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darlingofvalyria · 1 year

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❝I am the Heir's Wife. I bore the Heir his lineage. I will not be swept aside.❞

[ The Prince Jacaerys Velaryon should have known his wife better— or at least, her ire, for when his trysts with the bastard Snow reached the Spiders and soon, the ears of his Princess Consort, rage and war drummed for Winterfell, demanding heads.

—Maestre Kevan, Volume IV of The Bastard Eater, passage chapter under 'The Flame that Sung for the North'. ]

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 10,062 ] [ series masterlist ] | jacaerys velaryon x targaryen aunt!reader (aegon's twin sister), one-sided aegon ii x reader, jace x sara snow

contains— canon divergence - manipulative reader, targcest, smut, angst - post-vizzy t death, rhaenyra is queen - mentions of children, pregnancy, childbirth - allusions to infidelity & character death(s) - targaryen madness, revenge, domestic violence (not jace), unhinge behaviour, intense use of 'bastard', profanity, gaslighting, guilt-tripping - this is basically gone girl, you gone girl jace - dark fic - mentions of depression (aegon ii), allusions to suicide (not reader) - nsfw: oral (f receiving), breeding kink, creampie - no kings, no martyrs, no betas.

a/n— i didn't think i was going to do the sara snow thing, but herewe are. also i just wanted an excuse to go absolutely ape shit. reader gets very intense, like thoroughly unhinged. this is literally me supporting women's wrongs. it is also quite insane that this reached 10k and it's still just the first part lmaooo + comment, reblog & like at will!

"THAT FUCKING BASTARD! THAT GODSDAMNED, WHORE-FUCKING STRONG HALF BREED!"

Your shrieks echo stone and shadow, interrupted only by the things you pick up and hurl. Anything your hands grab, you throw and spit obscenities against, rage and tears ruin your pretty visage. The fury swept past your cherub features, a dragon breaking through the Hightower seams, upending fire and roar from the pits of your being.

"HOW DARE HE?! I GAVE HIM AN HEIR! I BROUGHT HIM PEACE! I BETRAYED—" you roar, pulling your pearl dagger— a gift from your Strong Bastard of a Husband — and throwing it to your vanity mirror, glass shards exploding. "— MY KIN!"

"DAUGHTER, PLEASE!"

Arms wound across your torso—hardened and chain-mail — as you fight against your bounds before a pain flashes to your cheek. Your rage quiets, hard breaths from your lungs. You turn your tear-stained anger to your mother and her palm, fright and terror on her regale visage.

Death of a spouse becomes the Queen Dowager in her pale blue robe and unbound spirals of auburn hair. Peace had begotten a realm that is balanced on the lineage you had produced for the Queen, her heir, and your own, as the new Princess of Dragonstone. With Otto Hightower for evermore banished to Oldtown, Kings Landing had been brought to a flowering kindness.

Queen Rhaenyra's ascension had been a wondrous affair, fit the for the first crowned Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Not a Queen Consort, not a Queen Regent. An heir who rose for the crown always meant to be hers.

But the calamity that brewed in her ascension... no. You paved the peace. T'was you who wrangled the Great Houses that proved allyship to your twin brother's banner, you who blessed her with tranquility of a rule that will be known for ages that will precede you all.

And now her son... her son dared to destroy everything.

A conversation floats above your head, by your Queen Mother and her sworn shield, the Ser Cole, but you barely hear anything past the ringing in your head.

The Targaryen Madness the sheep so call it, an idle voice, faint and familiar, whispers in the niches of your brain. It has infected you so. It breathes, fuelled by the air wrought by your husband's betrayal. It sings, sweet love. It sings.

"—your grace, I urge to hold her—"

"—she is my daughter, Ser Cole, I am not in danger. Release her."

Justice, the voice shrieks? Screams? But it is so soft in your head, a wail of a memory, a woman or a man? must be had. No dragon falls in such disgrace.

The tight wound over your torso is unleashed but the knight is not far, tensed to cage you, when your mother grasps your elbows as you grab hers, nails digging into the thick fabric of her hem that she still winces, your grip steel-tight.

"My darling, please. I cannot help you if you do not speak what ails you." She brushes her hand desperately across your face, smearing your tears, trying to find the daughter she bore past the savagery and madness that beholds you now. "What has happened?"

You draw a tightened, harsh breath to your lungs, rattling your bones that you quiver in your attempt for sanity.

"I am being shamed, mother," you whisper. Stark, violet eyes meeting the worried round, brown of hers. "The Strong bastard is whoring himself to another, a Northern bastard."

A cackle falls your lips as alarmed gazes are exchanged above your head.

"Y-You cannot say such things aloud, sweet girl," your mother hushes your madness, pulling you close to her chest as she shoots a glance at the door.

Criston checks outside, but only your maids linger. Dyanna presses a finger against her lips, catching the knight's eye, and the rest scatter, surely to make sure that no one that need not know of their mistress' words is within reach. A shiver still runs his spine. He will never get used to the quiet, almost non-verbal way your connection worked and reached. Your Spiders weave webs all around, even as their mistress sunders with rage.

"Mayhaps you are mistaken, for sure the prince is loyal, and he adores you—"

You pull back against her, teeth bared. She flinches and Ser Cole steps forward, wary. "It is the third missive now that I have received. Did you think I would not have confirmed twice— thrice? I didn't believe it the first time! But three people have now confirmed that all this time, in the guise of rallying his mother's cause in the North, he is spending ample time with the Lord Stark's bastard sister. His bastard fucking sister!"

Your mother's horror catches that of Ser Criston's, but your fury is your own, you are a dragon trapped in the ruin of your own making, of the webs you had spun so cleverly to get to this point, and you cannot stop.

"I am the Heir's Wife. I bore the Heir his lineage, my blood spilled the birthing bed for it." A cry leaves your lips as your grief and rage pools like ichor from your chest to the floor. Alicent is torn away from you— your nails had gone through her robe and she had cried in pain, a mimick of your own, a mother to a daughter to a mother to a daughter, a cycle, an Ouroboros — and you fall to the floor, grasping at your chest.

"I will not be swept aside. I will not be ignored."

A gasp falls from your lips as your mind moves to a quiet, still place. The tremble fades, your rage and grief whirls, collects, as you push it all back inside your chest.

Your madness must be sharpened for it be used as a sword.

And you cannot let him be happy in another's arms.

If you cannot drag them to the Hells, sweet dragon, the idle voice hums, hisses? Screeches. Your ancestors— all of those who have succumbed to dreamy madness — appears in the corners of your vision like soldiers. Awaiting for you to join them. Awaiting the blood that you will spill.

Then you must raise the Hells unto Winterfell.

"...my daughter?" Alicent calls, hesitant. Cole hovers but does not approach, standing guard in protection of the Dowager. It breaks her heart to see you this way, a young woman still, much older than she was when she married but only because you had always sought your future. You had always had a hardened scale, far stronger than she.

Even when you made your entrance to the world— the unmeasurable pain of bringing not one, but two heirs into the world, her firstborns, all at once — you had never cried. The maestres, maids, they worried for you, as your twin brother had not stopped crying, so alive and red, raw from the wound of being fresh.

But you... you had not made a sound.

The entire weight of your being— your mind, your emotions — even then, you wrangled them close to your very centre, never letting them stray too far from the edges of your fingertips. As if any release must be made with a perused thought. An incentive of reason.

Even then, you plotted every step you took.

Now, Alicent watches as her firstborn daughter suctions all her emotions— that Targaryen madness that plagued the blood of her husband, his ancestors — and made her ploy.

Against the husband that dared make a fool of her.

The silence beckons nightmare. Old fear flickers inside the Queen Dowager.

"Where are my daughters?"

"What?"

"My daughters," you repeat, a hair's breadth louder than the first time you spoke. Your eyes flutter upward. The deadened gaze curled Alicent's heart in fear. "Where are they?"

"In the nursery, with the twins and Maelor. Helaena and Aegon are watching them."

You offer your hand up mutely, and Cole exchanges one last, lingering look with the Dowager, before offering his own. You stand up, thank him softly, and brush and clean up your face to the best of your ability. An utter calmness over your visage.

"Tell no one of what I had told you," you say, fixing your hair and rubbing the red from your cheeks. One minute there is madness, the next there is nothing. There is only a girl. A woman. A princess. "No one knows apart the three of us, and if you ever decide, Ser Criston, that nigh is the glorious time for you to betray my mother or I, know that the last thing thing oyu will fear is the Stranger's hand when I am through with you."

Your mother shouts your name, horrified. "What are you thinking? What are you plotting?"

You cup Alicent's face, smiling ever sweet. "Your innocence will keep you safe, mother. All I ask, for the heart you keep for your children, that you keep this between sealed lips and tilted chin. You know nothing, yes?"

"... Yes. Nothing."

You place a tender kiss on your mother's head. "Keep Daenera and Aemma safe for me. Aegon and I are flying to Dragonstone promptly. Sweet Helaena does ever so get overwhelmed by watching all of the children by herself."

"D-Dragonstone?"

Your sweet smile touched with poison, stretches. "It is high time I take a dragon for myself, don't you think so?"

While an insecure obsession had fraught your younger brother about claiming a dragon, you had met it with indifference.

For how can you not mourn the loss of Aemond's sight, staring in quiet horror the entire time as the maestre did his best to salvage the muck mess of blood and nerve endings, before the old man had shaken his head, and you turned to the small bowl that contained your brother's eye, unable to look at anything else.

Not even when your mother's rage was met with apathy and anger, her demands for justice nothing more than a woman's insanity, a mother's grief that must be swept away, tucked under a chin and a sadness she will never get rid of.

"Do not mourn me, mother. It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon."

Your soft-hearted, darling, baby brother. None of his words had thawed the freezing of your heart, the grief under the swell of your breastbone.

Your own mourning was kept between teeth and tongue, as you had slept with your siblings that night. The four of you, tucked under the wing of the other, Aemond close to your chest as possible, as quiet, hot tears ran down your face. Every moan of pain or whimper he made in his sleep tore at each new vein inside of you.

"Dragons are the symbol of our House's power," Aegon had once said, windswept hair you tried to tame with your fingers, smelling fresh of Sunfyre and winds.

"And yet, there were no eggs in our child beds." He stiffened while you smiled sadly, curling your twin's hair away form his face, making him presentable and dusting the bout of sand that managed to find his leathers. You had been scolded long before by your grandsire of how you coddle Aegon, how you defend him, mother him more than your mother ever could, but you cannot stop. You were meant to care for him, tethered you once were inside your mother's womb together, you hold him steady now.

Whenever he was lost, whenever his sadness overtook him, wrung your brother dry of life, you bat the Stranger's hand and bring him back.

"But we have proved them wrong," he insisted. "All of us, even Aemond with Vhagar— the war queen, Visenya's dragon — we have claimed ours. Daeron all the way Oldtown has Tessarion, even Helaena has Dreamfyre. And yet you insist..."

You wound your arms over his torso, keeping him close in a silly hug where you sway and dance him around. A laugh escaped him while you inhaled the scent of smoke, soot, and that grime stench of beast.

Aegon on his good days lacked the bottle-edge of wine, of cheap salts from the waft of the soiled, Silk Streets.

This was your brother. No one else.

"I fare better without one," you whispered in his ear. "I appear innocent, sweet almost, without a beast in my command. They look at me with nothing but pity and the urge to protect me. Our father likes me like this, his poor, lovely daughter without a dragon of her own, listening so intently to his histories of Old Valyria. Our sister is eased, as one daughter is plagued by dreams and struggles with the real world, while the other cannot even claim a dragon of her own. Poor princess, Hightower blood must have thickened in her veins. She too, is no threat."

You pulled back, smiling at him. "They like me better like this. Pitiful, compliant, nothing but a sweet and pretty flower that sways in the Spring breeze. A beautiful decoration but no more."

He rubbed a thumb on your arm, a worry knot on his forehead. Aegon adored you but he struggled to piece together where your plot lies. You are a web-spinner, forever dancing out of reach, catching prey and lengthening your intricacies. "Is that why you hide your training with Aemond alone? Ser Criston is mother's sworn shield, he would not mind—"

"I will not place my secrecies to a knight with a soiled cloaked," you snorted. "No matter how tall he stands beside our mother. I trust no one but my kin. And I know that no matter how heavy you drink, sweet Aeg of mine, my secrets are your own."

He took your hand, kissing the back of it, stare impregnable. "As your blood is my own, our fire is one flame. I go where you tell me to."

You kissed his cheek, a reward, laughing. He smiles proudly at the sound. At this time, you dangled yourself to your brother as bait as the pressure from your grandsire to make him King started rising. You had been given notice that he had been talking to House Lannister, Wylde, even some Riverland lords.

You did not mind becoming Aegon's second wife. Just as his namesake, he will have his Rhaenys and Visenya. Unlike the Conqueror however, he would adore his Visenya more than a true flower. Helaena would enjoy that far better.

"And if I tell you to jump?" you half-purred.

"I will ask you how high."

Memories and choices break and tide as you scramble for hold on the rocky cliff face. Dragonmont in the dark is a behemoth beast, a screech or two breaking like lightning crackles, or the familiar drum beat of wings before the silence consumes once more. The stench of fire, of beasts and carcasses helps cloak the darkened night.

"Udligon ñuha brōzagon, Answer my call," you hiss into fraudulent emptiness, hands gripping rocky edges until your blood beads, "you fucking lizards."

"Have you gone mad!?"Aegon shouted, trying to pace with your run to the dragonpit.

A rocky laugh broke out from your being, not deigning that with a reply. Aegon huffed angrily.

"Alright, tell me this then. How are you so sure I'm not just about to put you on a bleeding volcano to die? We claim your dragon in the morn, sister. First thing before we break our fast. I'm sure by then, Vermithor or—"

You whipped your head around, pulling halt. "I leave tonight to claim my dragon. Whether it is you and Sunfyre who gets me there, or Aemond and Vhagar, is no matter to me. I will claim one tonight. It is up to you to decide now if we tell Aemond or not."

Aemond, whose anger is wounded tight, the barest excuse for war always at the edge of his hum. The misstep at Storm's End had cost him everything. Had cost your mother everything. Queen still, Alicent Hightower had bent the knee and offered her life in exchange for mercy. Before Rhaenyra passed judgement, Viserys I had passed.

It didn't matter that you had ensured a higher dosage from the Harrenhal witch in his usual milk of the poppy. Your spiders moving with ease through the silent channels you had established long before your own flowering.

The Red Keep had scrambled, the Heir with it. It was enough time for Lucerys to have come out of the red, confirmed to live through the worst of it without as much as a broken bone. Arrax however, had been badly maimed, and would no longer take flight. But he and his rider would live. Aemond would live. Alicent would have her son. Rhaenyea will have hers, and the crown.

Kevan had done his duty unto you while you settled the storms in Dragonstone. You rewarded him handsomely.

Aegon sighed. He too, would like your honour avenged, but not for the sake of war. "As you wish, sister. I hope you know what you're doing and I am not about to send you to your death."

Just like what you did to your mother, you reached forward and cupped his face. If before, your touch stills his heart and floods his cavities with warmth, a flash of fear strikes the twin son at the eerie smile on your face.

"Skoros morghot vestri? What do we say to the god of death?"

Aegon blinked. "Tubī daor. Not today."

You smiled. "Trust me, sweet Aeg. It is not my death the Stranger will take. Not until the fjords of the North are at my mercy."

"Iksan kesīr sir naejot māzigon ñuha sikagon pakto! I am here now to claim my birth right!" Your scream echoes and falls, repeating back to you. There is a hum, like an electric current that sizzles and pops inside your blood and marrow, and you scramble higher and higher on the rock. Your blood does not sing for the dragon lairs, but above. Up and up, jagged edges cut your skin and dress, the wind whipping with sea mist, but nothing, no one, can clamour you as you reach the peak.

At first you see nothing but darkness and hollow sounds. But you let your eyes adjust, a hiss breaking out of your dry lips as you stumble. You look down. What you first thought were rocks and wayward bones of cattle is bigger.

Whale? No.

Dragon. Dragon bone.

You look and will every sense that your eyes do not. The smell that is drowned— iron. Bones bigger than a person. Than cows and whales. Bones of fearsome beasts. Darkness moves, taking form, more than shadow. Scales hewn rough and jagged, as if stone themselves. Midnight black moving with the gentlest of sighs.

As soon as you realise what— or who — is in front of you, the eyes open with an intelligent gleam. Your heart jolts at the emerald irises that gaze back at you, slitting at the appearance of a human.

'The stench of death follows him', the voice of an old keeper hums into your ear. You no longer remember who told this to you, but the words ring true in your memory. 'Scales of midnight, as if hewn from darkness and death. A harbinger, your grace, an omen of the darkest nightmares.'

"Rytsas. Hello." You smile, ever sweet, ever charming.

This is a thread you had never felt before. Not one of your own making, but something older. A golden thread that led the eyes of Daenys the Dreamer. That spun the ties of Aegon the Conqueror. The voices that herded your madness had gone quiet in the mad rush to get here, but now their presence thickens. Words you cannot hear, nor understand, flood the silence as dragon met rider for the first time.

Keepers and historians have called him he, but every bone in your body tells you that the being before you is a she.

And wouldn't that make sense? A cannibalistic being is a woman?

She opens her maw, only ever slightly, smoke and fire crackling out of it. Molten lava in the belly of her insides tease the cool, night air and warms you.

Her version of a smile. Hello, she seem to say.

"Māzīs. Come," you say, giggling. "Dohaerās. Serve."

That night, you took your first flight.

That night, the Cannibal took her first flight with her first— and only — rider as well.

❝ . . . It is said that the formerly named "The Cannibal" had been entranced by the hunger of his new— first and evermore — rider. Prince Aegon the Elder who had escorted his twin sister that very night with Sunfyre, had looked up in alarm and fright to a maddened screech. Excitement and laughter pouring out from the newly bonded Dragon and Rider had soon turned fear into awe.

Gaelithox, she had been named as they had ridden until dawn broke by the rider who loved her 'till the end of their days, was said to have seen a mirror in Her Grace. The fathomless hunger for blood and organ from the same bodies of their kin. For Gaelithox ever hungers and satisfies for the same meat as her, at the height of her grief and ire that fuelled the Queen Consort to climb Dragonmont by hand, she too hungered for the throats of her traitorous blood.

Gaelithox will only have one rider in her whole life, as she found no same twin soul as akin in the Bastard Eater Queen. Their bond moved as if two bodies beheld one soul.

She shied from humans, and oft found too rough with other dragons. Vhagar was an exception, oft seen acting as an elder sister to the Queen's dragon when neither royal rode them and played in the skies. Smaller dragons were forbidden to approach her however, nor was she allowed in the dragonpit after almost devouring the flightless Arrax.

She died two moons after the Queen's death, delivering her final flames for her rider and would never more breathe her infamous green flames akin to Wildfire, ordered by the Crowned Heir, Princess Daenera Velaryon. It is said that the princess attempted to bond with the cannibalistic dragon but it refused.

The dragon spent her last moons in heartbreak, oft seen in Dragonstone and the Red Keep, circling her rider's most favourite places. Her final resting place is at the very top of Dragonmont from whence the Queen claimed her. It is said that the Queen's crown, the one the King Jacaerys had gifted her after the birth of their first sons, the Princes Laenor and Gaemon, is said to be placed there, as well as a portion of her ashes.

It is said that the King and the Queen's twin brother, the Prince Aegon, personally made the trek in remembrance.

It is widely suspected that Aelyx, Princess Daella's dragon, the youngest child of the King and Queen, may have been Gaelithox's only existing hatchling for he too is made of rough, midnight scales. The dragon that bred with her remains to be unknown. ❞

—Maestre Kevan Noratz, Volume X of The Life and Lies of the Emerald Flame, passage chapter under 'The Time of Hunger: Gaelithox'.

You leave Gaelithox to a mournful goodbye on Dragonstone, pressing your forehead against her hard, scaly head, promising to come back, of exchanging her diet for fat, juicy whales, for more wind-whipped rides, before riding back on Sunfyre with Aegon. The younger dragon would not rise from the beaches in fear of the cannibalistic elder, but you made ensuring promises to teach Gaelithox not to chew your dearest brother's dragon.

You had gone most of your life without the feeling of a bond beneath you, warm and alive and wild, and the roar and stench that though new, felt so familiar in your ribcage— you will fly again. And with your brothers beside you. With Helaena and her lovely Dreamfyre.

To think they had taken this from you too, to placate them. To play into their hands like a mewling kitten.

No more.

It is paces before fast is about to break when you both touch back down to Kings Landing. The Keep busying with its occupants, servants and maids bolstering with quickened feet to ensure the lords and royals are awakened with full, poached meals, dresses and coats readied for their lords and ladies, a new, glorious day under the Reign of the Black Queen.

"What now?" Aegon asks, trying to keep with your pace but he is fatigued, failing to stop his yawns. The excitement of last night had come upon him like a fog, and he is missing his bed. Hells, he is missing the bed he stays with his wife if it meant he would get a full night's sleep in the hours of the day.

"Now, we speak nothing of what happened."

He turns to you, frowning. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." You beam, nodding in favour of soldiers and maids who bow in reverence to the Crown Princess. You know you smell of dragon and night, and you need a bath. And to talk to Dyanna before you seek your daughters. "I will need time and people. The board must still be set for me to perfectly execute what I have in store."

"Alright." He yawns again. "I'll be in my quarters, passed out, if you need me. Please do not need me until sup."

You laugh breathlessly, grabbing his hand and giving it a wet kiss. "I will give you your rest, be assured. Kirimvose, dōna lēkia, Thank you, sweet brother."

The words are simple, said in a quiet murmur heavy with love and meaning. Aegon presses a loving kiss to your head, unable to stop himself winding an arm around you.

"Syt ao, va moriot, ñuha prūmia. For you, always, my heart."

As you break to each other's chambers— his, to sleep, you, already meeting Yna and requesting for a bath — you don't notice the lurker that watched the intimate moment between twins, humming in amusement before it moves to follow you.

Back in your quarters— your marriage quarters as Jacaerys had requested that you forgo having your own, not wishing to part with you — the maids are already busying themselves airing the room, moving to follow your usual routine. The only thing breaking it is the tub now in the centre.

"Thank you," you say to Yna as she picks out the pins from your hair, shrugging off your dress in the process as soon as the maids had untangled the lace behind you.

"Call for Dyanna," you tell them as they bow and leave, the door clicking softly behind them. Plans must be made. Bath for now.

With the world stifled for a second, left with only you and your thoughts, you plunge your body under too-hot water, sighing against the aches and pains in your body. Dragon-riding is a new endeavour to your muscles, and though enjoyable, was still too new.

You sigh as tears fall from your eyes, blinking exhaustedly against soft, humming daylight. You had always known that love, as it is, is a maiden's folly. A foolish, hapless play meant to fool young girls into thinking the world is kind; a pretty place.

It was an even farther thought from you, a princess of the realm. At a young age, it has been drilled to you that your womb is a rare commodity. Your body has never been your own, a piece meant to be moved in a bigger game that you are used for, not play.

You weren't stupid.

If there's a few things Otto Hightower had ever granted you, apart from gifting you his keen prowess in moving power beneath your fingertips, in hungering for more, for better— it is understanding what each person is, who they can be, how you can move them. A flatter, a flair, a push. As a man, there is much to be desired about your grandsire; he used people, used family to pursue power, but you can't truly fault him for that as you were the same.

You just took better care of the people under your wing.

And for Jace, you had banished him.

The worst part, you knew there was a good, fat chance you would care for the princeling. He was a kind man, a sweet man, and with a guiding hand, you could forge yourself the best husband for yourself as much as you can mould a great king and a wonderful father. Women's hands are ever carved to mould and prod men. We stand behind, a presence or a hand, an echo of power.

But your Jace had surpassed it all, and in the moons leading up to your present day, to giving him his heirs, two beautiful daughters, the promised full Valyrian colouring in the silver hair in Daenera, your eldest, the wide, violet gaze in Aemma— the name of his mother's mother, a request of him that you had kindly, graciously fucking agreed to — of course there is a part of you, the girlish, tender heart that you long thought you had buried to get here, would fall for the brown-eyed, wondrous man.

You sink deeper into the tub, sighing as you let yourself unravel—

When you feel it. A presence in your room. It's soft. Silent. Not a lot would feel as such, but as paranoid as you are, as you keep your spiders clean and pretty with your dewy-eyed webs— you know better.

Your mind runs with ideas on who it might be, and come to a few people. No true name rises. The Red Keep is flooded with spies and traitors. You test your luck, sitting up on the tub, raising an arm over the lip of it and flicking water with your fingertips.

"If you are here to kill me, I'm afraid it will be a lost cause."

He laughs, sardonic and edged and familiar, jetting a tingle down your spine.

Well. There's getting a calm bath.

"Perceptive as always, niece," he says, heavy footfalls approaching now that he has been caught. "I'm just here to say hello."

You raise your eyes, mouth curled but unsmiling at the man who acts as the biggest thorn to your plots. Daemon Targaryen has never fallen through your webs, on guard against your flatter, your push, or your flair. Of course, taking the position of his daughter might have forever burnt that road, but you would think he'd ease up just a little bit when his wife, the Queen, had warmed to you considerably.

Unlike your mother, you had never been hostile to your bitch of an elder sister. Just like your plots for Aegon and Jacaerys, and nodding along to thread your father had started but abandoned, foolishly thinking the realm would follow without him fully ensuring your sister's claim to the throne— you carefully maintained a polite farce with Rhaenyra.

Ultimately, this became a boon to you, as she had responded positively to your abrupt marriage to her son, even reminding her deranged guard dog of their own marriage. The cream to your lemon cake had been when you birthed Aemma, the Queen's most favourite grandchild thus far. When she was a babe, Rhaenyra was never far; almost, always holding your daughter, cooing at her cheeks, remarking her likeness to her namesake with pure fondness.

But Daemon Targaryen knew, in the deepness of his marrow, that there is something wrong with you.

"Hello," you answer primly. He laughs, leaning against the passage to your open balcony. "We could have had this elating greeting at fast, if you wish to break it with me and my own."

He scoffs, unable to hide his disdain at the thought. It breaks his stare of your naked visage. Men. "I would rather jump to the fighting pits, good daughter."

"How rude. Is that all?" You meet his gaze steadily, tilting your head. "If it is not obvious yet, good father, I am bathing."

An amused smirk. "I can see that." Lecherous fucking geezer. "No matter. I just have a... curious thought, a wonder I suspect you may be able to answer. See. Truly odd it is, for the keepers to alert me this morning that Sunfyre had taken a ride past the Hour of Owl." Your heart thuds in your ribcage and you do your best to keep your expression mildly irritated. "Not with one, drunken rider, but with another. It had taken them hours, only coming back when morning had already presented in the air."

He steps forward, slow, menacing, until he reaches the edge of your tub and crouches. Your gazes are still unmatched in height, defiant as yours might be.

"The distinct smell wafts them, a Keeper said, and one suspects that though one dragon left last night, two might have come back this morning for he had seen another fly away." His fingers dips into the water, swirling the steam without breaking eye contact. "I wonder if you know anything about it, darling niece of mine."

The mocking emphasis is not lost on you. If the Queen is the Realm's Delight, you were Darling of the Realm. A sweet, merry girl, the secondborn daughter of Viserys I who frequently fought for the plight of the small folk, who gathered friends of all kinds of lords and ladies no matter the standing of their houses to her own, visiting far lands and charming every person in any room. Who made any feast brighter, always sparkling, always the darling.

Less of a dragon, more of a fairytale.

You sit up, leaning, baring your breasts completely to him as you pull yourself up on the ledge he is crouched from. He leans back, only slightly, as you smile demurely. Sweet. Tart. On the edge of pulling his head and hitting it against the copper tub.

"I am unsure of what you suspect, or is accusing me of, kepus, uncle," you purr and there's a twitch in his mouth, a widen in his irises— men are so fucking simple — "I had been feeling down last night, as my husband, as you know, is beyond my reach at the moment as he rallies alliances for the good of the realm. My brother had simply offered to take me out riding, trying to quell my loneliness with an excitable flight I had never been afforded."

You tilt your head. "Even if there had been a dragon binded to my own, why why would I not regale the realm with news of my success? I have longed for a dragon of my own, but alas, I have not quite succeeded where most of the family have." You pout. His eyes flicker. "Mayhaps I am more Hightower than I am Targaryen."

A huff leaves his lips, the amusement in his smile arching to his dark, dark gaze. Before you can react, his hand had comes forward to hold your chin in a tight grip, your jaw aching soon enough at the fingers that dig against your skin, wanting to bruise, to break.

Though a tremble passes your body, you keep his stare, gritting your teeth as the pad of his thumb brushes your lips. Moments and desires thrum between a charged hatred.

The lust is twisted from wanting to fuck you to wanting to kill you. The line is not simple. Maybe that is your fate together.

But he can't. You are well too ingrained in his family now, loved by the people he cared about. You are untouchable. For now. This is a warning, waiting for you to stutter, to show your hand. Any show of your true intentions... he is more than happy to swing Dark Sister across your throat.

He releases you without another word, standing up and leaving through the front door, the door clicking shut.

You sink back into the bath, letting the water engulf you.

Your daughters are moons apart in birth, and there are only a few differences between them that people oft remarked they could be twins. Daenera is taller, spindly. Built like Aemond when he was younger. Her hair is spun moon and eyes of mullish blue. It reminds you of Daeron's eyes. You had named Daenera yourself, a gruelling birth that took the entire night. You promised Jacaerys he could name the second. He had chosen Aemma for a girl, Laenor for a boy.

Not a few moons later, you were with child again. Your husband pinked at the cheeks at the chiding from his family. When she cried into the afternoon sun—Aemma was born mid day, during a council meeting — he pain did not stop the laugh that came out of your mouth from the horrified expression from the Master of Coin as your water broke.

Aemma had a sweetheart face, cheeks much fatter than her older sister's, with a yellowish tinge to her hair, curlier too, reminding you of Aegon. And Aemma laughed more, her deep, violet eyes always half closed as she exploded in giggles and bright, sunshine happiness.

Sons they might not be, but you had given heirs for the throne. And for them, you would do anything to keep their futures intact. Bond with a dragon, face the Rogue Prince, upheave Winterfell. Anything.

You flounce to the nursery where you know the two would be, smiling sweetly at every person you pass as they bow in reverence. Most wore sights of confusion, their greedy eyes and wagging tongues drinking in the deep, emerald glisten of your gown.

It's an old dress, one you keep in the corner of your collection. It isn't as if you had forgo the colours of your mother's house, but playing court meant every movement, even the clothes you wear, can be meaningful. And since your marriage, your Jace liked you in Velaryon colours.

"A goddess come to bless," he gasped against your collarbone, keeping your legs high on his waist as he rutted into you before his teeth sunk on your skin. As newlyweds go, there is not a lot of teasing to be had for your husband to curl against you in a darkened alcove. Merely wearing his favourite colour on your skin has him panting like a dog. His favourite dress is a seafoam blue that dragged longer against the ground in a soft, almost-gossamer material with a silver belt.

Enticing him never took long, but you enjoyed the dance presented. You enjoyed the dark hunger that filled him until he grabbed you to take you because he just had to take you.

The fresh wound slices deeper as you imagine all the things Jacaerys is doing to the so called Sara Snow. The emerald green of your gown shimmers with your anger.

"Fucking bastards," you can't help but say aloud, nodding at the guards posted on the nursery as you hear the squeals of your daughter and the calm, even voice of your brother.

"Muña! Mother!" Aemma squeals, untangling herself from being pressed against Aegon's side as the children— Daenera and Jaehaera — cuddle around him, before running to you. Helaena is on the floor, entertaining baby Maelor. Your mother, hands twisting against her own, stands vigil by the window, staring far ahead.

You catch your secondborn, giggling as you pressed kiss after kiss on her face.

"I see everyone has started without me. Where is Jaehaerys?"

"You were late, sodjisto, aunt," Jaehaera grins gummily. Jahaera is only a year older than Daenera. Your daughters, five and a half and five respectively. "Jaehaerys is with kepus, uncle. They are training."

"Smart girl." You meet your brother's gaze, whose eyes had notably been staring at your dress, mouth turned down. "Why don't you three play with Helaena? I shall speak about Name Day gifts for your Uncle Joffrey for a bit, hm?"

As Aemma shrieks something about cakes, and Daenera dutifully kissing your cheek in greeting before she takes Jaehaera's hand, you turn to your brother and mother.

"Aemond?" you ask softly, keeping your voice out of earshot. Alicent shakes her head. You nod. "Good. We don't want him inciting a war before I have mine properly planned."

As the Dowager draws in a sharp inhale, Aegon grabs your hands, the worry pulled taunt in his eyebrows. "Are you seriously contemplating war, sister? Isn't there a better way to punish them?"

"What punishment does a man regale in?" you hiss, stepping close to him. "Or the Queen's heir for the bloody matter? When Aemond nearly killed Lucerys, and he confronted me as if I had ordered Vhagar to tear through his brother, I thought I had put to bed any doubts in our marriage. It seems that men stray, regardless. My daughters may be his heir now, but what is to say that bastard wildling he's found himself cock deep in produces a son? Will he shame me with a mistress? Or will he shame me with a second wife?"

Your mother's lips tightens, her fingers paling at how tight she is gripping her nerves.

"Bastard or not, if he takes her to wife, I will be nothing. Make that babe a son, and the realm will rally for it. Daenera is his heir. My daughters will not be forgone. I will not be pushed aside. This is mercy, brother," you say softly, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. "My last one. It requires time, moons, to unfurl. It requires seeding doubt and unfathomable inadequacy. Better if Aemond is none the wiser, Helaena the same. But I will need both of you for this to work. It is the only time I will ever ask. For me. For my daughters."

"And you will punish Winterfell with a war?" your mother asks, frown pulled deep. "That is the plan?"

"I will not. I won't do such a thing so blatant, mother, you know me better than that. But this is my last mercy, and it will be the last. For the next time he offends me so, I do not care if Rhaenyra feeds me to Syrax. I will put a dagger through his heart, heir or not."

The Prince Jacaerys comes back not a week later. Though he comes back to the same castle with the same occupants— your shiny new threads gleam. The stage has been set, a play ready to act. You had sent more spiders in the North, keeping a close eye to every blasphemy your husband has been enjoying in the absence of his duties, and as the rage in you quietly grew with each new whisper, your determination hardens.

You mark each indescretion. You keep a tally.

You count for each fall your blow will land on him.

Vermax lands with a screech and a heavy thump, your husband leaping off him with a grin on his face, matching the one you own, waving your arm joyously with Aemma in your arm and Daenera beside you, holding to your skirt as she grinned at her father.

Aemma wiggles under your hold, and you let Jace get close enough before you set her down, laughing, "Okay, okay!" Her laughter carries through as she scrambles like a bull to her father. A squeal peals out of her as Jace picks her up just in time and tosses her in the air.

"Want to meet kepa, father, sweet girl?" you whisper to Daenera, running a hand down her hair before she nods, breaking out into her own sprint, hugging her father as he greets them with laughter and kisses.

You let them have their time, and this, at least, eases your heart truthfully. A kind reminder that Jace adores his daughters.

You stay at the edge of the entrance, your too-wide grin softens into a smile. You were dramatic, nothing new about that, but even in the pale, pearl blue of your dress in silky, Myrish lace, the emeralds in your heavy, golden belt winks. Green ribbons twisted in your hair alongside fresh flowers. When the trio of your family treks toward you, silver-haired babes clinging to your dark haired prince, you serve a wink at the girls and they untangle themselves from their father while you stepped forward.

A choreographed dance, not giving him time to think. To pause.

Every step is calculated, every item on your body— the silk, the small seahorse that locks your dress behind you, the tint on your lips to the oil in your hair and body — is made to perform. You engulf him in you as if you want to suffocate his senses, your arms wrapping around him with sweet kisses pressing on his face, his neck.

Most in the dragonpit looked away, others, scandalously amazed and enchanted, watch as the princess is undeniably enthralled with her lord husband.

His laughter rumbles across his body, infecting your own, smelling of dragonback and crisp winds. You wonder if your nose is more heightened, you would be able to smell his whore in him, but you don't. It's just him. Your Jace.

Your body moulds against his as his arms tightens around you. When you lean back, you sweetly press a chaste kiss on his lips, grinning.

"What is this?" he huffs a laugh, meeting your doeful gaze. Your fingers curl around his chin, his cheek, idly tapping and touching as if you are committing so much newness to memory.

"Kostagon iā ābrazȳrys daor jaelagon zirȳla valzȳrys? Can a wife not want her husband?" you ask softly, pressing a few more kisses before sucking the last one just under his ear. His body shudders. You hide your smirk. "Skori ēza issare qrīdrughagon tolī bōsa? When he has been away too long?"

A yearning look tints your gaze from under your lashes, and you have to stifle the winning smirk as guilt pinches his face.

"My apologies, my wife. I did not mean to be away from you for long. From the girls." As his eyes flick to his daughters, your mask momentarily sharpens into clear distaste. The urge to dig your fingers into his eyes until he is bleeding and screaming under you is one you tamper with great distress.

Did not mean...

Did not mean to have a dalliance with another woman?

Did not mean to fall into bed with a fucking bastard, you insidious cunt, while I await here with your heirs?

Your anger thrums, nestled deep in your heart, it breathes. You school your face the moment he turns back to you, bringing your hands to his lips, kissing each finger with reverent tenderness. His brown eyes smoulder, rubbing your bare— irises widening — back.

"If you wish it, I can be on my knees for my apologies, my princess."

Your mouth curls. "I'm afraid that might have to be quite later, my prince."

"Huh?"

"The Dowager Queen hoped to congratulate you on your successful campaigning. Reaching as far as the North so frequently, we planned a feast for your return." Eyes shinning, you cup his face. You hope the guilt eats him raw from the inside out. Like worms. Like termites. Hungry, hungry, hungry. "We have never been more proud of you, I have never been more proud of you."

You laugh brightly, ignoring the way he squeezed you just a bit harder that mere second the same time his eyes tightened. "The moment I told the girls of it, they had begged to dance with you." Then you bit your lip, frowning slightly. "I... I understand if you are tired, 'tis a long journey after all, I did try to tell them you might want to rest, we can sneak you—"

"No, no, my heart, of course I would be happy to, I— I want nothing more." He brings you close, face disappearing into your neck. "Thank you. I love you."

You hum, carding your fingers through his hair. "As I love you."

For the rest of the feast, you dance just at the edges of his fingertips, ensuring that you permeated his sights and senses despite it. A game. A dance. When he thanks revelries who congratulate him, who ask him of his adventures, you proudly stand beside him, dutiful as the wife that you are, spearing him with compliments as much as you can. Hands squeezing his arm, your oils swallowing him with your smell.

When dinner came, you take chances massaging his thigh, sliding a salacious grin that had him blushing, ever so sweet, green— making you wonder what kind of fucking bastards do that he finds your attention so swallowing.

You don't let up.

Whenever he, in turn made a move, you sidestep, flutter a smirk, a wink; always escaping, letting him grow frustrated as the night went on.

Your one respite from taunting him had been when he danced with his daughters, making a gallant show of asking them, even Jaehaera. Giggles and spins, the ladies of the court fawn and coo.

Even now, you're making him to be the perfect man. The endearing husband, the wondrous father, the brilliant prince, the perfect lord.

To execute your plan, it must be made with a surgical precision. A slice that guts him to his knees, that breaks his spirit and quenches the whispering, wicked madness nestling with your ire. On another cheek, he must remain upright and upstanding, as to keep your daughters' future in perfect order.

You catch the domineering gaze of Daemon Targaryen, idle as he is, on the side of his distracted Queen, talking to a highborn lady. You don't look away as you toast him your cup of Arbour Red before you pucker your lips for a taste. Your eyes move to where your husband is already looking, flushed red and sweaty from all the dancing, your girls, preening and giggling around him.

You tilt your chin at him, a challenge in your gaze, before you slowly pull your lips away from your wine, stained red.

His throat bobs.

It will be a long, arduous game. Full of pitfalls and tightened webbing. One trip can kill you. But once the machinations are in order, once everything and everyone is in their proper places... oh, you cannot wait for the dance the dragons will make.

A flutter, a simpered footstep. Then a rustle of a dress as one bows.

"My lady," Dyanna greets behind you.

"Hm?"

"The spiders in the ice have met the pup in the snow."

"And?"

"The pup is not suspicious, in fact, they might go as far as to say that the pup is lonely. Though others largely understand her existence... no one likes a bastard."

You snort. "No, they don't, do they?"

"The wolf cares for the pup though, and is largely protective of his only sister."

"Hm. Complicated, but not impossible. Have Meera change the tone of my missive. A softer edge. Sweet but not overtly. Ensure the prerogative of politeness. Then have it sent to the Rookery. The proper channels."

You sigh, taking the edge of your braid and twisting through the ribbons your maid tangled between them. Tonight, you had elected Targaryen colours. A black dress akin to scales and a low, exposed back and dipping front, held together in red ribbons and silver chains. One that might be too on the nose, but the constant, feverish stares from your husband made it worth it.

"We have to ensure a good relationship with the Warden of the North, don't you think so?" You have not looked away from your husband since your maid came, and as he whispered something in Daenera's ear, nodding off to her grandmother with Aemma towed, he turned towards you, one stride after another.

"Precisely what I thought, milady."

"Go," you order her for the last time, giving her your cup, just before Jacaerys reaches you.

Game, set.

Worshipping you has always been something Jace excelled at. At the least, his cock was much larger than most, and without the preparation of his tongue and mouth, it burned. At most, he oft found himself holding your shaking thighs, your head and shoulders left on the bed as he feasted on you like a man starved, hungered for your nectar, the sounds you make, and the shaking of your body as you reached your peak on his tongue.

"J-Jace, please, I—" Your breath stutters, a hiccup escaping your mouth, but he is not letting up. On his knees as only a lordling can with his back straight, he is holding your thighs, your lower back, eating your cunny for the third time of the night.

As soon as he had reached you, he grasped your waist, whispering against your hair in a rumbled groan, "You are torturing me so, my wife. We leave. Now."

"Now?" you echoed, amused. "This is a feast in your honour."

"My honour is already hanging by a thread. The revelry will go on without us. I want to have my fill of you."

And fill he had. He didn't even wait to get you out of your dress before he had pushed your skirt upward, gone on his knees, and got his tongue inside of you.

Now, you are overwhelmed, overstimulated as you are hazy, gripping the wrecked sheets as your peak reached you once more. A strangled, breathy cry of his name falls between your lips as your back arched impossibly so, and instead of letting up, this seemed to fuel him harder, the muscle of his mouth working harder inside of your cunt, hands digging into your flesh to keep you steady.

It builds with a stimulation unending, and just as you're on the throes of your last high, it builds again, quick and fast this time, shuddering gasps of, "o-oh gods, g-gods, Jace!" is the last thing you are able to shout before your fourth peak breaks against the shudders of your last one, your wetness exploding, and you start crying before he lets up.

Your blubber becomes laughter, and he is soft as he lies you down, massaging your thighs as you twitched. He hovers above you, running gentle hands across your arms, kneading through skin, before he reaches your face. He's still in most of his clothes, his long white shirt and breeches, but his mouth is covered in your wetness before he wipes it, obscene in the prettiness of his face and messy locks from where you had tugged and grabbed.

He presses a gentle kiss to your cheek, so close to your body, all too tangled in your soul, and can feel his hard cock upright and wanting against your belly, but he pays it no mind. Concern mars his features as he brushes down your hair.

"Are you alright, my love? Too much?"

You shake your head, brushing your hand down his chest. "N-no, I am well. I just never did that before."

He smiles, kissing your closed eyelids before he brings you close to his chest, cuddling you deep. "You deserve all the pleasure I can give you," he says against your hair. "I have been gone far too long. Consider it my apology."

You hum, eyes open. "Apology for what? You were doing your duty, nothing more, ñuha zaldrīzes, my dragon." You feel him stiffen as you keep your voice soft, caring. "I understand duty far better than you. It is what I love most about you."

You look up, taking his chin between your fingertips as you stared at those warm, brown eyes. "You, who carries your honour like a shield and your duty like a sword. I feel as if the gods had blessed me a husband far better than I should have had for I know I do not deserve you."

"H-how can you say that? You are—" He swallows. "— You are the most excellent woman. The mother of my children. You... You are the one I do not deserve."

Your head falls back against his chest, gripping his shirt. Only by your teeth had you stop yourself from screaming.

You curdle, you keep, you poise.

"My love?"

But you pay him no mind, pushing him on his back as you straddle him, your hands working quick to unlace his breeches until his cock slaps against his stomach, end red and swollen. A sharp hiss falls from his lips as your hand tugs on it once. Twice.

He calls your name, spits it really, eyes blown with lust as he holds your waist, unsure if he should lift you off him or grind you against his aching cock.

"I want you inside me," you whimper, plead, feeling his cock twitch at your words, your false, yearning gaze. He mistakes the burned tears of anger in your eyes as unbridled want. "I have gone so long without your warmth, your cock, swelling inside me, your seed nestling deep, taking root—"

"Yes," he gasps, fingers digging into your doughy sides, pulling you up, moving you around whilst you grabbed his length and directed inside your wet, hot cunt inch by inch, filling you so thickly you can feel him in your throat. It takes time, patience and grit, but you're wet enough and you're determined. Once he's fully inside of you through a choked moan of your own, his neck arches, head thrown back. "Fuck! Yes, y-yes, there you are, my g-good fucking girl."

You move slow at first, taking him, bracing one hand on his knee, almost testing the feel him of back in the familiar contours of your cunt. Veins pop between each groan and choke that shudders through him whilst praise, your name, the possessive titles— my love, my wife, my princess — is spit in between.

When the heat tightens in your belly, you shift positions, placing both palms on his chest, and riding him without abandon, bouncing up and down as you watch with a sharp eye as his release builds. His hips move on their own, fucking up in you as you meet his thrusts with equal vigour, and it's delicious. It's heated. You grind your swollen folds against his mon and your cries make him thrust up harder into you, calling your name, denting your doughy hips.

You don't stop, your pleasure at the back of your mind, wanting him to unravel, to break— a final cry of your name dissolving into a choked moan, spilling his seed deep inside, the continuous snap of his hips digging it deeper into your womb.

But your last peak is still tightening, so you press a quick kiss on his chest, a bite really, before you continue to chase your own high, a hiss slipping his lips but moving your hips with his iron-grip, stutters of, "d-do it, reach your high, f-fuck! fuck!"— Your head throws back, nails digging his skin as your cunt clenches his cock in a vice grip, forcing his hips to snap up once more, twice, until you fall, slumping against him.

When he kisses the top of your head, murmuring words you ignore, you close your eyes.

Your plan is in motion. The missive will be sent to the Lord Stark, in pursuit of an innocent friendship. The spiders you have placed on the Northern bastard are set, and a dragon flies in Dragonstone with your bond in its blood.

Your Jace is home. He will fall in love with you all over again. His wonderful daughters and darling princess, he will regret the events that have transpired in the cold. In his head, he will make promises to do better, to be better, that whatever happened is a blip. A mistake that will not happen again. but you know, he will trip. He will wander once more.

But you will make sure that the next time he does so, he will regret it for the rest of his days.

Because it is not you who will burn Winterfell to the ground.

It will be him.

Your plan moves, your web is perfect.

Now, the spider waits for the idiot fucking flies to feed on.

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knuckles bruised (like violets) │ jacaerys velaryon x targaryen!OC

Title: knuckles bruised (like violets)

Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x Targaryen!OC (Daenys Targaryen, daughter of Viserys I Targaryen and Alicent Hightower)

Summary: There is no war so hateful to the gods as a war between kin, especially for those caught in between, longing only for peace as they're met with fire and blood.

_______________________________________________

Chapter 6 - Second of His Name

Conten warning: mentions of su1cide (not explicit)

Word count: 3k

Ser Criston Cole gave Daenys a fright when he woke her up, as the hour of the wolf slipped away and gave way to the nightingale. His rich brown eyes, who had always looked at her with fatherly fondness, were now dark as a raven, and the look on his face was one of concern.

“What’s the matter?” Daenys asked, sitting up on what once had been her childhood bed.

“You must come with me at once, Princess,” he said, “Her Grace the Queen has summoned you in the Hand’s Tower.”

____________________________________

Daenys could barely remember the last time she had visited her grandsire’s chamber, but she was sure she had never seen the place so crowded: Ser Otto was standing by the fire, his clothes pristine and poised as he stared at the flames; Queen Alicent, also dressed in her day garments, was sitting on one of the chairs by his desk, the other one taken by Helaena who, just like Daenys, was still wearing her nightgown. By the window, Aemond stood tall as he watched the moon set outside.

“Did something happen to Aegon?” she asked as soon as she noticed her eldest brother’s absence. Alicent stood then and walked to meet her daughter at the door.

“No, sweetling, Aegon is—”

“The King is dead,” informed Ser Otto before Daenys’ mother could deliver the news. Alicent let out a heavy sigh, and Daenys heard Helaena whimper.

As she felt all the blood in her head rush to her feet, ridding her face from any color, Daenys let out a soft “oh”. Alicent grabbed her hands and rubbed at them, her attempt at comforting her youngest daughter.

“How?” Daenys asked. Her eyes were brimmed with unshed tears, but somehow she felt unable to cry.

“In his sleep,” explained the queen, voice thick from all the crying. “A servant boy was changing the incense in his chamber when he saw him.”

Daenys sighed heavily, trying to process such grim news.

“I must write to Rhaenyra, I think she’d prefer to hear it from me,” she said. As she turned back towards the door, however, Ser Criston blocked her path, his eyes looking straight ahead.

“What are you doing?” she asked, and once again it was Ser Otto who answered.

“No one is to leave this room until we decide what our next step will be,” the man declared.

A knot set in the pit of Daenys’ stomach.

“Our next step?” she repeated with a humorless scoff. “Rhaenyra is to be our queen now, we must send word to Dragonstone and start with the preparations for her coronation. That is our next step, what is there to decide?”

The silence that followed her question was deafening, and realization fell upon Daenys’ shoulders like a stone.

“You wouldn’t dare,” she muttered in disbelief. “That is treason.”

“It was your father’s wish,” intervened Alicent, her white handkerchief clutched in her hand. “Last night, when I visited him, he told me he wished for Aegon to succeed him.”

“Beware the beast beneath the boards…” muttered Helaena, although no one seemed to pay her any mind.

Daenys shook her head in confusion. “You lie,” she uttered, and this made Aemond turn to face her immediately.

“Mind your tongue, sister,” he said, and his words felt like a slap on the face.

Alicent put her hands up in a conciliating manner. “It is the truth, Daenys,” she said, “I would never lie about something of this importance.”

Daenys crossed her arms over her chest, defensive. After a moment of silence that felt like a decade, she spoke again. “They won’t accept this. Daemon won’t accept this.”

“They will be offered generous terms,” said the Hand.

“If you think that will suffice, then I’m afraid your delusions of grandeur might have gotten the best of your intelligence, Grandsire.”

Otto Hightower’s anger used to scare Daenys as a child, but not anymore, and she held his cold gaze with defiance.

“Aemond,” he said, “escort Helaena back to her chamber. And do me the favor of finding your brother.”

With a curt nod, Aemond took Helaena’s arm with a gentleness he seemed incapable of, and the two left the room without uttering another word. The idea of staying there with her mother and grandsire sounded worse than torture, but as Daenys made her way to follow her siblings out, Ser Otto called her name again.

“I am afraid your lack of cooperation has led me to make a radical decision,” he began, as he closed the distance between them with slow steps, like a predator circling its prey. “You’ll remain in your bedchamber until Aegon’s coronation—”

“You’ll imprison me?” she inquired, utterly taken aback. “Mother!”

“You can’t be a prisoner in your own home, Daenys,” the queen said, but both of them knew that wasn’t true.

“The Queen and I cannot trust you,” he continued. “You’ve proven yourself more loyal to Rhaenyra than to your own family. I cannot have that kind of insurgence taking place in my own household, so from now on you will obey. You’ll remain in your bedchamber until Aegon’s coronation,” he repeated, “and after that you will stay here, at King’s Landing, where you should’ve been the last six years. There is no need for that marriage pact anymore.”

Daenys’ face paled, and she blinked rapidly as if trying to clear her vision and make sense of what her grandsire had said. There is no need for that marriage pact anymore. Jace’s beautiful face flashed before her eyes, and an involuntary sob escaped her lips.

“You cannot do that,” she choked out while she took a step back, as if she was being pushed by an invisible force that made her behave like a scared animal.

Alicent sighed. “Royal marriages are politics, Daenys—”

“I do not give a fuck about your bloody politics,” she snapped, and Alicent clutched her chest at her daughter’s improprieties.

“Careful,” warned Ser Otto.

“I am a woman grown,” she continued. “You might still be my grandsire, but you’ve long lost any right to tell me what I can or cannot do. I will go back to Dragonstone.”

“You shall not,” he insisted.

Daenys’ lower lip trembled as she felt like a little girl again, restrained and powerless in a house that was ever unable to show her love. “I would sooner throw myself out my window than stay here.”

Ser Otto took a step closer. “Do not threaten me, child,” he warned again.

She knew in her bones that this battle was lost. It didn’t matter what she said, or how much she pleaded with them to let her go. This decision was clearly long in the making and not an ounce of it was improvised or prompted by her father’s sudden death: Ser Otto Hightower never did anything unpremeditated.

Alicent tried to approach her daughter again, but Daenys was quick to remove her arm from her grasp as she took a step back. “I would like to return to my chamber, please,” she said, her voice quavering from holding back her need to cry.

Ser Otto gestured for Ser Criston to walk Daenys back to her impromptu prison cell. It was only when the heavy wooden doors were closed behind her that she allowed herself to collapse on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably as she was overcome by a sorrow she had never felt before.

______________________________

The day had dawned and turned to dusk again, and Daenys had not been allowed to leave her bedchamber. She had been served food twice, but of course she had rejected it, fearing the Hand might try to poison her to get her out of his way. She was now sitting by the bay window (which had been closed shut with locks to prevent her from escaping— or jumping to her death), leaning on the stone frame as she watched the specks of dust dance around the room with the setting sun.

Her face was puffy and red from crying, and her hair was now a disheveled mess after freeing it from her braids. She did not move when she heard someone opening the door.

“I heard you had quite the meltdown last night,” her visitor said. It was Aegon.

This made Daenys stand up immediately, defensive. However, what she saw in her brother’s face caught her completely off guard: Aegon’s face was as blotchy as hers, with dark circles under his eyes, and his sky-blue orbs now bloodshot red.

Since his sister did not respond, he spoke again as he sat down in one of the chairs by the fireplace. “They have me walking around to sober up so I can get some rest for tomorrow.”

Daenys wondered if he even remembered the awful things he had said to her during dinner. Her expression tensed. “They’re crowning you tomorrow?”

Aegon nodded, eyes glued to the dancing flames. “At dawn. In the Sept.”

“Gods…” Daenys whispered, covering her face with her hands. That meant the ceremony would take place before the smallfolk. There was no going back after that. Rhaenyra would be devastated.

As she sat next to her brother, he spoke once more.

“I know you probably won’t believe me… but I’m as much a prisoner as you are, dear.”

Daenys turned to look at him. He certainly didn’t look happy about becoming king; in fact, she couldn’t recall ever seeing him so miserable.

“Then refuse the crown, Aegon” she said. “Say you don’t want it. Bend the knee to Rhaenyra and this whole misfortune will end before it even starts.”

Aegon laughed bitterly.

“I begged Aemond and Cole to let me go. I would gladly get some gold, buy a myself a passage on whatever ship takes me as far away from here as possible and never set foot in this fucking shithole of a city again— sorry.”

Daenys shook her head; the least of her concerns was her brother’s profanities.

“This doesn’t feel real,” Daenys murmured. Aegon patted her knee in an attempt to give her some consolation. “What happens now, then?”

Aegon let out a heavy sigh. He looked tired, and much older than he actually was.

“I wish I knew.”

“Did they say anything about me?”

Aegon furrowed his brow in thought, as if trying to come up with the best way to word the information he was about to share with his little sister.

“They want you to bend the knee to me, of course. I suppose they intend to use you as some sort of messenger to speak to Rhaenyra, perhaps expecting her reaction to be softer if it’s you. And… well, you already know about the betrothal.”

The mere mention of her betrothal to Jace made her jaw clench, eyes cast down. Aegon noticed.

“You really love him?”

Daenys met his eyes again, and this time hers were brimmed with unshed tears. She nodded, lower lip trembling.

Aegon’s expression was a mixture of curiosity and genuine wonder. He nodded his head as he turned his gaze back to the fire. “Lucky,” he murmured.

Daenys wanted to agree, but she felt anything but.

Both siblings remained seated by the fire until the hour grew late and someone came to fetch Aegon. They were mostly quiet, but Daenys would occasionally put her head on his shoulder, and Aegon held her hand twice. Despite Aegon’s many flaws, the eldest son and youngest daughter had more in common than they had ever realized: both ignored by their father and constantly sermonized by their mother, knowing painfully well that they were not what she had expected them to be. Aemond was loyal and upright. Helaena, kind and soft. Even Daeron, who had spent most of his life away, was said to be stalwart and chivalrous.

Daenys and Aegon existed solely in the margins of their family, only brought to the spotlight when necessary, always to the benefit of others. Just like Daenys had been sent away in her youth to unite their family, Aegon was now being brought forward to secure the crown.

Before he left, Aegon hugged Daenys for the first time in many years. Then, she was alone again.

_________________________________

She hadn’t been able to sleep the whole night and, when the handmaids came into her chamber at dawn to help her prepare, Daenys was sure her ghost-like state gave them a fright. The women bathed her and clothed her in a simple pearl-white dress, very similar to the ones she used to wear as a little girl, and she was certain it had been her mother’s idea. The handmaids braided her hair in such an intricate and beautiful way that Daenys would’ve thanked them, had it not been for the lump in her throat every time she caught sight of herself in the mirror.

She was escorted to the Sept of Baelor by four members of the Kingsguard, and she knew Daemon would’ve found it amusing, for they were treating her as if she was some sort of criminal instead of just a girl without her dragon.

Upon their arrival, Daenys took her place next to Aemond, but didn’t utter a word to him. She watched the small-folk enter the Sept until it was full to the brim.

“People of King’s Landing,” began Ser Otto, his voice powerful as he addressed the crowd, “today is the saddest of days. Our beloved king, Viserys the Peaceful, is dead.”

The people audibly gasped and spoke amongst themselves, and Daenys wondered if they really felt the loss of their king, or didn’t care at all.

“But it is also the most joyous of days,” he continued, “for as his spirit left us, he whispered his final wish that his first-born son, Aegon, should succeed him.”

After a moment of confusion, the crowd applauded, as knights and musicians alike entered the premises, ready to receive their soon-to-be king. Daenys felt sick to her stomach as she watched Aegon march through the crowd, visibly upset and insecure, but anger was also starting to bubble up inside her: you shouldn’t be here. None of us should be here.

“It is your great good fortune and privilege to be here to witness this. A new day for our city. A new day for our realm. A new king to lead us.”

After Aegon had knelt before the Septon to receive his blessings in the name of the Seven, Ser Criston took the Conqueror’s crown and put it on Aegon’s head.

“The crown of the Conqueror, passed down through generations. Let the Seven bear witness: Aegon Targaryen is the true heir to the Iron Throne.”

Ser Criston was the first one to bow his head to his new king; he was followed by Alicent, Helaena, and Aemond. When Aegon’s eyes fell on Daenys, they were pleading. She could feel her mother’s gaze, and the Hand’s, and the hundreds of people waiting for her to acknowledge her brother as her King. Whatever I do, I am a traitor, she thought.

Flexing her knees ever so slightly, Daenys curtsied to King Aegon II.

“All hail His Grace, Aegon, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

Each toll of the bell felt like a dagger through the heart; an ominous warning of the wars to come, a reminder that the situation wasn’t a dream, but real life, and so would be the consequences.

As the crowd erupted in cheers for their new king, however, Daenys felt the floor beneath her vibrate as if they were standing on a volcanic crater. Before she could even turn towards her siblings, a giant dragon, scarlet as the blood that ran through her veins, emerged through the wooden floors: Meleys.

The Red Queen screeched as she came completely into view, and amidst smoke and cries of help, Daenys felt Aemond grab her wrist as he stood in front of her and Helaena.

Princess Rhaenys looked majestic on her dragon, and Daenys’ heart leapt in anticipation when she saw her eyes scanning the family until they fell on her. Rhaenys gave her a barely-there smile.

“I am not here to shed blood,” the woman said, her voice resonating in the now quiet sept. “This war isn’t mine to begin, and I am no kinslayer. However, I cannot return to Dragonstone without Princess Daenys.”

Daenys’ eyebrows shot up as she drew a breath, her heart beating with such intensity that she could hear its thumping echoing in her ears. Aemond’s grip tightened around her wrist.

“Aemond,” she said, eyes wide in agitation, “let me go.”

Aemond’s brows furrowed in something akin to affliction, and Daenys had to peel his fingers off her so he would finally release her. Daenys looked at her family one last time: Helaena seemed miles away, while Ser Criston kept his eyes glued to the dragon. Alicent and Aegon stood together: her, with eyes wide and glassy; him, with a faint smile. From the other end of the altar, Ser Otto watched her intently.

When Daenys made her way down the stone stairs, the dragon’s enormous head turned towards her, her threatening jaws opening to let out a warning sound.

“Vēttan se, Meleys,” said Rhaenys, and the she-dragon lowered her head. Allow it.

Daenys lifted her skirts and grabbed onto the rope ladder that connected directly with Rhaenys’ saddle. She climbed as fast as she could, aware that the more time they spent there, the more likely it would be for someone to try and attack Meleys.

As she settled herself behind Princess Rhaenys, Meleys taking flight shortly after and thus getting them out of the Sept, there was only one thought in Daenys’ mind, which repeated itself over and over again:

I’m going home.

______________________________________________

If you liked this, let me know in any way! <3

Don't worry, we'll see Jace again next chapter, and I think you'll like it hehe.

Also, just a reminder that I'm open to requests if you have any! :)

And once again, thank you for your patience and all the kind comments!

_______________________________________________

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#game of thrones #house of the dragon #jacaerys velaryon x oc #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys targaryen #jacaerys x reader #hotd jacaerys #jacaerys velaryon x reader #hotd #knuckles bruised (like violets)

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novaursa · 3 days

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The Dragon's Right (13)

- Summary: It was by grace of the gods that firstborn child of Viserys I and Aemma was born a boy and he lived. And all of the rest, scholars will later say, is by power of something more malevolent in kind.

- Paring: male!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Note: Expect daily updates until the story is done.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: 12

- Next part: 14

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The Dragonpit is alive with the unmistakable roars and calls of dragons, the air thick with the scent of charred flesh and the earthy smell of caves below. You, the Prince of Dragonstone, circle high above on Silverwing, your gaze fixed on the large domed structure below. As you descend, the faint shapes of your sons and their half-uncles grow clearer.

Jacaerys and Lucerys are near Vermax and Arrax, offering the young dragons chunks of meat. The boys’ laughter echoes through the pit, a rare sound of joy in these troubled times. Nearby, Aegon, the eldest of Viserys and Alicent’s children, watches his dragon, Sunfyre, with a detached interest, his eyes more on his nephews than his beast.

Aemond stands apart from them all, a loneliness clinging to him like a shadow. His eyes flick between the dragons and the older boys, a longing so stark it almost cuts through the distance. It is a sight that tightens something in your chest, but before you can give it more thought, a movement from your sons catches your eye.

Jace and Luke exchange glances, their faces lit with mischief. A few whispered words later, a stable boy wheels out a wooden cart. Perched on it, adorned with crude, makeshift wings, is a pig—a mockery, a cruel jest. The "Pink Dread," they call it.

“Here you go, Aemond,” Jace announces with a grin. “Your very own dragon.”

Aemond’s face turns scarlet, a mix of shame and fury. “You think this is funny?” he spits, his small hands curling into fists. The other boys snicker, even Aegon’s mouth twitches into a half-smile.

“You don’t have a dragon because you’re not a true Targaryen,” Jace continues, his voice taking on a mocking lilt. “Our father is a dragon, our mother a dragon, but you? What are you?”

The words hang in the air like a poised dagger, and in that moment, you see Aemond snap. He launches himself at Jace, fists flailing, the smaller boy’s speed taking your son by surprise. They tumble to the ground, a blur of limbs and angry shouts. Lucerys tries to pull Aemond off his brother, but Aemond’s rage is wild, untamed, and he shoves Luke away, his eyes burning with a desperate fury.

Aegon stands back, arms crossed, watching the scuffle with a mix of amusement and boredom. It’s only when he sees Lucerys getting pushed that he steps forward, his smirk dropping. “Enough, Aemond,” he says, voice sharp, but it’s too late—the fight has already spiraled out of control.

It’s then that you make your entrance. Silverwing’s massive form swoops down over the pit, her shadow casting a dark blanket over the scene. She lands with a thunderous impact, the ground trembling beneath her weight, and the boys scatter like leaves before a storm.

You dismount, your boots hitting the ground with a solid thud, and your eyes, dark with disapproval, sweep over them. “What is this madness?” Your voice, though not raised, carries the full weight of your authority, and the boys freeze.

You move toward Jace and Aemond, still tangled on the ground. With a swift motion, you pull Aemond away, lifting him to his feet with a firm grip on his shoulder. Jace scrambles up, wiping a trickle of blood from his lip, his eyes wary as he meets your gaze.

“A prince does not behave like a common brawler,” you say, your tone cold. “Nor does he taunt his kin like a street urchin.” Your eyes shift to Jace, your voice softening but still firm. “Words have power, Jacaerys. Do not use them to wound your own blood.”

Jace’s head lowers, his face flushed with shame. “I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t mean—”

“You did,” you interrupt, “but you will think before you speak next time.”

You turn your attention to Aemond, who stands stiffly beside you, his small frame trembling with barely suppressed emotion. His eyes, a mirror of the Targaryen fire, meet yours, and you see the pain and anger there. “Aemond,” you say, your voice gentler now, “having a dragon does not make you a true Targaryen. It is the blood in your veins, the strength in your heart, and the courage to face whatever comes your way.”

Aemond’s lips press into a thin line, his eyes dropping to the ground. “But I don’t have one,” he murmurs, the words almost lost in the vast space of the Dragonpit. “Not like them.”

You crouch down, bringing yourself to his level, your hand resting on his shoulder. “You will,” you assure him, your voice firm. “And when the time comes, your bond with your dragon will be stronger for the wait. Do not let their words make you forget who you are.”

Aemond nods, his jaw still clenched, but there’s a flicker of something like hope in his eyes. You straighten, turning back to the other boys. “And you will all treat each other with respect,” you command, your gaze sweeping over them. “You are family, and you will need each other in the days to come.”

With that, you mount Silverwing once more, her silver scales shimmering in the dim light of the pit. “Return to your mothers,” you tell them, your voice carrying across the distance as you take to the sky. Below, the boys watch as you rise, a reminder of the power and legacy that runs through their veins.

As Silverwing ascends, the wind whipping past you, you glance back down at the shrinking forms of your children and their half-uncles. The weight of what is to come presses heavy on your shoulders, but for now, at least, the skirmish is over, and the fires of their tempers have been tempered—if only for a time.

The door to your chambers swings open with a soft creak as you step inside, the cool air of the Red Keep a welcome contrast to the heated anomasity that still lingers from the Dragonpit. Rhaenyra is seated by the window, bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun. She looks up, her expression shifting from curiosity to concern as she sees your face.

“What’s happened?” she asks, setting aside the book she’s been reading. Her voice is calm, but you can sense the undercurrent of anxiety. It’s a tone you’ve grown used to, living in the shadow of your father’s choices and the precarious balance of your family’s position.

You take a deep breath, crossing the room to stand before her. “There was an incident in the Dragonpit,” you begin, your voice steady but weary. “Our sons and their half-uncles got into a scuffle.”

Her brow furrows, and she rises, her eyes searching yours. “Are they hurt?”

“Nothing serious,” you reassure her, though the memory of the boys’ clash flashes behind your eyes. “Jace and Luke were taunting Aemond. They brought out that pig—‘The Pink Dread’—and made a mockery of him.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes widen, her lips pressing into a thin line. “They did what?” There’s anger there, protective and fierce, but you hold up a hand.

“They’re children, Rhaenyra. Foolish and unthinking,” you say, though your tone carries its own frustration. “But I won’t have them tearing each other apart, especially not now.”

She sighs, her shoulders slumping as she reaches out to touch your arm. “And Aemond?”

“He fought back,” you admit, a trace of admiration for the boy’s spirit despite the situation. “He feels out of place, without a dragon of his own, and Jace’s words struck deep. He thinks it makes him less of a Targaryen.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes soften, and she shakes her head. “It’s not his fault. None of this is his fault.” Her voice drops, a whisper of frustration mingled with sorrow. “It’s Viserys. He should have known this would happen, bringing us all under one roof again. It’s like throwing oil on a fire.”

You nod, your gaze drifting to the flickering candles that cast long shadows across the room. “I don’t like this any more than you do. You know how I feel about his choice for a wife, and her children.” There’s a bitterness in your words that’s hard to swallow. “But Viserys made his decision, and now we have to navigate this storm without letting it drown us.”

Rhaenyra’s fingers tighten around your arm, her eyes searching yours. “And the boys?”

“They must learn to control themselves,” you say firmly. “We cannot afford to have them fighting amongst each other, not with the eyes of the court watching. They need to understand what’s at stake.”

She looks at you, her gaze fierce. “They’re just boys. It’s not fair to put so much weight on their shoulders.”

“It’s not,” you agree, your voice softening. “But fair or not, it’s the reality we live in. They’re Targaryens. They’ll have to grow up faster than others, and they need to be stronger for it. We can’t have them tearing each other apart when the real threats lie beyond these walls.”

Rhaenyra sighs again, her hand slipping down to clasp yours. “I know you’re right, but it doesn’t make it any easier.”

You pull her closer, resting your forehead against hers. “We’ll get through this,” you murmur, your voice a low promise. “But they need to see us united, strong. They need to know that we are their foundation, no matter what happens.”

She nods, her eyes closing for a moment as she takes in your words. When she opens them again, there’s a steely resolve there, a reflection of your own determination. “We’ll talk to them together. Make them understand.”

You press a kiss to her forehead, a brief but tender touch. “Yes.” You step back, your hand still holding hers as you lead her towards the door. “Let’s find them. The sooner we set this right, the better.”

As you leave your chambers, side by side, the weight of your shared responsibility settles between you.

You and Rhaenyra find Jace and Luke in their shared chamber, their faces drawn and tense. The playful spirit that usually fills the room is absent, replaced by a silence that feels heavy with guilt. The boys stand as you enter, their eyes flicking nervously between you and their mother.

“Sit,” you instruct gently, motioning to the chairs by the hearth. They obey, exchanging uneasy glances. Rhaenyra takes a seat beside you, her expression a careful blend of concern and firmness.

“Do you understand why we’re here?” she begins, her voice calm but edged with disappointment.

Jace nods slowly, his gaze dropping to his hands. “We do, Mother. We… we shouldn’t have done what we did. It was cruel.”

Luke shifts uncomfortably, his voice a soft murmur. “We didn’t mean to hurt Aemond. It was just a joke…”

“A joke?” Your voice is sharper than you intend, and both boys flinch. You take a breath, forcing yourself to soften your tone. “You’re Targaryens. You know the power words hold. Mocking someone, especially your own blood, for something they cannot control—it’s beneath you.”

Jace’s eyes glisten, his voice breaking a little as he speaks. “I’m sorry, Father. Truly. We just… we didn’t think.”

Rhaenyra leans forward, her hand resting gently on his. “I know, my love. But you must start thinking. You are not just boys playing in the yard. You are princes, and with that comes responsibility. People look to you, they judge us all by your actions.”

Luke’s lower lip trembles as he looks up at her. “We won’t do it again, I swear.”

You nod, reaching out to place a hand on Luke’s shoulder. “You need to remember that Aemond is your family. You will need him, and he will need you, in the days to come. Strength lies in unity, not division.”

Jace nods fervently. “We’ll apologize to him. We’ll make it right.”

You’re about to respond when the door creaks open, and a servant enters, his expression tight with urgency. He bows quickly before speaking. “Your Grace, my Prince, the King has requested your presence. He wishes to speak with both of you privately.”

Rhaenyra frowns, a flicker of unease passing over her face. “What is it?”

The servant hesitates, glancing at you both before he answers. “There has been… troubling news from Driftmark. Lady Laena Velaryon has passed away.”

For a moment, silence fills the room, the words hanging like a heavy shroud. You feel Rhaenyra’s hand tighten around yours, her grip almost painful. The boys look between the two of you, confusion and fear mingling in their eyes.

“Laena…” Rhaenyra whispers, her voice trembling. “How?”

The servant bows his head. “I’m not privy to the details, my lady. But the King has asked for you both. He wishes to discuss this matter personally.”

You nod, your throat tight as you glance at Rhaenyra. “We’ll go at once.”

Turning back to Jace and Luke, you force a calm smile, though it feels hollow. “We have to speak with your grandsire. Stay here and reflect on what we’ve spoken about. We’ll return soon.”

The boys nod, subdued and solemn. As you and Rhaenyra leave the room, you feel a heaviness settle over you. Laena’s death—Daemon’s loss—hits harder than you would have expected. She was family, in her own way, and her passing feels like another thread unraveling in the fragile tapestry that binds your House together.

Rhaenyra’s hand slips into yours as you walk, her grip cold and trembling. “Daemon,” she murmurs, her eyes wide with sorrow. “How will he…?”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” you say, though your voice is filled with uncertainty. “We must be strong, for him and for the children.”

She nods, drawing in a shuddering breath as you approach the King’s chambers. The door opens before you, and you step inside, the gravity of what’s to come pressing down on you both like a weight you can barely bear.

The heavy door to the King’s chambers swings open, revealing a somber scene within. King Viserys sits slumped in his chair, his face pale and drawn, a ghost of the man he once was. Alicent stands by his side, her hands clasped in front of her, the very image of dutiful silence, but you catch the brief flicker of her eyes, the smoldering anger beneath her composed exterior. No doubt Aemond has already told her about the incident in the Dragonpit.

Rhaenyra tightens her grip on your hand as you both step inside. You bow your head respectfully, feeling the weight of the room’s tension settle on your shoulders. “Father,” you greet, your voice steady despite the unease coiling within you.

Viserys looks up, his eyes clouded with grief and exhaustion. He waves a trembling hand toward the chairs across from him. “Sit, both of you. There is… there is news from Driftmark.”

You and Rhaenyra exchange a glance, the unspoken worry already taking root between you. You take your seats, your wife’s hand never leaving yours. Alicent’s gaze flickers between the two of you, her lips pressed into a thin line, but she remains silent.

“Laena Velaryon is dead,” Viserys says, his voice cracking. The bluntness of his words cuts through the silence like a knife, and you feel Rhaenyra tense beside you. “She died in childbirth. The labor… it went wrong. She tried to get to Vhagar, but she collapsed on the steps. Daemon was with her, but there was nothing he could do.”

There’s a strangled sound from Rhaenyra, half a gasp, half a sob. You tighten your grip on her hand, your own heart aching at the thought of Daemon, your uncle, watching helplessly as his wife—a woman of such fire and strength—was taken from him in such a brutal way.

“We’ve all been summoned to attend the funeral on Driftmark,” Viserys continues, his gaze distant, as if speaking to himself as much as to you. “It is our duty to pay our respects, to support House Velaryon in their time of mourning.”

There’s a pause, thick with the unspoken implications. You and Rhaenyra share another glance, the memory of your conversations from two months ago flashing between you. Conversations about the Hightowers’ growing influence over Viserys, about the way Alicent’s words seemed to carry more weight in the council chamber than they should. And now, with the eyes of Westeros surely turning to Driftmark, you can almost see the challenges that will rise like shadows at the edges of the funeral.

“Father,” Rhaenyra begins, her voice strained, “what of Daemon? How is he?”

Viserys’s eyes close for a moment, as if gathering himself. “He is… shattered, as you can imagine. They had come to Pentos, seeking a different life, but it was not to be. Now he returns to Driftmark, to bury his wife and face his loss.” He opens his eyes, fixing you both with a weary, almost pleading look. “You will go, won’t you? You will show the realm that our family stands together, despite… everything.”

Despite the divisions, despite the whispers, despite the presence of your father’s new family, his new children. The words remain unspoken, but they hang heavy in the air.

You incline your head. “Of course, Father. We will be there, for Daemon and for Laena. Our families are tied, and we will honor that bond.”

Rhaenyra nods beside you, though her eyes are still shadowed with grief and apprehension. “We will pay our respects, and do what we can to support him.”

Alicent’s gaze sharpens at that, her hands tightening around the hem of her dress. “It is good that you will be there,” she says quietly, her voice steady but tinged with something else—something brittle. “Daemon will need his family, all of them, during this time.”

There’s an edge in her tone, a pointedness that isn’t lost on you. You meet her eyes, seeing the silent fury simmering just beneath the surface. No doubt she’s already heard from Aemond about the cruelty he faced today, about the boys’ taunts and the mockery of the “Pink Dread.” Her eyes seem to dare you to address it, to acknowledge the simmering tensions that threaten to fracture this already fragile unity.

But now is not the time. Not with the shadow of death still hanging over the room. You give her a curt nod, acknowledging her words but not engaging further. There will be time enough to address those grievances, but not now.

Viserys exhales slowly, as if some great weight has been lifted from his shoulders by your assurances. “Thank you,” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Thank you both. I know things have been… difficult. But we must hold together, now more than ever.”

You and Rhaenyra rise together, a unified front, as you bow your heads in respect. “We will be there, Father,” Rhaenyra repeats softly. “You have our word.”

As you turn to leave, you feel Alicent’s gaze burning into your back, a silent promise of words yet unspoken. But for now, you push it aside, focusing on Rhaenyra, on the grief and worry etched into her face.

The corridor outside is quiet, your footsteps echoing softly against the stone walls.

The door closes behind you and Rhaenyra with a soft thud, leaving Viserys and Alicent alone in the low lit chamber. The silence between them is heavy, almost suffocating. Alicent remains where she is, her knuckles white as she grips the back of a chair, fury barely restrained. Viserys looks at her with weary eyes, as if already exhausted by a conversation they haven’t even had yet.

“Are you truly not going to address it?” Alicent’s voice is low, but the bitterness in it cuts like a blade. “Your grandchildren taunted Aemond, humiliated him, and you say nothing?”

Viserys sighs, the sound carrying the weight of years of burdens. He rubs a hand over his face, the lines of his age more pronounced in the flickering candlelight. “Alicent, they are children. They act thoughtlessly, all of them. Jace and Luke’s actions were cruel, yes, but Aegon was not innocent either. He stood by and let it happen, perhaps even encouraged it.”

“Aegon is a boy, Viserys!” Alicent’s voice rises, her eyes flashing with a fury she can no longer contain. “He’s still learning his place, his responsibilities. But you—” She pauses, her voice trembling with a mixture of anger and desperation. “You always defend them, defend him and Rhaenyra. No matter what they do, you find a way to excuse it.”

Viserys’s face hardens, the tired king giving way to the father who has been pushed too far. “This is not about sides, Alicent. They are all my children, my grandchildren. Aemond needs guidance, not vengeance. As do Jace and Luke.”

Alicent’s eyes narrow, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Guidance? You think that’s all they need? You allow them to humiliate Aemond, to hurt him, and do nothing. Just as you did nothing when he—” She stops, her words catching in her throat, but the venom in her eyes makes it clear what she’s referring to.

The image of Silverwing descending upon the sept outside Casterly Rock flashes in her mind. The stones still bear the scars of dragon’s talons, a testament to that day when you stole Rhaenyra from her impending marriage to Jason Lannister. You, the prodigal son who had left for the Dorne border, returned with the ferocity of a storm, claiming what you believed to be yours without a thought to the chaos you left in your wake.

“There were no repercussions for what he did, Viserys,” she continues, her voice trembling with barely restrained emotion. “He defied you, humiliated House Lannister, and shattered a political alliance. And you did nothing. You welcomed him back with open arms.”

Viserys’s gaze drops to his lap, his fingers twitching as if the very memory of it still pains him. “He is my son,” he says quietly. “I did what I thought was best to keep our family whole.”

Alicent’s laugh is sharp, almost hysterical. “Whole? You call this whole? You let him and Rhaenyra do as they please, and now their children are just as wild, as ungoverned. Aemond will grow up believing he’s less than them, that he’s not a true Targaryen, and you’re content to let that happen because it’s easier than admitting you’ve lost control.”

The king’s head snaps up, a flash of anger in his eyes. “And what would you have me do, Alicent? Punish them? For what? For the mistakes of youth? For the passions of their blood?”

“Yes!” she almost shouts, her voice breaking. “Yes, if it would show them there are consequences, that they cannot simply take and destroy as they please. There are scars on that sept, Viserys. Scars left by the dragon, by your son’s defiance, and you—” She swallows hard, her eyes blazing. “You allowed it. Because it was Rhaenyra. Because it was always Rhaenyra.”

A bitter silence falls between them, the air crackling with all the things that have been left unsaid for too long. Alicent’s hands tremble as she grips the chair, her knuckles pale against the dark wood. She forces herself to breathe, to steady her voice.

“You know, I thought… once,” she begins, softer now, almost as if speaking to herself, “that he would see me differently. That when he came back from the border, when he returned from Dorne, I could show him that I was a better choice than her. That I could be what he needed, what he wanted.”

Viserys’s expression softens, a sorrowful understanding in his eyes. “Alicent…”

But she shakes her head, cutting him off. “No. Don’t. I was a fool, Viserys. A fool for thinking I could compete with her, with whatever hold she has over him. She enthralled him, from the moment they were children. And now look at us.” She gestures around, as if the very walls of the chamber bear witness to her frustration. “Look at this family. Torn apart because you cannot say no to them.”

Viserys leans back in his chair, a look of profound weariness on his face. “I know I’ve made mistakes. I know I’ve failed in many ways. But I will not see this family destroyed by bitterness and blame. Not by yours, and not by mine.”

Alicent’s eyes fill with tears, her fury burning out into something raw and painful. “Then what will you do, Viserys? How will you keep us together when we’re already breaking apart?”

He doesn’t answer, and the silence stretches between them, heavy with the weight of a thousand unspoken regrets. For once, the King of the Seven Kingdoms has no words of comfort, no easy solution. He simply closes his eyes, his hand still resting over his face, and lets the silence speak for him.

Jace and Luke make their way through the corridors of the Red Keep, their footsteps echoing softly off the stone walls. They had left their youngest brother, Joffrey, with the servants, trusting them to keep him safe while they faced what felt like an impending storm. Their father’s stern words still ring in their ears as they approach the courtyard where they were told Aemond and Aegon could be found.

They spot their half-uncles by the training yard. Aegon leans casually against a wall, his expression bored as Aemond practices with a wooden sword. The younger boy’s movements are fierce, each strike of the blade carrying a force that belies his small frame. It’s clear he’s still angry, his face flushed and his jaw clenched.

Jace and Luke exchange a glance, a shared determination in their eyes, before they step forward. Jace clears his throat, drawing the attention of the brothers. Aemond stops mid-swing, his eyes narrowing as he sees them.

“We came to apologize,” Jace begins, his voice steady though the words feel strange on his tongue. “What we did in the Dragonpit was wrong. It was cruel.”

Luke nods, looking at Aemond with genuine remorse. “We didn’t mean to hurt you. We’re sorry.”

Aemond’s eyes flicker with something unreadable—perhaps surprise, perhaps something darker. He lowers his sword but doesn’t put it away. “Sorry?” he repeats, his voice dripping with disdain. “You think words can fix this?”

Aegon snorts from his place against the wall, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “They’re just doing what they were told, Aemond. Daddy and Mommy sent them to make nice, didn’t they?”

Jace’s cheeks flush with anger, but he holds his tongue, determined to do what his father asked. “We shouldn’t have treated you like that,” he insists. “We know it’s not easy, being without a dragon, and—”

“You think I care about your pity?” Aemond snaps, his grip tightening on the sword. “Your father, the great Prince of Dragonstone, thinks he can send you to smooth things over, like everything is fine. Like he’s some perfect, noble hero.”

Jace stiffens at the tone, his eyes narrowing. “He defended you, Aemond. He told us we were wrong and that you deserved better. And you dare insult him?”

Aemond sneers, his eyes blazing with a mixture of hurt and fury. “Defended me? Your father’s only ever cared about himself and his precious Rhaenyra. He never cared about us. My mother says—” He stops abruptly, as if realizing he’s said too much.

“Your mother says what?” Jace demands, his voice rising. “What lies has she filled your head with?”

Aemond’s face flushes red, his expression defiant. “She says your father is nothing but a selfish, reckless man who took what he wanted, no matter who he hurt. That he only ever looked out for himself.”

“That’s not true!” Jace barks, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “He’s a better man than you’ll ever know. He was more fair to you than you deserve, especially when you speak like that!”

Aemond’s eyes flash dangerously, and he takes a step forward, his sword still in hand. “You want to say that again?”

Before the situation can escalate further, Ser Criston Cole appears, his eyes sharp as he steps between the boys. “Enough,” he commands, his voice firm and brooking no argument. He places a hand on Aemond’s shoulder, pulling him back gently but firmly. “This is not the time or place for fighting.”

Jace glares at Aemond, his chest heaving with suppressed rage. “You’re right, Cole. It’s not the time.” He turns to Luke, who looks equally shaken and angry. “But this isn’t over.”

Luke steps forward, his voice steady despite the tension in the air. “We’ll settle this on Driftmark. We’ll see who’s truly worthy.”

Aemond’s eyes narrow, but there’s a flicker of something—perhaps apprehension, perhaps excitement—behind the anger. “Anytime, anywhere.”

Ser Criston’s gaze sharpens, and he steps in between them fully, his voice a warning. “You are all princes of the realm. You will act like it, or there will be consequences.”

The boys glare at each other, the air thick with unspoken challenges, before Jace and Luke turn and stalk away. The anger in their bodies is visible, the fire of the argument still burning hot within them.

As they walk, Jace glances at Luke, his expression grim. “This isn’t just about us, or Aemond. It’s about our family, about what’s right.”

Luke nods, his young face set with determination. “We’ll show them on Driftmark. We’ll show everyone.”

And as they leave the courtyard behind, the promise of another confrontation lingers in the air, a storm brewing just beyond the horizon.

#house of the dragon #hotd x reader #hotd #hotd x y/n #hotd x you #rhaenyra x y/n #rhaenyra x reader #rhaenyra x you #rhaenyra x male reader #rhaenyra targaryen

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bluecookies02 · 1 year

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ℕ𝕖𝕦𝕧𝕚𝕝𝕝𝕖𝕥𝕥𝕖 𝕩 ℝ𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕖𝕣

𝕞𝕚𝕝𝕕 𝕟𝕤𝕗𝕨; 𝕒𝕟𝕘𝕤𝕥 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕒 𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕡𝕪 𝕖𝕟𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘; 𝕕𝕣𝕒𝕘𝕠𝕟 𝕞𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕔𝕪𝕔𝕝𝕖𝕤

Neuvillette hated spring.

He doesn't seem like a man that would ever give something enough attention to hate it, not to that extent at least.

He enjoys watching the flowers bloom, listening to birds chirp as he files away reports in his office right before his scheduled leave, making everything neat and organized to soothe his eyes upon his return.

Neuvillette also loves the scent of pollen that fills his senses when he opens the windows to let fresh air in.

But there's a longing in the depth of his chest that every spring brings. A heat in the pits of his stomach.

It was a reminder that he was spending another year alone, whereas his instincts yearned for him to get out and hopelessly search for another of his kin.

But his kind was either long gone across this nation or already mated.

Others were likely far away in the lands he was born in, which if he ever knew the place of, with years he has forgotten.

In those somber weeks he craved to fly free and search until his body fell tired, his wings cramped and his body could no longer wonder in circles.

He has tried, only to end up hidden in a cave when he could no longer walk nor roam the skies.

The hormones in his body tend to get uncontrollable, even for a composed man like him, leaving him hunched over, sweat sticking to his skin as he tirelessly wastes a load after load onto the rubble, knees weak and jaw clenched.

He found it pathetic often, remembering the diverse literature he read over the decades, where people referred to this act as "relief".

There was no relief for him...he would have never call it such a thing.

He might've been far from home then, but Fontaine's skies always roared with heavy rain as he wailed inside his hidings.

Desperate, naked, in more senses then one and utterly, undoubtedly defeated.

Shame often urged him to seek shelter, a place where noone recognized him, but a nation you hold dear to your heart sometimes can provide certain comfort.

He soon resorted to staying in a cabin near the borders of Fontaine, hidden between tall hills that no human would be silly enough to visit, especially during weeks where the lands were known to flood for the past decades.

There might be no tell in when it would rain during any other period in this weirdly cursed land, yet they all knew that this prognosis was spot on every spring.

Neuvillette makes himself at home after a long trip, dusting off the shelves and changing the cabin's large bed into fresh sheets.

He's long past the age of roaming.

He should be entering his sixth millennia soon? Maybe?

Yet the once cold cabin doesn't fill him with dread anymore, warmth engulfing the space as he falls into bed with his lover, one that he stopped searching for but who has found him in these recent years nonetheless.

Today makes another year of which Neuvillette embraces spring with joy, and if the people of Fontaine looked up at the pouring sky a little harder, they'd see silky white and mellow in place of dark and gloomy that once were.

#neuvilette x reader #neuvillette #neuvillette x reader smut #genshin impact smut #genshin x reader smut #neuvillette x reader

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sepublic · 2 months

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Everyone jokes that Pit is the unpaid intern who depends on tips to survive, but in a way, Palutena is also that amidst the godly pantheon; So it's fitting her personal champion reflects those same frustrations. Because if you think about it, Palutena is the only god actually trying to do her job in maintaining the celestial balance and helping humanity, and without really asking for anything?

You have Medusa, Pandora, Thanatos, Hades, and Pyrrhon, whom are all self-explanatory. You have Dyntos, who is neutral and does lean towards the greater good every now and then; But his general inaction is still enabling, and Palutena is scared of him for a reason.

We have Poseidon, who actually DOES help Palutena, but also admitted to wiping out a bunch of humans casually, and otherwise doesn't do anything else to participate. And while Viridi does try to maintain the balance of nature, she also massacred countless humans and contributed to the chaos that attracted the Aurum. And humans are a part of nature themselves, too!!!

And it's interesting because Palutena doesn't seem to demand anything in return; It seems she really is doing this out of the goodness of her heart, more or less. She does have her issues and occasional petty condescension towards humans, but otherwise Palutena's the only member of the pantheon committed to keeping things together. And while humans do sometimes praise and worship Palutena, it seems that she'd help them anyway even if she didn't; She calls Magnus a jerk but that's really it.

That ties into how sometimes, Palutena does admit that she feels pressured and overwhelmed with her duty, and the way she thanks Pit for insisting she does a great job in Chapter 4 kinda feels like... Well, maybe she's fishing for compliments sometimes, because Palutena could genuinely use the validation and it's lonely. This is also why she admits she's honored that Hades knows who Palutena is, because Hades is presumably a big deal in the pantheon, and I think Palutena craves validation, as much as she wants to be pure and selfless about her work; She does genuinely care too, these two things aren't mutually exclusive.

There's the Chaos Kin arc, and while Palutena's possibly just saying she's sick of doing the dirty work for humanity because the Chaos Kin makes her... There could be a hint of truth, just how Dark Pit reflects the truth in Pit's heart; Again, parallels between Goddess and Angel. She admits she's tired of constantly having to protect and take care of the humans, which is like Pittoo being frustrated with doing Palutena's dirty work.

Which then gets me to another point; Pit being a reflection of Palutena's light, because I can kinda see her venting her frustration through him? If Palutena feels beleaguered as the only goddess protecting humanity and the world in general, then she might really appreciate having a devoted angel with infinite energy, who will jump to any task for her. Which makes Pit a way for Palutena to treat herself, let someone help her handle the load, etc.

But there is a darker side, with how Palutena will sometimes demean Pit, even appealing to Viridi and Hades in Chapter 15 this way; It kinda reminds me of people who are bullied, only to turn the bullying towards someone else and participating in that so they can be part of the in-group, not be laughed at themselves, etc. Plus her shutting down Pit's disagreement with "Are you the goddess here?" Especially since she might feel that she deserves more respect for her work, and isn't always given that by those 'below' her (AKA humans, usually). It feels good to at least take pride in what Palutena DOES have, right?

And that's Palutena dropping her filter around her own 'Palutena' because admittedly, Pit is in a subordinate position to her. And I guess it feels good, deep down, to be the one letting someone else handle the work, and exercising that power over them because Pit is someone Palutena can get away with being unpleasant around. Part of that is trust, because Palutena feels comfortable being herself, expressing her own insecurities and true feelings.

But the other part is expression frustration at someone who won't talk back, who Palutena doesn't have to worry about holding up an image towards; With other gods it's obvious, and to humans, she has to be their perfect, noble paragon of virtue. In the end, it reminds me of how some people tired with their jobs might take it out on their assistants, or others who are below them, to feel like they're the ones in control and who are being asked for recognition from.

That ironically leads to Pit's own latent frustrations with Palutena, which is furthered by him being unable to fly on his own. And that manifests as Dark Pit. And then Palutena's frustrations manifest through the Chaos Kin's manipulation of her. Imagine if Pseudo-Palutena returned in a sequel to genuinely be the Pittoo to Palutena's Pit, lol. Although her dialogue paints her as more of a mad religious fanatic than someone secretly tired of that work.

In the end, I wonder how much of this has to do with Medusa's betrayal; In the original NES manual, it's mentioned that Palutena and Medusa both ruled together, they're two sides of the same coin, Light and Darkness. But when Medusa neglected her own duties to attack humanity, that forced Palutena to exile her into the Underworld, which basically left her working double, perhaps. Again, like how Pit has to often do all of the work, despite there being centurions who can come back from the dead like he does.

In Pit's case, this comes from a fierce loyalty and protective attitude towards those he cares about; He's a good friend always there for others who wouldn't dare to ask anything of them, but that wears him out ragged. In the case of Palutena, she had to lose that option entirely when Medusa went on a rampage; But shortly afterwards, Pit rescued her and became Palutena's champion.

So Pit has a lot of work dumped on him, and maybe that's because he's essentially taking over Medusa's duties in being someone who works directly alongside Palutena to maintain balance. That could make him a fun parallel to Medusa in a way. And maybe Pit is aware of this, adding to his refusal to ever question or betray the Goddess of Light, because he knows she's already been hurt and is also doing more work than she's supposed to. His loyalty comes out of empathy and compassion towards someone he can tell really needs it.

But that selflessness can be self-destructive, because Pit will forget to consider what he's getting in return, and that gives us Pittoo, whose selfishness is framed as not inherently bad, and even good for him. But Palutena does care for Pit in return, in big and little ways, such as preparing a cold drink for him after Chapter 10. She cares a lot for Pit too, she'll cook a delicious vegetable stew for him!

You know if Medusa returns in a sequel, I'd like to know more about her and Palutena's falling-out, if there was actually anything more to it than just "Medusa looks down on humanity." After the Chaos arc, I could see her insinuating to Pit that Palutena will betray him for real, just as she did her... Only for Pit to redo that same speech about how Medusa is an unprompted murderer of helpless innocents, ya dingus.

TL;DR Palutena is the only goddess doing her job and it's exhausting and she takes it out on her secretary who is also in the exact same position, ironically.

#Palutena #Kid Icarus #Kid Icarus Uprising

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gloomwitchwrites · 10 months

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Frozen Ground: Part 1 (Din Djarin x Female Reader)

Content & Warnings: romantic fluff, love at first sight, Mandalorian culture

Word Count: 5.4k

Din travels to a farming planet to recruit a reclusive group of Mandalorians to help retake Mandalore. The snowy season is starting, and the locals are preparing for their winter observance. While waiting for the Mandalorian covert to come to a decision, Din spends time with the local population, finding a bit of comfort with a particular someone.

A/N: Part of the Winter 2023 Collection

Part 2

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // winter 2023 masterlist

Mando’a Translations: buir – father, mother Mando’ade – Mandalorians (plural) vod – brother, sister, comrade

The N1 Starfighter exits hyperspace and cruises through Itera airspace.

Grogu snoozes softly in Din’s lap. His small body is curled up in a ball, and his face is turned into Din’s chest plate as he slumbers. The foundling has been asleep the entire way to Itera, and he shows no sign of waking any time soon.

Din glances away from his foundling and out the N1’s viewport. A small twang of nervousness coils in the pit of his stomach as he observes the quickly approaching planet. It’s not the planet itself that worries Din, but why he was sent here in the first place. It is the task that Bo-Katan Kryze placed upon him with confidence that sits heavy on his shoulders.

Bo-Katan is uniting the clans. She is calling back the tribes in an effort to reclaim Mandalore. She heard a rumor that a reclusive tribe of Mandalorians dwell on Itera. Din is supposed to find them, and convince them to come back with him to Nevarro.

That is all the information he has. Bo-Katan had little intel to give. Din has no idea if these Mandalorians are more like his tribe, or if they lean more towards the ideals that Bo-Katan and her kin follow.

As Mandalorians, this tribe on Itera should welcome him. But Din knows that isn’t always the case. It wasn’t that long ago that Din had his own misgivings against fellow Mandalorians who walked the path differently than he.

When he first met Bo-Katan Kryze and her Nite Owls, Din shunned them. Even when they stepped in to save his foundling, and then later when a group of Quarren attacked him, Din was still reluctant to engage with them.

It’s not his proudest moment, and since then, much about his life has changed. The way he sees the galaxy, and his understanding of what it means to be a Mandalorian has shifted significantly in the last few years. While he holds tightly to his ideals, he knows that his way is not the only way.

Mandalorians should not hide in the dark any longer.

The cloudy expanse of Itera becomes clearer as Din cruises closer. Itera is a fertile farming planet located on the edge of the Middle Rim. Din rummaged around in some public achieves to scrounge up any information he could about it. According to the information he did manage to locate, Itera is relatively peaceful and mostly inhabited by small farming communities.

Even though Bo-Katan lacked information on who these Mandalorians are, she was able to provide Din with an estimated range of coordinates. She told him that they might be located within this range, but wasn’t entirely sure if her intel was reliable.

He’s worked with less.

Din punches in the numbers and the navigation system focuses in on a small bit of land in the northern hemisphere.

The N1’s engine purrs, and Grogu turns over in Din’s lap. The foundling does not wake.

Din’s ship breaks through the atmosphere and effortlessly transitions into the gray cloud cover. The clouds spit Din out over dreary farmland. Below him, droids and people work the land.

Din does not see any buildings that indicate a settlement. He checks the navigation system again and it reveals his suspicions. The coordinates Bo-Katan gave him cover too much land. He’ll need to tighten the search.

“Kriff me,” mutters Din, as he clears the coordinates from the nav system. “R5, scan the surface. Let’s find civilization.”

R5 chirps, and then a little antenna pops out of its head, spinning slowly in a circle. Din reduces his speed over the farmland, waiting for R5 to give him an answer. After a few minutes, the antenna retreats, and then the navigation system lights up with new coordinates.

Din follows the set path. While most of what Din sees is farmland, buildings start to appear in small intervals. At first, it’s just one or two, and then a cluster at a time. Before long, the wall of a settlement appears. There is open land to the left that Din deicides to land on.

He brings the N1 down softly.

Grogu still doesn’t stir. The little womprat has his right hand in his mouth, and a little line of drool runs down the back Grogu’s palm. Sighing, Din wipes it away.

“R5, what’s the temperature outside?” asks Din quietly as he watches a few swirls of snow drift down from the gray clouds. They land on the glass of the N1 and immediately melt.

R5 responds in a series of binary and Din sighs.

It’s far too cold for Grogu to be walking around for long periods of time. The snowy season has arrived on this planet, and Grogu will need something warmer to wear.

Slowly, Din releases the hatch and cold air drifts in. Using the blanket from Grogu’s pram, Din wraps the foundling in it, gently laying him down in the cockpit seat. Din steps out onto the wing and then the hard ground as the hatch closes.

He turns to R5. “Keep an eye on him while I’m gone.” R5 beeps in reply and Din heads toward the open gates.

The wood wall of the settlement seems more decorative than functional, roughly stopping at Din’s chest. Once Din approaches the entrance, he notices that there are no gates at all. It’s entirely open.

Strolling down the main street, Din realizes rather quickly that no one avoids him. It’s the exact opposite. Every person he passes greets Din with a friendly “hello” or nodding of the head before going about their day.

It’s bizarre. Strange. And it momentarily disorients him.

Din thought that he might ask around, see if he could find someone willing to talk to him. But every friendly face only causes him to question who he needs to speak to on locating the Mandalorian covert. No one shies away or avoids looking directly at his helmet. Each person is bold and unafraid of him.

Is the Mandalorian covert known to these people? Do they interact with them frequently?

Perhaps. It would explain why no one seems frightened of him.

Din enters deeper into the settlement, seeking out a cantina or public establishment where he might find information. Not finding any such place on the main road, Din tracks back to the very front of the settlement, deciding to head east and take a look around.

Rounding a corner, he hears the distinct sound of laughter. It’s not one person, or even a few, but a low roar like a small crowd. Din keeps walking, tracking the sound, coming across a small building that hardly looks big enough to hold a drinking establishment. In addition, the door is just red fabric handing from the top of the door frame.

The laughter comes again, and it’s much louder than before. He’s in the right spot.

With all the confidence Din can muster, he strides up to the curtain, pushing it aside and he steps into the building.

Din comes to a grinding halt, nearly tripping on his own feet.

This is not a cantina or anything similar.

A group of women, nearly fifteen in total, occupy the space. They all have large canvas sacks next to them, each one full of something different. Some look like they’re full of flower petals while others appear to hold bright red berries. The women vary in age. Most of them are older than Din, but there are a few who look to be about his age, give or take a few years.

They glance up but keep working, several of them smiling softly at him.

Din feels like an unwanted intruder even though the women appear calm and indifferent to his presence. He mumbles a “sorry” intended to back out the way he came, but the moment his boot slides backward, one of the women stands, her full attention on him.

“How can I help you, Mandalorian?”

You dust a few petals off your apron, missing the one in your hair, and approach Din, hands clasped in front of you. Din’s heart temporarily stutters to a stop before revving into a thudding beat he can feel in his ears. You’re pretty, but that isn’t the only thing he notices. You’re delicate lines and curves appeal to him in a way that trigger’s his protective instinct.

The flash of feeling, this need Din suddenly exhibits flashes bright and hot before his brain catches up and tries to smother it down to cooling embers.

“Excuse me. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Din tries to back out again but you only push in, and Din’s hand relexify forms a fist in an attempt to thwart the growing need to touch you.

“There is no interruption. How can I be of service to you?” Your head tilts to the right slightly, and the eagerness on your face sends blood to his groin.

Din’s eyes roam all over your body, but his eyes keep going back to the lone petal that’s tangled in the strands of your hair.

The other women still work, none of them glancing in Din’s direction. He decides to seek help, knowing it might not do much.

“There is a Mandalorian covert on this planet that I’m searching for. Do you know where I might find them?”

“Oh,” you murmur. Your eyes round slightly, and your lips part in surprise. “I didn’t realize—I thought you—” You shake your head and the petal in your hair stays put.

“Is there anyone here that might know?”

The gentle surprise morphs into amusement. “Everyone knows where they are.” The corners of your mouth curve up into a soft smile and Din nearly melts under that gaze. He is so absorbed in your beauty that your words are the last thing to catch up to him.

Everyone knows where they are?

Din does not have the chance to follow-up, you’re already talking, telling him exactly what he needs to know. “Just to the north of here. There’s a forested area where the covert lives.”

This is unusual, and Din is slightly unsure whether or not he can trust what he might find once he ventures in that direction.

“Do you know where exactly?”

You shake your head. “We do not go in. They like their privacy, and we are respectful of that.”

This is better news. The two groups must interact frequently. It would explain why everyone in town isn’t afraid of him.

“You’re not from around here?” you ask, curiosity tinging your tone.

“No,” replies Din. “I’m not.”

Your gaze softens. “If no one has, allow me to formally welcome you.”

Without thinking—without pausing to reconsider—Din reaches toward you, his gloved fingers plucking the petal from your hair. He presents it to you, open palmed.

Delicately, you lift it, rubbing it between your fingers. With your gaze on the petal, Din takes a step back, the curtain brushing against his back. You glance up, and Din inclines his head, disappearing quickly before he does something he’ll regret.

Din still burns beneath his armor even after he arrives back at the N1. Grogu is still sleeping, and his ship is entirely untouched. Din is careful with the foundling when he settles back into the cockpit.

He relays the information to R5 who promptly scans the area, sending new coordinates to the navigation system. Once clear, Din follows the trail north, finding the forest you mentioned. Din circles around a few times, eventually settling on a flat spot of land just outside the tree line. Din lowers the N1 to the planet’s surface. Grogu stirs in his lap but doesn’t wake.

He leaves Grogu behind again with R5, knowing that he can come back for Grogu later. The droid will look after him until Din can assess the situation.

As Din approaches the tree line, he pauses, surveying the ground around him. At first glance there are no footprints of even animal prints. He engages the scanner in his helmet. The moment it switches on, his screen lights up with glowing boot prints. They are everywhere, moving in so many directions that Din cannot find a pattern.

Frowning, Din switches over to another scanner. This one seeks out what only Mandalorians leave behind for others of their kind to find. He sweeps the scanner over the ground, and then the trees. He comes up empty.

Sighing, Din starts walking, stepping past the tree line and tries again, this time doing a slow sweep of the ground and trees. The hard ground crunches under his boots, and it is incredibly quiet, the only sound is the whistling wind.

On a tree in the distance, a soft glow catches Din’s attention in the scanner. He pauses, takes one step back for a better view. It’s a glowing Mythosaur with an arrow beneath it pointing to the right.

This is his lead. This is his break. You were telling the truth.

Din heads toward the glowing symbol and then follows the direction the arrow indicates, scanning the area for any other markers. He locates another that directs him deeper into the trees. It leads to a large rock formation. The stone slabs are layered over each other like a twisted crown.

There, glowing bright against the gray rock, is another Mythosaur.

“Hail, vod.”

Din whirls around, his hand on his blaster. The only thing that stays his hand from drawing the weapon is the use of the word vod.

A male Mandalorian drops from a tree branch and strides forward, stopping a few feet away from Din. His armor is dented in a few places and painted in various green tones that emulate the trees.

No wonder Din didn’t see him.

The man has not drawn his weapon, which means he does not see Din as a threat. But why would he? Mandalorians are stronger together, and any reunion, even between tribes, is a joyous one.

Din immediately removes his hand from his blaster, standing tall and proud. He has a job to do. “My name is Din Djarin. I’ve come on behalf of Lady Bo-Katan Kryze.”

The green-clad Mandalorian crosses his arms. “I see,” he replies, tone grim. “And what does Lady Kryze want with us?”

Better to get it out now in case he’s turned away. “She is rallying the clans to retake Mandalore.”

The man is quiet for a beat before he answers. “And she wishes for us to join her?”

“She does.”

The Mandalorian nods, and drops his arms, striding forward. “Well, Din Djarin. You are welcome in our enclave, and we will hear what you have to say.” He presents his hand and Din clasps it. “I am Crix Lera. Welcome to our home.”

Crix releases Din’s hand. He brushes past Din and heads to the rock.

Din follows, and notices a small opening that Crix disappears inside. The space isn’t tight but the formation of the natural rock hides the entrance. You’d need to know exactly where it is to see it.

Din slides through the opening, only to find himself in a small tunnel. Crix walks ahead, and Din follows on his heels along the path. They don’t walk for long. The small tunnel begins to widen, and then opens up into a large communal area.

The first thing Din immediately notices are the lack of faces. Everyone wears a helmet except for a few small children. The communal area is circular, and the center of the room is lower than the rest of the floor. There is a fire burning there, the smoke curling upward to exit through a naturally formed ventilation shaft. In the rocky ceiling are small cut outs that let in some natural light.

When Din enters the area on Crix’s heels, several people pause and glance up, watching the duo as Crix walks along the edge of the room. Din takes this time to take a closer look at the Mandalorians he’s been sent to speak with.

They all appear healthy. Their armor is relatively clean and in good repair. The ratio of men to women is fairly equal, and the number of foundlings is much larger than his tribe’s. Din’s gaze passes over a woman standing by the far wall with a man and a small child. She’s clutching her belly, and that is when Din notices the slight bulge underneath her chest plate.

“You’ll meet with our armorer and tribe leaders,” says Crix over his shoulder, drawing Din’s attention away from the slowly growing crowd of Mandalorians.

“Do they make all the decisions?”

Crix shakes his head. “No. We make them as a group. But when it comes to matters pertaining to the whole clan, they are the ones who mediate the discussions. We will often look to them for final guidance.”

Din does not reply. It’s similar to how his own tribe operates, but he still has too many questions.

Crix guides Din to a small cut in the rock wall. It’s an archway, and it deposits them into a much smaller chamber. A simple forge sits in the center of the room. A Mandalorian Armorer and a child stand together near a workbench. The child is young but old enough to start their training. The two of them talk softly.

On the opposite side of the room, another Mandalorian hammers away at some armor. It’s clear that this is still a child, perhaps a teenager, and must be an apprentice of some kind because his armor is like that of the armorer’s.

The armorer and child both look up when Din and Crix enter the room. Din hangs back near the archway as Crix addresses the armorer.

“We have a visitor, Vikal. This is Din Djarin. Sent to us by Lady Bo-Katan of Clan Kryze. He says she is rallying the clans to retake Mandalore.”

At the mention of retaking Mandalore, the apprentice pauses mid-swing to glance over at Din. The small child at Vikal’s hip shifts slightly, clearly nervous.

Vikal sets the vambrace he’s holding on top of the workbench. He turns toward the apprentice. “Darro. Take your brother and leave us.”

Darro immediately responds, heading in their direction.

“But buir!” protests the child, his little fist tugging on his father’s hand.

“Hush. Go with your brother.” Vikal places a hand on the child’s shoulder just as Darro presents his hand. The child takes it, and Din steps to the side as they pass through the archway.

Once they leave, Vikal steps out from around the workbench and strides forward, pausing just a few feet away from Din. Vikal’s armor and clothes are all black. It’s almost like looking into the void of space. He’s tall, too. Perhaps as tall or even surpassing Paz Vizsla in size.

“Yours?” asks Din, using the question to learn a little bit about the tribe’s practices.

“Mine,” confirms Vikal. But he doesn’t elaborate, and Din decides not to say anything more. “Have you just arrived?” inquires Vikal. “From Mandalore?”

“No,” answers Din. “I came from Nevarro.”

“That is far.”

Vikal closes the distance, his helmet moving with him as he clearly observers Din’s armor. It is not an objectifying look, but an appreciation. “You wear fine work.”

“The armorer of my tribe forged it for me. I am honored by it.”

“This is the Way,” states Vikal.

“This is the Way,” replies Din.

Vikal inclines his head and takes a step back. “You are our guest here. You shall have our hospitality before we speak on more serious matters. As warriors, we are always so quick to take action. Rest. Eat. We will proceed from there.” He turns to Crix. “See to it that Din Djarin has a private room and a hot meal.”

Crix nods, and he and Din depart.

In his private room, Din removes his helmet, and eats.

The food is hot. Fresh. So different from the plain rations he’s used to eating with his tribe. Din wants to know more about this one. He is curious to their ways. When Crix comes for him, the two return to the main communal area. The entire tribe is there, including all the younglings. It is then that he notices several Mandalorians clutching infants.

Din scans the crowd and his heart drops into his stomach.

R5 is here. The droid is on Vikal’s left side. On the armorer’s right, sitting on the floor near his boots, is Grogu. The foundling has a wooden bowl before him. He reaches in, and lifts a handful of something that Din doesn’t recognize and shoves it all into his mouth.

Din immediately aims for Grogu. Seeming to sense him, Grogu glances up and coos, his food covered hands reaching for Din.

“I assume this one is yours?” asks Vikal as Din lifts Grogu and holds the little womprat up to his face. Din checks him over but the foundling is fine. No signs of injury expect the food that’s smeared all over the child’s hands and face.

“Yes,” sighs Din. Crix holds out a hand, indicating he should take a seat. Din does so but he puts Grogu back on the floor. The foundling immediately crawls toward the bowl.

“Your foundling and the droid arrived not too long ago. Found us quite easily. Impressive for one so young.”

Din smiles softly behind the helmet.

Vikal rubs his knees and then stands, striding forward, stopping before the fire. The entire room quiets.

“Mando’ade! We welcome Din Djarin.” Vikal turns toward Din and extends his arm in Din’s direction. The Mandalorians in attendance beat their fists against their chests three times before dropping their arms. “He brings us an important message.”

Vikal retreats, stopping before Din. “Approach, vod. We will hear you.”

Din stands slowly. Grogu’s head tilts to the side, watching Din, his mouth full of food. Din walks to the center of the room just shy of the fire.

“I am Din Djarin. My tribe lives on Nevarro. I have come before you at the behest of Lady Bo-Katan Kryze. She is rallying the clans in an effort to return to and reclaim our ancestral home world of Mandalore. She sent me to ask you if you are willing to join our efforts.”

Din pauses and every single person in the room is watching him, saying nothing. He swallows, knowing that he’ll need to say more to convince them to join.

“I know that I am in no position to ask this of any of you. But we have lived in the dark for too long. Our people are scattered. Like stars in the galaxy. Perhaps it is time for us to live in the light once again. So that our culture may flourish and our children can feel what is it to play in the sunlight.”

The Mandalorians around him chatter softly, but Din cannot differentiate between their conversations. He turns toward Vikal, and the man stands. “Is Lady Kryze certain of success?” he asks, addressing Din. “Mandalorians are few, and our preservation is important. Can she guarantee that there will not be needless death?”

No.

Din sighs, his shoulders heaving slightly. “I cannot give you any such certainties.”

Another Mandalorian stands. It is a man, and his armor is a deep red. “That planet is cursed. The air is unbreathable and nothing grows. We have all heard the stories. Why should we go back to a dead planet?”

“This is not true,” says Din vehemently. “I have been to the surface. I have seen Mandalore with my own eyes. The air is breathable. Life is possible.”

The quiet chatter heightens. Becomes a dull roar.

“What is Lady Kryze’s plan for when the planet is retaken?” This time, a woman asks the question.

“Her goal is the Great Forge. That will be our place of operations and base for reconstruction.”

Din will tell them the truth. There is no reason to hide anything.

“But will we have a place there? Can we call Mandalore home? Or must we return to this planet?”

“All Mandalorians are welcome.”

Vikal nods and stands. “Does anyone else have questions for Din Djarin?” No one replies. “Thank you for relaying Lady Kryze’s message. You have given us much to consider.” Vikal addresses the room. “We will reflect on this, and then convene tomorrow evening for deeper discussion.”

The crowd of Mandalorians incline their heads and place their fists over their hearts. When their arms drop back to their sides, many start to get up and leave.

This isn’t the outcome Din was hoping for. He thought he might receive a quick answer, or even an indication that they are willing to join.

Crix comes up beside Din. “Decisions are never made quickly. You’ll likely be here a few days.”

“As long as I can return with an answer.”

“I’ll come for you tomorrow morning. The local population is holding a festival to celebrate the coming cold.”

Din thinks back to you and the women in that small dwelling. He didn’t exactly get a good look at what you were doing, but Din can only assume the two are connected.

Din tips is head to the side. “You mingle with them?”

“To an extent,” shrugs Crix. “They have no standing army or protection. We look after them, and they take care of us. It has kept our tribe safe for many years.”

Din nods and then bends at the knees to pick up Grogu, cradling the foundling close to his heart.

Crix fetches Din in the early hours of the morning. Grogu is left behind with the other younglings. Din is reluctant to do so, but Crix is persuasive, and Grogu is visibly happy to be amongst other children.

The two men head back through the tunnel, stepping out into the forest. The sun is starting to rise but it’s hard to see through the gray clouds. It snowed overnight, and there is a dusting across the forest floor.

Three Mandalorians mingle just outside the exit. Two men and one woman. They greet Crix with firm handshakes.

“This is Din Djarin,” says Crix. “He’s joining us on our visit into town.”

“Passionate speech you made last night. I’m Jido. Welcome.” Jido and Din clasp forearms and shake.

Jido steps back and points his thumb over his shoulder at the other two Mandalorians. “That’s Ran and Cerra.” Ran gives Din a half-hearted salute while Cerra lifts her hand in greeting. Jido leans in and whispers. “They’re a bit boring.”

“Heard that,” snaps Cerra as she turns her back on the group. “We going?”

The five of them head into the trees, walking in the direction that Din entered from. When they exit, Din heads for the N1, looking it over for any signs of tampering. It’s clean, and Din sighs with relief.

“The people here don’t touch things that aren’t theirs. Your ship will be fine,” states Crix as he walks up beside Din. He runs his gloved hand over the wing in appreciation.

“On Tatooine, I had a run in with some Jawas,” replies Din.

Crix snorts. “What was left of your ship?”

“Nothing.”

Jido, Ran, and Cerra’s jetpacks ignite. Crix and Din follow suit, the five of them launching into the air. Din trails behind, following the four Mandalorians as they jet across dreary farmland.

In minutes they approach the small settlement Din visited yesterday, landing right outside the wall. The people moving about don’t even seem to care that a group of Mandalorians landed amongst them. They keep going about their lives as if is this the norm. It’s the same reaction they had with Din.

Din is almost always the stranger. The unknown variable. In crowded places, he is avoided unless someone needs something from him.

He stays at the back of the pack. Jido, Ran, Crix, and Cerra all appear relaxed. They chat amongst themselves, and even stop for an old woman who presents a basket to them full of the red berries Din saw yesterday. Each Mandalorian takes a handful and deposits the goods into various pockets of their flightsuits.

The old woman approaches Din and holds the basket out to him. He doesn’t want to offend her. He scoops out a decent handful and finds a home for them. He’ll share it with Grogu when he returns.

The old woman inclines her head and moves on. Din’s helmet follows her but Crix taps against Din’s upper arm, drawing his attention away from the woman.

Din inhales, and he isn’t sure if the voice receiver in his helmet picks up the soft sound.

You’re standing right there, eyes bright and eager.

“You found them,” you say enthusiastically.

“I did.” Din is nervous. Why is he nervous? Do you do this to him?

Crix crosses his arms and pops a hip. “The two of you know each other?”

You laugh, and it’s the loveliest sound Din has ever heard. “He stumbled in to Tarra’s workshop while we were preparing the Daily Strands.”

“Make enough for us?” asks Jido, his voice a bit sultry. A bit teasing. Din instantly hates that he’s speaking to you that way.

“There are plenty. So, yes,” you tease back, smiling widely.

Crix shifts, turning his body toward Din. “Since you’re our guest, you don’t need to follow us around while we work.” Crix inclines his head in your direction. “She’ll show you around a bit.”

You look so hopeful that Din cannot say no.

He walks beside you the entire time as you go on about the important buildings, the history of the people, and the finer details of your culture. Din is enraptured by how animated you are toward him. He hardly risks asking any questions, mostly wanting to hear you talk.

“Here we are.” You extend your hand toward the building Din stumbled into yesterday.

“Are we going inside?” asks Din skeptically.

You grin and push back the curtain, gesturing for him to come inside. He follows, and this time there are only two other women in this space. They greet Din politely, but return to their work. You walk over to a large table. On it, are…necklaces? Din isn’t entirely sure what they are.

With caution, he approaches, you present one to him.

“These are Daily Strands. We wear them every day during the winter observance.” You point to the threads holding it together. “The threaded cord is the base, symbolizing the importance of community.” Next, you point to the flower petals. “These symbolize the eventual thaw and growth of new life.” Then the red berries. “These are native to the planet. We dry them out to represent the frozen ground.”

“And what do these symbolize?” asks Din, pointing to long, thin, green, stick-like leaves.

“Abundance. These are needles from local trees, and they grow everywhere.” You smile softly. “But it’s more of a wish for prosperity in the future.”

These are what Jido and Crix were referring to.

You gently lift the Daily Strand, presenting it to Din like an offering. “It’s customary to wear one of these.”

Din does not refuse. Instead, he lowers at the waist so that you can slide it over his helmet and around his neck.

You gently draw away and your hands fall to your skirts, your fingers fumbling with the fabric in nervousness. “It is also customary for the giver to kiss the cheeks of the receiver.” You shrug. “But I can make an exception given the circumstances.”

Din remembers how eager Jido was to receiving one of these. Briefly, Din imagines you kiss the sides of Jido and Crix’s helmets, and Din instantly simmers.

Not knowing how to ask, Din bends again, this time just enough that all you’ll need to do is to go up on your toes to place those gentle lips against his beskar.

“No exceptions,” he murmurs.

Your mouth forms a soft o, and then it cools, turning into tender satisfaction. Slowly, you kiss the curve of his helmet on the right side and then the left.

Even with the helmet on, Din still manages to catch a whiff of your scent. You smell like the trees and warm sugar. Without instruction, his hand brushes against your hip.

You do not draw away, and that pleases something deep within Din. When you pull back, Din instantly misses your heat.

“I will wear this every day,” says Din, his hand resting against it briefly.

You laugh, and Din doesn’t understand what you find so funny. “It’s a Daily Strand. You receive a new one each day.”

Every day? Does that mean you’ll kiss him every time you place a new one around his neck?

“Then I will be back tomorrow for a new one.”

“Promise?” you murmur.

“Promise.”

Part 2

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