#but eyrie and their brother are the youngest

[impossible-rat-babies]

no you know what eyrie’s dad was a dilf and I’m gonna just. take canon as a suggestion

[ichorai]

i'm not made by design ; part two ; jaime lannister.

part one.

pairing ; jaime lannister x stark!reader (she/her pronouns)

synopsis ; wolves and lions tend not to be friends, much less lovers.

words ; 9.0k

themes ; heavy angst, action, fluff, (actual) enemies to lovers, slowburn

warnings / includes ; war/murder/injury, this part covers a few events from a feast for crows, politicking, mentions of incest/rape, foul language, animal cruelty, a lot of generally terrible things going on but what else can you expect from asoiaf, lots of dreams, jaime is a morally grey delight in this part yes, they are being HAUNTED by each other!

a/n ; wow, it's been a long time coming! ok i know this part is quite short and doesn't yet get to where you guys probably want to be, but tumblr has a max limit of 1k text blocks per post now (boo everyone throw tomatoes) so i'll be posting the rest of the story in smaller chunks! expect the third part to be coming soon, and i promise part three will start off exactly where you guys want it to be :) also if any of you can spot any sort of parallels in this part i will kiss you on the Mouth .

main masterlist. read on ao3!

The wintry breeze tousled the two young Stark girls’ hair, whispering frost into their ears. The horse the two were riding whickered as it galloped through the snow. Lyanna was exclaiming something, something lost to the wind, and you only held all the tighter to her from behind. 

“Lyanna, I want to get off!” you yelled, tugging at the furs draped over her. “Lyanna, let me off!”

Your older sister laughed some more. Not wickedly, but more out of fond amusement. She slowed the horse down to a languid canter, then to a trot, and led the stallion towards the shade of a tree. There was snow blanketing the branches and the grass which crunched beneath her weight as she swung down. She looked up at you with her large grey eyes, crinkled at the corners as she grinned boyishly. “Were you frightened?” 

You held your arms out for your sister to help you down. Only at eight years of age, you were still of short stature, and Lyanna had picked a rather tall horse. She had always been a voracious rider, even more so than all your brothers.

“I wasn’t frightened,” you indignantly replied as she wrapped her arms about your waist and pulled you down onto the ground. 

“Right.” She began to stroke the stallion’s mane, his hooves pawing at the snow. “Do you not trust me, then? Did you think I would ride us right off the edge of a cliff?”

“No,” you replied, scuffing your boots against the snow. “I don’t like riding from behind. I can’t see anything from back there.”

There was a moment of silence before Lyanna reached over to ruffle your hair—an action that both she and Benjen often did. Eddard and Brandon often spared you from such irritations, but being the youngest of the family, you were always doted on and hovered over and babied.

“I don’t trust you riding a horse as big as this, so I suppose we can walk back. It’s not too far.”

“Why can’t I just sit in front of you?”

Your sister stuck her tongue out at you. “We’ve got something in common, you know. What makes you think I like sitting behind?” When you glowered at her, she went on, “Let’s get a move on. Ned will complain that I’m stealing you away—especially since he’s just returned. He misses you. Your letters grow briefer and briefer, he tells me.”

You were none too happy about trudging through the snow, but you voiced no complaint and walked alongside your sister, who tugged at the horse’s reins to follow along. 

“He’s always going back and forth,” you said, a small frown marring your features. “I wish he would just stay home. The Eyrie couldn’t possibly compare to Winterfell.”

“You know him.” Lyanna’s dark hair was speckled with snowflakes as she turned to you. “Studious and dutiful as ever.” Her voice went an octave deeper and she pulled a mockingly somber expression in a startling resemblance to Ned. You let out a small laugh at that.

“Last time he visited, you were betrothed,” you said, your voice shrinking to a whisper.

The amusement died away from her eyes, turning stony. “Yes. Though I doubt it will be a fruitful union.”

There were a few more seconds of silence as you considered her words, not entirely sure why she would think so. Robert was loud and robust the few times you’ve met him, but you knew little else of Ned’s friend. 

“Do you think he’ll bring a wedding proposal for me this time?”

Lyanna’s features contorted with surprise. “Why? Do you want to be married?”

Your cheeks flushed with heat, despite the frost settling over your skin. “Well—if Father says I have to, then I will.”

“I didn’t ask about Father,” replied Lyanna. It was hard for her to believe that you were only eight sometimes. You always tried to act older than you actually were. “I asked about you.”

Winterfell grew larger and larger as the two of you drew nearer to the castle gates. Home.

“I don’t think I’d mind getting married,” you told your sister, eyes downcast and brows pulled together in thought. “As long as I get to stay in Winterfell. I never want to leave.”

Lyanna smiled, all teeth and cheek. “Wouldn’t that be a dream?” she sighed. 

The rest of the short journey was made in relative silence, and you left your sister and the tall stallion by the stables (not without her ruffling your hair one last time), and you dashed up to the castle chambers where you knew Ned would be.

He carried no proposals, only a few books he thought you would enjoy and a warm hug.

You awoke with a startled gasp, kicking at the thin blanket that laid over your form. It took you several moments to realize where you were. A boat. Rocking steadily, back and forth and back and forth. You rubbed at your sleepy eyes whilst drawing your knees up to your chest, still blinking away remnants of your dream.

Lyanna. Ned. Still young, still practically children. 

One of the tongueless little birds stood in the doorway. It was an ominous sight. Her eyes were large and unblinking, glinting like glass balls within her small head. In her hands was a wooden bowl, full of what looked to be a poultice of sorts. She drew nearer, and the heavy scent of honey and flowers reached your nose. 

“What is it?” you asked the child, a coil of pity winding in the pit of your stomach. You knew they couldn’t respond—Varys had stolen not only their youth, but their voices, too. “Is this food?”

A foreign delicacy of sorts, maybe? An Essosi dessert you weren’t familiar with, perhaps. It looked quite unappetizing, though you knew you had no room to complain.

The girl shook her head, then pointed to your hair, which was pulled back into a braid. You understood from just that, and nodded your thanks while accepting the bowl from her. This was hair dye, made from a blend of flowers and other substances you couldn’t name. You supposed it was a necessary precaution—you had an unmistakable Northern look to you, and would surely stick out like a sore thumb here down South. Dyeing your hair and cutting it short would help to somewhat conceal your identity. Short enough, and perhaps you could even be mistaken for a man, at least at a first quick glance. 

The little girl left a dagger and a small, rusty, hand-held mirror by your legs and disappeared from your cabin in complete silence, as if she was never there in the first place. They were like ghosts, this crew of children. Everything was so quiet all the time, with only your thoughts and the ocean waves to accompany you.

You unbraided your hair and shook it loose. Hair carried memories. Memories of Catelyn showing you how hair was done in the Riverlands, memories of Benjen tugging at your hair to tease you, memories of Jaime commenting on how your hair was a lovely shade of animal waste. That had been grumpily remarked earlier on, when you and Brienne were escorting him to King’s Landing. Before Locke and Roose Bolton and… Robb. 

You propped up the rust-spotted mirror against the wall and scooped up the dagger. The reflection that met you was only barely recognizable. You looked so tired. With a resigned sigh, you began to slice off your hair with the sharp blade. Handfuls fell to the ground. You sliced and sliced until your head felt light and your neck was bare. It’s never been this short before. If Benjen were here, you knew he would surely laugh at you. Brandon would comment that he never knew he had another brother. 

Yes, you thought. I can surely pass as a man if I wanted to. Though you certainly shared many features with your sister, you hadn’t the wild beauty Lyanna had. No, you were far plainer than her, colder and sharper than she was. Nothing worthy to note—though your father, quiet as a man he was, once told you that you looked the most like your mother out of all your siblings. That had made you feel more beautiful than anything. 

Plain was good, though. Plain meant no eyes would be drawn to you. 

You weren’t too sure what color your hair would turn with this dye. You lathered the thick paste over your newly-cut strands, massaging it into your scalp. Your nose twitched from the strong odor—not entirely unpleasant, but also wasn’t a delight breathing in.

As you rinsed your hands of the dye, your skin was left with a slight copperish stain. You stared at the color with sad eyes—would your hair turn out red like Cat’s? Like all your nephews and Sansa?

And, like a fool, you wondered if Jaime would like short, red hair. He wouldn’t care much, you found yourself thinking, perhaps wishfully so. Did you want him to care?

Two children brought you food—rations of dried meat and crusty bread. You wolfed half of it down and handed them the other half. Though they couldn’t speak, the children made for pleasant company. Or perhaps you were just lonely. It was hard to tell.

After eating, you rinsed out the hair dye and wrung the water out with a cloth over the edge of the ship. The cloth came away stained bright red. You retreated back into the cabin to look at the mirror. 

It was a shock to see your hair resemble Catelyn’s. It was darker than hers had been, but the auburn, orange-red sheen to your head was unmistakable. You looked like a Tully! You nearly laughed with amazement, but any sort of joy was short-lived, and you lapsed into more silence.

You laid on the rickety bed, thinking of Winterfell and your now-scattered family. Robb and Ned and Cat and the younglings Bran and Rickon might have been taken from you, but… you still had family left. Sansa and Arya could very well be scattered somewhere in the Seven Kingdoms, alive and breathing. Jon, at the Wall, as well. At least, you hoped. It’d been so long since your time sending letters to the young boy. Was he hurt that you stopped sending them so suddenly?

Tears pricked the corner of your eyes, and you drew your knees to your chest, willing yourself into a restless slumber.

Days came and went. The little children were growing more agitated, fluttering about the boat with wide eyes and quick feet. They tossed nets overboard into the water—masquerading the boat as a fishing vessel, you assumed. There were many ships out and about Blackwater Bay. Some carried banners of houses loyal to the crown, and others were bannerless. Pirates or fishermen, you couldn’t tell. 

So far, all other ships have passed by quietly. But the risk grew with each day. You knew Tywin and Cersei would likely order more fleets to be sent after you, Sansa, and Tyrion. The chances of you being found on water would grow each day—and you couldn’t risk becoming a prisoner again. Jaime wouldn’t be able to help you escape a second time, not with Cersei around.

At least on foot… you had somewhere to run. Being on sea left you nothing but water for miles on end. 

And so you told the silent children to let you off at the nearest fishing port. Some part of you wondered if they would object, but they stared at you with round, moon eyes and nodded. You didn’t know whether to thank or damn Varys. 

The ship docked in the dead of night, half a mile from Duskendale. One of the little children handed you a map and tapped at where they’d leave you. A pouch full of food rations, more dye, and other necessities was left on your cot. You thanked the child endlessly, who seemed not to hear your gratitude and scuttled away. You grabbed the pouch, the dagger, the bow and quiver full of arrows Varys had presumably left you, and slipped into a large cloak. 

Land felt like it was lurching beneath your feet once you stepped onto the pier. Your body was used to the swaying motions of the waters, and would take some time to adjust. You gingerly shook one of your booted feet. The children watched you disembark on wobbly legs, but you dared not wave back at them. 

Despite it being nighttime, the docks were busier than ever. Fishermen and merchants littered all over the shore, some selling products and entertainment and others working hard to gather more to sell before day broke. You steeled yourself with a deep breath, and made your way through the busy crowd. 

You began trekking your way North towards the Eyrie, the hood of your cloak pulled over your short, red hair.

It took nearly three weeks for you to reach the Crossroads. Nightfall was nearing when you strode in front of the inn, the sky a mirage of bleeding reds from the setting sun and moody greys from the rainclouds. The air smelled of mud and rusted metal. It was certainly no grand castle, but a modest bed was better than sleeping on the cold dirt you’ve been curled up on the past several days. There was a young girl and a dark-haired boy by the front that looked somewhat like your memory of Robert Baratheon twenty-some years ago. At first, the boy denied your request for shelter, but reluctantly clammed up once you offered him some gold, worth more than it ever could in times of war. The two let you pass with not a word more.

Greeting you inside was a ruckus of loud children. Parentless, you realized, as there were none to be seen within the inn’s walls. An inn full of orphans, you thought with a touch of sadness. In that regard you supposed you shared a similarity with all of them. 

Just as you slipped onto one of the creaking wooden stools to momentarily rest your weary feet, you overheard a voice. A familiar voice. Low and raspy and unmistakably—

Brienne, you thought, wide-eyed. But she wasn’t alone. A young boy was by her side, yes, that was Podrick, and an older man—a knight, by the looks of his armor, and an even older septon with grey hair and a hunched back. What a queer party Brienne was leading. She was supping on porridge and salted cod. 

The impulsive part of you wanted to call out for her and rush to her side, ask if she had found any sign of Sansa, or if she had made any progress on her quest. Instead, you drew in a deep breath, and stood from your stool to take a seat across from Podrick whilst Brienne was busy speaking to the knight. The young squire made a half-gasping, half-choking noise once his eyes raised from the cup he was draining to your cold eyes, recognizing you immediately. You discreetly lifted a finger to your lips to silence him. His eyes went moon-round and he nodded once. 

Brienne ignored the knight’s constant jabbering about lips and marriage and castles full of children, and turned to look at her squire in mild concern of him choking on a fish bone. But her eyes landed on you, and her mouth dropped open.

She was very near to bowing her head and saying, “My lady.” But she didn’t, knowing it would draw far too much attention, and stared at you with utter confusion plain over her features.

“Hello,” you said to her. “It has been a while, Brienne.”

“Do you know each other?” the knight bumped in. He spooned some porridge into his mouth.

“Brienne and I were childhood friends on Tarth,” you lied. “I was the son of a cook. A nobody in truth, but Brienne was kind enough to befriend me.”

Brienne was no good at lying, you knew this, but she nodded along to your story. 

The knight looked you over. “A little runt boy and a grand beast of a girl. The two of you must have been a sight.”

You could only offer him half a shrug at that.

“What brings you here?” Brienne carefully asked you. 

“Someone helped me leave,” you responded with equal caution. Avoiding the knight’s curious eyes, you leaned closer to Brienne. “Is there a place for us to speak with fewer naked children milling about?”

Being around Varys’ little birds for long enough taught you that children were oft smarter than they looked. Somewhere to your right, you saw one of the little orphan boys stick a nut inside his nostril. 

Brienne nodded and led you just outside, away from prying ears and eyes. There, you told her everything. From Tyrion’s trial, to Oberyn’s death, to Cersei demanding you to be locked up or killed (whichever suited her taste that day), to Jaime helping you escape, to the birds on the boat, to your journey here. In turn, Brienne told you of her lengthy journey and what she had found on the way. Mostly nothing, lots of war and skirmishes. Sandor Clegane was dead, but Arya had been with him soon before that… not Sansa. The thought of Arya somewhere out there alive, sparked dangerous hope within your chest.

“Varys says Sansa is in the Eyrie, masquerading as Baelish’s bastard daughter.” The thought revolted you. “But I do wonder if the Eyrie is a trap of sorts. I cannot trust Varys. He certainly is no friend of the Lannisters, but neither is he their enemy. For all I know, he may be conspiring with dragons and grumpkins.”

“Sansa would be safe with her Aunt Lysa there, right?” Brienne asked, though even she sounded doubtful of her own question.

“I can’t quite say,” you said, brows furrowed. “Lysa is an unpredictable woman. Frightened and secluded is never a good combination of characteristics. Even so, I doubt Sansa would make her way home up North without being intercepted. It wouldn’t hurt to check the Vale first.”

Brienne nodded solemnly. “We can make our way first thing in the morning. For now, you must rest, my lady. You must be exhausted.”

The sudden reminder of the limitations of your body made your knees wobble. The past few days had you running on little else than adrenaline, fear, and meager portions of salted foods. 

“I missed you, Brienne,” you whispered, looking up at her. “I fear trusted friends are few and far in between in these times.” Not that you ever had many friends to begin with. Everyone had always been so afraid of you—something Brienne could relate to.

 The term friend dusted pink over Brienne’s large, crooked nose and broad, freckled cheekbones. She was certainly not pretty, not by a long shot, but that was of no matter to you. She was the most beautiful blessing you could have possibly encountered—your chances of survival and finding Sansa were far better with Brienne by your side.

“I missed you, as well,” Brienne managed to choke out after many moments of stunned silence. She had never been good with niceties. “Podrick has been company enough, but the boy is young and easily frightened.”

“I’m frightened, too,” you admitted. “One would be a fool not to be, with enemies at every turn. Young, however, is a trait I have long outgrown.”

Brienne looked up at the night sky. “Youth was a curse on me. I always looked older than I was.”

“Me, as well,” you mused with a thoughtful hum. Memories of the lords and ladies living at Winterfell’s court whispering behind your back… sending you strange looks of distant pity… veering far out of your way in fear of you… it weighed heavy on you, especially in your younger years. “My anger has aged me a decade, I think.”

Before Brienne could respond, there came a commotion of noise. Men on horses, their hooves schlocking through mud and puddles. Instinctively, you drew the cowl of your hood up over your head. They are armed, these men, you thought with grim unease. And there were many of them, just above half a dozen. Far too many for you and Brienne to take alone.

Brienne drew in a sharp breath at the sight of them and unsheathed Oathkeeper. She stepped in front of you before you could even begin to react. The biggest man of the party was so hefty that his beaten horse buckled and shook beneath the sheer force of his weight. His pale face was torn and wept with pus and blood. But Brienne’s eyes were drawn to his snarling helm—with its dull metal nose and sharp teeth of steel. It was the Hound’s property but the man wearing it was certainly no Hound.

The sky grew darker and the storm clouds thundered up above. The young girl that had greeted you into the inn had slammed the door open, now holding a crossbow. Whatever she was screaming was lost to the rain and thunder. 

“Loose a quarrel at me and I’ll shove that crossbow up your cunt and fuck you with it. Then I’ll pop your fucking eyes out and make you eat them,” raged the man, his voice nearly as loud as the booming in the sky. Your chest rose and fell in silence as you slowly reached behind you to unsling your bow. 

“Leave her be,” called out Brienne, drawing their attention. “If you want to rape someone, try me.”

The outlaws laughed and chortled at that. One japed about fucking horses before fucking her. The rest of their words were unintelligible to you as you focused on drawing an arrow without pulling too much attention to yourself. It proved to be a difficult task when there were seven pairs of eyes trained on Brienne, and, consequently, you, as well.

Brienne said something you couldn’t catch, leaving the man with the helm fuming. He charged forward through the mud. Brienne shuffled away from you—she needed the man to come to her, but not to get too close to you. You were her priority now.

A song of steel screeched through the rain-torn wind as their swords clashed. Brienne managed to cut through the rags of his tunic and slash a gaping hole in his cheap chainmail just before she just barely evaded his swinging axe. The man was screaming expletives at her—whore, bitch, freak. 

You nocked the arrow with not a second thought.

Then the drawstring was split in two and you were left with a useless bow. One of the outlaws had made his way to you whilst you were concentrating on the man with the helm—and broke your favored weapon. 

“Shhh,” he crooned as he laid the cold, wet blade of the knife he used to cut your bow against your throat. “Enjoy and watch the show, boy.” He must have thought you were one of the orphans that lived here—and not much of a threat, considering he pulled the knife away from you and made a show of pointing it towards Brienne and her attacker. “It’s not every day you see a woman like her battle a man like him.”

You nodded, playing along. You still had the dagger you used to cut your hair tucked against your hip. It was a touch too dull for your liking, but it would have to do for now. You had no other choice. With the man’s eyes drawn back to their messy duel, you drew its blade and drove it forth, straight into throat. His arms flailed for a second before clawing at your face and chest. Pain bloomed over your skin. If you were bleeding, you couldn’t feel it—not with all the rain pouring over you. You savagely tore the dagger out from his throat and drove it through his chest again and again and again. From your peripheral vision, you could see Brienne parry over and over, stab this way and that—and finally skewer her longsword straight through him until its pointy end protruded out his back.

You continued stabbing the man until he fell to the ground in a limp, bloodied heap. Even then you didn’t stop—straddling his waist and bringing the dagger down in furious strokes. It occurred to you that the other men would be upon Brienne a second too late—when you swung around, she was swarmed by the rest of them. 

“Eddard!” she called, immediately halting you in your assault on the long-dead outlaw. It took you a moment to realize that she was addressing you, not wanting to call out your actual name. “Run! Run, now!”

Two of the outlaws were coming towards you.

“Brienne!” you yelled just as one of them sliced a cut through her shoulder she couldn’t properly roll away from. The rest of your protests caught in your throat when you watched one of them—one with wild eyes that had irises too small and teeth filed sharp—dive forward onto Brienne, sending her crashing to the ground. He bit a chunk of her face right off. 

More men surrounded her. Punching, kicking, and slicing at your friend. No, you couldn’t see her anymore, where is she? Get up, Brienne, get up…

“GO!” you could hear her muffled voice scream. “NED, GO!”

No, no, no…

But if you stayed, you would be dead, as well. One of the outlaws made a grab for you, but you danced back. If not for the two slipping on the watery mud the very next second, you would have been dead.

With your heart beating in your throat, you turned on your heel and fled.

What was a kingsguard without his king? Jaime hadn’t been happy to be sent off to the Riverlands again—his place was beside Tommen. The boy-king with a golden crown sitting atop his golden curls. Cersei had insisted on him leaving, however. She’d grown more restless, more paranoid, more snappy since their father’s death. Lancel, his fool of a cousin, was now a religious fanatic who seemed to be intent on fasting until he passed from starvation, and had confessed his sins of lying with Cersei. Apparently he was not the only one. The Kettleblack brothers, the court fools, and hells, even serving girls, if word of mouth was to be trusted. 

He felt a fool for ever loving her. And now she had kicked him out of the castle and away from his duty like one would a dirty mongrel.

Let her run the kingdom to ruin. See if I care.

Jaime wearily pulled at his face. That was the problem—he did care, and he knew he did. Cersei on the throne would mean little good for anybody. Not for his little brother, not for Brienne, not for you. He hoped you were safe, wherever you were.

The knight with one hand had had a long day, even though it was not yet nightfall. He had spoken to the Blackfish, Brynden Tully, in hopes of making some sort of negotiation. Perhaps goad him into a duel of single-combat and spare everyone of the grueling boredom that came with a slow siege. Expectedly, the wind-beaten lord took none of the bait and retreated back into his castle. Then, he had a short, but explosive council meeting with a few of the riverlords. They squabbled over each other like mindless birds over a piece of half-baked bread. Jaime couldn’t help but wonder what his father would do in his shoes, but was quick to relinquish such a thought. Tywin Lannister would never be in this position in the first place. And he was dead, which was perhaps the more important bit. After the council, he paid a visit to Ryman Frey, who was preoccupied fucking some whore who called herself a Queen. He had the big oaf dismissed for wasting so much time and resources, then named his son, Edwyn, command of the siege. He ordered young Edwyn to tell his great-grandsire, Walder Frey, to release all the prisoners for the crown. There was no undoing the Red Wedding, but he could, at the very least, attempt to rectify the troubles it left in its wake.

And now—now Jaime had one more person to visit.

It was his aunt, Genna Lannister, who had urged Jaime to do something about the sullen man with the noose loosely wrapped around his throat. In his state, he posed no danger physically. As a symbol, however, Edmure Tully, was a great danger to the cause. His cause? Jaime wasn’t entirely sure what he was fighting for anymore. It certainly didn’t feel like he was protecting Tommen from all these leagues away from him. His golden hand felt so very heavy strapped onto his stump—why did he still bother carrying it around?

Ilyn Payne made quick work of cutting Edmure Tully down from the wooden gallows he was perched upon. His hair, scraggly and red, hung in limp clumps over his dirtied, bloody face. Eyes deep blue, heavy with exhaustion. Jaime couldn’t help but think of Robb Stark at the sight of him. Gods, they looked alike.

Jaime had Edmure pulled through the tents and mass of Freys and other rivermen alike. One japed about a fish on a leash. A young man holding an instrument was amongst the throng of stares, and he ordered the singer to follow, and the lad obediently did. Onto a ferry they went, where the vessel would carry them to Tumblestone.

“Why?” Edmure has croaked, gripping weakly onto Jaime’s arm. 

“Consider it a wedding gift,” Jaime replied. 

The Tully eyed him warily. “A wedding gift?”

“I’ve heard your wife is pretty. She’d have to be, for the two of you to be abed whilst your sister and king were being murdered.” Jaime gave him a wry look. 

“I never knew. There were musicians outside the bedchamber, I couldn’t…”

“I’m sure Lady Roslin made for a grand distraction, as well.”

At the crass insinuation, however truthful, Edmure frowned and pulled away from the knight. “They made her do it. She had little say in the matter. Roslin never wanted any of it to happen. She wept the entire night, but I thought…”

“You thought it was your rampant manhood that swayed her to tears? It’s a sight any woman would weep to, I’m sure.”

Edmure hung his head. “She is carrying my child.”

Your child or your death? Jaime thought, but tastefully decided not to say it out loud. Not yet. Instead, he asked, “Your king-nephew, Robb. Did he ever speak of his aunt before his end?”

Edmure lifted his gaze to the kingslayer at that. “The Bitter Wolf?” He thought for a moment, eyes distant. “No. She was hardly ever brought up. Robb didn’t like to speak of her. Not after her betrayal with your freedom. If he did speak of her, it would’ve been with Catelyn.”

“Who is now dead,” Jaime dryly said.

“Yes,” Edmured replied, letting his gaze drift down to the waters. 

“Much help you are.”

“Where is she now? The Bitter Wolf.” 

Jaime saw no point in lying to him. “I don’t know.”

The rest of the ferry trip was spent in silence.

Once at his pavilion, Jaime dismissed Ilyn, but kept the singer around. He ordered the servants there to boil bathwater for the honored guest, and had clean garments brought to him, along with warm food and sweet wine. Edmure still couldn’t quite comprehend why exactly Jaime Lannister was being so courteous, but couldn’t deny himself the pleasure of cleanliness. He clambered into the tub and started scrubbing the grime off his skin.

Jaime pulled up a chair to sit beside him. “After you’re clean and your belly is full, you will be escorted to Riverrun. What happens after that is up to you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t,” said Jaime. “Your uncle is old. Valiant, admittedly, but his best years are behind him. He has no wife to grieve for him, nor children to succeed him. A good death is the most the Blackfish can wish for. You, however, have many years remaining to you. You are the rightful heir to House Tully, not him. Your uncle serves you, by law. Riverrun’s fate is in your hands.”

Edmure blinked at him. “I don’t…”

“Understand, I presume? All that time with a rope around your neck must have strangled you of all your wits.” Jaime was growing impatient. “You must yield the castle. Yield, and nobody dies. The smallfolk will be allowed to leave in peace, or they may serve Lord Emmon and his lady-wife, my aunt. Ser Brynden will be allowed to take the black and join the Night’s Watch, with as many of the garrison that choose to join. You, as well. The Wall is in dire need of more hands, I’ve heard. If that is not to your tastes, you may go to Casterly Rock as my captive and enjoy all the comforts and courtesy that befits a hostage of your rank. Your wife may join you. If your sire is a boy, he will serve House Lannister as a squire. Once he comes of age, he is welcome to earn his knighthood, along with some lands I will bestow upon him. If Roslin bears you a daughter, she will be well dowered until she is old enough to wed a fitting lord. You may be granted parole, even, once the war is done. All this only if you yield the castle.”

The water steamed and sloshed in the tub as Edmure gingerly shifted about. “And if I will not yield?”

The servants and squires were all listening. The singer watched the two speak with wide eyes. No matter. Let them all hear it.

“You’ve seen our numbers, Edmure. The ladders, the towers, the trebuchets, the rams. If I speak the command, my cousin will bridge your moat and break your gate. Blood will spill. Hundreds will die, most being your own people. Your former bannermen will be the first wave of attackers, so you will start your day by killing fathers, brothers, and sons of men who died for you at the Twins. The second wave will be Freys, and there are plenty of them to spare. My westermen will be the third once your archers are exhausted of arrows and your knights so weary their blades will no longer lift from the ground. The castle will fall, and all inside will be put to the sword. Your livestock will be butchered. Your river will rot with corpses. Your godswood will fall. Your keeps and inventories will burn.” Jaime swallowed as he said the next words. It was true that he did not actually mean to do it, but a threat was a threat, and words are wind. “Your wife may have the child before any of this. You’ll want the babe, I presume. I can send him to you once he’s born. With a trebuchet.”

There came a lengthy silence. Edmure was still in the bath. All the servants and squires stared in horror. 

Genna had told him earlier that he was not his father’s son. Tyrion was more Tywin’s than he could ever dream to be. Would her mind change if she had heard his speech? Was this what Tywin would have done? 

“I could climb out of this tub and kill you right as you are, Kingslayer,” said Edmure, once he finally regained his wits about him.

“You could try,” Jaime calmly replied. The man made no move, so Jaime pushed himself back to his feet. “Enjoy your food. Singer, play for our guest while he eats. You know the song, I trust.”

“The one about rain? Yes, my lord, I know it.”

Edmure’s head swiveled between the singer and Jaime. “No. I don’t want him. Get him away from me.” The tub water sloshed some more. 

“Why, it’s just a song, Lord Tully,” said Jaime, feigning innocence. “His voice couldn’t be that bad.”

The knight left his pavilion with the beginnings of Rains of Castamere playing faintly behind him.

The inns you came across the road were growing sparse. Many had been torched, ransacked, abandoned, or torn down. War left much of the Riverlands in ruins. Though you were none too happy about the state of the lands, pillaged, empty villages meant there would be fewer people loitering about, which was all the better for you.

You had managed to outrun the outlaws through the cover of the storm and ruins. It was only when the rain cleared away did you let yourself sit down and silently cry for Brienne. None deserved a fate like that. She was so undeniably good, more honorable than any other man you’ve ever met—and yet her face was torn apart and now she was dead.

Eventually, you made it out of the Riverlands and began to travel along the high road up to the Eyrie. It was the safest option to get there—the mountains were hardly on the table to walk through on your own, considering it was likely running amok with clansmen and thieves of all sorts. Even on the high road, the terrain was far more mountainous than the relatively-level grounds of the riverlands, and the incline noticeably steeper. You were traveling at a much slower pace than before, growing ragged and tired with shorter distances. 

On the third day on the narrow pathway towards the Bloody Gate, you came across two men on a cart. Merchants, perhaps. You spied the stacked wine casks in the back of the cart, wondering if they were empty. Surely they must be, you thought. The Vale is not likely to make any wine of their own, not with mountains as sheer as theirs. 

As their cart slowly rolled by, being pulled by braying donkeys, you overheard one of the men say, “A singer, it’s said!”

“A singer?” the other merchant echoed.

“Yes, a singer! They say he shoved Lady Arryn right off a mountain.” 

Lady Arryn? Your ears perked up at that. Did they mean Lysa?

He glanced at his companion dubiously. “I heard she threw herself out the door once she confessed her love to him.”

“That’s nonsense, have you seen the way she grips that sickly whelp of hers? She would never throw herself to her death whilst little Robin lives.”

That confirmed it. Lysa is dead?

“If I had a son like that, I’d do the very same,” he grumbled.

“Wait! Good sers!” you exclaimed, turning back to hurry after the cart. The donkeys whined protest as they were pulled to a slow stop. They both glanced back at you with wide, curious eyes.

“Sers?” The one with mousy brown hair piped up with a laugh lodged in his throat. “We are no knights.”

“Apologies, it’s a habit now, I fear. I simply wanted to know—” You stopped in your tracks. “What were you saying about Lady Arryn?”

“She’s dead, she is,” the older of the two merchants told you. His nose was crooked in three different places. “Out the Moon Door—or off the mountain—she flew.”

You stared at them for a moment, trying to gauge whether they were being serious or not. Tall tales such as this were not uncommon amongst the lowborn. “And who now rules in her stead?”

“Little Lord Robin is young still—”

“And far too sickly!”

“—Until he comes of age, Lord Petyr Baelish is Lord of the Vale.”

Littlefinger. The realization dawned on you with great unease as you recalled his infatuation with your good-sister and his alliances with the crown. Lannister crowns. This was no good… no good at all…

“Thank you,” you told the merchants. “That’s good to know.”

“Where are you off to?” said the younger one.

“Runestone,” you lied. “I have family there.” 

That seemed to appease them well enough. The one with brown hair waved farewell as he set the donkeys back into motion. You silently thanked the Gods for coming across decent men. You watched the cart of wine caskets descend down the path.

Now what? You could hardly stroll straight into the Vale now—not with the threat of Littlefinger handing you right back into Cersei’s mad hands. Should you even trust these rumors, though? Perhaps the septon at the Bloody Gate could clarify the situation for you. Surely he would tell you the truth. But getting there would take weeks, and you certainly didn’t have that sort of time. If word of Littlefinger’s rule in the Eyrie was true, you would be wasting even more time doubling back to escape. And if he heard of your presence in the Vale there was no telling what he would do… have you locked up and sent to Cersei in a cage? 

But what about Sansa? Your heart shattered at the thought of leaving her alone at the Eyrie with Baelish. You had to be smart about this. Even if Sansa was in the Vale, and if you managed to get to her, and if you could whisk her out of the castle undetected, there was nowhere for the two of you to go that would be safe. Sansa wouldn’t last a fortnight out in the wilderness. Gods forbid, but perhaps it was best for her to stay in the Eyrie until you managed to find a stronghold that would keep her safe and protected. 

Then again, she could just as likely be elsewhere in Westeros. Arya, too. Gods, you wished Brienne was with you. You could still see the blood spurting from her face, her screams cracking through the thunderous air. 

Damn you, Jaime. You should have come with me, you said to yourself, knowing it was a foolish chain of thought. He wouldn’t be much help, anyway. All he did when we traveled together was complain and find new ways to irritate me. 

You lingered on the path for a few more moments. Then, you frustratedly gestured to nobody, made a noise of displeasure, and turned to follow after the wine merchants. 

Back to the Riverlands you went.

Riverrun was now taken, but at a great cost. Brynden the Blackfish had escaped. All thanks to Jaime’s carelessness and Edmure’s wit. This would never have happened if Tywin was around, Jaime couldn’t help but lament. It was no wonder his aunt Genna told him he was nothing like his father. 

He was a fool, and his father knew it.

After a series of threats to both Edmure and his wife, the Tully lord managed to sullenly tell him what he knew of the Blackfish’s whereabouts. Which, to Jaime’s dismay, was very little. 

“He swam away,” Edmure had told him. He had the very same blue eyes as Catelyn did, as well as Robb. The very same look of loathing in them, as well. There was a time when you looked at him like that. “The Water Gate’s portcullis was raised. Not enough to be noticed, only three feet or so. My uncle is a strong swimmer. He pulled himself beneath the spikes and I can only assume the current helped him from there.”

Damn it all.

Jaime had hounds and hunters on the prowl for the Blackfish, but he had little hope of catching him. And Edmure was to be heading west the following morning. Jaime was glad to be rid of him, though he worried that the man would slip through the guards he would be traveling with. The knight wasn’t too keen on hunting for the Tully a third time.

News of Ryman Frey’s death was brought to him by young Edwyn, the former’s son. Hanged, apparently, by a band of outlaws nearby Fairmarket, which was boldly close by. Thoros, or Dondarrion, or this mysterious Stoneheart woman. There was little to do about the matter now—Jaime ordered more guards posted and that was that. 

That night, he practiced his shoddy, left-handed swordsmanship with the silent Ilyn Payne. He managed to last a grand total of three hours before giving into his cramping muscles’ begs for a rest. Afterwards, he poured the both of them cups full of Hoster Tully’s wine, and told Payne of how he used to kiss his sister when they were children. It was innocent at first, until it wasn’t. It felt nice being able to freely tell someone of everything knowing he couldn’t possibly relay such information to anybody else—Payne’s lack of a tongue ironically made Jaime chattier than ever. 

“Tyrion once told me that whores oft avoid kissing their patrons. They’ll fuck you until your legs fall off, he said, but they keep their lips far from yours. It’s what separates work from real romance. I wonder if my sister ever kissed Kettleblack.” Jaime thought for a long moment. “I kissed the Bitter Wolf.”

Payne spared him no reaction.

“She was crying.” Jaime took a sip of wine, leaving out the fact that he had shed a tear or two. “Not because of the kiss, though. I hope not, at least. I’m not that bad of a kisser. Cersei never cried when we kissed.” Though, after he said that, he realized basing his assumptions around Cersei wasn’t a particularly smart thing to do. You and Cersei were many leagues apart from one another.

Payne drained his cup and gestured for Jaime to refill it.

As he did, Jaime went on. “If not for Tyrion’s reckless call for a trial by combat, I would have married her. The Bitter Wolf. We would be at Casterly Rock, and Tyrion would be at the Wall, and my father would still be alive, and my son would sit the Iron Throne, and all would be well. Or not. Cersei would make matters difficult. I doubt Y/N would be pleased about her predicament, either, come to think of it.”

He decided to change the subject back to Kettleblack when Payne’s silence stretched for a little while longer.

“It would be ill-fitting to slay mine own Sworn Brother. I should geld him and send him to the Wall—make up for Tyrion’s loss in some way. He’s been to the Wall, perhaps he had no taste for returning. It’s bloody cold there, I’ve heard. Of course, if I were to lay a hand on Osmund, there would be his brothers to consider, as well. Brothers can be dangerous. Aegon the Unworthy had Ser Terrence Toyne dismembered into pieces after finding him abed with his mistress, and forced her to watch. Toyne’s brothers tried to kill the King for it, though their plans were ultimately foiled by the Dragonknight. It’s written in the White Book. All of it, including every knightly deed and chivalrous act. It doesn’t tell me what to do with Cersei, though.”

Ilyn dragged a finger across his scarred throat.

“No,” Jaime said. “Tommen has already lost a brother, and the man he thinks is his father. If his mother were to die by my hand, he would hate me for it. I’m sure his sweet little wife would use that hatred to her benefit, as well.”

An ugly smile stretched at Ilyn’s thin lips. Jaime misliked the crude gleam in his eye. 

“You talk too much,” Jaime told the mute.

The next night, Jaime found himself in Hoster Tully’s solar, looking over a map, wondering where the Blackfish could have gone. Many of his hunters had returned that morning, torn and bleeding. Direwolves, they had told him. A monstrous pack with a large she-wolf leading them. He wondered if that could have been the wolf that had mauled Joffrey what had felt like a lifetime ago. 

In consequence, Jaime couldn’t help but wonder about you. Did the direwolves like you at all? He strained his mind to remember, but couldn’t seem to recall. It confused him when his chest constricted at the thought of forgetting you.

The war was practically won. Dragonstone was taken, and Storm’s End would be very soon. Stannis was welcome to the cold fruits of the Wall—if Roose Bolton hadn’t already destroyed him. And the Riverlands were successfully taken without Jaime ever having to raise a sword against neither Stark nor Tully. All in all, he was to be content.

But where did that place you? Once everything calmed down, what would happen to you? To Sansa, who surely deserved no harm that would come to her? She was just a young girl and you… you were far from the paragon of innocence, to be certain, but surely he could have Tommen pardon you for any of your crimes. Your crimes being allegiance to your own nephew, which Jaime could hardly fault you for.

Then again, Cersei was the problem. There was no chance she would sit idly by and let you live. Once he returned to King’s Landing, he had to find a way to whisk Tommen from her crutches before he would turn as corrupt as Joffrey. A new council full of abled men would be in order, as well. 

More and more days passed. Jaime had the entire Tully garrison safely released from their keep, which displeased his Aunt Genna greatly, but Jaime was intent on letting them go. There was little harm they could do when they were scattered, weaponless, and hungry.

 He dreamed of Cersei most nights. Of her golden hair, which then molded into golden hands. In his dreams, he always had two hands. Sometimes touching her, stroking her, holding her—dreamy memories of old. Sometimes he was strangling her, which he certainly had never done before.

Other nights he dreamed of Brienne. Her big, brutish face red with rage and exhaustion. She would swing Oathkeeper at his neck and he awoke just before his head rolled off his shoulders.

Some of the nights, however scarce they were, were far more precious. He dreamt of you, your hair freckled with snow, your eyes alight as you watched children play beneath you. He was in Winterfell, he realized, and with a shocked start looked back down at the children. His? No. They were your nieces and nephews, of course. Their faces were a blur, but their red hair was unmistakable. Save for the littlest girl and the bastard boy. Snow, Jaime remembered. 

“We should have one,” your dream-self said to him, so serious that Jaime wondered if it was actually you standing there in front of him. “A little wolf-lion.”

Did Jaime want that? Would they have golden hair like his? Like Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen? But how could he have another child when he was never a father to the ones he already had? It felt wrong to even consider it. Dishonorable. Any romantic notion of a normal life with you was quickly dashed.

“I know we can’t,” you continued on before he could respond. “They’re all dead.” You gestured down to the Starklings. “And I’ll be joining them soon. But it’s a nice thought, isn’t it?”

“No—” he said, reaching out to you, but you had already faded into a blur.

Not all of his dreams with you were as bleak. Once he was abed with you, and another time he was bound by rope as you pointed an arrow at his forehead while he cackled maniacally. 

A week after releasing the last of the garrison, Jaime woke up with a start after dreaming about a cloaked figure that looked eerily similar to Cersei, though he knew it wasn’t her. His mother spoke soft riddles, where Cersei would bark harsh insults. He couldn’t quite tell which he favored. He threw the covers off him with his stump.

The room was frigid. The hearth’s warmth had waned away and the windows had been left pushed open when he fell asleep. In the darkness, Jaime made his way to close the shutters, but his foot touched against a wetness on the ground. Blood had been his first thought, but blood would not be so cold. Rain, perhaps, but he would have heard the sound of pattering coming from outside.

Jaime drew the damp curtains apart, letting the moonlight stream through. Moonlight and snow. Down below, the yard was spotting with white, growing thicker and thicker in the minutes he watched. After a moment, he even began to see his breath misting in front of him.

Winter is here, he thought. Marching south, and our granaries are half empty.

He watched the snow fall, and stood there thinking of you. It irked him that you haunted his every thought. Nonetheless, he hoped you were warm, wherever you were. If he was as fanatically religious as his dear coz Lancel, he would have even prayed for your safety.

When morning dawned, Riverrun’s maester came to pay him a visit. He was pallid-faced and shaking.

“I know,” Jaime said, glancing at the bound letter in the old man’s quivering hands. “The Citadel has sent a white raven. Winter has come.”

“No, my lord,” said Maester Vyman. “The bird came from King’s Landing. Forgive me, I took the liberty to open it, I did not know it was meant for your eyes…”

Jaime took the letter and sat by the window to read. It was Qyburn’s hurried hand, but he knew it to be Cersei’s fevered words. 

Come at once. Help me. Save me. I need you now as I have never needed you before. I love you. I love you. I love you. Come at once.

“Does my lord wish to answer?” asked Vyman, hovering by the door.

A snowflake landed on the letter. He was reminded of the snowflakes in your hair, in his dream. It was quick to melt, blurring the inked words and streaking down the paper. 

Jaime rolled the paper back as tight as he could with his one hand, and handed it back to the maester. “No,” he said. “Put this in the fire.”

[bumblesimagines]

The Beasts of The North

Part 2

Request: Yes or No

Summary: While he's meant to be convincing the Wolf of the North to send his men to fight a war for his mother, Jace cannot help but grow enthralled by the love between Lord Cregan and Ser (Y/N).

CW/TW: Typical GoT/HOTD warnings, mentions/implied homophobia/homophobic religion (The Faith), slight age gaps, slight suggestive content, Cregan and (Y/N) are head over heels, (Y/N) is not a stepfather he is the father that stepped up, bicurious Jace

I know I said I was gonna focus on UTM but my motivation left as quick as my dad did so here we are 🤷🏻‍♀️

~~~

A low, heavy sigh escaped Jace as he sank further into the tub, the heated water digging pleasantly into his skin and ridding it of the cold that'd sunk into him the moment he flew into the North. His head drooped back, the back of his neck resting along the wall of the tub as he slipped in further until the water brushed against his chin. His palms rubbed along his thighs, massaging away the soreness from riding Vermax for so long. 

His eyes glided around his new room, taking in everything around him. It reminded him of his bedchambers in Dragonstone with the stone walls and smooth, warm floor but it was sadly where the similarities stopped. It lacked the salty smell of the sea breeze wafting in through the windows, the sound of the waves crashing with the rocky cliffs, the clinking of metal from guards walking around. Most of all.. it lacked his beloved family. It lacked his precious brothers... it lacked his beloved mother. His skin warmed from embarrassment. He was man-grown and the Crown Prince, yet he desperately wished to have his mother near so he could ask her what to say and do.

Jace pushed himself up and began washing himself, scrubbing his skin clean until he no longer smelled of leather and dragon. He remained in the tub for a while longer, soaking up the heat of the water until it became tepid, before rising from the tub and drying himself. His mind raced as he changed into new clothes, his thoughts surrounding Lord Cregan and what to make of him. 

He'd flown to the Eyrie first to meet with Lady Jeyne Arryn and managed to garner her support through promises of protecting the Vale of Arryn with dragons, managed to sway the support of the Three Sisters in their favor through Lord Borrell, and arranged for Lord Desmond Manderly of the White Harbor's youngest daughter to one day wed little Joffery in exchange for his support. But what could he possibly offer Lord Cregan Stark to lessen the impact of his men undoubtedly dying once war finally began?

Jace had no younger sisters to offer as a potential bride to Rickon Stark; no lands or titles that could even amount to the lands of Winterfell and the title of Warden of the North; no dragons that'd be pleased to call the North home; no older female relatives to offer as the new Lady of Winterfell (and he certainly wouldn't wish to upset a Mormont); no riches or coin that'd be worth sending men to die. He had nothing to offer, nothing the lord would care for, at least. 

His fingers buttoned his white undershirt, his legs leading him toward the window to peer out to the ground below where he had a perfect view of the training grounds. Ser (Y/N) stood by below, his eyes closely watching the squires and boys given to him for training and lips contorted into a frown. He looked older in certain lights, more mature than the age Jace presumed him to be. His lips quirked when Ser (Y/N) smacked the back of one of the squires with his wooden sword, the exasperated expression on his face reminding him of all the times he practiced with Luke and had to scold the boy. 

His concerned, borderline anxious thoughts surrounding his host shifted, recalling the words Ser (Y/N) had spoken before he'd left. The Faith of the Seven viewed relations between those of the same sex to be a sin, something septas and maesters warned young children against. But Jace was no fool, nor was he blind or deaf. He'd heard plenty of rumors in court, seen lingering touches between a noblewoman and her favorite handmaiden or fleeting glances between a lord and his personal guard. His own father, Laenor Velaryon, had been said to enjoy the company of men over women; and looking back on his youth, Jace recalled the times he and Ser Qarl Correy often left together, smiling big and lovingly at each other.

Jace liked ladies, he'd be a fool not to with their beauty. But he'd be lying if he said he'd never looked at a lordling or knight and wondered what it'd be like to be with them. He often brushed those thoughts away and told himself it was simply admiration or envy but something in his heart had fluttered when he laid eyes on Lord Cregan and Ser (Y/N), something that blossomed when he witnessed the adoring exchange between the two. 

Lovers.

Ser (Y/N) had said it so proudly, so sure of himself. Jace wondered how many times his father had dreamt of declaring his love for Ser Qarl, dreamt of being himself publically without facing the scrutiny and denial of everyone around him. He wondered then, if the longing stares exchanged between his mother and Queen Alicent meant something other than a desire to rekindle a long-lost friendship. 

"Prince Jacaerys," He startled and turned away from the window, noticing Sara Snow lingering by the doorway. She smiled politely at him and entered the room, crossing the distance to stand beside him by the window as servants slipped in after her and drained the tub. The servants collected his discarded clothes and bowed before retreating, leaving the two in silence. Jace turned back to her and returned the smile with one of his own. 

Snow. A bastard of the North, yet treated as if she were a full-blooded Stark; perhaps because she looked so much like one with her shoulder-length raven hair and those pale blue eyes that resembled Lord Cregan's. Jace couldn't help the prickle of envy that slipped into his veins. If he'd been born resembling his mother over his real father, nobody would've questioned his parentage nor brought insult to his mother and brother. He'd spent so many years fighting to prove himself to everyone around him that he was Targaryen, that he was meant to be Crown Prince. Everything would've proved much easier if he and Luke had been born with those striking violet eyes and silver locks.

"I hope you're settling in well," Sara's gentle voice pulled him of out his thoughts. She glanced toward what'd captivated his attention moments prior, the corners of her mouth lifting knowingly. His skin warmed, though he couldn't pinpoint the reason why. "I know my brother and (Y/N) can seem... standoffish. They were both raised to be guarded and suspicious, but I can assure you, once they've grown used to you they'll be kinder." 

"I cannot fault them for their hesitance in welcoming me. I am the bearer of bad news; a symbol of war after so many years of peace." Jace straightened his shoulders and posture, clasping his hands behind his back as he spoke. He needed to be seen as princely as possible, needed to be someone worth paying attention to. "Lord Cregan's support would mean everything to us."

Her eyes crinkled and her head tilted to the side. There was a warmness to her presence that eased Jace into relaxation. "I could help you convince my brother as he does seek out my advice but (Y/N) is our master-at-arms and the one who trained many of our warriors in the past few years. He will need as much convincing as Cregan. The Starks have never broken an oath but it is better to have a willing commander over one who feels forced." 

"I agree." Jace nodded, his eyes flickering back down toward the figure below, hearing the muffled groan that escaped the knight when a squire slipped and fell. "And... how would you suggest someone goes about that? He hardly seemed keen on showing me around." Was keen the right word? Ser (Y/N) had seemed outright distraught at the idea. 

"How would you go about taming a bear?" The light, almost teasing tone in Sara's voice made him chuckle softly. "Cregan would know all about that, it seems. (Y/N) came here to Winterfell as a ward under our father many years ago. He and Cregan had been at odds then, bickering and fighting but under all that was the beginning of love."

"What of Lady Arra?" Jace asked. He'd heard how her death had brought much pain to Lord Cregan, how he'd mourned her for many months. Sara sighed softly at the mention and Jace winced, hoping he hadn't overstepped by asking.

"Cregan loved her as much as he loves (Y/N)," Sara told him softly, the glint in her eyes turning distant, her mind drifting back to the past. "Cregan was captivated by both of them, I remember. I was a child, hardly old enough to understand what was so charming about love, but even then I knew he cared for them both, even if (Y/N) occasionally brought out the worst in him. Arra forced them to become friends, for her sake, since she cared for them both. In the end, she brought them together both in life and death."

A comfortable silence settled over them, one that made Jace's thoughts flicker back to Baela. He cared for her, he had since they were mere children, but was it like the love between his father and Ser Qarl? The love between Ser (Y/N) and Lord Cregan? He hadn't minded when his mother announced her intent to marry them. He preferred an old friend over a stranger, and he certainly wouldn't mind having children with someone as passionate and caring as Baela. He believed he'd grow to love her, as many arranged couples eventually did, but what if his love for her remained... friendly?

"There'll be a feast in your honor later this evening. The boys should be in better moods by then." The boys. Jace almost snorted, his lips rolling into his mouth to prevent the noise. He wondered how long it took for little Sara to begin bossing them around, the image of her lecturing them as a child floating around in his mind.

"I look forward to learning more of the North." Jace smiled. 

Sara returned it, though it held a hint of both mischief and pity. "And I hope you're a heavy sleeper, My Prince." 

When dusk fell, the feast began with all kinds of lords, knights, ladies, and squires filling the Great Hall. A proper welcome to the North, if Jace had to admit, finding ale in his hand and delicious food on his plate that he happily ate. He spoke with those around him, his chest brimming with pride and relief whenever he enticed a hearty laugh from a northerner with a jest or a tale. They considered him a southerner, a boy prince who'd hardly fit in amongst the men who looked more like mountains and ladies who knew their way around axes. But with each laugh, grin, and approving nod, he cemented himself further amongst them. 

However, Lord Cregan and Ser (Y/N) paid him little mind, allowing the others around to keep him entertained. 

Jace watched them as he slowly ate some of his apple cake, the lovely flavor dancing on his tongue but his attention focused on the two despite the tale Russal, the castle's steward, recounted a tale of a hunt that had many leaning forward in anticipation. Jace had been among them until he'd caught sight of Ser (Y/N)'s vibrant and pleased grin at something his lover had said. 

He watched with softened eyes as a fussy Rickon finally ceased his whining once Ser (Y/N) took him into his arms, settling the boy on his leg and sparing the briefly distracted Lord Cregan a glance before he scooped some honey cake onto his spoon and offered it to the boy. Rickon wiggled with delight, his small hands grasping (Y/N)'s wrist as he eagerly ate, accidentally smearing frosting over his top lip and just below his nose. Lord Cregan turned back to them and arched a brow at the mess on his son's face, an amused smile stretching across his lips. 

"You know you mustn't have sweets before bed, Rickon." He gave his lover a knowing look, one that (Y/N) responded to with an innocent shrug. Rickon merely giggled and licked his lips, reaching for the spoon once more to lick it clean. He reminded Jace of Joffery, his little troublemaking brother who could sway anyone with just a few bats from his eyes and that toothy grin. Jace watched little Rickon, a longing for home forming in his heart once more. 

The table erupted in loud laughter that snapped Jace out of his thoughts, flickering his gaze toward Russal as the man drank some ale and took in the hearty laughs and cackles his story received. He smiled and chuckled, the laughter of northerners amusing by itself, and took another gulp of his ale. When his eyes slid back to the couple, he found Ser (Y/N) watching him and nearly choked on his ale, managing to cover up the coughs with wheezy chuckles. 

"Princeling," Ser (Y/N) pulled Rickon further against his chest so he could rest his chin on the boy's messy dark hair. The table largely quieted down, save for a few conversations here and there, most of the attention turning onto the prince and Ser (Y/N). Jace straightened his back instinctively with all eyes on him and gave him a nod to go on. "Tell us of dragons."

"Dagons!" Rickon cheered, drawing soft chuckles and coos from those around. 

"Well, uhm," Jace cleared his throat, his mind flickering back to all the lessons he'd received through the years, primarily on the histories of his family. "There are different tales on how dragons came to be. Those who came from Old Valryia claim dragons came from the Fourteen Flames but there are tales that dragons were brought forth through blood magic used on wyverns. Regardless, Valyrians tamed and rode them. It was said Valyrians themselves were descendants of the beasts and were kin with those they rode. Many believe a dragon will accept anyone of Valyrian blood but it is simply not true. A rider does not choose its dragon, the dragon chooses its rider. They will not allow anyone else to ride them for as long as their rider lives and breathes."

"Your dragon chose you, then? It looks quite young." Ser (Y/N) tilted his head. Jace wondered what tales were told in the North about dragons, about his family. Lord Alaric Stark had hosted King Jaehaerys Targaryen and Queen Alysanne Targaryen at Winterfell once many years prior, surely leaving a good enough impression for things to remain amiable between the families. Jace could only hope to leave the same impression.

"The tradition started by Rhaena Targaryen where eggs are placed in the cradle of Targaryen babes allows for a bond to form in youth. Vermax hatched in my cradle so we were raised together as... brothers, in a way. The bond between a dragonrider and their dragon runs deep. It is said a dragon may feel everything its rider feels. They may grow restless when their rider falls ill or is gravely injured." Jace couldn't help the burst of pride in his chest at the curiosity and intrigue in the eyes of those around him. Velaryon blood never ran through his veins but it hadn't made him any less of a Targaryen.

"Interesting." Ser (Y/N) said flatly, and the pride died a little. 

By the time night properly fell, the buzz in Jace's veins had been undeniable. Northerners liked their drinks strong, and Jace had never been one to back down when faced with challenging smirks and glints. Drinking their ale and beer had earned him many burning claps on his back and shoulders but as he stumbled through the halls and toward his bedchambers, he wondered if perhaps he should've paced himself. He almost tripped over his own foot and gave a soft giggle at his clumsiness before his eyes shifted to the streak of light pouring from a cracked open door. Against his better judgment, he approached it like a moth to a flame and raised his head to peek into the room.

"Byran thinks we ought to do a hunt soon. The hounds have grown restless, says they could use the exercise." He found Ser (Y/N) first, the many layers of clothing he'd once worn gone, leaving him in loose beige-colored sleepwear. The knight tilted his head up toward his lover, the warm candlelight and peaceful look on his face chipping away at the slight fear that'd gripped Jace's gut when he'd first seen him. 

"Aye," Lord Cregan responded, and Jace's face warmed when he raked his gaze over his muscular back and strong-looking arms, a shirt pinched in his hands before the lord tossed it aside. His chest and pudgy stomach were covered in dark hairs, ones that Jace tracked until they disappeared beneath his pants. "We could take the princeling, then. Show him how the North works."

"And how does the North work, love?" Jace's veins bubbled when he heard Ser (Y/N)'s light laughter, when he watched Lord Cregan take a seat at the edge of the bed while Ser (Y/N) slid up behind him. His fingers dipped into Lord Cregan's hair, brushing and pulling back his dark strands gently, a gentleness he hadn't given those he'd been training. Ser (Y/N) tied his lover's hair back into a bun, some shorter strands slipping out and framing Lord Cregan's face. 

"The North is... full of surprises." The older man murmured, tilting his head back and ghosting his lips over Ser (Y/N)'s cheek as the knight's arms wrapped around his broad shoulders. When their lips connected, Jace's stomach flipped with a new feeling of longing, surprised by the warmth and sweetness of the kiss. 

Lord Cregan's body tiled and his arm moved, sliding around his lover's waist and dragging him onto his lap. Laughter and giggles freely fell from Ser (Y/N)'s lips, a wide smile on his face as he settled happily across Lord Cregan's thighs. They stared at each other, lips curled upward and eyes crinkled with delight before Lord Cregan pressed a kiss to Ser (Y/N)'s forehead and murmured something in his ear. When Lord Cregan's hand dipped into the knight's pants, Jace jerked back, a violent heat darting up his spine and spreading through his veins. 

Despite his drunken mind, he staggered away from the door and toward his bedchambers, tossing the door open and slamming it shut behind him. His back pressed against the wood when his legs grew too wobbly to keep him up without help, a shaky exhale escaping him. It was hard to pinpoint what swirled around so violently in his stomach; too many emotions threatening to swallow him whole in a single gulp. He felt them prickling along his back. 

Desire, want, longing, mortification, embarrassment. 

He was the Crown Prince, Seven Hells! It was entirely unprincely to act no better than a peeping tom, even if the coils around his stomach and heart yearned to be under such an adoring gaze and needy hands. Jace groaned and brought a hand to his face, pushing himself off the door and stumbling toward the blanket and fur covered bed where he collapsed. He buried his face into one of the furs, feeling the soft strands brush against his skin soothingly. He prayed they hadn't taken notice, hadn't realized he'd been watching. 

He was a guest in their home. A temporary guest who'd leave once he ensured he'd secured the North's loyalty and support... even if he had to withhold from indulging in his growing curiosity.

[flowerandblood]

Aemond & Rhaenys's children

[ canon • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

I've decided to create moodobards and descriptions for each of Aemond and Rhaenys' children from The Fall from the Heavens series to make it easier to place the events of the final chapters in space-time. I am adding descriptions created later by the maesters, giving a more detailed look at each of the children of the ruler-regents. The only warning is sibling incest, lol.

Viserys

Firstborn son. Quiet, calm, empathetic. He inherited his hair color from his father and the color of his eyes from his mother. As he aged, he resembled his mother more and more.

King Viserys saw his parents as if they were demigods: the path they set him on was the one he wanted to follow. As a child, he was reserved and shy, gazing at his father's figure like the mightiest of heroes, flying on the world's greatest dragon. His mature demeanour and ability to take good advice made him a wise and prudent ruler, acting violently only when necessary, concerned for the welfare of his family and the Kingdom as a whole.

When his uncle, Prince Aegon, began plotting against him in the Eyrie after the death of his mother, Rhaenyra, declaring himself the true heir to the throne, he sent Aegon's father, Daemon, and his younger sister Visenya to him, hoping to resolve the conflict peacefully. Visenya, to their grandfather's amusement, was to say to her uncle:

‘I will return to King's Landing with the message that you will kneel, or with your head.’

His marriage to his uncle's youngest daughter, Princess Alyssa, although met with resistance in the form of his grandfather Daemon and his father wanting him to marry his own sister, Visenya, proved successful and happy; the young king became a father after just the first year of their marriage. Queen Alyssa, known for her kindness, laughter and sense of humour, filled the entire court with joy. They lived to have six children.

Queen Alyssa and their first-born son, Aemond

Aegon

Three years younger than Viserys. Mischievous, clever, arrogant. He inherited his father's white hair and the color of his eyes. Like his father, he did not forgive easily.

Many compared him to his grandmother's husband, Prince Daemon: like him, he was hot-tempered and easily enraged. However, where his uncle would burn and destroy, he would delve into his mind, clever enough to devise a plan by which he could crush his opponents. His elder brother's enemies were his enemies and they could count on neither forgiveness nor oblivion. He and his younger sister, Visenya, became honorary members of their brother-king's Kingsguard.

To strengthen the bond between the North and King's Landing, his brother ordered him to marry Lord Stark's daughter, which he did. The Prince, although at first aloof and unhappy with how quiet and prudish his wife was, grew to love her when he discovered, while staying in Winterfell, her deeply hidden nature.

It turned out that his wife not only understood what lust was, but also what the art of war was, and after only a few months the people of the North could watch Prince Aegon teach his lady-wife archery. They lived to have four children, and he spent his life travelling on his dragon between Winterfell and King's Landing.

Aegon and Visenya

Daeron

Six years younger than Viserys. Honorable, wise, prudent. He inherited most of his siblings from his mother and his grandfather, Harwin Strong. Many at court said he resembled his uncle, the ruler of Dragonstone, Prince Jacaerys.

Viserys' beloved brother, the Sun Prince. He inherited his mother's ease of conversation as well as her gift for diplomacy along with his father's fierceness and directness. He and Viserys shared a unique bond from childhood and remained close companions throughout their lives. Though devoid of Targayren hair colour, it was he who aroused the greatest desire in the opposite sex, and every lady of the court dreamed of becoming his wife.

To their despair, his gaze was directed at only one woman: his sister, Aemma, whom he loved deeply from the day she was born. Throughout their childhood they remained inseparable, and in moments of separation they exchanged long, affectionate letters with each other. When Aemma turned sixteen, Daeron visited his father to ask him for her hand, and he agreed.

Daeron turned 23 and Aemma 18 when they stood together in the Great Sept, becoming husband and wife. Their marriage was successful and happy, and they did not part with each other for a moment. They lived to have eight children, and after their parents flew off on their journey to Essos, Daeron became the Hand of the King, taking his father's place.

Daeron and Aemma

Visenya

Seven years younger than Viserys. Harsh, fierce, untamed. She inherited her father's hair color, curls of her mother and the eyes of her grandmother, Rhaenyra.

Called by some the Fiery Princess, Daemon's favorite grandchild. The whole kingdom rejoiced at the announcement that a daughter had at last been born to the ruler-regents, but it was not known at the time that she would become a true dragon. In secret from her father, she unfastened his dagger from his belt and, to his fury, practised wielding it in solitude.

Although neither he nor his wife considered her interests worthy of a lady, her character left them no room for compromise and, to their despair, eventually the whole of the Red Keep could watch their daughter confront her own brother, Aegon, in a sword fight.

She refused to wear gowns, dressing exactly like her father, choosing mostly black, fitted tunics and breeches. In a frenzy of rage, deciding that her hair was getting in her way while flying on her dragon, she cut it to shoulder height one day, startling the entire court. Walking with her sister through the gardens of the Red Keep, she looked from behind as if she were a man.

The people of the court lowered their eyes in fear at the sight of only two people: King Regent Aemond and his eldest daughter. It was said that her gaze, gait and smile were animal-like, menacing and warning. Her mood changed like the weather and one never knew what would please or anger her, while arguments between her and her father made it seem as if the whole keep was shaking.

If it could be assumed that Princess Visenya ever loved anyone, it was certainly her younger sister, Aemma. Though like fire and water, her older sister always kept her safe, relying only on her opinion. When her parents wanted to reason with her, they would send her younger sister to speak with her. When the betrothal between Prince Daeron and Princess Aemma was announced, Visenya was to say:

‘If I were a man, I would have abducted her long time ago and taken her as my wife in the tradition of Old Valryia.’

Her brother-king gave her a choice: she could, like her brother Aegon, be married off or become an official member of his Kingsguard. She opted for the latter, becoming her eldest brother's shadow from then on.

Aemma and Visenya

Aemma

Eleven years younger than Viserys. Devoted, bright, compassionate. She inherited the dark curls of her mother and the brown eyes of her grandmother, Alicent.

Called the Light of the Kingdom: according to those who knew and described her, she could only be matched in beauty by her mother. Beloved child of her parents, full of warmth, joy and generosity, she resembled a Queen Regent the most out of her siblings.

Her gentle, patient nature meant that she was the only one able to get through the fortress her father had created around his mind, discussing with him for hours by the fire. She was very close with all of the members of her family, adored and loved, however, the closest relationship she had was with Visenya, and the ladies of the court said that it was her elder sister who stole her first kiss.

Although she was originally to be betrothed to Lord Lannister's grandson, her mother very quickly recognised the exceptionally close bond between her and her brother, and it was not long before Daeron himself asked his father for her hand.

Their father gave his consent to their marriage, and just a few months later their nuptials took place in the Great Sept in front of the entire Realm. The ladies of the court were to say at the time:

‘Prince Daeron and Princess Aemma spoke little during the feast, looking at each other with eyes full of tears, smiles on their faces that told all gathered that this was the happiest day of their lives. As they danced with each other, they seemed to see no one around them, their hands entwined together, refusing to let go, holding them close to each other.’

Daeron and Aemma

Aemon

Fourteen years younger than Viserys. Withdrawn, intelligent, humble. He inherited his mother's dark hair and his father's eyes.

The only one among his siblings from whose egg a dragon did not hatch. The Septon confessed to his parents that from an early age he showed signs of genius: he learned to read and speak extremely quickly, discussed lierature and philosophy as if he were a grown man and was perpetually hungry for knowledge. He expressed his desire to become the maester, and despite his mother's despair, his father agreed to send him to the Old Town, so he could receive his education there.

Saera

17 years younger than Viserys. Sensitive, introverted, observant. She inherited her grandmother's white hair and her mother's eyes.

Ever since she was a small child, she had been telling her parents about dreams that she did not understand: it was only after a discussion with her aunt, Helaena, that it became clear that they were both seeing similar images, hearing similar sounds and smelling similar smells when they slept. This worried their parents, because they didn't want their youngest, most sensitive child to carry the burden of visions that could overwhelm her, so when they were unable to reason with her, Helaena spoke to her.

Author's note: I spent hours correcting the saturation, light and tone of all the images to match, I colored some of them too (hair). You can reblog this post, but do not repost my edits. Thank you. 😇

[damndamsy]

renegade | aemond targaryen x oc (part viii)

a/n: the 2 big C's - cregan and character deaths

With Aegon II Targaryen averred as king in King's Landing and Rhaenyra crowned queen in Dragonstone, a war among kin was brewing on the horizon. Upon Prince Jacaerys' request, it was resolved by Queen Rhaenyra that she would send her three eldest children—Princess Aemma, Prince Jace and Luke—as messengers on dragonback to remind the great houses of whom they had sworn fealty to her succession nigh on twenty years ago.

"Dragons will persuade the lords more than a raven scroll," Jace had said. "Let them see that we are the blood of the dragon and we are not to be disparaged."

It was decided that Aemma, the oldest of her siblings, would fly to Winterfell to meet with Lord Stark, given his previous inclinations in treating with her before her hasty marriage to Prince Aemond. By stealth, the queen wanted to propitiate Cregan Stark's displeasure with her daughter as a significant motivation. It was a foul thought for a mother to have, but chances were on her side.

The princess was initially defiant about being cozened into this bloodshed. Whilst her husband advocated his traitor brother's claim to the throne and her mother played her for a mummer in her siege to the throne, she preferred to bide her time. She would not be made to raise war against her husband and, moreover her dearest friend.

That evening, Prince Daemon had cornered his stepdaughter in her chambers and bore down on her.

"You, my girl, piss on compromise—I adore that. But, ambition without intellect is like a bird without wings," Daemon had said to Aemma. "Are you a chicken or a dragon?"

She had snorted. "Better that than ambition without conscience. You would lead my little brothers to slaughter and death."

"Then take no part in it. Go as the queen's emissary and nothing else." He glanced at her, slightly encouraged. "Assure safety to your kin. Do your mother good and help her raise an army."

Jace, the oldest male of the three, was entrusted with a longer and trickier task of flying to Eyrie to meet with the Lady of the Vale, Jeyne Arryn first, before making his way to White Harbour to win over Lord Manderly.

At long last, Princess Aemma attempted to advise the queen against sending her little brothers anywhere, fearing their novice would travail their situation. Jace was fifteen and Luke was but thirteen, and Aemma had noticed how her youngest brother had blanched upon her mother's decision. Luke was in no way fit to deal with those mighty lords alone.

"Both your brothers have served as squires for long," Rhaenyra pacified Aemma, bringing her aside from the great painted table. "It is you we fear for. You only mounted Silverwing three days ago. With winter’s grip tightening in the North, we cannot risk your health flaring up on the journey."

Luke silently lingered by her and squeezed Aemma's tense shoulder, sheepish to her protectiveness. "You minimize me, Emmy. I am to be the Lord of the Tides one day. I can fight as well as my brother."

"Arrax is yet a fledgling," she insisted.

"A dragon, nonetheless." But his rejoinder went by ignored.

"At least send Luke and Jace together," Aemma pleaded to her mother. "They will make each other invulnerable, protect themselves."

"It would be time wasted," her mother said.

"Then I shall accompany Luke to Winterfell, persuade Lord Stark, and afterwards proceed to Storm's End," Aemma declared firmly. She took her mother’s hand, gripping it tightly. "Arm my brother with his blade, and let him act as my ward instead."

"There will be no fighting," Rhaenyra especially prompted. "You will only go as my envoys. Remind the lords of the oaths they swore."

"Then Luke will be my knight," Aemma triumphed.

The queen hesitated, her gaze shifting between her daughter’s earnest plea and the anxious figure of young Luke standing behind her. Rhaenyra could sense the depth of Aemma’s desperation, the way she fervently protected her siblings with a fierce loyalty that had always been evident. Whether it was managing a simple supper or overseeing rigorous training, Aemma had always been protective of her younger brothers, asserting her authority with unwavering dedication. Her devotion was so profound that, if either of her brothers were not fully on board, Aemma would have upended the household to find recourse.

Daemon had once remarked that Aemma’s dedication to her brothers was a way of compensating for the absence of Aemond as if the next best thing was to safeguard her own kin with even greater intensity.

Now, as Aemma ardently defended her younger brothers, Rhaenyra found herself torn. She was caught between honouring her beloved daughter's unrelenting aims and fulfilling her obligation to the realm justly.

Finally, Rhaenyra nodded. "So be it."

Little Joffrey stepped between Aemma and his mother, his mouth twisted in disdain. They watched him incredulously, Daemon included. Rhaenyra smothered a smile at how her children lovingly doted on one another.

"I will fly on Tyraxes with Jace. I will be his knight," he offered harshly. "Let me go with my family, mummy."

Luke tousled his brother's hair, who fought off his mischief. "Sheath your steel, Joff. Daemon needs you and your dragon here, on the lookout with Moondancer."

Come undern, Aemma lingered in her chambers, feeling like a fish far from the familiar seas. The garments laid out for her—a sleek brigandine with armoured layers—were finely designed yet undeniably cumbersome. The synthetic scales and padded wadding were meant to mimic the attire of a Targaryen dragonrider, but the weight of it felt oppressive.

She sighed in frustration, tugging at the stiff jacket. When her mother arrived at the door, a knowing smile on her face, the realization dawned.

"As much as you'd like to shield me to the teeth, Mother, I'm still flesh and bone underneath," Aemma said, grumbling as she smoothed the jacket’s skirting. "Seven hells, I can barely move in this."

"This old thing was mine once," Rhaenyra revealed, her tone soft with nostalgia. Aemma turned to her, surprise flickering across her face. "Though it seems you’ve outgrown it. You’re taller than I was at your age."

Aemma tilted her sleeve, inspecting the gold stitching and intricate patterns that mimicked the form of Syrax, her mother’s dragon. Her fingers traced the delicate embroidery, a grin spreading across her lips.

"Beautiful," she murmured.

"I’ve imagined you like this since the day your tiny hand curled around my finger," Rhaenyra mused, standing beside her daughter and speaking through their reflection in the mirror. Her hands gently adjusted the braids near Aemma’s temple, a wistful look in her eyes.

"I know you wish none of this were happening," Rhaenyra continued, her voice tender. "But I am eternally grateful that you would do this, for your queen."

"For my mother," Aemma corrected, her voice barely above a murmur.

Rhaenyra’s expression softened, her indigo eyes shining as she leaned in to kiss Aemma’s cheek, the gesture overflowing with affection. One kiss turned into three more, each more desperate than the last as if trying to hold on to her daughter before she had to let her go.

"Hurry back to me, sweetling," Rhaenyra whispered, her voice thick with emotion, her hand lingering on Aemma’s arm as though she could keep her safe just a little longer.

The three siblings departed from Dragonstone on their dragons. Silverwing and Arrax flew north, battling the rash winds and winter, while Vermax flew west toward the Bloody Gate. Throughout their leave-taking, the entire island held its breath. Something was left amiss, for sure.

X

Prince Luke and Princess Aemma Velaryon's arrival at Winterfell was of distinction, as decreed by their northern king. Despite the daunting fire-breathing beasts that came thundering down onto their outer courtyards, Lord Cregan Stark and his few council members lingered outside the entrance gates, waiting on hand and foot.

Lord Stark was most persistent to see the Targaryen princess who had dashed his hopes, considering that he should be raising his banners against her in a war for breaking her word. For months, the young lord had heard tell of her beauty, elegance and infinite passion, and a few gossips of her paternal lineage. She had acquitted herself well to her people, kith and kin; spirited, gracious, knowledgeable, good-humoured, and treasured by the smallfolk. Out of sight, Princess Aemma had him fascinated, twisted into a wordless spell.

And now, as he saw Aemma dismount her awesome dragon, she appeared as a might-have-been. What a vision, the princess was; her eyes gleamed with the warmth that could melt a thousand winters, while the hazy evening sun bathed her in a golden glow, offering her the aura of a queen long forgotten. There was no mistaking the magnificence of her lineage, visible in the silvery sheen of her hair and the striking features of her face. In stark contrast, her brother stood at her side, lacking the same Targaryen traits but every bit as protective, his presence quietly formidable.

"Lord Stark," Prince Lucerys greeted, nervousness cloaked beneath his strong voice. "I am Prince Lucerys Velaryon. This is my sister, Princess Aemma Velaryon, heir to the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. We bear a message from our mother... the Queen."

Just then, the boy prince's dragon let out a deafening roar. Whilst Lord Stark's meagre council staggered back and away, the young lord stood his ground, amazed.

Aemma curtsied with a quiet greeting, her head held high. There were traces of a grin on her shivering lips—she was not dressed for such cold—and she galumphed across the snow with a tightly bound scroll.

"Good morrow, my lords," she addressed his council first, then the Warden of the North. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord Cregan."

Aemma spoke exuding the integrity she wished would make up for his disfavour.

Cregan made do with a slow nod and a breathy, "Princess." He couldn't take his eyes off her.

"I hope you bear no malice towards my engagements, my lord. Or that my impulsive actions are to the detriment of your ancestor's oath to my grandsire." Her silver-toned voice was faint, as if these words were only meant for him.

Cregan simply flashed her a smile, instinctively taking her scroll-carrying hand into his. He brushed a courteous kiss against her gloved knuckles before acquiring the message.

"Starks do not forget their oaths, princess," he proclaimed. He leaned closer, saying, "And believe me, your beauty is one I would raise my swords and banners against your prince husband in a blink."

Aemma managed a suave laugh. "My prince husband would rend a vein in his head if he heard your words."

Cregan arched a quizzical brow. "Who just happens to be southward, miles away, plotting his war resisting the Queen. I am compelled to assume his loyalties are hence withdrawn."

This struck home, and her jaw flexed. "They remain true, my lord. Writ in dragonglass, bound by blood."

"So I've heard," he said, barely concealing his amusement. "I meant no disrespect, princess. Even the many cold mysteries that lay beyond the Wall cannot stand to compare with matters of a lady's heart."

Aemma chewed the inside of her cheek, stifling the levity that built in her. A shiver wracked her body, and she darted a look at Luke, who stood a few steps behind her, watching his sister's interaction, shifting his weight from foot to foot, and blowing into his palms. The cold was overwhelming him, too.

"Let us pursue this matter further in a more amiable setting. Winterfell is yours for tonight, Your Graces," Lord Stark announced before Aemma could make a request. She shuffled back to join her brother's side.

"To all appearances, our summer snow does not agree with dragon blood. I'll have warm clothes sent to your chambers. I expect you'll be walking piles of quilts for supper."

Aemma burst forth a snicker, unlike Luke who was quick to take offence. He glanced his disdain at his sister, prickled by the lord's familiarity. Cregan bowed his head with a spirited grin aimed at the prince and princess before stepping aside to direct the path to the Winterfell gates.

"If it so pleases you, I would be honoured to show you around the castle," he remarked, eyeing Aemma particularly.

"For the sake of goodwill, my only request is that no one infringes on our dragons without us, my lord," Luke informed before walking forward. His tone was tinged with an immature threat. "Contrary to our gracious disposition, dragons are far less so, their mercy though a breath of fire."

Cregan acknowledged this with a courteous nod. "Very well, my prince."

"Silverwing is rather benign," Aemma interjected, striving to allay their concern. "And Arrax has been well-fed before our journey. I assure you, they will bring no harm to your people."

The lord pursed his lips, fighting a smile as he bowed his head once more.

"Your assurances are most welcome, princess," Cregan said, his tone even but grey eyes gleaming with thinly veiled mirth. "Though I must confess, it's not the fullness of a dragon's belly that troubles us, but how swiftly it empties."

X

As much as Aemma despised the bereft frost and the muddy funk the north had to offer, she could not deny how captivating their hearts were. Northmen and women carried themselves with honour above all else, bound to duty for their castle and regent. Like raw gold, they were unpolished but held a promise of brilliance once refined.

Their values glistened most promisingly in their young lord and king, Cregan Stark. At merely seven and ten, he was sized like a titan, unmatched by her athletic Aemond, and built like an ox, swathed in a dense cloak of wolf furs and leathers, amassing his ancestral Valyrian sword, Ice. His pride wafted out in vaunts of his home and his duty-bound traditions and resilience to the Wall. His accent was thick, assertive yet unfamiliar to Aemma's ears, his voice tinged with the lilting cadence of the North.

In the castle stables, they came upon the direwolves, and Aemma’s excitement was uncontainable. She had only ever known one direwolf, her own Seasmoke, and now before her was an entire pack with pups. She could hardly believe it.

"I’ve never heard of direwolves surviving so far south of the Wall," Cregan mused as he watched her awe-struck expression. The wolves, still untamed, were kept behind barricades, wild and untrained, but their presence was nothing short of glorious.

"My direwolf is named Seasmoke," Aemma said with quiet pride, her voice softening with fondness. Her eyes grew misty as the green memories awakened. "Named after my father's dragon. Aemond and I raised him as a companion. We were the only ones of our kin without dragons for a long time; Seasmoke was our solace, our friend in that loneliness."

Cregan’s lips curled into a thoughtful smirk. "I understand now," he said quietly.

Aemma turned to him, her brow furrowing slightly. "Understand what?"

"It was not haste," Cregan replied, his voice gentle but sure. "You simply married your friend. Few are so fortunate."

Aemma couldn’t suppress the smile that blossomed on her lips, warm and unbidden. "Fortunate indeed," she agreed, her voice barely above a whisper.

Cregan’s expression turned serious, his gaze unflinching as he met her dark, doe eyes. "If we are past evasions, there is something I would ask freely."

"Anything."

"Is it not treachery that Prince Aemond stands with the usurpers instead of the rightful queen?"

Aemma exhaled slowly, a weary grimace tugging at her features. "This whole war is treason, my lord," she answered, her voice heavy with the weight of her thoughts. "I fear what we have begun."

A lavish feast was hosted during supper to honour the Targaryen nobility who graced the halls of Winterfell. Aemma was resplendent—tireless to win over the young lord—in striking black velvet adorned with thick furs, her pendant sleeves embroidered with intricate dragon motifs. Beside her, on the grand table overlooking the Great Hall replete with folk, Luke wore a regal black pelt draped over his shoulders in the manner of dragon scales, the red sigil of his house prominently displayed on his raven armour.

Aemma's bell-like laugh rang out louder than the chortles among the men in the hall when one of Cregan's captains had cracked a joke about most of his men puffing up like overstuffed armchairs during their harshest winter from a few years ago.

Luke stewed in silence, observant of his sister's unstinting friendliness. She had effortlessly impressed upon the lord's heart, no doubt, now remained the lingering question of his obeisance. He subtly touched his elbow against Aemma's in a signal.

Aemma glimpsed him, wiping a tear from her eye, from laughing too hard. She happily cut another slice of pie onto her plate before adding a few slices of honeycake onto Luke's.

"Must you remain so shy, brother?" She waved to a table full of boys who appeared his age, engaged in lively dialogue. "Interactions would do you good."

"Well, these interactions would be more esteemed if I..." he sighed, peeking at his sister's silvery hair and angled features. "Never mind."

Aemma laid down her cutlery to scowl at him. "Luke."

"Nothing," he hedged.

"Tell me. What's wrong?" she urged softly.

He shook his head before he mumbled, "Some guards took me for an outsider when I ventured out to see Arrax. Perhaps they anticipated a dragonrider more akin to our uncle or mother."

Subdued by sympathy, Aemma palmed his shoulder and then his cheek. "It is the mark of our lineage to defy expectations, not simply hair and skin. You carry the legacy of the Conqueror and Old Valyria, Lucerys, no matter who you resemble." She let out a disbelieving giggle, tousling his hair. "Your steed is a dragon—how many among these people can claim such a distinguished feat?"

Luke's spirits were lifted by the reminder of his place and worth. He bared her a smile, shrugging. "You."

She tilted her head. "Besides, I think some people

More than anyone else, he felt acknowledged that Aemma valued him the most despite his differences. While Jace taught him to fight back, he learned from Aemma to take advantage of his disparities.

He took his sister's hand into his and held it to his lap silently. He didn't need to impart his thanks, he would not sour their bond with such silly presumption.

Cregan smiled to himself as he quietly listened to the conversation between the siblings. What misfortune indeed, he thought. Aemma would have been an incredible match for him, as a lady and his wife. Upon first impressions, integrity became her. Now, she carried herself with the succour of a good queen. Ice and fire would have found a home to coexist between them, here in the north.

"If I may, Lord Stark," Aemma called for his attention, clearing her throat. She was going to cut straight to the chase. "Your hospitality precedes you, truly. But our time here is scarce. The realm will be in dire straits if the North fails to recall the oath sworn to King Viserys and his rightful heir."

"The North remembers, princess," he declared.

Aemma let a relieving grin spread on her lips. His further words dampened her smile.

"But my gaze is forever torn between north and south. In winter, my duty to the Wall is even more dire than the one I owe to King's Landing." He pressed two emphatic fingers down on the table. "I need my men here."

"The Hightowers have usurped the throne," she insisted, her tone morose. "If my mother is to defend her claim, she needs an army. War is coming, my lord, and our queen cannot wage it without your support."

Murmurs and raucous conversations around them drown out their fortuitous silence.

Feeling as if her negotiation had come to nought, Aemma shrunk her shoulders and returned to her plate, staring out her defeat. Would this have been easier if she had remained unhasty, or even secretive, and brought forward a marriage pact to the lord? Would she take to pleading? Perhaps this was her impulse's due consequence.

"I have thousands of graybeards who've already seen too many winters," he pronounced, his attentive eyes yet to have left her face. "They are... well-honed."

A flicker of triumph appeared in her eyes before it vanished to steely-nerved determination. She nodded once at him before letting a curious smirk curl on her lips.

"They are old," she mentioned.

"They will fight hard." He leaned closer, whispering, "Like Northerners."

"Our queen would be honoured to have their prowess be of service to her," Aemma praised.

"I will ready them to march at once."

When she looked at her brother over her shoulder, she offered him a victorious wink. Luke responded with a slight nod, his lips curling into a bemused smile.

X

It was Lord Stark alone who bade farewell to the princess and princeling on the morrow whilst the sunshine still drifted behind a gloomy sky. He had shed his thick furs and menacing sword for his leather coat of plates, wishing for calm winds to carry the siblings on their arduous journey east.

Silverwing trilled a soft, melodic song, her wings beating gently as the pearly snow cascaded around her like dust motes in an abandoned hall. It was as if she were welcoming Aemma home. Aemma reached up, her hand brushing against Silverwing’s snout before trailing down the horned scales of her warm, thrumming throat.

"Iksan kesīr, gevie. Lykirī," Aemma murmured soothingly. (I am here, beautiful. Be calm.)

"A she-dragon," Cregan remarked, his tone laced with newfound understanding.

Silverwing nudged her great purring maw into Aemma's stomach, eliciting a chuckle from the princess.

She glanced at Cregan, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Does she take after her rider?" she teased.

Cregan’s lips curled into a smirk. "You’re only missing two wings, princess."

Before Aemma could respond, she heard Luke call her name, "Em!"

His voice was impatient, coming from where Arrax pawed at the ground, eager to escape the biting cold. Aemma’s laugh faltered as her gaze shifted to her brother. She stilled, seeing the shock written all over his face.

Luke’s awestruck gaze rested on a small, sizzling mound of snow, no taller than his sister’s knee, its shape undeniable—like a fresh dragon clutch. Silverwing had nested here during the night.

"What do we do?" Luke’s voice trembled slightly at the sight, unnerved by the prospect of what lay before them.

Aemma, caught between awe and uncertainty, steadied herself, her mind drifting to the wisdom of their mother. Only sharp reasoning would pull them through this.

"We... should take them with us to Storm’s End," she said, almost in a daze, her voice filled with calm resolve. "Perhaps we could offer an egg to Lord Borros, should he swear his fealty to our mother. He’s a vain man, she said. This could win him without any fuss."

Luke, still rattled but reassured by his sister’s clarity, flashed her a grateful grin. Without further hesitation, he drew his dagger and began slicing through the tough membrane covering the clutch. Inside, nestled in the steaming heat, lay three perfect dragon eggs, shimmering in silver, red, and violet.

"I really have seen everything," Cregan wondered to himself.

"Not in the slightest, m'lord," Luke huffed, glancing at Aemma.

He and Aemma carefully retrieved the eggs, their hands reverent as they placed them one by one into a satchel waiting nearby.

Luke, with a serious expression, secured the flap and slung the satchel over his shoulder. The weight of the future, the hope these eggs represented, now rested on him. He would carry them to Storm’s End, where he would face Lord Borros alone.

Aemma, sensing the significance of the moment, turned to Cregan, who stood quietly by her side, observing the scene. Her eyes, warm and earnest, met his.

"You've been a gracious host, my lord," she complimented, her voice soft but laced with hope.

Cregan’s gaze softened as he looked at her. "Much obliged, princess."

"I'm certain we will see each other once again. I'd love to show you around Dragonstone," Aemma said, a faint smile touching her lips as their eyes lingered for a moment longer.

"I await that day," he promised.

X

The siblings were again on the wing, charting a course to the Stormlands. It was a gruelling many-hours-long journey, so much so that Aemma began to rub her thighs raw from straddling the saddle.

Snow gave way to storm-wracked isles, and out of the horizon, rose the crests and spokes of the Storm's End fortress, centuries old in the gusty oceans with little wear to show for it. A single, colossal edifice, buttressed to the hilt endured the impending tempest like a fist of spikes.

The sight of menacing Vhagar cloistered in the outer courtyard had Aemma gleaming with a smile. Her heart painfully clenched in her chest when she realized that they had convened as opposing sides of their factionalized families, so any chance of meeting Aemond would be null.

So Aemma pursued Arrax's path of flight, descending off Silverwing who seemed to answer the gruff roars of Vhagar with her own hollers. An apprehensive Luke dismounted a shrieking Arrax to come up on the Baratheon soldiers whilst noticing Vhagar's looming head above the bridging battlements.

"Luke!" Aemma tried to yell at him.

He turned to nod at her, wilfully showing her the silver egg he had safely tucked between his chest and forearm. "I can do this, Emmy! Wait for me!"

"Let me come with you." Too bad, her words were a mere whisper in the gales and Luke had disappeared behind the impenetrable doors. The knights went back to their positions, evident that she would not be getting through.

Vhagar's savage roar rattled the bones in her ribcage. It unsettled Silverwing, too, who thundered back in return and advanced defensively over Aemma. She stood right beneath the fiery belly of her dragon, shielded between two towering wings.

Aemma touched Silverwing's shivering scales, stroking. Silverwing's tense growls subdued beneath her careful palms.

She attempted to console the impatient dragon. "Ssh. Skoros iksis ziry, Gēliotīkun?" (Ssh. What is it, Silverwing?)

Silverwing released another uncharacteristically aggressive roar, so deafening that Aemma had to press her palms tightly over her ears. Even Arrax had sensed a strange disturbance in the air, flapping his wings and bellowing out more shrieks.

"Lykiri, Silverwing. Iksan kesīr, paktot kesir," Aemma tried again, tilting her head up to catch Silverwing's auburn eye, (Calm down. I'm here, right here.)

Eventually, Silverwing sank her great head down by Aemma's side to blink her obscure emotion at her. Unknowingly, Aemma rubbed at the curve of her coarse jaw back and forth, conveying her consolation through her touch.

"Bastard!"

A vicious seethe boomed past the doors, cutting through the gushing winds following a whip of lightning and another of Vhagar's roars. The word crushed an unfeeling weight in her heart, especially with the deep voice it came bearing.

Aemma had not noticed Luke's hurried appearance out the bolted doors. She rushed to her brother's side, blood coursing through her veins, unease catching in her throat.

Luke, still clutching the dragon egg, had his eyes round with horror. "We need to leave. We need to leave now."

"What was that—what has happened?"

He shook his terrified head, half in words and half in gasps. "He wants... He wants my eye."

"Aemond," she whispered, now totally conscious.

"He was there!" Luke blustered. "He came with Dreamfyre's clutch and then he nearly cornered me!"

She inhaled deeply, understanding the full implication of his words. She had suspected for some time now the depth of his resolve. Her dearest friend had once told her, "Better to be feared than scorned," a sentiment laced with the retribution he believed he deserved. What kind of sister would she be if she allowed her little brother to believe that sacrificing his eye would quench the burning vengeance in her husband’s heart? Aemond was not going to leave this place without shedding blood—someone's blood. And she would not allow it to be Lucerys.

Vhagar's wings stormed up and into the grey clouds, leaving their line of sight.

Aemma gulped down her dread and quickly ushered Luke forward. No time to waste.

"Quickly. Get on Arrax," she ordered.

He nodded shakily. "You?"

"You fly first. I'll follow close behind—Silverwing and I will stand guard on your tail."

He was not convinced. "What if he—"

"I will keep you safe, as I always have." She held his trembling cheek firmly. "Aemond will not get past me."

She said this with all the confidence in her heart. If one thing she was certain about, Aemond would rather gouge out his other eye than see her harmed by his hand. Because that is exactly what Aemma would do, too. She trusted him enough to trust her instincts on this.

The rains whipped at them, harsher now, as if urging them off the island at once. Luke blustered calming commands at his twittering dragon before taking up the saddle and tightening his harness. Aemma stood by and watched him fly off, and then she dashed to Silvering, who waited with her torso lowered to the ground, awaiting her.

As soon as Aemma mounted her, she shouted, "Soves, Silverwing!"

A thunderclap cracked the darkened sky, and their dragons roared. It wasn't a dance anymore—this was a full-blown war.

Up ahead, through a blurry film of clouds, Arrax bolted on, battling the rain and winds. Luke looked behind him, his fright shifting to reassurance when she spotted Silverwing, as promised, close on his tail. He would have some probability of avoidance tonight, thanks to his sister.

Vhagar threatened them from above, casting a pall over them, ten times larger than Arrax, particularly more battle-worn than Silverwing.

"Dracarys!" Aemond's vindictive growl shattered between them.

Bright amber flames gushed forth, not meaning to harm either of them, only meant to separate them. As if to kindle the vestige of doubt that flashed in her mind, Aemma gasped when Silverwing staggered, trilling in surprise.

Beyond, Luke had twisted Arrax, deftly switching his direction to find cover between the clouds. A breath of relief staggered into her chest.

"Vhagar, daor!" She heard her husband's anguished yell.

Grasping the peril in the moment, she discerned what Aemond had yelled for. There was a bigger prey to hunt for Vhagar as her wings moved forth. Wings thumping and jaw-snapping, she was coming for Silverwing now.

"Come and get me," Aemma challenged, twisting the reins around her wrist tighter.

Silverwing was swift and more agile than Vhagar, so she had the upper hand in fleeing, utilizing it to the maximum. She angled off to see Aemond, hair slicked from the rain and handsome face deformed to pain, seeming a lot like that nervous boy from her memories, control slipping from his fingers.

"No, no, no..." he muttered. What was she doing? Idiot, fool, my love, flee!

His single eye roved toward her, Aemma’s fingers tightening around the rim of her helm. Those doe eyes of hers were unmistakable—both a caution and a plea.

His gaze softened ever so slightly, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them. Warning her. Begging her. Anything to spare her from the madness that had engulfed them all.

Aemond's usual sharpness faded when his eye rested on Aemma and her dragon. He didn’t want her caught in this whirlwind of vengeance, didn’t want to see dread in her eyes. For a brief moment, regret clouded his expression, as if wishing to pull her away from the violent path fate had carved out.

But Aemma would never run. She would face it, head-on, so many times he had seen this. She would do anything to protect her brother. Aemond knew this, and it both enraged and pained him. What about him? What about her dear friend?

His jaw tightened as his fingers flexed around his handgrips, knuckles whitening under the weight of a choice he didn’t want to make. She stood her ground, flying onward, defiant and fearless, the same fire that lived within their bloodline burning bright in her.

"Don’t do this," his voice was barely a whisper, almost lost in the wind, but she caught it.

It wasn’t a command—it was a plea. He didn’t want to see her hurt, didn’t want to be the cause of it. His breath hitched, the internal struggle tearing at him, and for the first time in a long time, he was vulnerable.

Aemma, in her silent resolve, glanced upward, to the sheet of roiling clouds where Arrax soared as a silent shadow. She was her brother's shield, his protector, even when she was outmatched. The bond between them was unshakable, something Aemond could almost respect—almost envy. His heart twisted as he realized that. Aegon would never do that for him, be that for him.

But this was the world they lived in. He was bound by duty and pride, while she, unyielding and courageous, would never leave her brother's side. And in that moment, Aemond knew—no matter what he felt, this battle wasn’t his to stop.

It was then that everything happened in the blink of an eye, too fast for any to fully comprehend—save for one. Prince Lucerys Velaryon, the sole witness, would carry the weight of what he saw that day for the rest of his life. The memory would be a haunting spectre, etched into his mind like a scar never to heal.

A jagged bolt of lightning split the sky, illuminating the chaos unfolding above. From out of the storm’s fury came Silverwing, her silvery-blue form cutting through the dark clouds like a blade. She appeared from the blindside, as if summoned by the tempest itself, her wings sweeping back to gain speed. With a sudden, terrifying dip, she collided with Vhagar, catching the ancient behemoth off guard.

Vhagar's massive jaws were spread wide, ready to unleash destruction, but Silverwing struck first; not in an attack, but a defence.

Her momentum was devastating—saddle-first, she slammed into Vhagar's gaping maw, throwing the larger dragon off her path. The collision was like thunder in the air, the sound of scales and bone crashing together echoing through the storm. Both dragons reeled from the impact, spiralling in the sky, their forms twisted in a violent struggle as they plummeted from the heavens.

For a moment, they seemed weightless, like leaves tossed about in a gale, their massive bodies buckling and capsizing as they lost control. Vhagar, once so fearsome and prevalent, was forced into an ungainly descent, wings flailing as she tried to recover her balance and safeguard her rider. Silverwing, though smaller, was relentless, her own wings stretched wide to slow her fall, her screech piercing through the roar of the storm.

From far above, Lucerys could do nothing but watch in helpless terror, the clash of the dragons above unfolding in a chaotic dance of survival. His breath caught in his throat. What he had witnessed would haunt him till his dying breath.

Three desperate shouts rose in the air.

"Sister!"

"Aemma!"

Aemma’s piercing, hopeless scream echoed in Luke’s ears as Aemond resurfaced from his reckless dive, now reining in the immense form of Vhagar, who had steadied with lethal grace beneath him. Aemond grunted, prepared to berate his wife from atop his dragon for such rashness.

But then he noticed Silverwing—far below, plummeting ever faster toward the turbulent seas, a pale streak against the darkness, spiralling out of control. Her familiar trill had vanished, ruined by the roaring gales.

Confusion gripped him, suspicion withering, only to be replaced by a creeping dread. His grip on the reins tightened as he pieced together the gravity of his mistake. Something had gone terribly wrong, not just in the chaos of the battle but in the very fabric of his choices.

And then, the realization struck with the force of a dagger to the heart. His mind raced back to what he had truly seen in that final moment—Silverwing’s saddle, empty.

"Aemma!" His yell was gobbled by the thrumming roar of his dragon.

It was over Shipbreaker’s Bay, the histories tell us, that Princess Aemma Velaryon, Queen Rhaenyra’s heir and dearest daughter, plunged to her death, swallowed by the unforgiving sea below. She was but sixteen years old. Her body was never recovered.

To this day, no one knows for certain whether it was her desperate haste to protect her brother that caused her to forget to fasten her harness or if it was the wrath of her husband’s vengeance, a grim twist of fate that claimed her life. The darker tales whisper of betrayal—that Princess Aemma was murdered, felled by the very hand sworn to protect her, the hand of her husband, Aemond Targaryen, whose thirst for blood ran deeper than his vows.

Regardless of which tale you believe, one truth remains clear: the light had dimmed on both sides of the Targaryen war. With Aemma’s death, the last beacon of hope, her ambitions, and her courage, all were lost to the salt and sea.

X

I promise I'm working on the next part—or do I?

[ackerfics]

FAMILY LINE — a house of the dragon fanfiction | aegon ii targaryen x oc

act zero: the prince and the siren (wc: 1.3k) | masterlist

note: oh, and i forgot to mention, there is past daemon x oc in this oops | this is also posted on ao3

Ink on olden paper says two children were born from a great love that shook the realm.

A dragon rained fire, mountains were threatened, men were slayed — all were stepping stones to a hand being asked in marriage, to a union witnessed by the Fourteen Flames and the Seven themselves. The heavens rejoiced, sang their choruses high in the clouds bathed in ever-golden rays, as they blessed the kiss that bound their souls, bodies, and hearts into a single entity, as seen in every birth of their blood — the midnight hall shattered, igniting the spectacle of celestial bodies every pair of eyes marvelled at and years later, the most tumultuous of storms, carpeting the land with the most vibrant shade of viridian that lasted moons on end.

The Rogue Prince and The Siren of the Vale.

Daemon Targaryen and Aellara Arryn.

Every story started with a bold declaration.

For someone who loathed the jadedness of the Vale, Daemon found himself enthralled with the enigma of The Siren of the Vale who was rumoured to be the most bewitching woman to exist in this age, having only heard reminiscent tales from his good-sister, Aemma Targaryen, and songs spread from the mouths of bards. Men would trek the highest mountains to reach Eyrie in hopes of catching a single glimpse of the veiled beauty. It was the very reason why he blatantly rejected his grandmother’s impending proposal to a Bronze Bitch he wouldn’t dare touch in this lifetime, with that fucking sneer on her face as if he was the dirt and she was the god. If only he could shovel her face into the dirt and be done with it. Instead, he longed for the object of everyone’s desire, and that was the youngest child of the House that boasted a falcon for their sigil. Having The Siren by his side would surely sway the public’s favour to lean more toward his side. It would mean ensuring his place as his brother’s Heir; she is of Targaryen blood after all. To have the woman of everyone’s dreams as the Queen Consort would give him the power he never thought Daemon had, which had him singing prayers to the gods he believed in even though he wasn’t a pious man.

With no potential bride linking to him since The Good Queen Alyssane nearly betrothed him to Rhea Royce, Daemon had all the freedom a young man could ever want and need. Pleasure houses were frequented (he had more lovers than any of the noblemen combined — probably even had bastards running around), lands were flown over by the Blood Wyrm, and positions were given to him by his brother (all of which never actually reached a moon at most — fucking Hightower cunt). He had it all. But all it took was a little slip through one of the towers of Eyrie while on dragonback and he was back to the first tile.

There was no other reason for him to propose a marital union with one of the Arryn daughters than to solidify his claim on the throne.

That was all.

There was nothing captivating with the periwinkle blues owned by such a woman of ethereal enchantment. He didn’t trail his eyes from the effortless waves of her white gold hair (every piece of ornament she tangled with her tresses was pure art) down to the pleasing curves that couldn’t be concealed with her flowing dress. (It was almost like the Maiden was born in the realm; Daemon nearly groaned in front of Eyrie’s family seat). His mind wasn’t occupied with conjuring the most sinful images concerning the young woman — he didn’t picture out mapping a constellation of red peonies on her skin or tasting the drink of the gods she very much possessed. Of course, he didn’t gulp down an unnecessary collection of nervousness down his throat when she placed her godly gaze on his worshipping, undivided attention. Fuck, she was so beautiful that he was now covering his crotch with linked hands. Her father was talking yet their joined eye contact sent an impulse of static energy, just enough for The Rogue Prince to feel a jolt down his spine.

But he wasn’t the only man this ambitious to steal the Maiden from her heart and home.

“Prove that you’re devoted to taking my daughter’s hand under your protection, Your Highness. Prove that you are a worthy man of my greatest treasure.”

Bloodshed reigned; there was a battle between the suitors of Aellara Arryn. It was almost called a tourney if not for the condition that for a victor to emerge, the opponent must be decapitated and unable to make a sound except for noises of demise. And with too much blood on his hands, Daemon Targaryen walked away from the bodies as the winner, hastily taking a single stem of a sapphire rose from a jittering squire and (surprisingly) placing it behind Aellara’s right ear with the tenderness befitting a man ensnared by the most dangerous curse known to the realm (but not before making sure there wasn’t a single drop of blood on her skin; as much as he loved seeing blood on someone’s skin, it was almost a crime to see it on hers). Daemon crowned Aellara as the Queen of Love and Beauty without being told to, seven Hells, this trial for her hand in marriage wasn’t even a tourney needing a beautiful woman to be crowned. Yet he did it anyway. All to sway her to his side.

But was it really?

He found his breath hitching when Aellara smiled. It was seeing the glory of Old Valyria right in front of his eyes. His chest pounded against his will as she lifted a dainty hand, a handkerchief in between her hold, and dabbed it on one of the blood splatters on his cheek, erasing a sign of his ruthlessness with her divinity. The shade of blue owned by the rose contrasted deeply with her blonde hair, lighting up the shine innate in the periwinkle hues of her eyes. She was a fucking vision and he never desired anything more in his life until he met her.

With the Siren out of the chambers of her House’s seat, Daemon Targaryen wed Aellara Arryn at the beginning of the 105th year After the Conquest in the ways of the Seven and Old Valyria.

The premise of this romance was worthy of ballads yet it was the start of something so cruelly beautiful for one of them.

From wailing a loss of a person so dear that a large part of your soul broke away; going away because of a loved one’s exile; bearing the heir of the Prince of Dragonstone and relishing in the cocoon of appreciation in enveloped you; gaining two stolen dragon eggs for the twin babes; watching the love of your life flying to war while giving birth under the shattering night sky; suffering the betrayal of your husband’s unfaithfulness and disloyalty, breaking every bit of the vows made in front of fourteen pairs of eyes; to accepting yourself leaving this world in the same way it took your sister.

And it left behind three children with no titles, no protection, no family — it was the world against their little faces, so naive at the slimy fingers of faux niceties and always on the receiving end of reptilian smiles and hollow pity. The hourglass is letting the sand trickle in, waiting for the moment the scavengers pluck out the lingering, pulsing ache that will never be forgiven and forgotten. Because all the while The Rogue Prince created another bubble of domesticity across the seas, a son grew up too soon, a daughter stepped up to become the caretaker, and a young babe never had the chance of a complete family.

rory speaks !!

the reason why this sort-of prologue is so short despite carrying so many things is bc daemon and aellara are not the main focus of this story. i wanted to give a glimpse as to what is the nature of the main characters' parents' relationship; the main thing summarising everything is that daemon is a huge whore and is power-hungry for the title that given to him ... so, poor aellara. and having her die from childbirth is another thing to add to daemon's suffering bc this man has seen enough of it to last a lifetime (his mother, his sister-in-law, wife, and future wife; don't know how he keeps fathering children when this is what he experienced yikes). another reason why this is short is bc we're mostly seeing the events play out in the kids' (aesira, aether, aegon, and aemond; the furious ae's) eyes so, the information is limited when it reaches the twins' ears. bc let's face it, we always sugarcoat things when we tell a little bit of info to kids.

damn, and i had to post it here; let me prepare myself for the backlash woo

[willtheweaver]

OC interaction tag

Thanks for the tag @drchenquill

Drchen's OC: Artur Karakaxa is a shape-shifting magpie with a lot of resentment and anger. He is the second child of four and had to witness his parents being killed by humans to steal their feathers, as they are very prescious. From that moment on, he has a deep hatred for humans, or anyone who isn't his family. When his youngest brother, Martin, was kidnapped for the same reasons as his parents, who were unfortunately killed in the process, he took matters into his own hands and hunted down the humans. He slaughtered them and managed to bring his brother home safely. From that day on, he worked hard and became an assassin with the goal of exterminating any threat that might come his or his family's way.

My OC: Lord of Loftperch Lookout, Halley is a proud and war-like eagle. He is considered to be the most belligerent of the Roost Lords, having warred on and off with his neighbors, both bird and fox. What few know is that his more aggressive tendencies stem from his family history and personal experience. Most of his family were killed in a bloody coup that saw the few survivors displaced from their original eyrie, and Halley himself has been the target of several assassination attempts. These past experiences have left him with a firm belief in peace through strength, and that all threats to himself or his family must be delt with swiftly and decisively. Those who put up a good fight are deemed worthy of earning his respect.

How they'd interact: The first meeting will almost certainly be an assassination attempt. Eagles and magpies aren't on the best of terms to begin with, and Artur would see Halley as a threat to his family. Should both walk away from the encounter alive, Halley would be impressed with Artur’s abilities. He would also see shades of himself reflected and would relate to what Artur went through. Not wanting to pass up the opportunity, Halley would actively try to convince him to join the eyrie. On the one hand, Artur would be weary, thinking it was a trick, but what might win him over is the assurance his family will be protected (Halley is a bird of his word, and he wouldn’t dare go back on his promise). Halley would be patient, doing what he can to temper Artur’s anger. Given time and a firm, but gentle hand, they would eventually forge a good working relationship.

Tagging @kaylinalexanderbooks @mk-writes-stuff @thepeculiarbird @paeliae-occasionally @diabolical-blue

@little-peril-stories @sentfromwolves @finickyfelix @theeccentricraven @rickie-the-storyteller

@bookish-karina @oh-no-another-idea and open tag

[kaylinalexanderbooks]

OC interaction

Thanks @drchenquill here, @willtheweaver here, and @somethingclevermahogony here!

Rules: describe an OC, then describe how they'd interact with the OC the person who tagged you gave!

Ahhh below the cut

Dr Chen's OC

Artur Karakaxa is a shape-shifting magpie with a lot of resentment and anger. He is the second child of four and had to witness his parents being killed by humans to steal their feathers, as they are very prescious. From that moment on, he has a deep hatred for humans, or anyone who isn't his family. When his youngest brother, Martin, was kidnapped for the same reasons as his parents, who were unfortunately killed in the process, he took matters into his own hands and hunted down the humans. He slaughtered them and managed to bring his brother home safely. From that day on, he worked hard and became an assassin with the goal of exterminating any threat that might come his or his family's way.

Will's OC

Lord of Loftperch Lookout, Halley is a proud and war-like eagle. He is considered to be the most belligerent of the Roost Lords, having warred on and off with his neighbors, both bird and fox. What few know is that his more aggressive tendencies stem from his family history and personal experience. Most of his family were killed in a bloody coup that saw the few survivors displaced from their original eyrie, and Halley himself has been the best target of several assassination attempts. These past experiences have left him with a firm belief in peace through strength, and that all threats to himself or his family must be delt with swiftly and decisively. Those who put up a good fight are deemed worthy of earning his respect.

C's OC

Fepaha The Drunken God, Lord of the Golden Water, and Tamer of the Vine. While typically represented in a masculine fashion, as with all gods, Fepaha has no sex or gender. They are representative of the universal concept of the manipulation of perception. As such Fepaha is not only a deity associated with alcohol and other drugs, but also hallucinations, music, plays, and storytellers. They fall into somewhat of a trickster archetype, changing reality and how others perceive reality, to his own benefit. As with most gods, they are incapable of inhabiting the mortal world while in their full form; but rather must visit as a small portion of themself called an “aspect”. Fepaha is a kind and energetic deity, well-suited to their domain of drunken revelry. They are uniquely fascinated with mortals, and love to hear stories, they may play at hospitality, appearing at celebrations to partake in the festivities. Despite this mostly benign side, Fepaha is incredibly powerful, billions of years old, and they do not understand mortals or mortal emotions. Much of their supposed good-nature and humanity is merely play-acting. They are not cruel or indifferent, rather they are so far divorced from the mortal experience that they simply cannot comprehend it, in much the same way that a human cannot comprehend the inner workings of an ant. Fepaha may fixate on a certain mortal for sometime, but they are not really capable of emotionally connecting with them. Fepaha did participate in the Calamity and as a result, is responsible both directly and indirectly, for the deaths of millions of mortals.

My OC:

Noelle is a twelve-year-old girl with telekinesis. She's very tall and thin but doesn't really give a shit that she towers over everyone. Noelle is very logically-minded and only forms opinions based on observations, not intuition. She gets frustrated with answers that don't make sense or rationales that don't make sense. Emotions are hard for her to grasp. Noelle also struggles to form legitimate opinions of her own, as most of what she has comes from her mother. Noelle can be a bit of a parrot in that regard. Still, Noelle does deeply care for friends, even if admitting it is difficult. Despite herself, she gets into "the zone" with her powers quite often. She's very confident with herself and her abilities, even having fun with them - an adrenaline high, if you will, since she doesn't have a physical outfit due to her mom not wanting her to be in any after school extracurriculars. Noelle doesn't believe she can mess up, and she doesn't understand it when others are intimidated by her. Noelle does have one passion: cooking. She likes how methodical it is, she likes knowing exactly what to make, and it's admittedly fun to correct a recipe for maximum efficiency and taste. She views cooking as more of a complex math problem, so to speak. Noelle overall finds it difficult to make friends, though people still seem to find her and like talking to her, though Noelle does not understand why. Deep down, Noelle does want to do the right thing, even though she's lost as to how to do that.

Noelle and Artur

I think Noelle would understand Artur, to a degree. She's close with her mom, so the idea of losing her - though illogical - would be something that would anger her, too. Noelle may also understand the black and white thinking. In a similar situation, I could see Noelle going down a similar path.

Noelle and Halley

After going through the "talking animals is illogical" to "well apparently they exist because I'm talking to one" debate, I think Noelle would understand Halley acting out due to family. She'd also admire the efficiency. Might not be a good thing. If Noelle did fight Halley, I think he'd be impressed by her telekinetic strength.

Noelle and Fepaha

Noelle would have a very hard time grasping the existence of Fepaha. She struggles with the abstract and illogical, and gods who experience reality differently would be hard for her to understand. Fepaha would find Noelle fascinating, though, as she is mortal.

TSP intro

TSP tag list (ask to be +/-): @thepeculiarbird @illarian-rambling @televisionjester @finchwrites

@nebula--nix @literarynecromancy @honeybewrites

[averagewriter-inthedark]

The Dagger Squad as the Great Houses of Westeros 🐉| TGM headcanon

Link to my TGM Masterlist & GOT masterlist

Matching the Dagger Squad to the great houses of Westeros based on personality & characteristics (This has been nagging me all week and just remember this is MY own personal opinion. Feel free to leave your own in the comments but let’s be respectful even if you disagree) Words in color represent the House Motto.

Cpt. Pete “Maverick” Mitchell — House Tully of the Riverrun (The Riverlands) 🐟 | Family, Duty, Honor / House Targaryen of Dragonstone (the Crownlands) | Fire and Blood 🐉

Okay so the reason I gave Maverick both House Tully & Targaryen is because I could not really decide. My reason for House Tully is because I think of Ser Brynden the Blackfish. Brynden had no interest in becoming a lord (like Mav had no interest in being higher rank than a Captain) and took no wife (Mav didn’t marry). Brynden was also outspoken and prideful which I see in Pete, especially with his superiors *cough* Cyclone *cough*.

The reason I also put him as House Targaryen was due to his name being notorious in the Navy long before he was even in. His father was often the reason people had preconceptions of him (kinda like Daenerys with her entire family—but especially her father). Pete has a lot of fire in him which is what drives him to do what he does and sometimes that could be acting irrational. And well, there’s fire within the blood of the dragon 😉

Lt. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw — House Baratheon of Storm’s End (the Stormlands) | Ours Is The Fury 🦌

So House Baratheon is the youngest of the Great Houses of Westeros, and given Rooster was set back for years in his career he is probably the ‘youngest’ in terms of working up the ranks compared to his fellow daggers. Not only that, but members of house Baratheon are known for their bravery and Rooster displayed this immensely when he went back to save Mav which resulted in him getting shot down. (Just to say, Miles Teller could easily portray a Baratheon with his dark hair and eyes. HOTD S2 👀??) His jab to Hangman in the bar scene reminded me of when Renly Baratheon insulted his brother Stannis during the War of the Five Kings—and pretty much every settle insult Robert Baratheon said in S1.

Lt. Natasha “Phoenix” Trace — House Stark of Winterfell (The North) | Winter is Coming 🐺

Like the Starks don’t need to boast about their positive attributes in their motto, Phoenix doesn’t need to remind anyone of how damn good of a pilot she is. To her, the importance is on the bigger picture like how to succeed in a team mission and there’s always the risk of threat to everyone. I see Phoenix as the most loyal of the Dagger squad and would easily have the others back her up when she gives her word to help someone. Once she gives her word, it’s set in stone—which the Starks are known for because Lord Corlys once said, ‘There has never lived a Stark who forgot an oath, and with House Stark the North will follow.’

Lt. Jake “Hangman” Seresin — House Lannister of Casterly Rock (The Westerlands/Crownlands)| Here Me Roar! 🦁

This one is very straight forward. Not only is Hangman literally what Lannisters have always been described as with their golden hair and green eyes, but he holds the arrogance and cunning traits a Lannister has. This man (and even Glen himself) could literally play a Lannister in an adaptation and would embody it. Similar to Tywin, he’s gonna say and do whatever plotting is necessary to get what he wants. Like Cersie Lannister, Hangman knows how to push buttons and make people despise him, but like Tyrion and even Jaime, there is a soft, kindness to him that is rare to see. If Hangman had watched GOT, he would totally be the type to tell himself in the mirror, ‘The lion does not concern himself with the opinion of a sheep.’ Words of wisdom from Tywin Lannister.

Lt. Ruben “Payback” Fitch — House Arryn of Eyrie (The Vale) | As High As Honor 🦅

I feel that honor is an important thing to Payback which is why I match him with the House who holds the largest army in Westeros, House Arryn. Payback would never lose his honor, like a Knight of the Vale, no matter what may come his way. The Knights of the Vale have a standing reputation as the greatest warriors and as a Top Gun graduate, Payback is one of the greatest pilots the world has ever seen. The Knights of the Vale know how to get payback (#battleofthebasterds) and considering Ruben’s callsign is ‘payback,’….well we can assume why he was bestowed such. He’s a master of the skies in his F-18, just like the falcon of House Arryn’s sigil.

Lt. Robert “Bob” Floyd — House Tyrell of Highgarden (The Reach) | Growing Strong 🌼

One thing about a golden rose is that one is so focused on the beauty of the flower that they forget about the thorns. If Bob was in Westeros I swear he would be a Tyrell with his soft appearance that hides away his sassiness. Especially after those settle jabs to Hangman? Sheeesh. He is quiet, reserved, welcoming, and friendly….but he knows how to sharpen his tongue when the time calls for it (just like our Queen of Thorns Lady Olenna). I feel that deep behind that sweet face, is a cunning, ambitious, mastermind (but Bobby boy is still the sweetest bean that I would look on so proud as he demolishes his enemies with his words and plotting). Like yaaas bae, cut them with your thorns.

Lt. Mickey “Fanboy” Gracia — House Martell of Sunspear (Kingdom of Dorne) | Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken ☀️

Mickey just gives me that swagger of Prince Oberyn (I also could totally see Danny Ramirez playing a Martell). All Mickey has to do is smile his pearly white teeth and boom, he’s got you under his spell. He doesn’t take people’s shit, like the motto of House Martel he will not bend to please others and do something he doesn’t want to. His carisma reminds me of Oberyn and I definitely feel House Martell would be his favorite House if Mickey watched GOT. Also it is my personal headcanon that Mickey is an exceptional dancer (like he’s got the moves alright) and if you’ve seen GOT then you know how effortless Oberyn moved with a spear in battle…..that’s Fanboy when the music starts bopping.

Lt. Javy “Coyote” Machado — House Greyjoy of Pyke (The Iron Islands) | We Do Not Sow 🦑

Like House Arryn with the largest Army, House Greyjoy controls the largest fleet in all of Westeros which is the stronghold of their power. Now I could also see Javy as part of House Arryn or even Martell. The reason I chose Greyjoy is because of the G-Loc scene where he managed to come out of it in time and survive what could have been a horrible fate. The Greyjoys in GOT definitely had their fair share of near-death (looking at you Theon) quite a handful of times, but always managed to come out on top. The other house words associated with the Greyjoys is, ‘What Is Dead May Never Die,’ and tbh I can see Coyote thinking that after his near-death encounter in the desert.

[stavosmissionary]

Stannis x Targaryen!Reader: Part I

pov you are Baegal targaryen, youngest son of Aerys II the mad king. to settle the argument between the crown and house Baratheon your father is marrying you off to your cousin, the harsh and mysterious Stannis. you quiver with fear as the wedding preparations go on, anxiously thinking about your new husband to be.

You survey yourself in the mirror; your father’s strength and your mother’s beauty all beautifully woven together. Long strands of silver hair fall over your back, streaked with gold and black, perhaps foreshadowing the fate which shortly awaits you. Your eyes are purple, with a bit of burgundy and your face is comely and sad.

“Baegal,” your mother says. “Yes, mother?” you ask, apprehensive. “My aunt Rhaelle used to read to me when I was little.” She said softly. There are dark circles around her eyes and they are soft with sorrow. You feel terribly sad. Queen Rhaella’s only joy in life are her children. She is with child again, you can tell. Your older brother thinks of naught but prophecy and dreams. He is occupied with his wife and children on Dragonstone, but your mother tells you he and his family will return to Storm’s End for the wedding. A foolish gesture, perhaps, but wisdom is not your father and brother’s strong suit. “Her son was delightful, when he was companions with your father.” She grows sad again. Your new husband’s father and mother, cousins to your own, had drowned in a shipwreck long ago. It is said that Stannis has since been a changed man. “His children…they are good boys. I know it.”

Privately, you disagree. But you smile for your mother and dress in red, gold and black, remarkably similar to the one your great aunt Rhaelle wore for her own wedding. Your mother says Stannis will cover you with the same cloak. Your goodsister Elia looks tired as ever, grim, but soon lightens up. Your niece Rhaenys is a delight and Aegon does nothing but sleep. You comb through your small beard and your hand trembles ever so little. The Baratheons are volatile, large, angry and cheerful all at once and treacherous. The Laughing Storm is not yet forgotten. Neither is your goodbrother Robert. Sure enough, he stands tall and proud in the hall, his arm protectively around the young Lord Eddard Stark, looking calm in his soft greys. The lords of the castle are dangerous men, having recently incurred the king your father’s wrath. It is said that they shamelessly caress and fondle each other in front of all their lords bannermen and smallfolk alike. Their children, some 5 in number are around them, including who you guess is Lord Robert’s bastard daughter Mya Stone. Another shameful practice, it is said that the stormlord was urged on by his lord husband to do so, who was of the North and no stranger to such unspeakable custom. Your father sits on the high chair next to Robert. He is unwell, as is usual. His eyes are pale and hooded, his nails overgrown and despite the grooming, his hair and beard look wild. Lord Tywin Lannister is noticeably absent from the proceedings, although his heir, Cersei Lannister looks resplendent in rubies and turquoises, next to her wedded, Catelyn Tully, heir to Riverrun, looking serious and grim. The marriage has been recently conducted. Evidently the future lady of Riverrun wants to earn the friendship of House Targaryen, so she has come, without perhaps consulting her goodfather. Then there is your brother, Rhaegar, next to his wife, who looks remarkably pleasant, Aegon in her arms and Rhaenys at her father’s knees. He looks as though he is not there. Off to Summerhall, you muse, and not without good reason. This is not the first time House Targaryen has attempted to ally itself with their bastard brothers of the golden stag. Robert was betrothed to Rhaegar the moment they were born and yet, at 16, Robert unceremoniously eloped with Lord Stark’s second son, who he had been fostered with in the Eyrie. Love, he said. Treason, your father screamed. He had raged and complained, and you could not tell how Rhaegar had felt. It was always so difficult with him. Next to Robert there is Renly. Seven years of age, the child looks very apprehensive and you feel a stab of pity. The poor child...fatherless and motherless...it was said that Lord Stannis was more of a mother to him than an older brother, ever since Lord Steffon and Lady Cassana died at sea. The child scarce left his side and at this moment is sitting close to his brother. You have heard talk that young Renly is to be betrothed to your twin sister Crossaent, though she is much too old for him. And there is Stannis himself. Not as tall as Robert, nor as bulky, but his presence is the strongest in the room. There are circles underneath his eyes, his cheeks hollower than they should be, his mouth creased in a frown. His black hair is combed neatly and his deep blue orbs are dangerously alluring. He looks at you. You force yourself to look back at him. Your lord husband.

[siderealxmelody]

@summonshadcw

Sebastien rubbed his face.

"I can't believe you made a deal with Changelings Alexie."

Natalia huffed and went back to focusing on the fire.

"I am not surprised he takes too much after you."

Sebastien shot her a look, his voice carried in their bond.

But you like that he is like me, Tasha.

Pride slid through him as he saw Natalia's lips twitch before she turned fully to the fire.

Not in this Basha.

Sebastien sighed and looked to Aleksander. She was right, Aleksander made him proud in so many ways. He had hoped he wouldn't be as reckless as he'd been in his youth.

"I'm not sure if I should be proud or terrified for you. This war is -"

He sat down, pushing some coffee toward him. Ursula watched her father and brother. She frowned at her mother, trying to stand still.

"We are at war Mama why does it matter what I wear?"

"Because I will not have my daughter be dressed in rags. Now stand still so you do not bleed, girl."

Ursula's jaw set, and Sebastien turned to watch them. He tapped his finger on the table discreetly, getting his youngest attention. He held up a small bowl of chocolate. It was meager compared to the wealth and money they'd had in Nirtea. Sometimes, he was happy Ursula didn't remember when he saw how happy this simple thing made her. He put a finger to his lips, and Ursusla nodded eagerly. She finally stood obediently for her mother.

Natalia knew, of course she did. He'd found some for her, but that was neither here nor there. He looked back at Aleksander it still surprised him to see just Aleksander and not Azriel by his side. They'd been so close once before.

"The Changelings will play with you. I was betrothed to an Eyrie long ago. She was worthless to her kind, her wings to be clipped as she could not help them. She wasn't strong enough to bear a child, the thing she was meant to do."

Sebastien rolled his eyes at that and drummed his long fingers on the table.

"Her mate was away, and even when I contacted him to hurry home, we weren't in time. She died too weak to handle the procedure. Melkor was...he - he was a ruthless fighter, but this pushed him over the edge. He shunned everyone who knew him and left the island. Years later, once your mother and I had met and mated, we crossed paths again. He'd tracked down a Changeling Colony. A fledgling one by the sounds of it. He told us they could reunite him with his Marion."

Sebastien lips twisted, and he looked to his hands.

"I am not sure how or why it happens, but some mates who die do not pass on. They cling to their mates and appear as apparition only their mate can see and interact with. I - I confess it's far-fetched, but I have heard it happen many times. Or maybe the fae are truly insane, I do not know - they do not live long. Melkor lived far longer than any others I'd meet since him. Do you know how they fulfilled their request to him, Aleksander?"

He could still see the torn limbs, the viscera, the sheer violence, and carriage of it. Smaug had laughed and playfully lunged for him. If Natalia hadn't been there, he would have died out of sheer shock.

It had been the first real death he'd seen when the Revolutions began against the Daglan. He'd see Smaug many times over the next 100 years or war. He supposed he should thank him in a twisted way for switching sides in the end - without his support, they would have never won. At least they'd gone nearly 700 years without the Changelings appearing to cause trouble, till now.

"If you truly want to do this, we will support you. But I am not letting you do this alone, Aleksander."

[flowerandblood]

The Impossible Choice (55) (End)

[ Aemond • Targaryen x Baratheon! • female ]

[ warnings: sex content, smut, giving birth, breastfeeding kink, mention of trauma, violence ]

[description: Aemond comes to Storm’s End to choose his future consort. However, Lord Borros Baratheon presents him with only four of his five daughters. Being attached to his youngest child, he does not want to marry her. The prince, however, thwarts his and her plans with his decision. This is slow burn, with a lot of dark angst and sexual tension. (Anon Request)]

I am touched, this is my longest story, my beloved child, my beloved couple. This story of mine was probably the most successful and brought me a lot of joy, your involvement made me want to keep writing. I feel like I'm ending at the right moment, just as I wanted, and I hope you won't be disappointed. I remind those in despair that I still have stories from The Impossible Choice AU to write. I also recommend reading Brother, Lover, Son and The Pearl and The Sapphire, because these are also stories from this universe. Thank you all for such a wonderful response!

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Previous and next chapters: Masterlist

______

She wasn't sure she'd ever been as horrified in her life as she was when she realised her husband had lied to her – after he left the wedding feast, as she waited for him in his chamber, she finally asked the guards standing at her door if they knew where he was.

They looked at her in a way that made her feel uncomfortable.

She understood that her husband had hidden something from her, that he had planned something and left her.

Her head was buzzing with his words that he had said her before he left, she could see his gaze, his lower lip trembling.

You know that I love you.

Only then did she realise it was a kind of farewell.

A farewell in case he didn't come back.

She felt as she had that night when his army had set out with her father to the Eyrie, only for her to suffer such a painful loss.

She began to cry loudly, terrified, unable to calm herself, her child in her womb moving restlessly, sensing her condition. She was unable to fall asleep, but she was also too tired to think logically in the morning so she persisted in lethargy, breathing hard, recoiling at every louder sound, hoping it was him.

Finally the door opened and he stood there, his white hair, his face, his hands, his armour all in blood.

She covered her face with her hands trying not to scream, horrified at the thought that it could have been his own blood, that he was wounded, and just stared at him with big eyes, unable to get a word out.

There was a kind of emptiness and weariness in his gaze.

He approached her slowly and the door closed quietly behind him. He knelt in front of her with a loud clatter of his steel armour and embraced her gently, cuddling his cheek against her abdomen.

"It's done." He whispered in a hoarse, low voice while looking somewhere in the distance, and she felt a constriction in her stomach mixed with relief and horror.

It's done.

Her lip trembled as an involuntary question escaped her lips.

"Are they dead?"

Her husband swallowed hard and clenched his eyes as her hands stroked his hair.

He seeked comfort in her arms, consolation, an escape from what he had done, what he would have to face every day from now on.

"Yes."

She didn't ask him anything else.

She didn't ask him how they died, who killed them, if they suffered much.

She didn't want to know that.

She didn't want to think about it.

"You must take a bath, my love." She whispered, kissing the top of his head. He sighed quietly, as if relieved, as if afraid that the scale of his act, the enormity of the sin he had brought with him would make her push him away.

She knew he needed her like never before.

She did not let him out of her arms, letting him snuggle into her womb as she called their servants and ordered them to prepare a tub of hot water. As they did so she combed her fingers through his hair, whispering to him that he was brave, that there was no other way, that he had protected her and their child, his family, that he had to do this.

She told him everything he needed to hear to keep him from going mad with despair.

She felt his tears on the skin of her arms, felt that his body was shaking, that the realisation of what he had done was slowly reaching his mind along with the adrenaline and overwhelm leaving his body.

"– Joffrey –" He muttered and pressed his lips together in an attempt to hold back the feeling that was building up inside him, and then he burst out sobbing.

She felt a squeeze in her throat at the thought of that little boy, at the thought that both he and she knew he was a child who had nothing to do with these events, was no different from Jaehaerys.

"− shhh − I know − I know − I know, my beloved − I am with you −" She whispered and leaned towards him so as to enclose him in the embrace of her body, his head pressed from the side to her abdomen and from the top to her breasts, her hands stroking his neck and wet cheeks, her lips kissing his hair.

Slowly he began to calm down, ashamed of his weakness and what he had shown her. As he stepped into the tub of hot water at last he let out a loud gasp of air, as if he didn't believe he was back.

That he was alive.

Just as she had done before, just as she had done then, at the beginning of their marriage, she began by washing his head, the blood from his hair and body staining the water red. She felt him lift his hand back and run his fingertips over her arm, as if he needed to feel the touch of her body, needed to be physically reassured that she was with him, that he was not alone.

She knew he was scared, that what he had done was crushing him and that she needed to be there for him.

She tried not to think about it, to push the doubt and remorse away, knowing that she had to be his pillar, his strength, that he could not see hesitation in her. He needed to feel that he had made the right choice, that she did not despise him, that nothing had changed.

After his bath, she helped him get dressed in clean clothes. Even though it was morning and they should be eating their morning meal, she led him to their bed holding his hand, and lay down with him.

"Try to sleep, my dearest. I will be with you all the time." She said softly.

He hummed under his breath and nodded, laying down beside her, cuddling his face between her breasts. She placed her chin in his hair, embracing him tightly, stroking him, and began to quietly sing him the lullaby her mother used to hum to her when she was a child.

She felt his tense body slowly relax, felt him cry again, and then after a time that lasted an eternity for her he finally fell into a restless sleep.

Word of Aegon's severe burns reached her quickly and she decided to visit him with her husband, knowing better than anyone else what he was going through. As they walked into his chamber Helaena was watching over him, rising from his bed and smiling at them.

Aegon's face was almost entirely covered in bandages and she felt an involuntary tightening in her heart at the sight.

Despite what he had done, she felt sorry for him.

"How are you feeling, brother?" She asked softly and he glanced at her, warmth in his gaze by the way she called him. He shrugged his shoulders.

"Not only am I disgusting on the inside, now I'm disgusting on the outside." He laughed, but no one responded to his words. They spoke with each other for a while, and then Aegon surprised her with his words.

"I would like to speak with my brother."

She and Helaena left his chamber and moved ahead with a slow step – now that she knew it was over, that nothing threatened them anymore, she suddenly felt a gigantic relief, as if she realised that she was safe, that she could calm down at last. She looked at her companion.

"Is he good for you now?" She asked. Helaena looked at her with dreamy eyes.

"Yes. Yes, a lot has changed in him. I regret that it is only now, but… well, I am glad that after the death of our son, me and my daughter find comfort in his arms." She said quietly, looking around, distracted, immersed in her own thoughts. She involuntarily smiled at her words.

"I'm really glad."

She decided not to return to her husband's chamber, but to visit Royce and his new wife. She reasoned that since the danger had passed, she no longer needed to fear anything and lock herself in his quarters like a prison.

She stood outside her brother's chambers and asked the guard to announce her. The man went inside, and after a moment came out and said that Lord and Lady Baratheon would welcome her.

She went inside with a smile, stroking her swollen abdomen contentedly – Royce stood up, extending his hands to her, and they threw themselves into each other's arms, embracing each other tightly.

"I've heard about what they have done. Gods, why didn't they tell me anything?" He asked, glancing at her, and she sighed heavily.

"I suspect it was all about the surprise effect. My Lady. My congratulations on your nuptials." She said softly and nodded at the young woman who stood up from the table, her dark hair braided, a grey-blue long, simple gown with wide sleeves on her body.

She wore no jewellery.

Even so, she must have found the expression on her face pleasing, her mouth was full as was her shapes.

"Thank you, my Lady." She answered her and also nodded. She glanced at her husband, moving towards the entrance.

"I'll leave you alone. Husband." She said lowly and calmly, nodding at him, embarrassment and something she couldn't decipher ran across Royce's face. When she left, they both sat down at the table, Royce grunting away while combing his hair quickly with his hand.

"I'm sorry for the intrusion. I just wanted to make sure you were feeling well." She said, looking at him intently, unsure if he was happy or not.

"Oh, I feel well." He said quickly, pouring himself a cup of wine and grunting loudly. She blinked, looking at him intensely.

"Are you content?" She asked finally. He lifted his gaze to her and pressed his lower lip tight. He sighed and ran his hand over his face.

"I…I've had close-ups with various women, but she…gods, I don't even know how to put it, I've never experienced anything like this. She's very experienced, I can only tell you that much." He mumbled and she saw with surprise and amusement that he was all red – he had trouble looking into her face, clearly overwhelmed by the memories of his last night.

"So… you're content." She finished at last. He pressed his lips together and grunted again.

"I…yes, I think so."

When she returned to her husband's chamber he was already waiting for her, sitting in a chair right by the fire, his eye piercing her, focused and anxious.

"Where have you been?" He asked coolly. She sighed quietly, approaching him slowly – her abdomen was still swelling, and she was getting tired of walking more and more quickly, but sitting wasn't any more comfortable for her.

"I visited my brother. He is pleased with his new wife." She said softly and touched his hand with her fingers. "I thought that since my husband has ensured that the danger has passed, I could visit him."

He looked at her watchfully, and after a moment he hummed under his breath, nodding, accepting her words and explanation. His gaze fled to the fire again, her hand on his skin.

"What did your brother want?"

Her husband was silent for a long time, his whole body as tense as a string. He swallowed loudly, running his fingers over his chin.

"He said he wants to relinquish the throne to me." He said lowly, and she looked at him in shock, feeling her heart begin to pound like mad. "That as he is now, he cannot rule the kingdom or represent it physically."

There was a silence between them full of tension – his gaze finally lifted to her, wanting to see her reaction.

"Did you agree?" She asked quietly.

She had the feeling that his gaze was piercing her deeply, that he knew her enough to be aware of her every doubt, her every thought.

His silence seemed to last her an eternity.

"No."

She blinked, opening and closing her mouth, looking at him in disbelief.

She felt a sense of relief.

"Why?" She asked in shock. He murmured under his breath, stretching out his hand on the armrest, straightening and clenching his fingers as he always did when he was thinking hard about something.

"Because I promised the gods that if they spared you I would give up my hopes for the crown. They kept you alive then, in Harrenhal, and they kept you alive in the Red Keep. I have grown to think that the gods do not want me to be king. My current role suits me. As the Hand of the King and Prince Regent, I will rule in his name until his condition improves. I told him I want something else in return." He said, entwining their fingers together, stroking her soft, warm skin with his thumb.

She felt heat in her heart at his words, at the thought that he still remembered that vow, that he truly believed that through his sacrifice the gods were watching over her.

"And what do you want?" She asked softly, and he lifted his gaze to her, a disturbing glint in his eye.

"Dragonstone."

When they finally moved to Dragonstone she walked with difficulty, the heat was unbearable for her and she demanded a cool bath as soon as they reached the place. Before their arrival, her husband had the chamber in the underground where Luke was last seen completely cleaned and sealed.

When she finally sank into the icy water she breathed a loud sigh of relief, her husband strolling through their chamber with evident satisfaction.

She knew that he had at last won a coveted inheritance, something to pass on to his descendants that was his, that he had been waiting for this moment all his life.

When he looked at her at last she smiled at him.

He hummed under his breath and approached her unhurriedly with his hands folded behind his back, gazing intently at the indistinct outline of her body that he could see beneath the sheet of water.

He knelt by the tub and took her hand in his, pressing it to his lips. He stroked her wet skin with his thumb and let the air out quietly through his nose.

"Just a few more weeks." He whispered, and she nodded.

She saw him press his lips together, looking at her – she knew what he was thinking about, she knew what he feared.

He was afraid that she would die.

That she had not been taken from him by fire or by an assassin, but would be ripped from him by her labour, just as it had taken wives from husbands for hundreds of years, just as it had taken Aemma from his father.

She stroked his face, seeing his worry and tension.

"Be of good cheer, my beloved." She whispered tenderly and he nodded, kissing her hand again.

She did not want to be alone at such a difficult time and asked that Cassandra come to Dragonstone to keep her company. Helaena and Alicent had also announced their passage, so that she was not as afraid.

She felt her first intense contractions at the table when they were eating supper together, as they did every day.

Her husband was telling her about a new book he had read and she listened contentedly until a wave of pain went through her body. She dropped her cup and rose suddenly, catching her stomach, her husband froze in mid-motion.

"What's happening?" He asked terrified, unable to move for a moment.

"I think it's starting." She muttered, and then felt something warm run down her thighs.

She began to cry in his arms as he carried her to their chamber, for Cassandra, Helaena and Alicent were only due to arrive in two days. True, the midwives and maids were by her side, but it wasn't the same.

"I don't want to be alone." She whined quietly and he looked at her despairingly, laying her down on the bed, the women around her began to untie her gown to help her.

"…do you want me to stay with you?" He asked uncertainly, and she swallowed with difficulty and wept loudly, feeling another powerful spasm.

He turned his face away, unable to look at her suffering, not knowing how to behave, not having any knowledge of these women's affairs that always took place behind closed doors.

"Get out." She said finally, grabbing her stomach – she felt him throw her a shocked, uncertain look. "Get out, I don't want you to look at this."

She exhaled, not wanting him to be disgusted with her, so that later, thinking of her, all he could see was that sight, the sight of a ripped flesh full of sweat, blood and bodily fluids.

He, however, did not move from his place, his hands clenched into fists, horror in his gaze.

He didn't know what to do.

She didn't have the strength to think about it, hot sweat was running down her whole body, she felt like she was on fire. She breathed a sigh of relief when she was finally left in just her nightgown, one of the servants put a pillow under her back and another applied a cold compress to her forehead.

The midwife sat down in front of her, parting her legs with her hands, peering between her thighs.

"When I tell you, my Lady, you will begin to push. Do you understand?" She asked softly.

She imagined with tears in her eyes that this strange woman was her mother, and that the servant rubbing her forehead was her sister, and nodded quickly.

Without even looking at him, she knew that her husband was still standing by their bed.

She felt relief and horror, gratitude and rage at the same time.

The pain and contractions began to become more intense and followed each other faster and faster, her heart pounding like mad, her whole body in readiness for the tremendous effort that awaited her.

She wondered if she would survive it.

"Push, my Lady!" The woman called out, and she clenched her eyes shut and, with a loud whine of effort, tried to force her child out of herself. She felt something move inside her and she threw her head back, panting heavily, hot tears running down her cheeks.

"Very well. Breathe, my Lady, deep, full breaths." The woman spoke to her, and she nodded, trying to focus only on her breathing, on the way the air flowed through her chest.

"Push!" She called out again, and she clenched her hands on the bedclothes around her and cried out loudly, feeling the searing pain, her baby's head trying to squeeze through her tight walls.

She fell backwards panting all over, heard a sudden movement beside her, her husband's hand tightened on hers, his gesture of support and terror, his gesture of closeness, his sign that he was there for her.

"Yes, just like that. And again. Push!"

It felt like it went on forever – she was one big sweaty, weeping mess.

She clenched her fingers on his hand so tightly that she felt like she was going to break his fingers, her heart pounding like crazy.

"I can already see the head, my Lady! Just a little more! Push!" She squeezed her eyes shut and a whined in effort and pain as she made her body to force her offspring out.

Suddenly she felt something flow out of her, a lightness and relief filled her, the midwife caught something red in her arms.

"There he is, my Lady, look what a beautiful baby boy!" She said, wrapping the small creature all smeared with blood in a clean white cloth, wiping him slowly. She laughed with joy and relief as she looked at her child's face.

Her son had dark Baratheon hair.

She turned her head towards her husband, wanting to see his reaction, his joy at the sight of their child, but she saw that he was crying without even looking in that direction, his wet cheek pressed against her hand, his fingers clenched on her skin trembling all over.

She felt her heart squeeze at the thought that he was rejoicing that she had been alive.

When their first shock had passed, when she had been changed into a clean nightgown and the bedclothes had been changed, when she had lain back in bed, her son had at last been given to her. He already had his first bath, wrapped in a warm, bright blanket, his tiny arms and legs squirming vigorously when he felt her proximity, as if he recognised her immediately.

She felt a bond, a love, a tenderness, looking at his little chubby pink face, his scent wonderful and addictive.

She looked up contentedly and saw her husband's proud look, an almost invisible smirk on his face. He stood over her with his arms folded behind his back, preferring not to touch such a small creature for the time being, watching his interaction with his mother.

They had agreed that if a girl was born she would name her, and if a boy was born, he would name him.

She knew exactly what name he had chosen, but she asked him anyway.

"Daeron."

It was only at night, when they were finally alone, that her husband lay down beside them in just his shirt, looking intently at the little being sleeping in her arms. She cradled him looking at him with tenderness, thinking that he was the most beautiful child she had ever seen in her life.

"He has your eyes." She whispered and he hummed with contentment at her words as he carefully put his arm around them, pressing his temple against her forehead. She felt him place a kiss on her cheek and on her jaw, felt him inhale her scent.

"You were so brave, sweet wife. I have never been more proud of you." He whispered tenderly, and she felt the heat spread through her heart. She looked up at him, brushing the tip of her nose against his and they kissed, warmly, softly, their lips moist and swollen.

They spent the next few weeks getting used to the changes in their lives – her wounds healed slowly and after only a few days she was able to get up, much to the displeasure of her husband, who wanted her to avoid straining herself.

The cold stone walls of Dragonstone suddenly became cosier when the baby's babbling filled them, their son was loud and constantly laughing, overjoyed at their constant presence.

Her husband didn't want to be like his father, and though he was afraid to pick Daeron up, he often looked in on him just to touch him, to make sure he was safe.

She saw him watching out of the corner of his eye as she fed their son, finding it a very intimate and private sight, his wife holding his heir at her breast, giving him life, tending to his legacy.

She knew he craved her, saw the way he gazed greedily at her breasts, but dared not demand anything of her after seeing their son tear her flesh.

However, when her wounds had healed and she was no longer in discomfort, when she told him he could touch her, he threw himself at her like mad, his tongue deep in her throat, his hands ripping her nightgown from her body.

They were both panting loudly, kissing each other greedily with a sticky, wet click as she felt him grab her hips and settle her on top of him, quickly untying his breeches – they didn't have time to be embarrassed by how much they needed it, that they just wanted to fuck.

"If I don't fill you soon I'll die, sweet wife." He gasped affectionately, his voice trembling with desire – she kissed him again, clamping her hand in his hair, the other guiding the swollen head of his erection to her puffy slit entrance, slowly lowering herself onto him.

They both moaned piteously loudly, his hips beginning to impale her on his manhood again and again, filling her with himself, shivers of pleasure and heat passing through her.

She pressed her forehead against his, rising and falling against onto him, their bodies slapping against each other hard and fast, the lewd clicks of their shared moisture echoing through their chamber.

"− can I taste you? − " He whispered so quietly that for a moment she wasn't sure she heard it – his hand involuntarily cupped her full breast filled to the brim with milk. She mewled in pleasure as she felt him begin to play with her nipple in his mouth.

"− yes −" She exhaled and moaned loudly, aroused by this perverse act, his lips clamped tightly around her nipple began to suckle, she heard the loud sound of him swallowing.

She clenched her hand in his hair pressing his face closer to her, feeling her walls begin to throb against his length that he pushed into her body with each of his deep thrusts.

She was embarrassed by how surprisingly pleasurable it was.

"− oh, Aemond − yes −" She mewled as she struggled to fall and rise on top of him, their bodies slapping against each other with each violent slam of their flesh, his lips pulled away from her nipple with a loud plop, he licked his lips as he looked at her with a misty gaze.

"− so fucking delicious −" He breathed out and she whimpered softly, feeling his words between her thighs, not having the opportunity to answer him, his lips pressed against her other breast, repeating everything from the beginning, her nails tightened and ran over his naked back, she heard his loud purr of pleasure between the loud sounds of swallowed milk.

"− Aemond − it feels so good − oh gods −" She cried out loudly and tilted her head back, coming harder than ever in her life. He moaned low into her breast without releasing i from his mouth – she felt his hot spend spill inside her a moment later.

She wasn't sure she had ever experienced such an intense, long orgasm before.

He finally released her breast from his mouth, pressing his face to her chest, panting along with her. She stroked his hair, kissing the top of his head, purring with delight as she felt his manhood pulsing inside her in fulfilment.

"− will you let me do it again? −" He asked in a trembling voice full of embarrassment and guilt, as if he had done something lewd and unthinkable, as if he feared she would now be ashamed of him. She kissed his hair at his question.

"− yes −"

From then on, his perfect place in the world was to be deep inside her with his mouth pressed against her breast. They both knew that there was something even more intimate than usual about this act, some kind of taboo, unmistakable intimacy that could not be replaced by anything else.

She tried not to burst out laughing when one day during their morning meal he asked her, feigning indifference, when she would lose the milk in her breasts, and she answered him that her body would continue to produce it as long as she breastfed.

She then saw the shock and the glint in his eye, he bit his lower lip involuntarily, unable to hide his expression of delight at this information.

They were closer together than ever.

The birth of their son reassured the entire kingdom, for in the situation in which Helaena did not bear Aegon another son, there was a young heir to the throne alive who would take over after his father.

When she spoke to her husband it seemed to her that he was made to be the Hand of the King, his advice always cool and recalcitrant. To her surprise, Aegon finally learned to use them and became a better king than she would ever have expected.

Daeron was a calm, joyful infant. He soon began to chatter, making his own unspecified sounds and syllables, bringing joy and laughter into their fortress. Her husband read to him a lot, and he stood in his little wooden bed with railings and hopped softly on his feet, delighted.

He adored him.

She had to keep repeating it to him because he didn't believe it, but his son was drawn to him, forever longing for him – he would reach out his chubby hands greedily to him whenever he saw him return from the Red Keep.

Although outwardly he was stern and cold towards the servants and guards, when he locked himself with them in their chamber he changed into a different person.

He would sometimes wake up in the middle of the night from a nightmare, say he heard Joffrey crying from the underground and frighten her, breathing hard. She tried not to show it, hugging and stroking him until he fell asleep again.

She knew that these events would never stop haunting him.

When morning set in, the first thing after checking with a touch of his hand that she was lying next to him was to see if Daeron was asleep in his bed. He would sometimes get up in the night to check that he was breathing and, reassured, would only return to further sleep, embracing her from behind and snuggling his face into the hollow of her neck.

She was overwhelmed with happiness when her brother sent her a letter from Storm's End informing her that his wife was expecting a child.

From what she understood their marriage had been quite successful and peaceful, her character proving far more calm and composed than her brother had originally assumed. She renewed herself in Storm's End, happy to still be close to the sea.

As the time approached for her to give birth, she asked her husband to fulfil his promise that he had made to her when they were in Harrenhal and for them to travel to Storm's End.

Travelling on a dragon's back with a small child seemed too dangerous for them, so they set off in a carriage, patiently enduring the hardships and length of the journey.

When they arrived she felt a strange tightness in her throat as she watched the round throne room where her father had always sat, and now her brother sat in his place.

He stood up happy to see her, kissed her cheek and stroked the head of her son whom she held in her arms – Daeron giggled happily and began to squirm again, bursting with energy.

"I see my nephew is growing fast. How these children are changing! He was such a little baby not so long ago." He said gushing with enthusiasm, clearly delighted at the prospect of becoming a father himself. She smiled broadly at his words, glad to see him, glad to be home.

Royce looked at her husband, who was standing behind her, and nodded. Her husband reciprocated the gesture, but they did not say a word to each other.

She felt memories hit her from every direction and she was moved. She had insisted that they sleep in her old chamber during their stay even though it was small, her husband agreed without a word.

When they went inside their belongings and their son's cot were already standing. He had only been there once, on the night he returned from Winterfell and left abruptly after their argument, so he had no time to look at anything closely.

He looked through her books curiously, looked out of her windows, looked around, and she thought fondly that he had tried to imagine her life before she met him.

Before he had chosen her.

"Would you like to see my mother's crypt?" She asked softly. He looked at her and nodded.

They descended into the underworld with the torch he held in his hand. Although the web of corridors beneath the fortress was complicated, she knew this path by heart, having often gone down there as a child, asking her mother for advice from the heavens.

After a short walk among the stone statues, they arrived in front of the one she remembered so well. She felt a squezee in her throat, burning tears in her eyes as she saw a familiar sculpture, a stone female figure that was supposed to resemble her mother, but did not even partially reflect her beauty.

She approached it and touched its cold surface with her hand, her husband remained silent.

"Mother, this is my husband, prince Aemond. Forgive me for not introducing him to you earlier. He chose me against my and my father's will, but I did not know then how much I would love him. I didn't know that…" She said, feeling her voice break, her husband moved beside her restlessly, swallowing loudly.

"...I didn't know we would make it, I didn't believe I would be as happy as you were with my father. Thank you for watching over me, for listening to my prayers and making the gods send me the husband I asked for." She finished in a trembling voice, choking on her own tears, feeling that only now, two years after these events, did she truly understand what had happened, what she had experienced, what she had gone through, what a long and difficult path it had been.

She heard him come up to her, putting his torch down on the stone ground and embraced her, hugging her to his chest. She felt his heart pounding fast, felt that he was unable to get a word out. He kissed her hair and pressed his face to the top of her head, standing with her like this in the warm light of the fire.

"I thought it was impossible for someone to love me. I thought it was impossible for me to love someone. I thought it was impossible for me to make a good choice when I came here on Vhagar's back..." He whispered, and she clenched her hands tighter on the material of his leather tunic, his warmth, his familiar, wonderful, calming scent spreading through her lungs.

"...and then I saw you."

______

Taglist 1

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess

[warsmade]

closed  starter  for  rhaegar  targaryen  (  @glvrious​  )  .

          being  the  spare  ten  times  over  has  its  perks  -  though  with  their  youngest  brother  becoming  heir  ,  they  worry  their  father  would  skip  over  his  eldest  children  as  the  line  continued  .  they  wanted  their  family  safe  and  meryem  had  no  interest  in  the  responsibilities  of  winterfell  .  she’s  kept  mostly  to  herself  since  arriving  in  new  valyria  ,  the  new  name  causing  the  wolf  to  clench  their  teeth  .  this  was  supposed  to  be  the  eyrie  ,  house  arryn’s  home  ...  and  because  of  the  incompetence  of  arryn  soldiers  ,  because  of  men  who  meant  nothing  ...  poppy  was  dead  .  someone  will  pay  for  that  .  after  hearing  targaryen  soldiers  praising  the  targaryen  princes  ,  one  of  them  having  something  to  do  with  poppy’s  demise  apparently  ,  meryem  did  not  leave  until  one  uttered  a  name  .  it  was  just  unfortunate  that  while  in  their  fit  of  rage  ,  rhaegar  happened  to  cross  their  path  .  perfect  ,  at  least  it  wasn’t  a  prince  they’d  go  to  war  for  .  it  happens  quickly  as  she  loses  her  temper  ,  grabbing  rhaegar  and  shoving  him  aside  from  the  sight  of  guards  .  their  hands  drop  almost  as  immediately  .   ❝   i  want  to  hear  you  say  it  ,  monster  -  i  want  you  to  tell  me  you  murdered  poppy  or  both  of  my  brothers  will  know  .   ❞

[frgdinblxdd-archived]

     ⸻     the keep welcomes you, ALYSSA ARRYN, the TWENTY-THREE year old lady of THE EYRIE, it is rumored that you are known to be INTELLIGENT and RESOURCEFUL according to the people in location  they  are  from, but to many other around westeros, you are said to be CLOSED-OFF and SARCASTIC. 

Alyssa is the youngest daughter of the late Lord and Lady Eyrie. Her older brother is the current Ruling Lord of the house. Being the youngest, Alyssa grew up being the baby of the family, sometimes overly protected by her parents and older siblings. She didn’t mind that, she liked the attention when she was younger, but as she got older, that changed and she hated that all of her footsteps were always being controlled.

Although, as she got older, Alyssa changed her thoughts and her views. She took an interest inn sword fighting, doing the things that usually only the boys were supposed to. She hated the lessons with the septa, always daydreaming about being out there on the training grounds.

Whenever she wasn’t on her lessons, Alyssa would spend her free time in the library. She liked to read about different subjects, but mostly about the history of her house and Westeros in general. She has a special love for animals and got a passion for breeding animals, more specifically, hawks and ravens.

Eventually, Alyssa managed to convince some of her family’s soldiers to teach her how to sword fighting in secret, afraid that neither her parents or her older siblings would allow it. Alyssa actually managed to become a pretty good swords woman and can definitely hold herself on a battle. More recently, after her brother took over as the ruling lord, she stopped wearing the dresses her mother would have made for her and instead got the blacksmith to make an armor for herself. She also carried her swords on her back, changing her appearance so drastically that some people wouldn’t even recognize her on the street.

[iksidaorvali]

❛❛   eowyn arryn .  ❜❜   ― 🪶 ― sweet little songbird in a gilded cage, how you yearn to spread your wings and fly (marriage may be your only escape but is it truly the key)... patience was a virtue forced upon you by your parents’ repetition to wait, and yet there was never any ending to it (is it still patience if you’ve given up?)... your siblings returning from the adventures you’re so desperate for, the stones they bring you serving as your only taste of the outside world (at least this is better than nothing)...

BASICS.

full name : eowyn aemma arryn

name meaning :

eowyn : literature | "horse lover"

aemma : german | "universal"

arryn : english | "the light bringer"

nicknames : ey, wyn, wynnie

epithets : little bird of the eyrie

titles : lady of the vale, lady of the eyrie, lady of the gates of the moon

gender / pronouns : cis woman / she/her

sexuality : pansexual

date of birth : first day of the tenth moon

age : one and twenty years

zodiac : libra

place of birth : the eyrie, the vale, westeros

accent : english

languages : common tongue, old tongue

allegiance : house arryn, the vale

religion : the faith of the seven

APPEARANCE.

faceclaim : abigail cowen

height : 5′0″

eye color : blue

hair color : strawberry blonde

dominant hand : right

glasses : n/a

MEDICAL.

mental : insomnia, audhd

physical : n/a

PERSONALITY.

positive traits : empathetic, passionate, intuitive

negative traits : naive, distracted, fanciful

hobbies : singing, reading, embroidery, falconry, collecting rocks, daydreaming

RELATIONSHIPS.

parents :

prince consort ___ royce; father [ 55-60 ]

queen regnant ___ arryn, née rogare; mother [ 50-56 ]

siblings :

crown princess alynn arryn; eldest sister [ 30 ]

prince ___ arryn; eldest brother [ 25-27 ]

prince ___ arryn; older brother [ 22-24 ]

extended family :

ruling lord ___ royce; paternal cousin [ 49 ]

queen consort myranda lannister, née royce; late paternal cousin [ 23, deceased 13 years ]

house royce of runestone

via her father

house lannister of casterly rock

via her late paternal cousin's marriage

spouse : n/a

children : n/a

pets : 

vardis [ caucasian ovcharka ]

hura [ gyrfalcon ]

airis [ mauritius kestrel ]

ADDITIONAL INFO.

quick facts :

she has a map table in her bedroom in the vale with rocks laid out over the location they came from. each rock was gifted to her

a major animal lover who will refer to her pets as her babies

just a fuckin nerd about rocks. if you let her, she will go on about them for hours and still have more to say

earned the nickname of 'little bird' not only for being the youngest arryn, but also for her small size and beautiful singing voice

could stare at the moon forever. it's her favorite rock

more coming soon. i just wanna write.

biography :

doc here

feel free to ask me anything, as this is a work in progress.

CONNECTIONS.

betrothed : being from a great house, eowyn has lived her life knowing that her marriage would most likely be used as a political tool. while she has come to terms with this truth, it hasn't stopped her from hoping to find love within the arrangement. or friendship, at the very least. (i figure we can plot this out.) i'd love for it to be someone she's not yet met, something arranged by their parents a month or so ago with the intention of introducing the pair while in king’s landing for the the name day festivities. i have a preference for someone from one of the great houses, but am open to other noble houses if the pairing makes sense politically for house arryn. ➢ 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 

personal guard : this individual has become not just her guardian, but also her confidant and most trusted ally. likely assigned to her after a few escape attempts, their bond was forged when they argued for her to at least be able to explore the outdoor areas closest to the eyrie. ➢ 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 

ladies in waiting : tba ➢ 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 (𝟎/𝟐)

[ofarryn]

❛❛   eowyn arryn .  ❜❜   ― 🪶 ― sweet little songbird in a gilded cage, how you yearn to spread your wings and fly (marriage may be your only escape but is it truly the key)... patience was a virtue forced upon you by your parents’ repetition to wait, and yet there was never any ending to it (is it still patience if you’ve given up?)... your siblings returning from the adventures you’re so desperate for, the stones they bring you serving as your only taste of the outside world (at least this is better than nothing)...

BASICS.

full name : eowyn aemma arryn

name meaning :

eowyn : literature | "horse lover"

aemma : german | "universal"

arryn : english | "the light bringer"

nicknames : ey, wyn, wynnie

epithets : little bird of the eyrie

titles : lady of the vale, lady of the eyrie, lady of the gates of the moon

gender / pronouns : cis woman / she/her

sexuality : pansexual

date of birth : first day of the tenth moon

age : one and twenty years

zodiac : libra

place of birth : the eyrie, the vale, westeros

accent : english

languages : common tongue, old tongue

allegiance : house arryn, the vale

religion : the faith of the seven

APPEARANCE.

faceclaim : abigail cowen

height : 5′0″

eye color : blue

hair color : strawberry blonde

dominant hand : right

glasses : n/a

MEDICAL.

mental : insomnia, audhd

physical : n/a

PERSONALITY.

positive traits : empathetic, passionate, intuitive

negative traits : naive, distracted, fanciful

hobbies : singing, reading, embroidery, falconry, collecting rocks, daydreaming

RELATIONSHIPS.

parents :

prince consort ___ royce; father [ 55-60 ]

queen regnant ___ arryn, née rogare; mother [ 50-56 ]

siblings :

crown princess alynn arryn; eldest sister [ 30 ]

prince ___ arryn; eldest brother [ 25-27 ]

prince ___ arryn; older brother [ 22-24 ]

extended family :

ruling lord ___ royce; paternal cousin [ 49 ]

queen consort myranda lannister, née royce; late paternal cousin [ 23, deceased 13 years ]

house royce of runestone

via her father

house lannister of casterly rock

via her late paternal cousin's marriage

spouse : n/a

children : n/a

pets : 

vardis [ caucasian ovcharka ]

hura [ gyrfalcon ]

airis [ mauritius kestrel ]

ADDITIONAL INFO.

quick facts :

she has a map table in her bedroom in the vale with rocks laid out over the location they came from. each rock was gifted to her

a major animal lover who will refer to her pets as her babies

just a fuckin nerd about rocks. if you let her, she will go on about them for hours and still have more to say

earned the nickname of 'little bird' not only for being the youngest arryn, but also for her small size and beautiful singing voice

could stare at the moon forever. it's her favorite rock

more coming soon. i just wanna write.

biography :

doc here

feel free to ask me anything, as this is a work in progress.

CONNECTIONS.

betrothed : being from a great house, eowyn has lived her life knowing that her marriage would most likely be used as a political tool. while she has come to terms with this truth, it hasn't stopped her from hoping to find love within the arrangement. or friendship, at the very least. (i figure we can plot this out.) i'd love for it to be someone she's not yet met, something arranged by their parents a month or so ago with the intention of introducing the pair while in king’s landing for the the name day festivities. i have a preference for someone from one of the great houses, but am open to other noble houses if the pairing makes sense politically for house arryn. ➢ 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 

personal guard : this individual has become not just her guardian, but also her confidant and most trusted ally. likely assigned to her after a few escape attempts, their bond was forged when they argued for her to at least be able to explore the outdoor areas closest to the eyrie. ➢ 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 

ladies in waiting : tba ➢ 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 (𝟎/𝟐)