

Her words floated in the air like delicate wisps as her eyes traced the sharp points of the throne. The swords protruded from the high back of the imposing seat, resembling a deadly crown forged from steel and iron and blood, melded together through dragonfire and sheer will. 

“It doesn’t need to be comfortable,” Aemond responded, his voice echoing a sentiment he had expressed what seemed like ages ago. “It’s a symbol of power–a testament to the might of House Targaryen and a stark reminder to any who would dare oppose us. It represents a promise, not a mere threat.”

Indeed, the menacing spectacle of swords, twisted and contorted into unnatural shapes, emerging from the base and ascending into the air, was undeniably imposing. It served both as a warning and a vow that the same fire which had warped the metal could inflict even greater devastation of flesh and bone. It was a grim, brutal thing. 

“I suppose I can only hope for Aegon to miss his step and impale himself upon one of those blades,” she said lightly, allowing herself an amused smirk at the dark thought. “It’s rather surprising that it hasn’t occurred more often.”

Aemond’s reaction was close to a laugh, a rare, and she caught the slight upturn of his lips out of the corner of her eye. “As far as historical records go, only Maegor has met that fate.”

The faint smile on her lips remained. “Well, history isn’t beyond adding a few more names to that list, is it?”

Daenera couldn’t help but envision it–Aegon impaled upon the throne he had usurped and claimed. How profoundly symbolic. Alternatively, perhaps Otto Hightower should meet a similar fate, impaled by the very symbols of the power he coveted. The thought filled her with a grim satisfaction, yet the existence around her remained unaltered, with both men still very much alive and their steps sure and unfaltering.

“And yet, despite the inevitable discomfort that the Iron Throne may bring to one’s rear, it remains the most coveted seat of them all,” Daenera mused, ascending a step. She turned slightly and found their eyes nearly at level, though he still held a slight height advantage. “The seat on Dragonstone is carved from the very rock like the castle itself. You might think it’s a cold, unforgiving seat, but the stone retrains a subtle warmth. It’s not particularly comfortable, but a strategically placed pillow can alleviate that, and, most importantly, it doesn’t pose the risk of impalement due to pointy swords jutting up from the ground surrounding it.”

A sharp retort seemed to form on the tip of Aemond’s tongue, a wave of biting cruelty that Daenera could sense preparing to crash down upon her. But instead of unleashing the words and letting them rake against her skin, he swallowed them down. 

She could still feel the lingering sting of his unspoken thoughts, resonating like an echo in her mind: That if that throne is indeed more bearable to sit, then maybe her mother should do well to embrace it and remain on Dragonstone, instead of seeking this seat. His words might have been sharper, more volatile, and destructive if he had allowed them to break free, but she felt the sting nonetheless.

Breaking the silence, Daenera spoke again, her voice carrying across the echoing expanse of the throne room. “And the Driftwood Throne is just made of that, driftwood.”

Aemond’s reply was slow and deliberate, his tone tinged with a hint of amusement as he engaged in the verbal dance. “I imagine driftwood offers a more forgiving seat than that of cold, hard stone.”

Under the pale moon’s glow, Daenera regarded him with a blend of caution and intrigue. The moonlight illuminated his features sharply, casting one side of his face in light while the other melded into the shadows of the night, giving him an almost dual nature–sharpness like the edge of a blade, yet possessing a certain softness that hinted at tenderness as much as danger. The moonlight draped over him, accentuating the severe lines of his face, each angle casting a shadow that seemed to hint at both promise and peril. His expression was impassive, resembling the hard lines of a statue, yet the slight twinkle in his eye suggested a depth that Daenera found both perplexing and compelling. 

A trace of wry amusement lingered on his lips, and he tilted his head slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if inviting her to continue this dance of words, “And what of the seat of House Baratheon?”

After a brief, contemplative pause, Daenera turned to face him completely, her response imbued with a subtle curiosity. “It’s made of stone.”

She maintained her position on the stone step, her eyes locked on his as he approached–prowling towards her like a predator stalking its prey. Each step he took resonated more profoundly within her, stirring a blend of apprehension and anticipation in her stomach. As the distance between them lessened, she felt a palpable tension building. Instinctively, she pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, not just against the night’s chill but also as a shield against the way he looked at her. 

“It’s cold, hard stone, with no comfort of a pillow,” Daenera answered, her mind drifting back to her time at Storm’s End. “It’s simple.”

Aemond halted his advance a few steps from her. His gaze seemed to cast a delicate web of sensations across her skin, as if he were trying to decipher her thoughts simply with his stare. “So, it’s plain.”

Daenera nodded, her eyes catching the interplay of shadows across his features, the darkness melding seamlessly with the eye patch that obscured part of his face–and in turn seemed to etch the scar even more into his skin. With a soft breath, she answered, “Yes.”

As he drew near, Daenera felt the rhythm of her heart quickening, and she silently cursed herself for it. Despite everything, he still had the power to stir such emotions within her, a fact she found both infuriating and unsettling. With a calculated move, she took a step back, ascending another step on the dias. 

With that single step, Daenera rose slightly above him, gaining a modest height advantage. Yet, this small elevation appeared to change little in their dynamic. Aemond tilted his head slightly, his gaze intense and unwavering as he continued to watch her closely. 

“Have you ever seen the seat of House Hightower?” Daenera found herself asking, her voice a soft murmur, as though fearing that speaking too loudly would draw him closer. 

Aemond’s gaze briefly scanned her face, his eye sharp and discerning. Each glance seemed to dissect her expressions, parsing the subtle shifts for underlying messages or potential challenges–a mirror to the way she had scrutinized his words earlier. The intensity of his scrutiny was unnerving, as it always was, as if his gaze could penetrate beyond the facade and unearth her innermost thoughts. 

“I have, once,” he responded, his voice low and contemplative, with a hint of something deeper lurking beneath the surface. “The seat is rather unpretentious, crafted from plain wood.”

“Perhaps the grandeur of the Tower negates the need for an ostentatious throne,” Daenera mused aloud, her tone thoughtful, tinged with a touch of irony. She held back a more pointed remark that hovered on the edge of her tongue–about his and his family's ambitions for a grander throne. Opting for a subtler jab, she continued, “Besides, with the Tyrells as their liege lords, I’d imagine wood is preferable to the bed of thorns and roses they must sit upon.”

A flicker of amusement briefly animated Aemond’s features, subtly lifting the corners of his lips further that the smirk he always wore. This small but perceptible change in his expression sent an unexpected flutter through Daenera’s chest, intertwining with the sensations of apprehension and intrigue that stirred deep within her. 

Continuing her ascent, Daenera climbed another two steps, her movement embodying grace and poise. Each step she took was measured and deliberate, echoing softly in the vast, hollow expanse of the throne room. Aemond, perceptive of the distance she was creating, followed her, yet consciously remained two steps below her. Over her shoulder, Daenera cast a sly, inviting smile back at him. 

“The realm’s second most pointy seat, I presume,” Aemond commented with a languid drawl. His words, light and teasing, floated through the cool air between them, sparking a bright, bell-like laugh from Daenera. The sound of her laughter filled the expanse around them, a rare echo of warmth that momentarily cut through the usual solemnity of the space. 

Daenera turned to face Aemond fully, shifting the conversation towards another prominent noble house with a playful tilt of her head. “And the Lannisters?”

Their eyes locked, and a spark of shared amusement passed between them. Almost instinctively, they both said in unison, “Gold.”

Her laughter continued, richer now with an undercurrent of deeper amusement. “Indeed, crafted of gold, no doubt extravagantly adorned with their iconic lions and encrusted with jewels.”

Aemond’s response was smooth and tinged with humor, “Subtlety was never a trait the Lannisters embraced.”

With a hint of playful irony in her voice, Daenera responded to Aemond, “I remember Jason Lannister claiming that with wealth like theirs, subtlety is hardly a necessity.”

As she nonchalantly brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the motion seemed to catch Aemond’s attention. His gaze lingered on her, soft and all too gentle. His stance relaxed, the previous stiffness in his spine giving way to a more natural posture. His hands, previously clasped behind his back, now hung loosely by his sides, his fingers subtly twitching, betraying a hint of restlessness.

Aware of the dangers of Aemond’s restlessness, Daenera deftly steered the conversation towards another noble house, her pulse quickening as she felt his eye on her. She sought to maintain a veneer of casual interest as she said, “And what of the Tullys’ seat?”

Aemond’s eye twinkled with amusement, a hint of mischief playing at the edges of his demeanor, even as he spoke with an air of casual disinterest about the subject. His amusement appeared to be fueled internally by Daenera’s reaction to him, prompting a playful smirk to curl at the corners of his lips. He leaned slightly forward, his posture relaxed yet commanding, as he drawled, “It’s wood, replete with ornate carvings that resemble fish scales, similar to the Lannisters and their lions. Perhaps it even boasts a grand trout emblem overseeing it all.”

Daenera’s response came with a tone rich in appreciation, slightly correcting him, “I imagine the Tullys would prefer a more refined elegance–ancient wood, exquisitely carved, no gaudy fish scales involved.” She took another step up, and he followed that one step. “And the Arryns, with their thrones of venerable weirwood. What of House Greyjoy?”

Aemond matched her step, maintaining a distance that always left him two steps below her, subtly conceding the height to her. His voice rose with a clear note of certainty, echoing slightly in the grand space around them. “The Greyjoys preside over the Seastone Chair. According to Maester Theron, it is hewn from the same mysterious, black and oily stone found at the base of the Black Stone Fortress of the Hightower, artfully shaped into the form of a kraken.”

“And House Stark?” Daenera probed further, her curiosity undiminished, her words tinged with a genuine interest in his thoughts. 

Aemond’s reply carried a hint of disdain, almost a scoff, as if the simplicity of the answer amused him. “Unremarkable wood, draped with furs.”

Daenera’s lips curled into a knowing smile, her eyes momentarily shifting away from Aemond as she stepped onto the final landing before the throne, her tone laced with both reverence and irony. “And yet, among them all, this throne remains the most sought after.”

Their interaction flowed with a natural ease, as if the cloak of night granted them a brief escape from the relentless scrutiny of daylight and its politics. In the realm of night, they could temporarily cast aside the heavy mantle of court intrigues and machinations. Despite the tranquility of the night, Daenera was keenly aware of the impending dawn, which would soon expose the harsh truths and intense demands of the day.

She sensed Aemond’s presence drawing nearer as he ascended the last of the steps behind her. Turning to face him, Daenera caught a fleeting expression in his gaze–something deep and enigmatic–before she deliberately shifted her attention away from his intense gaze. 

Her eyes were then drawn to the menacing iron swords that jutted out from the stone floor around the throne. The blades, like savage fangs, seemed poised to tear into flesh at the slightest misstep. Moonlight casting its pale glow through the tall windows bathed the swords in a ghostly light, while casting deep shadows that stretched between the blades, giving them a sinister appearance akin to pools of blood. 

Power had always been an ugly affair, Daenera mused, yet it seemed everyone desired it. The thought of ascending to the Iron Throne had once been a childhood fantasy of being queen–as all children had, oblivious to the consequences. It had been a daydream she entertained with the innocence of youth. However, she soon came to understand the grave implications: to claim the throne meant stepping over the bodies of her family–her mother, Daemon, Jace, Baela, and any of their descendants. Claiming power by force would brand her a kinslayer, a title she never wished to bear. 

Her ambitions had thus been reshaped early on; she envisioned herself as a dutiful daughter in support of her family, perhaps earning a place on their council, offering counsel and securing their reign. 

Yet, as she gazed upon the throne now, a sinister stir twisted within her. It was as if something dark and menacing from the recesses of her soul watched her, whispering seductions of power and dominance from the shadows of her conscience. 

“It could have been you,” she mused softly, the hint of a challenge in her tone as she turned her eyes upon him–as she watched the familiar tightness snap at his lips. Her words seemed to find their mark, visibly rattling Aemond as she intended. He was inching too close for comfort, and despite the part of her that yearned for the solace he seemed to offer, she couldn’t afford to lower her guard further–it had already been a mistake to lower it this much. Her anger towards him remained–fueled by the ire of her captivity, the usurpation of her mother’s throne, and the tangled web of emotions his proximity evoked. She continued, “All you’ve ever wanted, within arm’s reach, yet you did not seize it. It could have been you–”

“No, it never could have been,” Aemond countered, his voice a dark murmur as he advanced a step closer–a note of bitterness sharpening his words. 

She instinctively edged backward, her retreat bringing her alarmingly close to a sword protruding menacingly from the stone floor surrounding the throne, its edge seeming to thirst for contact. The air between them was charged with an unspoken tension, a mix of unresolved conflicts and the harsh realities of their present circumstances. 

As Aemond’s head tilted slightly, his eye caught a sliver of moonlight that filtered through the tall, narrow windows of the throne room. The pale light transformed his blue eye, making it shimmer almost as silvery as his hair–echoing the metallic gleam of steel. “It had to be Aegon.”

Daenera was acutely aware of the political machinations at play; she knew it had always been about Aegon. The Hightowers had long schemed to secure the crown for Viserys’s firstborn son–it had to be the firstborn son, not the second born. Even if Aemond had allowed his brother to escape, Aegon’s mere existence was a looming threat–an obstacle should Aemond claim the throne. Even with Aegon gone, his firstborn son had the claim before Aemond–though he was still but a child. For the Hightowers, Aegon was essential, the foundation on which their usurpation was built on. 

Daenera used Aemond’s ambition and desires as a shield against him–a necessary defense, and one she needed. It served as a barrier of cruelty to remind her heart not to flutter in his presence, to stay guarded despite its desire to be free.

“I have gained something from this,” Aemond whispered, now standing so close his breath could be felt on her skin. Daenera tensed, her heart beating rapidly within her chest, and her nails digging into her palm to ground herself.

His voice dropped to a low, drawling murmur, thick with insinuation, as he reached out towards her. Instinctively, Daenera raised her hand, deflecting his touch before it could graze her jaw and ignite a dangerous warmth. 

Her gaze turned steely, “What was that old saying about touching before marriage?”

“I believe we’re past that,” Aemond remarked, a wry smile playing on his lips. 

Daenera’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose we are… and it will remain that way… in the past.”

Daenera deliberately turned her attention away from him, her movement a silent act of defiance. Aemond’s gaze lingered on her, dark and contemplative, as if he were weighing whether she would act upon her declared intentions. Ignoring his scrutiny, she forced instead on the swords jutting up from the floor around the throne.

Tentatively, she extended a hand, allowing her fingertip to skim along the edge of one of the blades, cautious not to press too firmly against its still-vicious edge. The swords retained their lethal sharpness, as if the very act of forging the throne had permanently imbued them with a relentless edge. 

The silence that had enveloped the throne room, thick with the weight of unspoken thoughts, was abruptly shattered by Aemond’s voice. His words cut through the still air like a Valyrian steel blade, clear and decisive. 

“I’m leaving for Storm’s End in the morning,” he announced, his statement slicing through the delicate veil of their nighttime truce. This declaration signaled a stark shift back to the pressing realities that awaited in the daylight.

Daenera’s head whipped around sharply, her eyes widening in shock and a profound sense of betrayal settling heavily in her heart at Aemond’s sudden announcement. Her startled movement caused her to press her finger too firmly against the blade, and the sharp edge bit into her skin mercilessly. The pain was nothing more than a small jolt, insignificant compared to the emotional turmoil that was stirred by his words.

A hiss left her, and her eyes fell on the bead of blood welling on her skin. This seemed to catch Aemond’s attention, and as if on instinct, he stepped forward and grasped her hand. His touch was gentle, yet insistent as he drew her closer for a better look. His eye lingered on the small crimson welling, and for a fleeting moment, she anticipated that he might bring her finger to his lips–the thought was too much, too intimate, and before he could succumb to any such impulse, she swiftly withdrew her hand, her eyes flashing with indignant fire as she met his gaze. 

“My mother refused to bend the knee,” Daenera stated, not a question but an acknowledgement. A wave of relief briefly swept over her, only to be swiftly replaced by a surge of apprehension as thoughts raced through her mind–who would support her mother’s claim? Were Daemon planning to advance on King’s Landing? What did it mean for her as the Hightowers’ hostage? Slowly, it seemed, they were teetering ever closer to the brink of outright war. 

With a scornful scoff, she added, “Why ask me to describe the seat of Storm’s End when you’re going to witness it yourself?”

The decision to send him to Storm’s End to negotiate with the Baratheons for their support ignited a fiery rage within her. She could feel it burning in her chest, seeping into her lungs and heart, spreading throughout her boy like wildfire. Any semblance of peace between them was scorched by the sting of betrayal. The burdens and circumstances of the day seemed to crash in around them, harsh and unyielding, even as the soft moonlight continued to bathe the room in its ghostly glow. 

“Daenera…”

Daenera swept past him, descending the steps with swift, deliberate strides. She felt the brush of his fingers against her wrist, a desperate attempt to restrain her, but she twisted away sharply, breaking free from his grip. As she turned she fixed him with a withering look. “I suppose you plan on sealing the alliance with a betrothal. Finally, your mother gets her wish–marrying you off to a Baratheon girl.”

Her heart was a battleground of conflicting emotions–relief clashed with profound disappointment. She struggled against the unsettling churn in her stomach as it twisted, and the oppressive weight that seemed to crush her chest. Bitterness surged through her, and despite her resolve, tears threatened to break free, her lower lip quivering with barely restrained emotion. 

Aemond’s reply came through clenched teeth, frustration palpable in his strained voice. “I’m not going to Storm’s End to negotiate my own betrothal, but Daeron’s.”

A surge of relief pierced through her heart, and she immediately scolded herself for feeling it. Aemond descended the steps, moving towards her with a face that was impossible to read. He reached out, his hand almost tender as it moved to brush under her hair and cradle her head, but Daenera swiftly knocked his hand away, refusing the attempt. Part of her knew that if he managed to touch her, to hold her, her resolve might falter. 

Daenera’s voice sharpened with accusation. “You’re stealing my alliance–”

“Daenera,” Aemond cut in, his voice mingling exasperation with a plea for understanding, as though trying to mend the rift that widened with every word they exchanged. 

“No, you’re stealing it!” She shot back, the bitterness etching deeper into her expression as she battled the urge to cry. Her voice trembled as she continued, “I endured a marriage to Boris Baratheon for the sake of that alliance. I endured his cruelty and humiliation. And now, you claim it as if it were nothing, as if my suffering meant nothing!”

Aemond’s reply was sharp, his words slicing through the air with precision–cutting through to her very core. “I’m not to blame for your unfortunate misalliance. The alliance you suffered so much for was always weak, fated to end as it did. You cannot lay claim to an alliance that was never going to endure–Daemon should have seen that. He should have never sold you off to a man who humiliated you.” Aemond stepped closer. “Your alliance with the Baratheon’s ended the day your husband died.”

Aemond closed the distance between them with deliberate steps, towering over her as he continued. “Your alliance with the Baratheons ended the day your husband died.”

Despite Daenera’s desire to trust in Borros Baratheon’s vow to her mother, she was acutely aware of the harsher truth of their situation. Borros, known for his pride, might have stayed true to his word if his brother were still alive and she remained his wife. But with his brother’s death, the fragile threads of their alliance hung in peril, vulnerable to being cast aside for a move advantageous alliance. Her heart beat with the cadence of dread, each beat a heavy thud resonating within her chest, echoing her deep-seated fears. 

Her gaze sharpened as stared up at him, biting the inside of her cheek. 

“You understood the consequences,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper–the unexpected gentleness in his tone worse than had he sneered at her. “You knew that Boris’s death would unravel the alliance, and yet you proceeded.”

Daenera’s eyes remained on his, the sudden softness in his approach unsettling her as much as it drew her attention. Her voice, sharpened by bitterness and deliberately hushed to contain its echoes, shot back in a sneer of thinly veiled accusation, “Let’s not forget whose hands sealed his fate.”

Aemond’s response was measured, his tone now as incisive as hers, “At your behest, if I recall. You were as complicit in his end as I.”

“And what of Lord Borros reaction when he learns you intend to marry his brother’s widow?” Daenera snapped, her heart beating wildly against her ribs.

“I imagine he’ll be indifferent, so long as he get his marriage alliance,” Aemond answered dryly. Borros Baratheon, grappling with the burden of having no sons and having recently lost his only brother, would likely insist on nothing less than a marriage alliance to secure himself. It would only be a welcome addition that the marriage alliance would offer House Baratheon more royal blood and a dragonrider at that–more than she could ever give them. 

Daenera pressed on, “What if he rejects the alliance? Will you exploit my involvement in his brother’s death to secure the alliance at any cost?”

Aemond’s jaw visibly tightened, the muscles beneath his skin rippling with restrained emotion. His lips formed a narrow, exasperated line as his gaze flicked away from Daenera’s penetrating stare. He seemed to search for words amidst the roiling shadows among the stone columns, or perhaps he sought refuge from the weight of her accusation.

Unyielding, Daenera’s voice sharpened, even as her eyes stung with the threat of tears. “And what if he demands my head? Would you acquiesce to such a demand?”

Aemond’s reaction was visceral, his eye snapping back to meet hers with a steely resolve. The dark pupil of his eye seemed to swallow the blue iris surrounding it, burning with something fierce and dangerous. His lips pursed almost imperceptibly as though tasting the words that lingered on the tip of his tongue. 

A shiver traced Daenera’s spine as Aemond brushed her hair gently aside, cradling her face and tilting it upwards with a familiar, scorching touch that unleashed a storm of emotions within her. 

“If he asks for your head,” he murmured, his voice a low, raspy drawl, “I will present him with his own instead.”

“You wouldn’t,” Daenera countered softly, her words laced with a sad resignation that hung heavily in the air. Her fingers instinctively curled around his wrist, a silent plea for understanding. Deep down, she knew the bitter truth; despite his assurances, Aemond would likely resort to whatever means necessary to secure the alliance. He might not want to sacrifice her, but she harbored no illusions that he wouldn’t exploit her involvement in her husband’s death to his advantage, tarnishing relations with Borros to serve his own ends–and should he do that, it would cost her her life. 

Daenera gently removed Aemond’s hand from her, warmth lingering on her skin where his touch had been. Stepping back, she reclaimed her space, wrapping her arms around herself for a sense of solace and protection. 

With a deliberate effort to maintain her composure, though her throat tightened with emotion, Daenera spoke. “Borros Baratheon is a man driven by pride and ambition, and he is desperate for a male heir. He will accept the marriage alliance you offer, but make no mistake–he’ll be a fickle ally, who will wait and see whichever way the wind blows.”

She turned from him and began her walk down towards the doors, her steps resounding with the solemnity of thunder through the silence of the throne room. She had only covered ten paces when Aemond’s cut through the stillness, its timber on the verge of desperation–a plea. 

“Wait…”

At his call, her stride faltered, her feet unexpectedly rooted to the cold stone floor. Despite her strong impulse to continue, she found herself inexplicably unable to move, held by some invisible tether. The echo of Aemond’s approach filled the vast space around her, each step amplifying the rapid beat of her heart as he drew closer, and a prickling sensation crawled up her spine, the hairs at the back of her neck standing on end. 

In that charged moment, darkness seemed to deepen within the room as a cloud veiled the moon. The shadows around them thickened, swallowing the edges of the room and casting everything into a more profound stillness, almost as if time itself had paused. 

Then, Daenera sensed his presence just behind her. Aemond’s head came to press gently against hers, his body molding to her back, as his hand tenderly wrapped around her waist, stretching across her lower abdomen with a gentle but firm pressure. The warmth of his touch enveloped her, offering a relief from the chilly air of the night. 

Her eyes fluttered shut as a surge of tears threatened to break free. Despite the inner chaos and the resentment she harbored towards him, Daenera found herself leaning back into his embrace, drawing a momentary solace from his closeness–she would curse herself for it later, but in the moment, it offered her a refuge. 

In the near-total darkness of the throne room, they stood frozen for several heartbeats, the silence around them thickening, almost tangible in the vastness of the space–a sea of darkness, a world of its own. His grip on her waist steadied, his head now resting gently against the side of hers, his breath warming the curve of her neck as his fingers softly caressed her skin. 

As Daenera’s eyes fluttered open, she steeled her resolve against the seductive comfort of his touch, her heart constricting with a mix of longing and resistance. 

With her voice steady and edged with a blunt sarcasm, Daenera spoke, “If you’re looking for a woman to warm your bed, I’d suggest you cast your eye towards a more agreeable bride – maybe one of the Baratheon girls, or even a whore would suffice.”

She resumed her walk towards the door, Aemond’s chuckle echoing behind her, a resonant sound that filled the silence and slowly dissipated into the quietude of the room. 

Daenera pushed out of the doors and met her guard outside. As she stepped into the grand hall, the guard's voice rumbled deeply, reminiscent of stones grinding against each other. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

His question caught her off guard and she was momentarily startled by it. Her gaze met his, eyes narrowing as she was unsure of what he was implying. 

“Did the walk tire you, I mean,” he clarified. 

“Yes, I’ve become quite… weary,” Daenera responded, her voice catching slightly as she acknowledged the deep-seated fatigue that seemed to finally pass over her. She could feel it in the stiffness of her muscles and the heaviness that seemed to weigh down her entire body. “And cold.”

In shared silence, they continued back to her chambers. 

Upon entering, Daenera was greeted by the moderate warmth of her room–a sharp relief from the chill that pervaded the hallways. Her feet, icy against the stone floor, carried her silently across the room. She shed her shawl and robe, both faintly stained with the blood from the cut on her finger, and draped them over a chair before advancing further into her bedchamber. 

Her fatigue was more than physical; it was her heart that bore the heaviest burden of exhaustion. As the residual heat of anger dissipated, weariness was all that remained to her–weariness and dread. She felt the stiffness in her muscles and instinctively rolled her neck in an attempt to loosen the persistent tension anchored between her shoulder blades. 

Closing her eyes briefly, Daenera could not escape the ghost of his touch that lingered on her skin. Without thinking, her hand drifted to her stomach, tracing the path where his had once lain. With a deep, weary sigh, she moved towards the bed. 

The room was filled with the soft, rhythmic sound of Mertha’s snores–despite the woman’s claim that she did not snore. Daenera cast a glance at the old woman, who was dozing in the chair, her lips parted in what seemed like peaceful slumber.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, Daenera slipped off her shoes, her movements slow and deliberate as she prepared to crawl beneath the covers. Just as she was about to recline, a particularly loud snore erupted from Mertha, shattering the room’s quiet. This was swiftly followed by Mertha’s sharp, groggy voice slicing through the stillness. 

“Where have you been?” She demanded, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. 

Feeling a wave of exasperation wash over her, Daenera rolled her eyes and climbed into bed. She drew the covers over her cold feet, casting a withering glance at Mertha, who had straightened up in her chair, as though she had never fallen asleep to begin with. The flickering firelight played across Mertha’s features, deeping the lines on her face and intensifying the scornful expression directed at Daenera.

With a tone matching the sharpness in Mertha’s gaze, Daenera retorted, “Should I disturb your diligent watch whenever I need to visit the chamberpot?”

Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “Perhaps you’d like to inspect the contents of my bladder as well?” 

Mertha responded with a profound huff, her lips forming a tight line as she reclined back in her chair. She picked up her needlework again, focusing her attention on the delicate stitches, glaring up at Daenera every time the needle punctured the fabric. 

Meanwhile, Daenera snuggled deeper under the covers, pulling them right up to her chin. She closed her eyes, fervently wishing for the sweet escape of sleep to envelop her, to carry her away from the weight of her thoughts and the complexities of her reality.

*yellow chrysanthemum: Loyal Love *blue iris: Faith