#fall of valyria

[ophelias-lamentation]

Daenys the Dreamer. Daughter of Aenar Targaryen, a dragon lord of the Valyrian Freehold. She was a dragon dreamer who foresaw the fall of Valyria. Her father listened to her warnings and fled with his family to Westeros. She is the great-great-great grandmother of Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives Rhaenys and Visenya. Her visions led to the Targaryens being the only dragonlords to survive the fall of Valyria.

[thesims4asoiaf]

Targaryens before the conquest

Order:

Aenar had many wives, with two different women he had Daenys and Gaemon. Gaemon and Daenys had Aegon, Elaena and Vaella. Vaella married a common lord. Aegon and Elaena had Maegon and Aerys. Aerys married his cousin, Daenora. Daenora and Aerys had Aelyx, Baelon and Daemion. Daemion married Aerea Velaryon. Aerea and Daemion had Aerion. Aerion married Valaena Velaryon and together they had Visenya, Aegon and Rhaenys

[capaloma]

Jacaerys is a novice priest serving in the temple of Vermax on an outpost between Qohor and Essaria when General Aemond of House Targaryen shows up, demanding the boy be handed to him as a prisoner of war. If the priests truly love Vermax, they would willingly give up their novice or else Aemond would lay Vhagar's wrath until nothing but less than ashes remained.

Jace agrees to save the lives of his brethren, and Aemond takes his sister's bastard son as hostage. Jace may not remember his mother but she does him. Rhaenyra would be hurt by his capture and incensed by Aemond’s killing of Luke in the battlefield.

Perhaps, he might just win this war that's devolved into a war of dragons, other houses of old Valyria joining their conflict. Maybe Aemond won't be a failure.

[navree]

This a bit late but about the original targaryens being peasents. Have you come across the idea that only the noble of valyria had dragons and thats why the velarions dont have them? Well what if what gets the peasent targaryens pushed into nobility is that one of them suddenly tames a dragon. There can be a lot of drama in that like there can be opposing sides of people either thinking of course they are now noble they have a dragon and those meaning they cant possibly just become nobility like that. There are people thinking they should get in trouble for doing it. And what does the other peasents think of it. Theres both friends and enemies but in the political scene who knows whos who and bonus point if the dragon tamed is known to be the wildest most untamable dragon.

Before anything else, it is never too late to ask me questions about posts I've made. You can ask me about a post I made from like five years ago and there's a nonzero chance I will not only remember it but also still have thoughts about it. Ask away, I never mind. And I definitely think it would definitely be intriguing that the forefather of House Targaryen tamed a wild dragon and thus allowed the family to be vaunted into nobility, but I kinda wanna dig deeper into it.

So, the post in question (which I would link to if I can find it but right now I can't) was essentially that, if I were put in charge of a pre-Doom of Valyria show that I'd ideally make about the last Ghiscari-Valyrian wars, I would make it so that one of the major characters is is the progenitor of the Targaryen dynasty, and that I would have them come from humble/peasant origins. This is because George has said that he's based a lot of Valyria off of Ancient Rome, and you can extrapolate that to mean that he's referring to the Roman Republic, due to the way that Valyrian government was structured, with the forty dragonlords supposedly sharing power, kinda like the old Roman Senate. And I was largely basing it on the rise of Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa. Because while Rome was, technically, something of a meritocracy, with a priority given to those who themselves had done important things rather than inherited important things, more class mobility and opportunities to earn power even if one started out with one than we tend to see in classical monarchies (which made Augustus's balancing act of having an appointed successor while making people think they weren't living in an autocracy incredibly impressive but that's for another time), it was still an unequal society where the vast majority of opportunities came to people who were connected to the wealthy and powerful and had the right connections. The historical Marcus Agrippa is described as having been of incredibly humble peasant origins, to the point where he went by his cognomen (nickname) rather than his nomen (family name) in order to distance himself from it (another of Augustus's friends/important generals is also described as having "humble origins" but that one betrayed him so we don't talk about him unless we wanna angst about it). But because Rome had something approaching compulsory schooling, eleven to twelve year old Agrippa started being educated alongside the similarly aged Gaius Octavius Thurinus (the future Octavian/Caesar Augustus) whose own family, though not patrician, was pretty damn close to it, as they were incredibly wealthy, incredibly influential in the Roman "suburb" of Velletri, who had already engaged in politics (Gaius's father had been quaestor, praetor, governor of Macedonia where he earned fame for putting down a slave rebellion, and had been going to stand in the consular election when he died unexpectedly), and were closely linked to Julius Caesar himself (Gaius was related to Caesar matrilineally as his mother was Caesar's niece), and Gaius himself had already been noticed and prioritized by Caesar by that time. By becoming his friend (along with a whole host of other stuff that made these two stupidly close to the point of homoerotic codependency but again, rant for another time), Agrippa was given a whole host of opportunities to advance himself on his own merits that he wouldn't have had otherwise if he didn't have someone wealthy and powerful to open those doors for him. The Ancient Rome that George based Old Valyria on is a blend of a genuine "pull yourself up by your bootstraps" attitude and a predisposition towards "it's all about who you know", and I think that, creatively, Valyria should have that sentiment, and characters that reflect that sort of Agrippa lifestyle, starting from humble beginnings and getting to power thanks to who you know, and rising both on merit and on someone else's personal affection to end up becoming one of the most powerful and influential men in your society.

That's what I'd do with the hypothetical Targaryen founder. Start him out as someone of incredibly humble beginnings, someone who, like the historical Agrippa, would probably want to distance himself from that side of his lineage, and who has the good fortune to make a friend. Have this character rise through the ranks because his much more important friend is rising in a much more significant way, and suddenly you have a character who is becoming powerful half through proving himself to the world at large and half through luck, which is great character drama. And then, yes, at some point, you can have this character master dragon-riding somehow, perhaps even by taming a wild dragon. We know the dragonlords of Valyria kept the secrets of dragons and the magic they used to bond with them pretty close to the chest, but if we're doing an analogy where Ancient Rome's "noble" class corresponds to Valyrian dragonlords, then it works. Our Targaryen Agrippa is close to dragonlord families through his rise and the rise of those around him, and at some point is either trusted enough to learn something or figures it out on his own, and thus able to bond himself to a dragonrider and earn dragonlord status. And there's a lot of drama in that, in that this isn't someone who is historically from an important family, or has any important ancestors, but was able to just take this because he could, because he needed to, and there can be some dragonlords that are really concerned with what that represents. And I am enamored with your idea on what that means for relationships with people who knew them before; the historical Agrippa had at least one sister and one brother (that's a whole Thing I could talk about the brother all day long because he's the catalyst for a lot of things but again, rant for another time) and while it looks like they definitely benefited from Agrippa's rise, Roman families or gens encompassed a lot more than what we consider the nuclear family nowadays. If we model a Valyrian society the same way, then how do more distant relatives about Targaryen Agrippa's rise to power and about his influence in politics? What did they think about him? Valyria wasn't the most egalitarian society, class-wise, considering the slavery and all of that, so how did the lower classes who weren't slaves but were certainly disadvantaged feel about the Targaryens rising into the dragonlord ranks? How did they even feel about the dragonlords in general? And because I want this all to take place with the backdrop of the Ghiscari-Valyrian conflict, there's a lot you can do about the thoughts of the people on foreign wars, and the concept of cultural unity even if your country/society isn't all that good to you, that can especially be seen through the lens of the Targaryen rise through our Targaryen Agrippa.

This is all a very long-winded way of saying yeah, anon, I would definitely incorporate elements of what you've said here into the broader narrative of how I'd want the progenitor of House Targaryen to be like, and I definitely have a lot of thoughts about how this would look like and how I'd want this character's progression to be. You can even throw in some Velaryons in there as, like, idk, a fishing family or smth to hint at their eventual sea-faring prowess and the way they'd end up getting their own kind of power without being dragonlords and how they'd ultimately survive the Doom. Cuz I love foreshadowing.

[problemswithbooks]

Not going to lie it's a little weird to see people who are huge fans of the Targaryens try and down play the bad stuff they did.

Like when they say they didn't colonize Westeros they just conquered it. As if that's any better.

By definition, no the Targaryens didn't colonize Westeros, but that's less because they were so much better than the First Men or Andals and more because they simply couldn't. The Valyrians did colonize the places they conquered in Essos, but by the time Aegon crowned himself King of Westeros all but his family remained of the pure blooded Valyrians.

They couldn't colonize in the traditional sense of the word because there were only a handful of them left--not a large scale population that could come and take over all the lands and Houses of Westeros.

But that doesn't mean conquest is better. It's still subjugating and controlling people with military force.

It's also weird when they argue that Westeros did better under the Targaryens so actually the conquest was good. Did Westeros have some really despicable policies or constant fighting, sure, but a country--or a batch of countries, having bad morals or infighting doesn't give someone else the right to take them over and instill themselves as King. That is the kind of excuse the US uses all the time and every thinks that's pretty shit.

But the prophecy? What about that?

Well, it's honestly kind of stupid, or in the very least makes Aegon and any of his family that heard it look stupid. If he legitimately had a dream of the world ending unless one of his family had their ass on a united Westeros throne it was brain-dead not to flaunt that like no tomorrow. In world where there's magic and dragons, where the Targaryens already saved themselves from the Doom of Valyria a hundred years prior there would be no reason for Westeros to believe it.

I'm sure some of the Lords would have still resisted regardless, but it still would have made it much easier for the Targaryens over all to rule if the entire country was under the impression they needed to be in charge to save the world. Heck, it also might have put a damper on some of the later infighting like the Dance if everyone had known. Could it have caused some problems, sure, but concealing from everyone but the heir is dimwitted simply because they could easily be killed off before passing it on.

But even if Aegon thought he needed to be King of Westeros to save the world that doesn't mean his conquest was good. If that was the case the Andals taking over Westeros from the First Men was justified to because they believed it was their promised land. Or were desperate to escape slavery under the Valyrians. But of course neither of those is a good excuse to subjugate an entire continent.

Another talking point is to point out that the real colonizers are the First Men and Andals not the Targaryens. As I said before that doesn't quite hold up because it's very likely given how they took over Essos that had more than a handful of Valyrians survived the doom they would have colonized Westeros or at least continued to colonize Essos.

On top of that the First Men colonized Westeros somewhere between 8,000 to 12,000 years ago, and eventually made peace with the Children of the Forest, worshiping their Gods, learning from them and all of them coming together to build the Wall. The Andals came to Westeros, at the earliest 2,000 years ago and colonized both the First Men and the Children of the Forest.

Meanwhile, by the time of Aegon's conquest of Westeros the Valyrians had only been gone a hundred years. Aegon was far more closely related to colonizers then the ancestors of the First Men and Andals that lived in Westeros when he conquered it. So to act as if it's only the Westerosi that have the blood of colonizers in their veins just isn't true. The Targaryens do to and it's much more recent.

And this isn't me saying the Targaryens are evil. The First Men and the Andals have some really awful stuff in their history, and even during the main books do some horrendous stuff. No one in this book series or the TV shows it's based on are entirely clean of fault or even unforgivable stuff like genocide, slavery or colonization.

My point isn't that the Targs are so much worse then the rest of the Houses in Westeros. Just like every other House they have good and bad members. And even the good ones have done terrible things while the worst of the worst sometimes do very very heroic things.

I don't like the argument that simply by being a Targaryen a character is bad or doomed or should fail. But that doesn't mean pretending the House is actually perfect and if they did something bad, like conquering a country and subjugating it's people under a Ruler they didn't want it's fine, plus those people actually deserved it because 2,000 years ago they did evil stuff themselves.

[winter2468]

A Song of Ice and Fire modern AU where Valyria is referred to in the same way that we refer to Chernobyl.

[youraverageaemondsimp]

“Made for me.” // Aemond Targaryen x Sister!Reader

Thank you everyone for 1K followers, I am so grateful for all the support I've received for my fics, it's kind of an emotional moment for me cause I never thought I'd get this far, so here is the fic from this poll! this is short since I did not have much time and I do not want to delay my 1k celebration fic further! <3

MDNI // DD:DNE // reader discretion is advised.

Summary: As far as Aemond can remember, he had liked you, not in a way a brother loves his sister, no, in a way a man loves a woman, finding out that you were soon to be betrothed to a Tully for alliance, he feels devastated, until he decides he can prevent it, by ruining you.

WARNINGS: heavy noncon to dubcon, mindbreak, mindfuck, canon typical incest, creepy aemond(?), possessive aemond, dark!aemond, jealousy, obsession, breeding kink, tiddy sucking, virginity loss, mentions of blood, purity culture, medieval age standards (no smut until 18+), cum eating, cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, porn with little plot. + not proofread.

block the tag #MAE:DARK!CONTENT to avoid seeing dark content from me.

WC: 3k

For as long as Aemond can remember, he had always been smitten with you, his little sister, someone very dear to him, he had loved you since the moment you were born, immediately becoming someone he swore to protect.

He was rumoured to have some romantic feelings for helaena, which wasn't entirely false but if anyone were to look closely, they would realise that the longing gaze he holds for helaena is nothing compared to the one when he looks at you.

As he grew into a man, these feelings developed further, and as he watched you grow into a woman, desire managed to get a hold of him. He remembers the first time he felt carnal attraction towards you, it was your sixteenth nameday, you had worn a beautiful green dress that showed a little cleavage, something his mother would've been against but she let it slide that time, he remembered as you bent over in front of him to get something from the table, giving him full view of your tits which he immediately looked away from.

That night he had rushed back to his chambers as fast as possible to tug on his length at the thought of you.

He was never the same after that, every touch ignited a fire in him, when you would lay on his thigh as you both sat beneath the godswood while he read, he had to fight the urge to take you right then and there, taking your maidenhead in front of the gods to bind you to himself forever.

As the years passed, his feeling for you grew stronger and stronger.

“Aem!” There was your sweet voice calling him once again, his gaze lifted from the book on the table to your form which stood a few metres away from him, you smiled when you noticed his gaze was on you, walking over to him so you stood next to him, peering down on the book he was reading.

“What are you reading?” you ask curiously, voice leaking with inquiry, he looked down at his book before glancing up again, “Just a book about our history, valyria.” he tells you and you lean down slightly over his shoulder, your platinum blonde locks falling over and curtaining the side of his face as you read the text.

“Would you read it to me?” you inquire and he nods, before you shoot him the bright smile that never seemed to leave your face, and pull the chair beside him, causing the wood to make a noise as it glid against the floor, and sitting down on it.

He began reading and you listened to him for quite a while, before your eyes started becoming droopy and closing as sleep tried to overwhelm you, it wasn't because you were not interested in the history, no, it was due to the fact that your older brother's voice was extremely comforting.

He chuckled when he tried your efforts to keep yourself awake and closed the book, “Sister, you must not fight when sleep finds you, go to thine chambers and rest.”

“But brother! You have just gotten to Aegon's conquest.” you pout, and he chuckles, “I shall read it to you tomorrow, now go rest.” he manages to convince you and obey his word.

Aemond sighs as he watches you walk away, you were the Apple of his eye, everyone knew, he had been protective of you since you were younger, though he developed certain type feelings, the kind that a brother shouldn't develop for his sister, but alas, targaryens have queer customs, after all, his elder sister was married to Aegon, their older brother.

It was only time until mother betrothed you both, and he would wait patiently for that, he would often imagine how married life with you would be, it would be perfect.

But all those dreams were crushed when he finds out that your mother was planning to betrothed you to a tully, to get their alliance in case of Aegon's claim for the throne. Angry was an understatement, he was extremely pissed off, and what did you do? You gladly accepted it, even managing to look happy at the proposal.

Just then he remembers his elder sister's words. ‘If one possesses a thing, the other will take it away.’

He could not have that.

He can not have you be taken away from him, that too by an undeserving house such as tully.

You knew something was extremely odd when Aemond came to your chambers at night, he never did that, always deeming it inappropriate for a lady and a man to be together after the moon has risen unless they were husband and wife. So it was extremely shocking as to what he was doing in your chambers, knowing he took the secret entrance since the guard did not mention Aemond at all when you entered.

“Brother? What are you doing here so late?” you ask as you approach him, he is sitting on the chair near the fireplace, turning his head to the side as if to acknowledge your presence, the light bouncing off his face making his features look much more angular and intimidating.

“I have missed you, dear sister.” he stood up and turned to face you, and you peered up at him confused, “I had heard about your betrothal to a tully, though I do not remember his name, I came here to wish you pleasantries and a prosperous marriage.” he tries his best to not scowl.

You smile widely.

And that immediately sets him off.

“Thank yo-” before you could finish your sentence, Aemond grabs you harshly by your cheeks, pulling his face towards his own, “You're happy? You're fucking happy?” he growls as his breath fans your face, “Aemond-” before you could say anything, the same hand that was gripping your cheeks goes to your hair, pulling your head back, your hands fly up to his to make him release his grip as the tug at your strands were incredibly painful.

He doesn't say anything but slams his lips against yours, moving against yours in a frantic rhythm, your eyes widen at this and you push at his chest to pull him off, but he uses the grip on your hair to further push you against him, and soon you're all flush against him, weakly trying to pushing him off while the hand in your hair keeps tightening as the other holds your waist gently.

A true contrast.

He pulls away to breathe and he looks at your teary eyes, as you look at him, “Aemond- you're scaring me.” you say weakly, shaking as his eye narrows, “I love you.” he blurts out and you look at him shocked, “But- we're siblings–”

“We're also targaryens.” he cuts you off, and lets go of your hair.

You squeal when he lifts you up roughly, before making haste over to your bed and throwing you on it, and before you can get up, he traps you in his arms.

“I do not wish to see you married to someone else, you have been mine, since the day you were born, sister.” he whispers in your ear before pressing a kiss to it. You gasped when you felt his hand grope at your clothed breast giving it a tight squeeze and you tried prying his hand off to no avail.

“Aem- please stop-” you beg but he doesn't listen and his eyebrows are furrowed as he looks at you, “Sister, tell me the truth have you not felt anything when you stay with me? A warm feeling in your heart?” your breathe hitches as he asks you that question, and you look away from him, feeling ashamed that you held feelings for him, they very well hidden, you felt ashamed whenever you would feel heat pool between your legs as you watched Aemond do quite literally anything.

He undoes his breeches and pulls his cock out, undeniably hard, “If I ruin you then mother won't marry you off to him, besides, no one would want a woman that is ruined, especially by her own brother.” he says and you sob, shaking your head and you gasp as you feel his dick pressed against your core.

Your silence gave him the answer he needed, he tore your dress apart, the stitches popping off with a noise, as he changed his grip and undoes your clothing.

You try to push him off and hit his chest, in defiance, but he is much stronger than you, pinning your hands above with his one hand as the other pulls off the shredded clothing, with your final strength, you deliver a hard kick to his crotch which causes him to groan and plop on the bed next to you in pain, and you use that change to try and scramble up and off the bed but to your disdain, he immediately recovers and pulls you down with a tight grip on your leg but pushing them apart, placing himself between them and then wrapping his hands around your neck, the grip cutting off air circulation rapidly as you struggled against him.

“Fucking cunt.” he says before spitting on your face and you cry, you feel your brain go dark as you start loosing consciousness at the lack of oxygen only for him to let go, cause you to take a deep breath on relax, snapping you awake at once.

“Sister, look how much you are leaking, way too much for someone that pretends like they hate it.” he rubs his cock against your folds, coating it in your juices and he groans, before he leans in, kissing your neck and then your breasts before pulling back.

“Brother please- ah!” you gasp when you felt his hot fingers press against your bud, rubbing it, making you squirm as you grip his hand and try to push it off but his grip stays firm and you eventually give up, hands falling to your sides and gripping the sheets below as he plays with cunt.

He knew you'd eventually break.

He did not want to hurt you or force you.

But you weren't making it easier and he did not have much time either, so he had to resort to this.

You reach your peak with a loud moan of his name which went straight to his cock, he leaned down and kissed you once more, holding your legs apart by force and then grabbing his cock before lining it up against your entrance, slowly pushing the thick head in, your hands shot up to his shoulder to grab them, nails digging into the skin as he rips you apart on his cock, bullying into you without mercy, his hand covering your mouth as you let out painful whines to shush you up. You whimper when you feel him fully sheathed inside you, feeling too full, your cunt clenching around him painfully tight to push him out but he stays there.

“Look at you, taking my cock so well, like you were made to.” he whispers in your ear before pulling his hips back and snapping them forward, causing you to let out a scream, although it was muffled, at the pain. The orgasm before had only helped a little, he was too thick and big.

At first he starts slowly, pulling back and snapping one at a time, trying to give you time to adjust until you whimpered his name, which made him lose any and all control he had as his pace became faster, brutally slamming his cock inside you as you whined and moaned beneath him.

The sound of wet slapping noises soon fill the air and the smell of sex starts taking over, your mind becomes all hazy at what was happening to you, you watch as Aemond takes one of your breasts in his mouth, suckling on the nipple, drool spilling all over it while his hand gropes the other, massaging it. Your hand travels to his hair and you arch your back, shoving more of your breast in his mouth, making him groan in delight.

He pulls back with a pop and you look at him gasping and wide eyed as he thrusts into you, eyes dropped as slight drool leaks from the sides of your mouth, letting out moans when he hits that sweet spot inside you.

“Fuck- you're so perfect, made just for me.” he grunts, supporting himself on his hands above you, hair curtaining around your face as you stare directly in his eye, watching him close it in pleasure, gasping when he feels you clench around him.

“You're mine right?” his eye opens and he looks at you intensely, you nod, agreeing with what he was saying, your mind losing all of its ability to think rationally the moment he entered inside you, you felt your stomach tighten.

“Use your words.” he commands and you gulp, “Yes only yours— ah! Fuck aemond!” you throw your head back as your second orgasm hits you, moaning out loud and he let's out a shaky breath before you felt his thrusts become sloppy, “Fuck, I'm gonna fill this cunt up, watch my seed take root in your womb, you're mine, mine to fuck, marry, breed, you'll give me many heirs won't you?” he goes off, voicing his thoughts and you feel warm and turned on at his words, “Yes- brother, I'm all yours, only yours.” you say, grabbing his cheek and rubbing a thumb on his scar and he finishes inside you with a loud moan, pushing himself to the hilt as his cock spurts thick ropes of cum inside you.

He pulls out, still somehow hard and lays down beside you, and you feel so empty without him inside you, so you whine, “Aem- I need you.” you pout and he looks at you wide eyed, and you don't know what comes over you, but you find your patience running thin as you wait for him to do something, so you take matters into your own hands, getting on top of him, grabbing his blood soaked cock before rising your hips and sitting down on it.

“Sister?” Aemond asks questionably, as he grabs your hips, watching you bounce on top of his cock, breasts moving up and down as you moan loudly into the chambers, only his name, on repeat and that's when he finally understands what happened.

He broke you.

He fucked your mind.

He should feel bad, knowing how now you're seeking him and his cock out like a bitch in heat but he doesn't, he feels more accomplished at that, knowing you desire no one but him. He moans when he feels your cunt spasm around him as you reach your peak, and instead of stopping, you continue riding him, wanting to bring him to his peak as well, you take one of his hands and guide it to your breast, making him grip it and play with your nipple.

“Brother please! Please cum inside me, I want you to fill me up.” you beg and Aemond groans at that, “Want- want you so bad! please haa, I need to have your children.” you moan and Aemond felt himself reach his peak harshly at that, filling you up once again.

Aemond changes the position, getting on top of you again, cock still inside and you give him a small smile before grabbing his face and pulling him in for a kiss, his lips move passionately against yours, before he pulls away, kissing down your neck and to your breasts, he pulls out and slowly trails kissing down to your down, watching as his loads of cum leak out from you, he pushes his tongue out and collects his juice on his mouth, before shoving it inside again, engulfing your cunt in his mouth, you grab his hair and grind your hips against his face, moaning his name loudly as he works his mouth, his nose shoved against your clit, creating friction whenever he moves his head, and soon enough, you reach your peak once again, “Brother!” you moan as you arch your back and he groans into your cunt, lapping up at the juices being secreted from you, before pulling away from it, placing wet kisses on your inners thighs and coming up towards you again, and kissing you, shoving his tongue inside your mouth, making you taste both your combined juices, and you groan into the kiss at the taste.

You both spent that night just like that.

Your mother was horrified when she had heard about this, and tully had walked in on the conversation, scrunching up his face in disgust and calling off your betrothal, you stood with your arm wrapped around Aemonds arm as he explain his mother what happened, looking away and hiding in his arms as she yelled at him for ruining and spoiling you, before inevitable deciding to betroth you both as result.

And you both were married, two moons later.

The maesters were extremely confused when you went into labour earlier than what they had predicted, they thought that it was going to be a stillbirth, yet they were confused to see when a healthy silver hair babe popped out, crying and cooing. They considered it a miracle but only Alicent and Aemond knew the truth.

Aemond stood there with his child in his arms as he gazed lovingly upon him, a son. You smiled at him as he cooed in high valyrian.

“Maester, When can I take her again?” That question caught the maester off guard and he cleared his throat before speaking up, “I would suggest waiting 6 weeks until she is fully healed, or 3 moons time.” and Aemond hummed.

The maester leaves the room, leaving you, aemond and the babe alone, the baby cooing at his father, small hand entangled in his hair.

“After you heal, I shall put a babe inside you again, dear wife.” He comes down and sits next to you and you smile, “As you wish, husband.” you tease and press a kiss on his lips.

———

[valyriians]

-values of marriage.

cregan stark x fem!targ!reader.

requested: yes.

wc: 7287.

warnings: mention of childbirth, miscarriage, smut, MDNI, oral (f receiving), mention of death. brackets are high valyrian translation.

You let out a laugh while Vermithor roared a victorious screech that could be heard everywhere on the island and patted his back.

’’Tegon, Vermithor!’’ you told him. (land)

He landed at the base of the staircase that led up to the great castle, sliding down as he lowered his body so your fall to the ground wouldn't be harsh you trailed your hand over his neck while you told him to be calm as the dragon keepers walked over to you preparing him to break his fast.

’’What is on today’s menu Claedon?’’ you asked the dragon keeper who is in charge of the dragons.

’’A dozen cattle and three goats, Princess.’’ Claedon says.

’’Give him some more goats, he did so very well today and the rope on the left side is starting to become loose so you need to fix that and maybe have the saddle adjusted while you’re at it.’’ You say while walking to your brothers who are landing with their dragons.

’’Of course Princess, anything else?’’ Claedon asks.

’’No that will be all thank you Claedon.’’ You say as you dismiss him.

’’While my dragon may be smaller and swifter you still somehow manage to best us both.’’ Jace says while he slides down his saddle.

’’Maybe you should’ve paid better attention to the dragon keeper lesson in King’s Landing, you would then be the better rider.’’ You say, half jesting but you always paid attention to anything dragon related, whether it was history, anatomy or just basic stuff.

’’I’ve only been a dragon rider for five moons but I assure you I will one day beat you.’’ Luke says, Arrax was small and had only recently begun taking Luke to the skies.

The three of you share a laugh until you see your grandmother, Princess Rhaenys, you hit Jace beckoning him to stop laughing.

’’Your lady mother needs to see you!’’ She shouts.

You take Luke's hand and begin walking to her and bow to her asking what is the matter.

’’It is best if your mother tells you.’’ Rhaenys looks at you, taking your face into her hands.

Unlike your brothers, you were the result of a successful bedding with Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor, you had the golden-silver hair of Old Valyria. Your grandmother loved all of her grandchildren, she saw her son in you the most. In your looks and your love for your dragon. It was known that Seasmoke was Ser Laenors pride and joy, just like Vermithor was yours.

A concerning look dwelled upon your face as you raced up the staircase to your mother's chambers where you heard screaming and grunting, you entered with your brothers in tow.

’’Mother?’’ Jace asks.

’’Your grandsire, King Viserys has passed.”

Your mother said, panting.

“Viserys?!” Luke cries out.

“The greens have repudiated the succession and claimed The Iron Throne. Aegon has been crowned king.” Your mother said, following cries and grunting.

Your grandfather is dead and your uncle has been crowned king, your mother's birthright and throne had been stolen from her, causing her to go into early labour Maester Gerardys believes.

You felt faint and everything blurred, you sat down and thought about how this had happened, just last night you were having dinner with your king, and everything felt like it was in place. You would’ve never thought that everything happened so quickly and soon.

“What is there to be done about it?” Jace asked in an angry tone, the fire inside him is ready to burst but for the sake of his mother he kept himself composed.

“Nothing yet.” your mother replies, crying and sweating.

“Where is Daemon?” You ask, wiping away your tears and standing up.

“I don’t know, gone to madness, gone to plot his war.” she cries out.

“Leave him with me.” you say to your mother while crouching to her.

“Whatever claim remains to me you are now its heir, the burden is a heavy one.” your mother says to you, clutching your arm.

“I won’t fail you, mother.” You say to her and then walk out of the room.

-

You walk into the main hall with red puffy cheeks and still in your riding clothes, Daemon is by the table pointing to the figurines on the table while the lords are writing things down and talking to each other.

“I will fly to the Riverlands myself and affirm Lord Tullys support.” Daemon says.

“You will do no such thing.” You say, making your presence in the hall known, Daemon looks at you.

“My mother has decreed no action be taken while she is abed.” You say firmly.

“It’s good you’re here young princess, you’re needed to patr-“

“Did you not hear what I said? As Princess of Dragonstone I command this.” You shout, making all the lords look at you, Daemon with rage in his eyes.

“Come with me.” Daemon says gritting through his teeth.

He takes you to the highest top on the Dragonmount. Where he stands before you and shouts at you.

“You dare to command me? I don’t take orders from you, I am your mothers right hand and while she is abed I have the control not you!” He shouts.

“That’s it, your control is only so limited, I will however be my mothers heir as long as I breathe air!” You scream at him, unleashing the anger and grief you feel.

“None of this would have happened if my mother married you!” you said, it was partly true.

“You have only brought pain and torment to her, she’s more than some brood mare who you can have children with and right now she is in anguish, screaming and begging for you! Her husband! The father of her children!” You shout at him, unleashing a scream from you and at the same time a dragons roar shakes the ground, Vermithor felt you, he mirrored your emotions.

You fell to your knees, crying clutching your arms to your chest. You hear footsteps and see Daemon kneeling before you.

“I'm taking control because I am her husband and the mother of my children, for all our safety.” he says, taking your shoulder.

“Now come, we are both needed by someone.” He grabs your hand the both of you walk to the castle.

-

“Wait here.” Daemon says before he walks into his shared chamber with Rhaenyra.

It was good to let your feelings out, the rage inside you had finally burst out and you were feeling confident.

You went to your brothers who were in the nursery with Aegon and Viserys, trying to keep your mind occupied while you comforted them.

You played with Aegon's curls and looked at the toy Viserys was playing with which was a toy soldier and wooden sword. It filled you with fear to think about your brothers having to fight, Aegon had his dragon of course while Viserys didn’t have one.

-

Syrax lit the funeral pyre for your sister whom your mother named Visenya, seeing your mother and Daemon standing on the over the pyre is heartbreaking, you hear armor clinking and see a white cloak walking towards your mother.

“I mean no harm brothers.” Ser Erryk calls out, reaching into his bag he pulls out your grandfathers crown.

“I swear to ward the Queen, with all my strength and give my blood for hers. I shall take no wife. Hold no lands. Father no children. I shall guard her secrets. Obey her commands. Ride at her side and defend her name and honour.” he calls out, holding the crown.

Daemon takes the crown from him and crowns your mother, then kneels before her, calling her his queen.

You kneel with your brothers, acknowledging your mother as the Queen.

-

You get dressed into a more comfortable outfit, with dragon scale detailing and red and blue lace design.

Walking into the room and taking your place beside your brother who looked anxious and troubled.

“What is it?” you ask.

“Everything is happening so fast, I wish for this to be over quickly.” Luke says.

You take his hand comforting him and give him a faint smile.

“Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, first of her name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. Your Grace.” Daemon proclaims, looking at his wife proudly.

You would have never guessed that she had just said goodbye to her child, she looked ethereal and stood tall despite the circumstances.

“Where do we stand?” The queen asks and Daemon and the maester reply to her.

You had the majority of the houses on your side, there were some who needed to be reminded of who King Viserys named his heir.

“Your Grace, a ship has been sighted offshore flying the banner of a three headed green dragon.” a white cloak announced.

You looked at your mother who knew well who it was.

“I shall meet them.” The queen said, beckoning you closer to her.

“Take your brothers to your chamber, if anything should happen to me, it’s your duty to take care of them. Do you understand?” she says.

“Yes, my queen.” You bow and gather your brothers, Baela and Rhaena.

-

A load of things happened before everyone were once again gathered in the hall, your mother lost in her thoughts as you listened to the lords talking about how their troops are ready to fight and have been dispatched to their locations.

“Do your forces have enough food and supplies?” you ask Lord Celtigar.

“We have enough to last us for two moons but we shall be prepared for anything Princess.” he replies looking over his books.

“Vermithor and I will patrol the skies for food and drop some for your forces.” You say, Lord Celtigar bows to you and gives his thanks.

“The Lord of the Tides! Lord Corlys Velaryon and his wife, the Princess Rhaenys Targaryen!” Ser Erryk shouts, all eyes gloom at the limping man going down the stairs.

“My lords.” Corlys says,

“Lord Corlys, it brings much relief to see you hale and healthy again.” the queen says.

“I’m very sorry about your father, Your Grace.” he says, offering his sincere condolences.

Corlys looks at you, proud as ever, you looked so much like your father in certain lights.

-

“We must first secure the support of Winterfell, the Eyrie and Storm's End.” Lord Bartimos says.

“I will prepare the ravens Your Grace” the maester says.

“We should bear those messages, dragons can fly faster than ravens, and are more convincing.” Jacaerys says.

“Send us.” he asks, but more like demands.

“My brother is right, the last King in the North bent the knee to the Conqueror when he saw Balerion.” you say, remembering your history lesson.

Your mother was not very keen on the idea, sending her children away, but her daughter was correct. Dragons are faster and they have no time to loose.

“Very well, Prince Jaceaerys will fly to the Eyrie to see my mother’s cousin, the Lady Jeyne Arryn. Princess Y/n will fly north to Winterfell to treat with Lord Cregan Stark for the support of the North. Prince Lucerys will fly south to Storm's End and treat Lord Borros Baratheon.

We must remind these lords of the oaths they swore and the cost of breaking them.” your mother says, you are up to the task, Vermithor has seen the snow in the north so it will be easier for you to go north.

-

“If you take this errand, you go as messengers, not as warriors, you must take part in any fighting, swear it to me now under the eyes of the Seven.”

Luke was the first one to place his hand on the book, then you, then Jace.

“I swear it.” you say.

You bow to her, she takes your face into her hand and kisses your forehead, she knows you will be safe but goodbyes are always hard.

You walk to Vermithor who has been on the coast, he was sleeping but roused up when you walked closer. You placed your hand on his neck and urged him to lower his body so you could climb onto the saddle, you then strapped yourself in and took the reins and commanded him to fly, he stretched out his bronze wings and let out a roar then he took flight, climbing higher and higher into the cloud.

You looked at your grandmother Rhaenys and then your brother Luke who was on his way to Storm's End and waved them goodbye.

-

The flight was long and cold, stormy weather and winds made it difficult to hold on but it was easy for Vermithor, being used to harsh climate and familiar to the North, the old king Jaehaerys I visited the North once.

You spotted Winterfell, it was covered in snow and the walls were high and covered in the banners of House Stark. You circled over the castle thrice and then landed outside the castle, shaking the ground and the snow melted beneath Vermithors body, many servants and guards looked at the Bronze Fury in terror and awe.

You unclasped yourself from the saddle and dismounted, giving him a stroke on his neck and whispering to him to stay calm.

Four guardsmen approached you.

“Princess Y/n, we are here to escort you to the inner courtyard of Winterfell.” one guard said.

You nodded your head, then allowed Vermithor to linger around and then you approached the guards and began to make your way into Winterfell.

-

“Princess Y/n Velaryon, daughter of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen” a guard shouted in the courtyard as you looked around the courtyard, it was in some ways like Dragonstone, high black walls and everything was made from stone.

You turn your head to look at the man who stands tall among the crowd, a huge sword in his hand, his black hair is pulled back and is covered in light snow. His coat is big and covers his left arm.

“Winterfell is yours, princess.” he bows down to you, beckoning a young child beside him to walk to you with a bouquet of blue winter roses, native to the North.

“Welcome to Winterfell princess, I hope your journey fared well.” the young man said while handing you the bouquet, it was Lord Starks first born child, Rickon.

“Why thank you my lord.” you crouch down to him so you can talk with him better.

“These roses are very beautiful, how did you know blue is my favorite colour?” you joke with him and he laughs.

“Would you perhaps escort me to your father? For I desire to speak with him.” You ask him while inspecting the bouquet.

He nods his head and takes your hand and drags you to his father. Cregan was tall and had a handsome sharp face. He had the eyes you could fall into easily.

“Princess.” Cregan said to you, as he took your hand and kissed it softly and gently. You fully got lost in a trance and stood there for a moment.

“Lord Stark, I have brought you messages from my mother, the Queen.” you say, giving him the scroll.

“Let us go inside.” He said, taking your hand and leading you into the castle where a fire was lit.

You arrived into the hall and looked around, not many decorations were around but it was warm and welcoming.

“Would you like some refreshments Princess? some ale perhaps?”

“That would be wonderful, thank you.” you say, sitting down while straightening out your dress.

Cregan poured some ale into a jug and handed it to you, taking a sip of the drink made you cough and Cregan let out a laugh.

“Not the drink you’re used to eh?” he asked.

“Certainly not my lord.” you say with a sour look on your face.

There was a moment of silence, he looked at you as if he had seen the gods, he was taken away by you.

“Lord Stark, I am not sure if the news has reached so far but my grandfather, the king, has passed away.” you stand up and walk around the room.

“He was a good king with a gentle heart, my condolences princess.” he says while clasping his hands together.

“That he was, he always…. he always cared for me.” you say with a heavy heart and sniffled.

Cregan stands up and goes to comfort you.

“Princess-“ he begins.

“Your father Lord Rickon Stark swore an oath to King Viserys and my mother to acknowledge her as the princess of Dragonstone and the heir to the Iron Throne and I need to affirm your support. The Hightowers have placed Prince Aegon on the throne and crowned him in the Dragonpit. You have a choice to make my Lord, you can choose to honor your fathers oath and stand with the rightful ruler or you can learn the consequences of being an oathbreaker.” You proclaim to him, he steps back and his mind is clouded.

“You sound tired princess, have your rest change your attire because as the evening grows, the colder it will be.” he says as he walks away.

“I will send a lady to attend to you.” he added as a guard guided you to your chamber.

You walked into the chamber where a large tub and bed was waiting, you looked around, put your gloves down on the table where old maps and books layed around.

‘Was I too harsh?’ you asked yourself and placed your head in your hands and felt the urge to cry but straightened up when you heard a knock.

“Come in.” you said, straightening your dress.

A girl entered the room, she was about the same age as you, with brown hair and hazel eyes, her clothes were probably mended just a few moments ago.

“Princess, Lord Stark sent me.” she said.

“Yes, what is your name?” you asked.

“Mariah, princess.” she said.

“Right, I wish to bathe before I meet with Lord Stark again, I didn’t bring anything with me. I was wondering if there is something I might be able to wear.” you ask her.

“We have already prepared you a gown for tonight princess, it is quite splendid.” she says.

You start to undo your dress with the help of Mariah, she looks at your gown with awe in her eyes, she runs her fingers over the intricate design and lace and quickly shakes herself out of the trance and undid your hair.

You enter the tub and allow yourself to submerge into the water, Mariah gathers some oils and herbs to add into the water, along with soap.

“Your hair princess, may I?” Mariah asks and you nod your head, allowing her to rinse through it and wash it gently.

There was a long momentary silence when you finally spoke up.

“Tell me Mariah, how are the customs here in the North, I wish to be as respectful and modest as I can.” you ask her, she’s clearly stressed at the question but answers with grace.

“Well, it has been some time since your house has arrived here, last time it was King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne so you can imagine our surprise when the Bronze Fury graced the northern sky once again.” she said, she had clearly done her research.

“Well, I know that Queen Alysannes visit here brought great fortune, I certainly wish to do the same.” you tell her.

“You have already won the favor of Lord Cregans, ever since the late Lady Stark passed away Lord Stark has been very cautious about his son, protecting him from all harm and danger.” she says, clearly reminiscing about the old days.

“What was the late Lady Stark like?” you ask, in a low voice.

“She was very beautiful, the epitome of a lady.” Mariah answered.

You stayed in the tub for some time, not wanting to get out as riding for such a long time made your legs ache and the comfort from the hot water soothed the pain.

“Princess, I have gathered some gowns for you to pick from.” Mariah says while she helps you cover up.

Before you there were three beautiful gowns that were clearly fashioned for the North, you let your fingers glide over the dresses and then you picked a grey gown that showed your shoulders and covered your arms with another piece of fabric draped around your arms. Mariah brushed your hair and braided the top of it, allowing some hair to fall to your shoulders and back.

She lathered some oil on your collarbone and placed a dragon broach in the dress.

Mariah took one last look at you and bowed, leaving the room, letting you have some time alone before the feast began.

-

You walked into the great hall as a guard announced your presence, making everyone stand up and looking in your direction.

“Princess Y/n Velaryon, daughter of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.” was announced loudly.

You walked through the hall with your head high and when you reached the table where Lord Cregan and his family were sitting you nodded to him, making sure to keep eye contact. You then took your place beside him on the table.

The commotion in the hall began after you had taken your seat and you looked over at the great number of people, taking a sip from your drink.

“I hope Mariah was satisfactory, princess.” Cregan asks you.

“She was, my lord. I thank you for the hospitality.” you answered.

“You must forgive her, she was only trained to serve ladies, not princesses.” he jests, trying to make something of the conversation.

The tension between the two of you didn’t go unnoticed, some man then marched over to the table and bowed.

“Princess Y/n, the tales are true then.” the old lord says.

“Which tales might that be my lord-?” you ask him, wondering about his name.

“Hornwood, princess. Lord Cregan told us of your beauty, said you were as beautiful as the dawn.” Lord Hornwood said, making you blush and smile at him.

“You are much too kind my lord.” you replied and looked at Cregan who was embarrassed as he hid his face in a horn of wine. Lord Hornwood walked away after bowing to you and his lord.

The feast continued with lots of drinking and singing when you finally managed to talk with Cregan about your reason here.

“As much as I appreciate your hospitality and welcome here, I will need an answer from you before I leave for Dragonstone again.’’ you told Cregan, who sighed and looked at your face with much admiration.

‘’Of course princess, I have gone over the demands and conditions in the letter from your mother with my council and we have decided that, while my duty as Warden of the North is the most important to me, fulfilling my father's oath is just as important to me.’’ Cregan answers.

He rises and grabs the attention of everyone in the hall, raising his cup.

‘’My lords and ladies, I bid you all a warm welcome to my home on this occasion, while the harshest of winter snow has not yet fallen from the sky, a harsher wound this realm has faced. The king is dead.’’ he says, with a crack in his voice and people begin talking, looking at you with apologizing eyes. You looked down at your hands and tears began to swell your eyes.

‘’While I never met King Viserys, my father told me he was a just man and always wanted peace and unity across the realm. He also told me about the time he travelled South and bent the knee to him on the Iron Throne alongside Princess Rhaenyra, swearing his sword and allegiance to them both and acknowledging his first-born child as his heir and successor.’’ He shouts across the hall, having everyone listening to him. It was quite a show.

‘’Princess Y/n arrived here with a message, signed by her mother, the Queen.’’ he says, he recognized your mother as the queen, you felt shivering in your spine and arms.

‘’She says that the Hightowers have usurped her throne and crowned her half-brother Aegon as king, she asks that I do not forget my father’s oath and pledge for her if war will ensue which she does not wish for’‘ Cregan continues

The North does not forget oaths easily, we stay true to our word.’’ Creagns says, earning an agreeable shout from everyone.

“The North will honor the sworn oath to Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Queen of the seven kingdoms and protector of the realm. We know that a Targaryen must sit the Iron Throne when the Long Night arrives, an alliance between the crown and the North is crucial.” He shouted, banging on the table to capture everyone’s attention. The way his hand fists met the wooden table and made everything shake was riveting.

“Each house will supply a hundred men that will march for Harrenhal and await my commands.” he made his decree.

You looked at him, with glossy eyes, you thought your mission had failed when he distanced himself from you, maybe stalling so the greens could come for you but how wrong you were.

“To Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, first of her name!” He lifted his cup and shouted, being met with joyous screams and cheers from the hall.

The celebrations continued until you decided to retire and Cregan himself escorted you to your chambers

“The Queen is most thankful for your support, with the strength of the North by our side we shall see much success if war ensues.” you say while walking slowly.

“Of course princess, we will start making progress in the next few days.” he says to you, clearly anxious.

“I shall be returning back to Dragonstone on the morrow, my mother will be most pleased with the news.” you tell him as you stop in the hallway.

“What will you do next?” he asks, questioning you.

“I will do what my mother commands, whether it is fighting, being by her side or marrying someone.” you say, with disappointment in the last words.

You always knew you had to marry, not for love but for political alliances or stability, a marriage for love in your position is not something that would be possible. You would always put the responsibility of the crown first.

“Marriage? You have someone in mind, princess?” he asks.

“No, my Lord.” you say then begin to laugh.

“Well there was this one boy who worked in the kitchen in the Red Keep, he always sneaked some sweets to me when I was younger, I told myself I would marry him because he always listened to me and bring me sweets, I like to think of him as my first love but it was childish really.” you say, clinging to the sweet memory like a child with a blanket.

“I wish to share my life with someone who listens to me and honors the values I myself uphold, who wants the same things as I, someone that knows their histories and cultures.” you say to him, imagining a life with your future one and smiling.

“That sounds like a very fine match princess, I do hope you find him.” he says with a sincere smile.

You both smile at each other and chuckle.

You see a small shadow behind the corner of the hallway, and soon find out that it is Rickon as he runs up to his father.

“Rickon! What are you doing here little one, you’re supposed to be abed.” Cregan says to him as he picks him up and puts a kiss on his forehead.

“I had a nightmare, the Others were coming for me riding giant spiders and I was so scared.” Little Rickon said as he snuggled with his father, burying his face into the thick coat his father wore.

“Oh my son, the Others have been dead for thousands of years, no harm will come to you, I swear it.” Cregan says, sharing a sweet moment with his son. You smile at the sight.

You hear someone walk to you, it is a guard wearing the Stark sigil and he bows before you.

“My lord, you are needed in the great hall.” he says.

“I will be there soon, I must put my son to bed”. Cregan says.

“Forgive me my lord, it is quite urgent.” the guard says.

Cregan becomes annoyed, sighing to himself and then starts putting him down when you intervene.

“I can tuck him in, if the little Lord would have me.” you smile as you stroke his cheek.

“Is that okay Rickon?” Cregan asks his son and he responds with a nod.

You pick Rickon up and caress his curls and begin walking to his chambers, you set him down in bed and tuck him in so he is comfortable.

“There you go Rickon, are you comfortable?” you ask as he nods and begins playing with his toy. You begin to walk away when he starts asking for a story. You sit down beside his bed.

“I heard you were talking about the Others to your father, can you tell me about them?” you ask him.

“They are big scary creatures and they ride dead horses and big spiders, they are made of ice and are very strong.” he says, shaking with fear, no wonder he woke up and asked for comfort. You nod to him and then straighten your back to grab the dragon broach from your dress and show it to him.

“You know what this is?” you smile and show it to him.

“Yes, a dragon!” he says with a smile on his face.

“Yes! a dragon you are correct and can you tell me what dragons do my lord?” you ask while holding the broach.

“They fly high into the sky!” he raises his arms up.

“Yes and what else?” you say with a smirk.

“They can breathe fire!” he says at last.

“Yes they can, and what does fire do to ice?” you ask.

“I don’t know.” he says with a confused look.

“Fire melts ice.” you say with a serious tone while spinning the broach in your hand.

“My dragon can breath so much fire that if the Others were to ever come, they would melt in an instant and turn into a big puddle. His wingspan is so wide it can cover a small town. My dragon would do anything I tell him to, all I must do is tell him ‘dracarys’ and he will breathe fire.” you tell him, he looks at you with much admiration and smiles.

“So if the Others were ever to come, all you must do is call me and I will arrive with my dragon.” you say to him and lastly give him the broach.

“So you remember me.” you say, giving him a kiss on the forehead as he begins to yawn and rub his eyes.

“Goodnight, my lord.” you whisper.

You stand up and see Cregan in the doorway, smiling at him and begin walking out.

“He’s a sweet boy.” you say as you cross your arms.

“It’s been hard, his mother died giving birth to him. He has never been satisfied with any maid or woman that has tried to comfort him.” Cregan tells you while dropping his head.

“I have experience, my younger brothers Aegon and Viserys are quite a handful, they only want my mother or me to tuck them in.” you tell him, you miss your brothers dearly.

You walk to your chambers at a slow pace.

“He has your eyes, you know.” you tell him, offering some comfort.

You reach your chambers, the walk to it felt so short and you felt heavy at heart when you reached the door. Wanting the company of Cregan to last forever you reach for his hand.

“I thank you for tonight Cregan, it was most enjoyable my lord.” you say caressing his hand.

“I am most pleased princess, I shall see you on the morrow before you leave.” he tells you as he places a kiss on your hand.

Looking into his eyes you felt your heart skip a beat and felt your hair rising when he kissed your hand, making you twitch inside with excitement.

“See you then, my lord.” you tell him.

He bows and leaves you.

You walk into your chambers and begin to discard your clothes and dress into a warm nightgown suited for the north, Mariah helps you and then bids you a good night.

The kiss Cregan left on your hands made you sigh and smile, the day had been long and tiring but being with Cregan was worth it, how his hair moved in the wind, how delicate his rough hands were and the way his voice rasped when he talked in the great hall. You were ashamed to admit it but you felt excitement and pleasure. You wanted to spend the moment with Cregan and have his body close to yours and feel his hands in yours.

You got under the endless pelts in the bed hoping to that sleep would find you but as you twisted and turned in bed making it impossible for you to rest, staring at the ceiling as you took a deep breath you started rub your thighs together and felt a tingling sensation where your womanhood was placed. You had one time felt that sensation when you saw servants in the Red Keep, the man was buried under the skirts of the woman and she clutched his hair and her mouth made an O shape, it was like she was drowning but at last she let out a gasp and the man slowed down and started to kiss her, you ran away before they could see you.

She felt like she was drowning and wanted to come back up for air, desperately wanting for air but not knowing how to breathe. You felt ashamed, you were a princess and this was not appropriate behavior. You finally gave up and got up from the bed and reached for the door and walked to the room where a maestar was located, you knocked on the door and the maestar opened.

“I am sorry for the late hour maestar but i have trouble finding any sleep, I was wondering if I could request a drought to help me?” you ask the man, who looks young and hale.

“Yes princess, I shall have it sent to your room if it pleases you.” he answered.

“Thank you.” you tell him and walk the cold corridor that leads to your room, you grab the door handle when you gasp, feeling the excitement you felt before once again clutching to your skirt and feeling your legs tremble.

You walked in and took off a layer of your nightgown trying to escape the burning heat that filled you up, pacing the room trying to catch your breath when a knock on the door drove your eyes to the door and opened it.

“Princess.”

It was Cregan, the maestar told Cregan what you needed and he delivered it personally. He held the bottle by the throttle with his arms crossed, the way his veins were illuminated by the torch in the hallway.

He barged into the room and placed the bottle on the table. You inhale the scent as he walks by you and once again feel that sensation but manage to contain your breath.

“Lord Cregan, the hour is late.” you tell him, ashamed to be feeling like this.

“Please, enough with the formalities, I am Cregan to you.” he says as he walks slowly to you, discarding his cloak.

“Cregan..” you say but he grabs your face and kisses you, a hand slides around your waist and takes hold on the nape of your neck, pushing deeper and deeper into the kiss and then going down to kiss your neck as a moan escapes your lips. You are lost in your thoughts and as you grab his hair he pushes back.

“I’m sorry princess, that was improper of me.” he says as he avoids eye contact and begins to walk away.

“Cregan” you shout at him, as you grab your chest and then you walk to him.

“I want this.” you say shyly, “I want you… to be touched by you.” you manage to form those words into a sentence with a shaky voice.

“Whatever the princess commands.” he answers and grabs your face and plants a harsh kiss on your lips with no warning and he begins to move your hair from your face to see the whole of your face. Then he stops and looks into your eyes.

“I will not sully you princess, you have my word.” he says, while caressing your cheek.

He leads you to the bed and motions you to sit down, looking at you with hungry eyes like a wolf looking at its prey as he removes your dress, shyness crept over you but you kept eye contact.

He kneels down facing your body and lift his two rough hands to separate your legs, revealing your womanhood and then he rises up to your face and starts kissing you as he places his body between your legs, you lay your back down on the furs as he starts leaving kisses on your body, the shoulders, the arms, the belly. Your soul was on fire, the constant kissing and touching made you twitch inside and with every kiss the fire grew larger and stronger. He placed your legs over his shoulders and began to place kisses in between your thighs and then started to kiss the place where you felt the burning sensation, he started to pleasure you with his mouth and with each breath you started to see stars, the way his hands grabbed your hips and thighs was just a beginning, he continued to be glued to your womanhood and you grabbed his hair and gasp, you had never felt that before. they way he stayed in a comfortable pace but also made sure you always felt pleasure, your back arched when he had started a faster pace and you started to feel your legs tremble and as you moaned out your body felt electric, this release was the thing you needed, he still touched you as you were calming down from your high and looked at you with glimmer in his eyes as you gasped and panted.

When he was finished with you, he climbed on top of you and started to kiss you passionately, the wetness from your womanhood still on his lips while he cupped your behind.

The two of you laid there together for a long while, he continued to kiss your shoulders and grasp your behind as you started drawing shapes on his chest, he didn’t leave you, he stayed with you.

“Princess.” Cregan says.

“It is Y/n, my name is Y/n.” you correct him.

“Y/n, I hope this did not scare you.” he asks.

“I’ll admit I was scared but when you touched me, something in me fired up, something I've been wanting to experience for some time. I thank you, my lord.” you say.

“My name is Cregan, you will call me Cregan.” he then says as he grabs your waist and rolls you under him as you laugh. You start kissing each other again and when sleep finally reaches you he leaves, making sure not to make a sound.

-

You wake up to the sound of ravens crying out, you call for Mariah and she gets you ready, helping you with your hair and riding attire. You thank her for the help and give her a bag of coins for her service which she accepts gleefully and runs off.

As you make your way to the courtyard to formally leave Winterfell you notice everyone looking at you, with a confused expression and also sadness. Your heart begins to race when you start thinking about what happened last night, did someone see you? or hear you with Cregan? Did Cregan himself tell someone? Your reputation will be ruined if word reaches the Queen.

You get to the courtyard and see the great host that has come to say goodbye to you. Cregan stands in the middle with a letter in his hands and looks at you, his eyes are glistening and looking at you with sorrowful eyes.

“My lord, is everything well?” you ask him.

He takes your hand and walks away from the crowd leading you to a secluded place and gives you the letter he was holding. It had the sigil of House Targaryen, likely from Dragonstone. He hands you the letter and gives you some space. As you read the letter, sadness overcomes you but also rage and guilt. In the letter that was signed by your mother, was the news on the death of your brother Lucerys, he had been slaughtered by your uncle Aemond when they met each other at Storm's End.

Your sweet younger brother was dead, he died alone with only his dragon who did not survive. They clashed into the sea and the red cape he wore tangled into his dragon's wing. Your mother had found it while searching for your brother.

You stared at the paper while tears began to run down your cheeks and you quietly walked away and then you broke down and hit the cold ground beneath you, clutching the letter and screaming cries of anguish and in the moment a loud roar was heard that shook the earth, Cregan flinched but you sat still letting cries and scream escape your body.

You stayed there for a while until Cregan came to you, putting his hand on your shoulder.

“The Queen requested you to return to Dragonstone at once princess, she will be wanting you back no doubt.” he said.

“The first thing Luke said to me after I claimed Vermithor was that I was now the rider of the second largest dragon in the world, almost the same size, I do wonder what would have happened if I went to Storm's End in place of Luke, I could’ve matched with Vhagars size and ferociousness.” you tell him in between sobs as you sit motionless.

“You cannot blame yourself.” Cregan says.

“I know I should not but I cannot help myself.” you cry out.

A thunderous roar came from above as Vermithor landed before you, walking towards you and shaking his entire body.

“Gather your army and march to Harrenhal, when the time is right you and I will lay waste to the Greens army.” you tell him as you take his hand.

“Winter will be coming for them, I swear this.”He places his lips on your hand and bows and walks away, he senses Vermithor getting himself ready to take flight and he backs away, allowing himself to be alone with your dragon.

“Gūrogon issa lenton.” you tell Vermithor, as you mount him, the tears on your face freezing as you go higher and higher, sadness quickly becomes rage as you think about Luke. The Greens will never know peace again. (take me home)

-

this is only part one! i am thinking of turning it into a series but we will see. hope you guys enjoyed!

[misswynters]

Wine

aemond targaryen x wife!reader

[WARNING: switch!aemond, implied mommy kink?, riding, lactation kink but with wine?, let me know if there are any mistakes

[requested: by @demigoddessqueens (everyone say thanks)

[a/n: both you and aemond are switches and this is the first time i’m writing this type of thing :3

Aemond knelt before you in the privacy of your chambers, his tall, imposing figure somehow made small by the sheer humility in his posture. The low, flickering light of the hearth cast long shadows across the room, turning the walls into a canvas of shifting shapes. But the only thing that mattered was the man before you—Aemond Targaryen, Prince of the Realm, brought to his knees by his own desires, and by you, his wife.

The tension in the air was thick, palpable, as if the very walls of the room held their breath, waiting for the inevitable. Aemond’s single eye, the vibrant violet of old Valyria, locked onto yours with an intensity that could have melted stone. But tonight, there was no fire in his gaze, no dragon-like fury—only a deep, aching need.

You stood above him, holding a goblet filled with the finest Arbor red wine. The deep crimson liquid sloshed gently as you tilted the cup ever so slightly, just enough to let the wine catch the light. Aemond’s breath hitched, his lips parting as his eye followed the movement of your hand, as if entranced.

“You want this, don’t you?” you asked, your voice a low, sultry purr that filled the room with an almost tangible heat.

“Yes,” Aemond whispered, his voice strained, laced with desperation. “Please…”

There was something so intoxicating about the way he begged—this powerful man, a dragonrider, a warrior, reduced to nothing but a trembling, needy husband before you. You reveled in the control you had over him, the way he willingly gave himself to you, trusting you with his vulnerability.

With deliberate slowness, you lowered the goblet toward his lips, but stopped just short of letting him drink. His eye flicked up to meet yours, a flash of panic crossing his features as you teased him, holding the cup just out of reach. He didn’t dare move, though you could see the strain in his shoulders, the way his hands clenched into fists behind his back.

“Do you think you deserve it?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Aemond swallowed hard, his throat working as he struggled to form words. “I—I want to deserve it,” he stammered, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and longing. “I want to please you, my lady. I’ll do anything…”

Your lips curved into a slow, wicked smile as you tilted the goblet just enough to let a single drop of wine fall onto his waiting tongue. He groaned softly at the taste, his eye fluttering closed as he savored the brief, tantalizing sensation. But you pulled the cup away again, making him whimper in protest.

“Anything?” you repeated, your voice laced with amusement as you crouched down to his level. You were so close now that you could feel the heat radiating off his body, see the slight tremor in his hands as he struggled to maintain control. He nodded fervently, his eye wide with need.

“Good,” you murmured, tracing the rim of the goblet with your finger before bringing it to his lips once more. This time, you allowed the wine to flow freely, pouring it into his mouth as he eagerly drank, his lips wrapping around the edge of the cup like a man starved.

Some of the wine spilled over, trailing down his chin and neck, staining his skin a deep, sinful red. You watched, enthralled, as the liquid dripped onto his collar, seeping into the fabric of his tunic. Aemond’s breathing grew heavier, more labored, as he drank, and when you finally pulled the goblet away, his lips were stained with the rich hue of the wine.

You leaned in closer, your breath ghosting over his skin as you licked a stray droplet of wine from the corner of his mouth. Aemond shuddered under your touch, his whole body tensing as he fought to keep still. The taste of the wine, mixed with the saltiness of his skin, was intoxicating, and you found yourself drawn to him, unable to resist the pull.

Pressing your lips to his, you kissed him deeply, your tongue slipping into his mouth to claim the remnants of the wine. He moaned into the kiss, his eye closing as he surrendered completely to you, his hands trembling where they rested on the floor. You could feel the intensity of his desire in the way he kissed you back, the way his whole body seemed to ache for your touch.

When you finally pulled away, Aemond was panting, his lips parted and his eye half-lidded with lust. His hair, usually so meticulously kept, was now disheveled, strands falling into his face. You brushed them aside gently, your fingers lingering in his hair, savoring the feel of the silky strands.

“You’ve been so good,” you whispered, your voice softening just a fraction. “So sweet.”

His eye fluttered open, and the look of adoration in his gaze made your heart skip a beat. He nodded, swallowing hard as he tried to steady his breathing. “I’ll always be good for you,” he said, his voice hoarse, raw with emotion. “Whatever you want… i’m yours.”

The sheer sincerity in his words, the absolute devotion, made your pulse quicken. You set the goblet aside, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the stubble beneath your touch. He leaned into your hand, a small, contented sigh escaping him as he closed his eye once more.

You guided him gently onto his back, his body melting into the soft furs beneath him. He looked up at you, his violet eye wide, vulnerable, and utterly captivating. You straddled his waist, feeling the warmth of his body against yours, and leaned down, brushing your lips against his ear.

“Tonight, you will relax,” you whispered, your breath hot against his skin. “and do absolutely nothing.”

“Yes, my lady,” he breathed, his voice trembling with anticipation.

You began to unlace his tunic, your fingers deftly working at the knots until the fabric fell away, revealing the pale, sculpted planes of his chest. Aemond’s breath hitched as your hands roamed over his skin, tracing the lines of his muscles, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palm.

He was beautiful—almost too beautiful, with his alabaster skin and the faint scars that marked him as a warrior. But tonight, he was not a warrior, not not a prince or a dragonrider. Tonight, he was yours, and yours alone. You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his collarbone, then another, slowly working your way down his chest.

Aemond moaned softly, his hands clenching the furs beneath him as he struggled to remain still. You could feel the tension coiled in his body, the way he was barely holding himself together. When you reached the waistband of his trousers, you paused, looking up at him through your lashes. His eye was dark with desire, his lips parted as he panted softly, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath.

"Do you want me to continue?" you asked, your voice a low, teasing murmur.

"Yes," he gasped, his voice breaking with desperation. "Please..."

A wicked smile curved your lips as you slowly, agonizingly slowly, began to unlace his trousers. Aemond's breath quickened, his whole body trembling with anticipation as you finally freed him from the confines of his clothing.

You took him in your hand, feeling the heat of his arousal, and he groaned, his eye squeezing shut as he arched into your touch. You stroked him slowly, watching the way his face contorted with pleasure, the way his lips parted in a silent plea for more. "Look at me," you commanded softly.

Aemond's eye fluttered open, and the sheer vulnerability in his gaze made your heart ache. He was completely at your mercy, and the power you held over him was intoxicating.

You leaned down, brushing your lips against his in a featherlight kiss. "My handsome husband," you whispered against his mouth.

"Yes," he echoed, his voice trembling with devotion.

And then you took his lips into your mouth, swallowing his moans as you worked him with slow, deliberate movements, savoring the taste of him, the feel of him trembling beneath you. Aemond's hands flew to your hair, gripping the strands tightly as he fought to control himself, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

You kept your movements slow, teasing, drawing out his pleasure until he was a quivering mess beneath you, his whole body trembling with need. When you finally pulled back, his eye was glazed with lust, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath.

"Please," he gasped, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Please, my lady.I can't..."

"Shh," you soothed, pressing a finger to his lips. "You don't need to do anything, my love. Just let me take care of you."

Aemond nodded, his eye fluttering closed as he surrendered completely to your touch. You straddled him once more, guiding him into you with a slow, deliberate movement that made you both gasp. The feeling of him filling you, the heat of his body against yours, was almost overwhelming, and you had to take a moment to steady yourself. His hands found your hips, his grip almost bruising as he held you in place, his whole body trembling with the effort to remain still. You began to move, slowly at first, savoring the way he filled you, the way his hands tightened on your hips as he fought to keep control.

His eye fluttered open, and the look of sheer adoration in his gaze made your heart ache with a fierce, burning love. You leaned down, capturing his lips in a deep, searing kiss as you rode him. Your The way your hips bounced on his was growing faster and more desperate, as the knots in your stomach began to tighten. Aemond's hands roamed your body, his touch both gentle and possessive, as if he couldn't decide whether to hold you close or let you go. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body tensing beneath you as he neared the edge.

"Come for me," you whispered against his lips, your voice trembling with the effort to hold back your own release.

Aemond's whole body shuddered as he finally let go, his release crashing over him with a force that left him breathless, trembling beneath you. You followed him over the edge, your own release tearing through you, leaving you both gasping for air.

Your hips rolled slowly, teasingly, savoring the way he filled you so completely, the way his thick length stretched and filled your inner walls.

You could feel every vein, every ridge of him, your walls tightening around his cock with each agonizingly slow thrust.

Aemond's hands flexed at his sides, his jaw clenched as he held back the torrent of need threatening to consume him.

You leaned forward, your breasts brushing against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your skin. His breath came in ragged gasps, each one trembling with the effort to remain still, to let you take him as you pleased. His eye locked onto yours, the sheer vulnerability in his gaze making your core throb with desire.

"Aemond," you whispered, your voice a husky command that sent a shiver down his spine. "Touch me."

His eye widened, a flash of uncertainty crossing his features as he hesitated, unsure if he could trust himself to obey without losing control. You didn't give him a choice. Reaching down, you took his hand in yours, guiding it between your bodies, down to where you were joined.

His fingers trembled as you placed them against your bundle of nerves, the sensitive nub already swollen with arousal. The slightest brush of his touch sent a jolt of pleasure through you, your thighs quivering as you gasped softly.

Aemond's breath hitched, his eye widening as he felt the slick heat of your arousal against his fingertips, the way your body clenched around him in response.

"Right there," you murmured, guiding his hand in slow, deliberate circles over your clit. Aemond groaned, his whole body tensing as he watched you ride him, his touch growing bolder, more insistent as he lost himself in the sensation of pleasing you.

You began to move faster, your hips rolling in a rhythm that matched the frantic beat of your heart. Every thrust sent a wave of pleasure crashing through you, your core tightening with each movement, driving you closer to the edge. Amond's fingers worked your clit with a desperate intensity, his touch sending sparks of ecstasy shooting through your body, making you tremble with the effort to hold on.

Aemond was a mess beneath you, his chest heaving, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he struggled to keep up with you, to match your rhythm, to please you in every way he could. His eye was half-lidded, glazed with lust as he watched you, his lips parted in a silent plea, a prayer to the gods of pleasure.

You could feel the tension coiling in your lower belly, the tight knot of desire that threatened to unravel at any moment. Your hands found purchase on his chest, your nails digging into his skin as you rode him harder, faster, chasing your release with a singleminded determination.

"Aemond," you gasped, your voice trembling with the sheer force of the pleasure building within you. "Don't stop."

Aemond's fingers moved faster, his touch desperate, as if he couldn't bear the thought of not bringing you to the peak of pleasure once more. His other hand gripped your hip, guiding you as you rode him, his thrusts growing erratic as he teetered on the edge himself.

Your orgasm hit you with the force of a hurricane, your body tensing as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. Your inner walls clenched around Aemond, milking him for everything he had, drawing a choked cry from his lips as he came undone beneath you, his release spilling into you once more.

You collapsed onto his chest, your bodies slick with sweat, your breath mingling as you both struggled to come down from the high. Aemond's arms wrapped around you, holding you close, as if he never wanted to let go. His heart still pounded beneath your ear, a steady rhythm that matched the thrum of satisfaction coursing through your veins.

taglist: @beebeechaos @spn-obession @thornsandtulips @benjicotblckwood

[NOTE | if you would like to be added to my permanent taglist let me know!

[banner: @cafekitsune

[neptuneiris]

could you pretend to be in love? (08/10)

The Revelations

pairing: modern!aemond × fem!reader (fake dating)

summary: unfortunately the trip to Dragonstone is over and you and Aemond define the relationship, however some surprising and unexpected news awaits you at home.

word count: 7.7k

previous part • next part • series masterlist

surprise! i guess hehe

It's not a secret why I stopped updating the story, but if you don't know, basically writer's block and also some issues in my personal life, but finally here it is, what everyone has been waiting for!😙

I didn't give notice or anything because I wanted it to be a surprise and I have no idea if the story will be well received again but… I have no intention of abandoning it, I plan to finish it because I know that some of you want it, so enjoy the new chapter and I promise I won't take so long with the next one🙏

after all we are getting to the end!

Last night in Dragonstone.

It has definitely been a great experience for you, you had a lot of fun, you did amazing activities you haven't tried before, you learned about Old Valyria and you like this feeling every time you are with Aemond.

And since it's the last night at the castle, Aemond invited you and Alysanne to watch a movie in his room with his friends. The plan would have been different, but a storm was reported for the early morning and no one is allowed out until the morning you will return to Kings Landing.

So that's what you're doing now, watching a horror movie, which isn't really scary, lying on the couch on Aemond's chest, both of you cuddled up and with blankets over you, keeping warm.

Every now and then you watch the huge windows, watching the lightning reflect in the night sky to the horizon and raindrops fall against the glass, nothing heavy yet but you know it will rain harder in a few hours.

Aemond's arms get tighter around your body, gently caressing your lower back with one of his hands as you feel his nose nuzzle the side of your cheek, feeling his chin against the side of your forehead.

You let out a contented sigh and snuggle closer against his chest, enjoying his warmth and closeness, as well as his scent mixed between rich detergent and his cologne.

“Are you cold?”

His soft, low voice makes you raise your gaze to him as he secures the blankets wrapped around the two of you.

“No, I'm fine.”

“Well, if you change your mind, tell me and I'll give you some of my hoddies.”

You raise an eyebrow at him.

“Is my weight bothering you already?” you inquire amused.

“That's not what I said,” he instantly defends himself.

“Oh no?”

He slips one of his hands between your bodies, cupping your jaw gently but firmly enough, making you lean into him as he watches your lips.

“I'm just trying to be nice, love,” he says in a low, husky tone.

And you let him, leaning in, unable to stop watching his lips either.

“Such a nice boy you are.”

Aemond brushes a lock of hair behind your ear and pulls you closer to him if possible and catches your lips with his.

And you sink so deep into him, not being able to get enough, tilting your head and deepening the kiss further. Your lips mold perfectly to his and he takes the opportunity to in one smooth glide, his tongue meets yours in languid caresses.

You gasp softly into his mouth and move your hand up to the nape of his neck, stroking his hair, as his hands slip under your shirt, caressing the bare skin of your lower back with his fiery hands that send electric shocks and bristle your skin.

It's soft, delicate and tender.

Then he's the one who slowly pulls away, with a small grin, brushing his nose against yours. When suddenly, Alysanne's voice breaks the spell.

“Hey!”

The two of you turn your heads and she along with Aemond's other friends watch you.

“Have you two stopped making out like cows? You won't let me listen to the movie, I can hear the sound of spit all the way over here."

The blood rushes to your cheeks, laughing in embarrassment, hiding your face in the crook of Aemond's neck who laughs too, feeling his chest vibrate at the sound, hugging you against him.

"I'm sorry. We got a little excited."

"Well, don't.’’

His other friends laugh too as he and you exchange an amused look and he returns to have your head resting on his chest to continue watching the movie.

Unfortunately the next morning comes quickly and you find Alysanne ready to board the ferry back to King's Landing.

She's talking to you about something that happened between her and Cregan on the beach after she finished her surfing practice when you notice Alys in the distance with her group of friends, not at all discreetly talking to each other as they watch you out of the corner of their eyes.

The whole time you were in the castle or on the beach you didn't even notice their presence and now you don't know what they must be talking about, but honestly you don't care.

So you ignore her and all her friends.

Then Aemond shows up ready with his suitcase and by the time the two of you are in the same place together, neither you nor he will leave each other's side.

Much less on the ferry back to King's Landing, which is totally peaceful.

He and you can't help but touch each other all the time. The two of you hug, laugh, there are gestures, caresses and you let yourselves be carried away by this different complicity that you have developed during the trip.

You even take photos and videos together to keep as memories as the ferry rocks gently in the waves and Aemond wraps his arms around you, leaving a soft kiss on your forehead.

For the return journey you've chosen an overly summery blue dress, so he can't help but gaze adoringly as the sunlight reflects off your entire figure, looking absolutely beautiful.

And even though his clothes are simple, that damn silver chain and also those sunglasses he's wearing is more than enough to have you drooling over him.

And that's exactly one of the reasons why you can't stop touching him.

Between more kisses and laughter, the two of you lose yourselves in your own world, oblivious to the stares of the other students and especially the stares of Alys and Floris.

Until you finally disembark at King's Landing and everyone boards the buses.

This time you finally take a seat next to him and both continue your complicity, sharing AirPod's together and using each other as pillows, hugging each other.

When the whole trip is officially over the buses pull into the school car park and all the students start to get off. Then you wait until you can also take your suitcase from the huge compartments below.

"So…" Alysanne approaches you, "Shall I drive you home? Cregan already won you the passenger seat as soon as he found out I brought my car."

"Oh… Cregan?" you say with a mischievous look, "The same guy you said you didn't know whether to take him on a date with?" you scoff.

"Oh come on, you told me to accept," she reproaches you, causing you to let out a giggle, "Besides I already told him I'm not looking for a serious relationship and he said he's totally fine with it."

You look at her slightly surprised and excited.

"Really? That's great!"

"Yeah," she nods, with a small smile on her lips, "So I'll drive you then?"

"Oh no, thanks, Aemond will drive me."

"Okay," she grins mischievously at you, starting to walk away, "Then have fun."

"You too with Cregan," you look back at her.

She gives you a pouty face and you laugh softly, organising all your things.

"Well…" Aemond now approaches you with his suitcase in hand, ‘Are you ready?"

"Yes," you nod with a small smile.

He helps you with your suitcase as well and together you head towards his car, where once during the drive, neither of you say anything, yet there is no tension and no awkward silence, only the moderate volume of music from his Spotify playlist.

You know that the two of you have to talk about what happened and you know that Aemond knows that too, otherwise he wouldn't be so quiet, but neither of you dares to talk about it first.

And you don't know if that's good or bad, but thinking about it and finding yourself in this position, you don't feel it's a bad thing. Yes, that moment was unexpected, so was everything that came after that wasn't just pretending, but it felt real.

Every gesture, every look and every touch felt real. And this new closeness with Aemond, far from causing uncertainty, brings you a calmness that envelops you and makes you feel to some extent happy.

However, you know that when you get home, you'll have to talk about it.

You try not to think too much about it for the rest of the drive, trying to distract yourself with the music, but inevitably you feel the time passing quickly and finally the car stops in front of your house.

You let out a low breath and unbuckle your seatbelt at the same time as you throw a quick glance at Aemond, who returns it almost instantly and seems to hesitate for a moment to say something. But again, neither of you say anything and you get out of the car.

He helps you again with your suitcase by taking it out of the trunk while you wait patiently for him and notice how he is incredibly serious, as if he is organizing his thoughts.

Then when the suitcase hits the ground and you pick it up, you can feel his gaze and also his nervousness, as if he is trying to find the right words. But you don't give her a chance to start speaking, as the words come from your lips without thinking.

“Just tell me that what happened wasn't simply pretending.”

You tell him, seeking clarity in his gaze, to which he seems momentarily taken aback by your frankness and your words, processing them. You see a glint of uncertainty in his eye, but almost instantly his expression softens, showing you honesty.

“No, it wasn't for pretending.”

He finally replies, his voice firm and sincere. And you can't help but feel a huge relief sweep through you, watching him hopefully and wanting to confirm his words.

"What happened was real, Y/N. I wasn't pretending, or trying to act. I was enjoying being with you, being myself."

And there it is, his statement confirming what you had felt throughout the trip, that genuine connection that emerged between the two of you.

“Really?”

He smiles softly at you as he sees your face, taking a step towards you and tilting his head towards you.

“I wanted to talk about it earlier at Dragonstone, even on the bus but… I didn't want to ruin anything.”

You see his eye twinkle as he watches you and even notice how he wants to say something else, but doesn't know how to express everything he's feeling, just the same way you do.

At least you know he's being honest and clear, which is why you feel a calmness and a clarity that fills you after hearing his words.

“I wasn't pretending either,” you admit, feeling more open to expressing your own feelings, “And I'm glad to know I wasn't alone in feeling that.”

He nods, understanding what you're saying, not failing to notice that twinkle in his eye.

“I'd like this to continue,” he tells you, his voice soft but determined, “I don't even care about the contract anymore, I just… I want this to be real.”

A warm flush of heat runs through your chest and you smile softly, a little shamed but completely thrilled, not quite believing that this is really happening.

“I want the same thing,” you reply with conviction.

He smiles warmly at you and without expecting it, he leans toward you, takes both of your cheeks in his hands and leaves a soft kiss on your lips. You are surprised, but you kiss him back, feeling a smile form on your lips as you do so.

Then finally Aemond says goodbye with a smile, telling you he'll see you at school and you nod, thanking him for bringing you home.

You both kiss again and you head towards the entrance of your house feeling lighter and with a sense of excitement and happiness, unable to stop smiling the whole time.

You remember all the moments at Dragonstone and what just happened, which completely intensifies that feeling. And you know that Aemond is probably feeling it too.

And once in your room you start unpacking and organizing your clothes, you think about everything and how this with Aemond will totally change.

Before, what was just pretending to be in love will now be real. It won't make a difference in front of everyone at school, but for both of you it will.

The rules that you both had agreed upon in the beginning have lost their meaning, you don't need to think about them anymore, because you know that what you feel for Aemond is real and the best thing is that it is reciprocated.

And that's what excites you, that there will be no more acting as you imagine spending time together, talking, laughing and sharing moments that will no longer be tinged with pretense.

And that's all you think about as you organize your things, the smile never fading from your face, as your phone beeps softly, lighting up the screen with a notification that interrupts your reverie, but the feeling of joy stays with you.

You think it's Alysanne or even Aemond, which mainly excites you and makes you keep your smile, but as you pick up your phone and look closely, you notice that it's a message from an unknown number.

'Silly little thing.'

That's what you read and almost instantly you frown, not understanding its meaning. Then curiosity drives you to open the message, and what you see in the chat makes you lose your smile completely.

You feel all that feeling from before, all the nice things you were feeling, just slowly fade away, with surprise, confusion and disappointment washing over you.

A huge lump settles in your throat and with your lips parted you look at a picture of Aemond and Floris apparently at a party, kissing.

A knot also begins to settle in your stomach that you can't help, beginning to feel the whole unpleasant sensation through your body as you continue to stare at the photo and your hands begin to shake.

The photo also has the day and time at the time it was taken, and you realize that this happened at the party he invited you to after the two of you had that little argument as you tried to end the fake relationship and he disagreed.

At that time when he invited you, you preferred not to go with him and told him to have fun.

And he didn't mention any of this during the whole time together at Dragonstone, although of course he wouldn't… but he could have since nothing had changed between the two of you at the beginning of the trip.

This is why Floris was acting delighted and hopeful around him.

This is probably why he took the first step to apologize to you, all out of guilt and wanting to make amends. And at the time telling you wouldn't have meant anything but now with everything that happened… of course it means a lot that he kept it from you.

And knowing all this, with all the pieces falling into place, a wave of mixed emotions wash over you, with tears starting to want to escape your eyes.

But not wanting to cry, being a feeble attempt at wanting to stand your ground, you put your phone aside and disconnect from social media, with the feeling of sadness and betrayal in your chest.

For the next few days you completely ignored Aemond.

It wasn't easy, especially when your feelings for him are strong despite what you found out. And you know that ignoring him is not the long term solution, but for now it's the only thing you can do because of how hurt and betrayed you feel.

Until the inevitable Monday arrives, where Aemond texts you again asking if he'll pick you up for school, to which you take a moment before replying with a simple and cold 'no need' and nothing more.

You were tempted to skip school for a day or two, mostly because of anxiety and sadness. And the thought of seeing Aemond, of facing him, seemed too painful. But you knew you couldn't avoid it forever, especially since the two of you share several classes.

But when you got to school you made up your mind to stand your ground, you have no idea how but you have to try, at least until you could process your feelings and face the situation. So you prepare yourself mentally.

Or so you try.

The bustle of students coming in and being in the parking lot surrounds you and makes you feel slightly overwhelmed and anxious, but you know you can't stay out here as long as you need to since classes will be starting soon.

So you enter the building with a slight determination.

Each step to your locker feels like an eternity as you watch everything around you, attentive and intimidated. As the seconds pass, you're at least relieved to see that no one is watching you, which is a good sign, since they don't know about the photo, yet.

But that's not what makes your heart start beating too fast. It's the anticipation of seeing Aemond, running into him by accident, because then you have no idea what you'll do, let alone what you'll say to him.

That's why you look around, alert and once in your locker, you quickly grab your books, adjust the strap of your backpack and head to your first class, repeating in your mind that you'll be fine since luckily you're not sharing this class with him.

But on the way, you do run into Alys and her friends in one of the hallways.

You try to keep your head up so you don't look weak and cowardly, but the sadness and humiliation you feel is too much and you just can't, so you hurry past them, trying to avoid any kind of eye contact.

However, their gazes follow you, shallow and mocking looks, all at the same time as you hear the whispers and giggles between them in the distance as you walk away, making you feel even more vulnerable and exposed.

And thinking that would be it, just as you turn down a hallway to make them lose sight of you, you run straight into Floris, who just like you stands frozen for a moment, both of you staring at each other.

Your eyes widen slightly at the unexpected encounter and your breath catches.

She looks at you with an expression you can't really read, but you don't stop to analyze it either. So you quickly lower your gaze and keep walking, trying to keep your composure and not let the tears escape.

You don't know if it was her who sent you the picture or if it was Alys with her friends, but that doesn't matter, you still feel the humiliation of remembering how they saw you in Dragonstone completely in love with Aemond and like a naive fool not knowing what had happened at that party.

And once classes start, you can't concentrate at all. Your mind keeps coming back to the image of Aemond and Floris kissing.

You want to find a possible solution, to think that it's probably all a mistake, that maybe it's an old photo, but the more you think and analyze it, it can't be possible.

The date coincides with the party he invited you to after the dinner with his family and that little argument you both had, you also saw that he posted pictures with his friends on Instagram and his outfit is the same as the one in the picture.

There is simply no justification.

Again tears threaten to flow down your cheeks, but you force yourself to hold them back. You don't want to cry, especially not here in the middle of class where everyone can see you and eventually the gossip will disperse, creating more drama when they find out about the photo too.

You watch the time on your phone, hoping to go home soon, but you're also faced with Aemond's unread messages. They keep piling up, as the last one he sent you was eight minutes ago, but you don't read anything and delete the notification.

The rest of the classes you avoid certain people at all costs, you even don't attend the classes you share with him, you know that not having assistance later will cost you but in these moments you don't care and you hide in the bleachers.

Alysanne didn't come to school today, you thought that with her help everything would be easy after explaining her everything that happened, even telling her about the fake relationship, which is not even important at this point.

But when you texted her to ask where she was, she told you that she woke up too late and didn't make it to school on time.

So you hide out during lunchtime as well.

Aemond's messages kept coming, but you continue to ignore him, wishing the time would run faster so you could go home soon. But ignoring him doesn't make you feel good either, not at all.

You feel an emptiness in your chest, a mixture of sadness, confusion and betrayal that won't leave you alone. You wonder how you got to this point, how something that started as a simple act has become so real and complicated.

And despite everything, you can't help but remember the moments you shared with Aemond at Dragonstone and even before the trip.

But when the last bell rang, finally ending the school day, you felt an immediate relief and your thoughts were put on pause.

You quickly grabbed your things and were the first to leave the classroom, also the halls, then the building and finally the school, heading towards the bus stop.

Your phone vibrates more at that moment but you ignore it, knowing that Aemond is probably looking for you, trying to talk to you, but you manage to run away in time.

And the next day, you repeat the same routine with the same goal in mind; to avoid him.

He hasn't stopped contacting you, but you ignore every message and call, feeling a mixture of sadness and determination at every moment.

You continue to skip the classes you share with him, avoid the busiest hallways to minimize the possibility of an encounter and the cafeteria as well.

You honestly feel like a ghost roaming the school, all while every vibration of your phone is a pang of anxiety that you continue to be willing to ignore, unwilling to face his questions, his explanations or whatever he has to say.

You don't even know if he knows you were sent that photo. You'd rather he knew, so things would be easier or else he'd just be out to get you for wanting to know why you've been avoiding him and you have no idea how to confront him about it.

Just now you take refuge in the library, which gives you a break, trying to study and do your homework in peace. But in the middle of it, you hear footsteps approaching towards your desk and you quickly raise your gaze, alert.

Fortunately, it's just Alysanne.

“May I know why your boyfriend has been texting me like crazy asking me if I've heard from you?” she asks confused, taking a seat in front of you, watching you intently.

Your heart shrinks at the word 'boyfriend', definitely not expecting to hear this and a little chagrined you lower your gaze, biting your lips, where you are slowly filled with the need to clear things up once and for all.

“What? Did something happen?” she asks you worriedly as she observes your reaction and sad look.

“He's not my boyfriend,” you say quietly, broken and with your sad look, ”He never was.”

Alysanne frowns, clearly bewildered and watching you more intently than ever.

“What are you talking about?”

You pause for a moment, trying to find the right words and that little bit of stability before you get it all out. And with a deep sigh, you decide to be honest.

And before long, you spend the next few minutes telling Alysanne everything from the beginning. You tell her about the contract, the reasons behind it, Alys, the dinner with her family, the little arguments and what happened at Dragonstone, which was real to you.

And you also tell her about Floris, that party and the photo you received, with your sadness and the pain clearly evident in your voice.

Alysanne listens to you silently throughout, her expression shifting from surprise to understanding as she takes in every detail you say, but in the end she maintains an expression that you can't really read at all.

And when you finish, her gaze doesn't tell you much and you fearfully expect a not-so-good reaction.

“Well…” she lets out a long breath, “I wasn't expecting any of that,” she finally says, shaking her head in disbelief.

“I'm sorry, Alysane,” you say, feeling guilty for keeping the truth from her, ”I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. It was silly from the beginning.”

She looks at you with a mixture of empathy and surprise.

“No Y/N, you don't have to worry about me.“

You look at her slightly confused and fearful.

“You're not upset?”

She lets out a small chuckle under her breath, shaking her head.

“Why would I be?” she asks you blankly and you remain silent, really not having an answer, 'I mean, you're lying to everyone, not just me,” she explains, unconcerned, "I'm a little offended, yes," she admits, "But I understand it's a complicated situation."

You're surprised by her response and understanding, so you can't help but feel relief coursing through your body at still having Alysanne on your side.

“Thank you,” you tell her sincerely, giving a small sad smile, “I just didn't want you to feel betrayed.”

“Betrayed? Please, not at all,” she says incredulously, "At least not the way you feel about Aemond," she says with a more serious tone and her worried expression.

You lower your gaze, shake your head and let out a long breath, bringing one of your hands to your forehead.

“I want to believe that what happened at Dragonstone was real, but that picture…” you say sadly, "He said it was all real to him too but… I don't know," you get frustrated.

Alysanne places a hand on your arm in a supportive gesture, watching you sympathetically.

“Hey,” she says softly, wanting to get your attention and it makes you watch her with your sad eyes, ”I understand you. And you shouldn't talk to him if you don't want to. Besides you don't have to decide anything right now,” she assures you, "But eventually you will have to talk to him and you know it," she tells you honestly, ”You can't keep hiding from him forever.”

You sigh, knowing she's right, but you still feel insecure and hurt.

“I just want to understand what happened, why he didn't tell me,” you say sadly, ”But on the other hand I just want it all to be over so I don't end up more hurt than I already am.”

“Then just ask him to tell you what you need to know, after that no one will owe anyone any explanations. But if it's easier for you to just end it all, you can make that decision too, and no one will judge you for it,” she assures you, gently squeezing your arm, giving you some comfort.

The warmth of her support gives you a respite in the midst of the turmoil. And you realize that having someone who understands and doesn't judge you is invaluable at times like this.

Even if the answers aren't clear, her presence makes you feel less alone.

“Thank you, Alysanne,” you murmur, sincerely grateful.

She stays with you, advising you, while you ask her for help in knowing what you can do, what exactly to say to him if you decide to talk to him or how to end it all, making notes in your mind.

Then she talks to you about trivial things to distract you and make you laugh a little to lighten the load you're carrying, until the two of you head off to your next class.

You're running late.

Your father drive you to school today but your alarm didn't ring when it was supposed to, so now you're just running to your first class of the day, hoping the chemistry teacher will let you in.

However, the irony of fate.

Maybe being late was your purpose to finally face what you've been avoiding, as in the middle of almost running down the hallway, as you turn towards another, you come face to face with him.

You stand completely paralyzed, feeling your heart stop before it begins to beat frantically, where surprise is evident in your gaze, as Aemond's gaze lights up as he finally sees you, but confusion begins to invade him in the midst of all his emotions.

He seems as surprised as you and in the midst of all that he is feeling, a fierce determination comes over him.

And you seeing the resolve on his face, the finally understanding of what is happening, you feel a wave of panic wash over you and without a second thought, you turn and start to walk away from him as fast as you can.

'Y/N,' Aemond's voice calls out to you, urgent and full of anguish, but you refuse to look back.

'I can't.'

You think with the pain in your chest and your hands beginning to shake.

“Y/N!”

Your steps become faster, almost stumbling in your haste to get away from him, hearing his equally hurried footsteps behind you.

“Y/N, please wait!”

You don't wait. You don't even see him. You just want to walk away, but Aemond doesn't give up easily and he certainly won't now that he's finally seeing you.

“Y/N, please,” his footsteps quicken, trying to reach you, his voice more insistent, full of urgency and concern, ”Please, we need to talk.”

You know it, but right now you can't.

Tears threaten to stream down your cheeks as you walk faster, with your thoughts being a tangle of conflicting emotions, where every fiber of your being wants to escape and run away from the pain that threatens to overwhelm you.

But Aemond is having none of it anymore.

“I said wait,” he tells you just as desperately but more firmly, unwilling to let you go.

And finally, in one swift and decisive move, he reaches out and grabs your arm, forcibly stopping you with his firm but gentle grip, placing himself in front of you so as to prevent you from running away.

Biting your lips, you watch him for a second before lowering your gaze, seeing the desperation and confusion on his face.

“What?”

Is all you can barely say in a low murmur and shaky voice, straining to keep your composure, not daring to look at him, as his beautiful blue, piercing eye desperately searches yours.

“What?” he repeats in confusion, not understanding, ‘That's all you're going to say?’ he say incredulously.

“Aemond,” you call out wearily, "I don't want to do this," you mutter sadly, trying to dodge him, but he quickly blocks your path again.

“What's going on?” he demands to know, confused and desperate, ”I haven't heard from you, I was worried.”

You clench your jaw, staring at an unimportant spot in the hallway.

“I'm fine,” you say emotionlessly.

He watches you even more uncomprehendingly, his frustration growing by the second.

“Yeah, I can see that now, but you're ignoring me and I don't even know why,” he says incredulously, noticing how you avoid his gaze at all costs and lets out a bitter little laugh, "You can't even look at me," he says with his voice tinged with pain, ”What happened?”

You feel lost in your thoughts, caught between sadness and confusion. You don't even know how to begin, how to explain to him the whirlwind of emotions you've been feeling since you saw that damn picture.

You don't even know how to explain that to him.

Your mind fills with conflicting images: the moments at Dragonstone, the warmth of his hugs, the tenderness of his kisses, and then, the devastating image of him making out with Floris.

“After Dragonstone I thought everything was going great, you… you seemed great,” he says blankly, shrugging his shoulders, "Even after I dropped you off at your house and we talked, everything was fine and I don't—" he lets out a sigh, "I don't understand anything," he gestures defeatedly with his head.

You take a moment, taking a deep breath, trying to sort out your thoughts, when his voice brings you back to the moment.

“Can you at least look at me?” he asks in a sad, defeated tone.

'Can you?'

All that comes to your mind just being near him is that picture of him and Floris. You even think you're overreacting but… he should have even told you before the whole hot tub thing happened.

So with a painful effort, you finally look him in the eye and confront him.

“Were you with Floris at that party you invited me to after dinner with your family?” you ask, your voice barely audible, but laden with firmness and expectation.

Aemond freezes, his eye widening in surprise, definitely not expecting this. And that's when he knows.

He understands everything now, your behavior, your attitudes, the fact that you've been ignoring him, everything. And he can really blame you? He's really in a position to demand answers after what happened between the two of you in the hot tub?

And it's not even a question with an answer, because the answer you already have, he knows it by looking at your serious and hurt face, just waiting for the confirmation that will end up breaking your heart completely.

“Y/N…” he tries to speak, but doesn't know exactly what to say.

“Just answer me,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, ”You were with her?”

He doesn't answer.

Even after he opens his mouth to speak, words seem to fail him and he says nothing, searching for a justification that doesn't seem to come. The guilt on his face is evident and the desperation to try to fix what he has broken is reflected in every line of his expression.

And all that coupled with his silence is the answer.

You feel a lump form in your throat and your eyes begin to fill with tears. You don't know what to say or what to do, with the pain and confusion in your eyes more evident than ever.

And seeing your whole expression, Aemond feels it like a dagger in his heart, trying to find a way to ease the pain he has caused.

“Y/N, let me explain. It's not what you think—

“You kissed her,” you interrupt him, your voice breaking.

“It didn't mean anything—

“I saw the picture.”

“Y/N—

You fall silent and suddenly… you don't hear anything anymore.

Aemond's voice distorts, like an echo drifting away, as you finish processing everything that's happening.

Memories of Dragonstone mingle with the image of Aemond and Floris kissing, both on the bus, in the jacuzzi, on the beach, at the aquarium, on the yacht, again on the bus and finally at your house, creating a whirlwind of emotions that takes your breath away.

Aemond takes a step toward you with his hand extended, wanting to touch you, to hold you, but you take a step back, avoiding his touch at all costs.

“I kissed you,” you say in a broken voice, ”In the hot tub.”

“I know,” he immediately says urgently.

“I didn't pretend.”

“I know, I know Y/N, just please listen to me—

“After what happened in the hot tub, you should have been honest with me,” you interrupt him again, with anger and hurt mixed in your voice and tears starting to slide down your cheeks, ”Now I don't know what to believe. I don't know if all that meant anything to you.”

“Of course it meant something to me, Y/N,” he tells you desperately, his voice heavy with sincerity. “It meant more than you could ever think.”

“How do you expect me to believe that?” you inquire, your voice breaking.

He looks at you desperately, searching for the right words he can't seem to find.

“It was a mistake, I swear. I didn't mean to hurt you.”

“Then why didn't you tell me?” your voice rises with a mixture of pain and anger.

Aemond opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out and frustrated, he doesn't know what to say, how to explain himself, holding a hand to the back of his neck and shaking his head.

“You and I weren't really dating at the time, Y/N,” he tells you in an attempt to justify himself, his voice barely a whisper, “And I didn't think you and I would make it this far.”

You shake your head, looking at him as if you can't believe what you're hearing. Aemond lets out a long sigh, closing his eye tightly for a moment, only making the situation worse.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—

“And you've already forgotten about that?” you inquire and just as broken as before, ”The contract?”

He lets out a sigh, not knowing what else to say or what to do.

“Y/N—

“We agreed not to be with other people,” you remind him slowly and clearly, with the bitter tone in your voice, with the tears in your eyes and the pain in your gaze, “And even though it wasn't real, in their eyes you cheated on me.”

“I swear it didn't mean anything Y/N, I don't—

“And they saw at Dragonstone how delusional and naive I was with you after that.”

“I didn't tell you because I didn't want to lose you!” he finally admits to you, firm, desperate and worried, ”After what happened between us in that place… I didn't want to ruin it.”

You shake your head slightly, feeling your emotions overflowing.

“That's not justification.”

“It's the truth,” he insists, ”And I was wrong, I know. I should have told you and I'm sorry,” he exasperates, "But I swear that kiss with Floris was a mistake. And everything that happened between us was real to me, every moment, every kiss, everything was real to me Y/N," he tells you with intensity and sincerity in his gaze, ”It was and I wasn't playing with you.”

You stare at him without saying anything, because you don't know what to say and because even though Aemond is honest, still hearing that hurt you.

He tries to make you understand at that moment with everything he can that he is being completely honest with you. But then thoughts come over you, still with tears running down your cheeks.

You think of her, of Floris.

You think about everything Alysanne told you the two of them had before she decided to go on exchange, about the relationship and the complicity the two of them shared and still share.

And suddenly, the realization hits you hard.

“You still care about her,” you say with a lump in your throat.

Aemond watches you for a moment uncomprehendingly, not understanding what you say, but as you both fall silent and he watches your face, he knows what you are implying.

“Floris,” you clarify, “You still care about her,” you repeat firmly.

And he doesn't say anything.

He just watches you there not knowing what to say, with desperation and pain in his gaze. He opens his mouth to protest but can't say anything, his expression betraying him, until eventually his gaze falls to the floor, unable to hold yours.

That silence is all you need to confirm your suspicions and the weight of betrayal falls harder on your chest again.

“It's not like that, Y/N,” he tries to explain.

“That's right,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “That's why you didn't tell me. Because, deep down, there's still something between you.”

He looks up, the desperation in his gaze more than evident.

“Y/N, please—

“If this whole thing between us was really real to you, if it really meant that much, you would have told me,” you say, your voice breaking, each word hurting you like a stab, ”You would have been honest.”

“You don't understand,” he tells you in exasperation, reaching his limit, running a hand across his forehead, ”She was there for me when Alys and I broke up after a very ugly fight. She listened to me, kept me company, gave me advice,” he explains desperately, "And obviously it hurt me that she left, obviously I missed her, Y/N. And those feelings won't go away so easily, we both have history," he says incredulously, ”But if I assure you that kiss was a mistake Y/N, it shouldn't have happened and I'm sure she knows it too.”

His words pierce through you, a sharp pain settling in your chest. And you don't say anything, because you don't know what to say. You don't even know if you have to say anything about it.

But the reality is you don't.

You understand that his relationship with Floris is something that existed before you, but knowing that doesn't make it hurt any less, it doesn't ease the pain you feel and it definitely doesn't erase the image of that kiss in your mind.

Because that means there will always be a part of him that belongs to her, just like Alys. And this is exactly why you can't help but feel as if you're competing with her past, when you shouldn't be.

And finally, you look up, where Aemond sees in your eyes a painful resolve.

“Then I guess what happened between us was also a mistake.”

Aemond watches you in complete surprise, his eye widening in concern, his heart beginning to pound.

“No, no, Y/N, not that, I would never—

“It shouldn't have happened,” you interrupt him, firm with your statement, "Because believe it or not, if Floris hadn't gone on exchange, you and her would still be together," you say bitterly and sadly, ”She would have helped you with making Alys jealous and none of what happened between us would have happened.”

Aemond takes a step toward you, despair painted on his face.

“That's not true, Y/N. Don't say that. What happened between us was real, what I felt was real,” he insists, ‘But Floris and I… it's complicated," he says with frustration, ”But I don't care about her anymore the way I care about you, I can assure you that, because I want to be with you, I really do.”

Do you believe him?

You're not sure.

Right now you don't know what to believe, let alone what to do, to which Aemond steps forward, taking your hand, wanting to fix this because he doesn't want it to end, at least not like this.

“I'm sorry,” he murmurs, his voice breaking. “I'm so sorry, Y/N.”

You swallow hard, shake your head and with your free hand wipe the tears from your cheeks, to which he watches you worriedly, hating to see you cry.

“Me too,” you say in a mumble with your lowered gaze and hoarse voice.

You make him let go of your hand and looking at his face one last time, full of regret and despair, you turn and start to walk away.

And he of course reacts immediately.

“Please, Y/N, don't walk away. Let's talk about this. We can fix it.”

But you feel there is nothing more to say. You've heard his words, you've seen his despair, but you don't stop even with tears streaming down your cheeks.

He tries to make you stay with the anguish in his tone of voice, he asks for your forgiveness again and tries to fix everything, but all you want at that moment is to walk away and that's exactly what you do, leaving him behind.

Even though you couldn't concentrate later in the whole school day, with your mind constantly taking you back to all that has already been said, finally classes end and you get home.

Yet you had to avoid Aemond at all costs after the conversation you both had, as well as his calls and messages only increased, making your whole day worse.

And now finally in your room you can have that break.

You're still feeling down and you're thankful your father is still at work or else he'd have to watch you wiping away the tears that involuntarily fall down your cheeks at every turn.

You try to distract yourself by watching movies or series, which works, but your mood is the same and the feeling of sadness in your chest won't go away, as well as that accompanying feeling of emptiness.

You let out a long breath and lying on your bed, you distract yourself on social media, Instagram, Tiktok, whatever. Then you log on to Facebook and scroll aimlessly through your feed, reading every news and every shared post or photo.

When suddenly an announcement appears from the official Facebook page of Citadel University.

“Attention future students! The application process for new admission as well as the entire scholarship process has been finalized. Results will be sent to students soon. Watch for the mail and thank you all for your preference!”

You quickly sit up in your bed, looking at the announcement confused and surprised, with a new wave of anxiety hitting you.

This is what Aemond should have done, get you into your dream college as part of the contract, including the scholarship.

But then why didn't he tell you?

Uncertainty and fear begin to invade your mind, so you quickly open your email, assuming that news must have reached you that you got in, as he promised.

After all, you gave him all the documents and your personal information to work on your application, phone number and email included, so you should get that email soon, right?

You browse through everything you find, feeling that every second that passes increases your anxiety, checking your inbox, the spam folder, updating everything at any second, attentive and alert. But as time goes by, there is nothing.

No mail from Citadel University arrives.

Then another realization comes to your mind at that moment, with the knot in your stomach and disbelief in your gaze as you stare at your cell phone screen, unable to believe it.

The absence of news can only mean one thing: Aemond didn't keep his part of the deal.

That's why he didn't tell you anything.

general taglist:

@melsunshine @at-a-rax-ia @jxdegodfrey @ttkttt @yentroucnagol @kate-to-the-ki @iamavailablesstuff @bluerskiees @urmomsgirlfriend1 @toodlesxcuddles @rosie-posie08 @iloveallmyboys @bellaisasleep @deliaseastar @cupcakesminicakescupcakes @dixie-elocin @lilostif16 @wickedfrsgrl @a-beaverhausen @a-beaverhausen @saturnssrings @ladythornofrivia @iloveallmyboys @vhwyrm @strangersunghoon @urmomsgirlfriend1

[yandereunsolved]

Thicker than Dragons Blood - ,, yandere Daemon Targaryen pining over Rhaenyra's friend

tw(s): yandere themes, suggestive themes (slight nsfw), grooming, dubcon, purity culture, misogny, stalkholm syndrome

✧ It all began the day that both you and Rhaenyra met in the nursery. Without the ability to speak, only to wail and babble, the two of you were instantly the closest of friends. There was no place where she went that you weren't either. You balanced out her reckless and bratty behavior. She wasn't the best friend to you, but you were stuck to her hip. You always took the fall for her so that she could keep her reputation untarnished. In those moments, you forgot your standing as a child of a noble—a Lord or Lady of a house standing strong. You always gifted her little things that you found as reminders of your bond. She paid you back through adventure and gossip. Occasionally, she would gaslight you if you heard something bad about her, but who wouldn't? She couldn't lose her best friend.

✧ In the back of those red-tinted memories was Daemon. Whenever he happened to be at the Red Keep, he always kept a close eye on what transpired between the both of you. At first, he saw an opportunity to stake his future claim as king by marrying Rhaenyra. Although his eyes always wandered to you. There was something about you that was just so innocent and corruptible. As you grew, so did Daemons intrigue with you. It soon ignited into a fiery infatuation, burning brighter than any flame in Old Valyria ever could.  

✧ His interest, a word far too shallow to explain his attraction, was not unnoticed by your father, the head of your house. Daemon had many talks with your father. Your father did your best to sweet talk Daemon, but obviously he was able to see through it. He didn't need any convincing. That's how he became your tutor. He would spend all his free time dragging you away from Rhaenyra, forcing you to learn whatever he felt like teaching you that day. He wanted to cause a rift in your relationship with her. He was also beginning to feel possessive over you. Why has his neice caught your favor and not him? He could not allow this seemingly 'platonic' relationship with Rhaenyra to further escalate.

✧ The content of his teachings would seem less than savory to most. You had just barely risen past the age of a blooming maiden; that makes you fair game, correct? When you were in your younger years, he never taught you anything that could cause rumors to spread. After all, rumors in the Red Keep spread faster than a dragon's fire. He needed to make sure that you were old enough to keep your mouth shut. He needed to make sure that your age wouldn't be a problem. An age gap wouldn't cause rumors, but a child noble engaging in intimate acts like an adult prince? Unthinkable. He wouldn't ruin his reputation because of that.

✧ However, no gap in age or experience could stop him once you were old enough to be considered of age. He began teaching you the finer things in life, like how to please a man and how to please yourself. You were naive. You didn't know more than how a babe was made. You didn't realize everything was so complicated and embarrassing. He always stifles your moans during your private 'tutoring' sessions. He encourages you and tells you how good you are being. He speaks dirty words in your ears in High Valyrian. He gives you an extra reward if he can see you recognize some of the words in his teachings. It's an addiction for him. He can't get enough of your body and your figure. You had grown into yourself. It was a sight no other whore's body could even begin to match. The gods must have gifted you to him after everything he has done for the kingdoms.

✧ He gives you 'homework' and does more than just scold you if you don't complete it to his liking. Most of the time, he just enjoys watching you. Even after all his teachings, you are still so inexperienced. He hasn't taken the final step with you. He wouldn't take your full maidenhood yet, no. He simply couldn't. Not for any moral reasons. He just wanted you to keep your virtue a bit longer. That's one of the things that attracted him to you in the first place. He would have immediately taken any other slut, but you weren't that. You are a god(dess) among men. You deserve a romantic night filled with passion. A night where he can put a babe in you, fertile or not.

✧ As you began drifting away from Rhaenyra due to your tutoring sessions with Daemon, you were confronted. She clung onto you with tears in her eyes and asked why you didn't care about her anymore. She silently begged and pleaded for a good reason. Then she became enraged. She slapped you and demanded to know once again why you were drifting from her. 

"Is it because of my uncle? Is your knowledge truly worth more than our lifelong partnership?"

You couldn't tell her the truth. You knew what you were engaging in with Daemon was scandalous. If you told Rhaenyra she may hate you, or even worse, use it to blackmail you so you are always by her side. You made up some flimsy excuse. You just said that you were insecure about always being near her, and Daemon said that she didn't like you anymore. That part about Daemon was partly true. He has been whispering lies to you about your relationship with Rhaenyra for years now. For better or for worse, you both are still as close as you were during your younger years, if not even closer now.

She finally calmed after you made your excuse. She didn't question its validity. She was just happy to finally have you back. She made you promise to stay away from Daemon as much as you possibly could. So, you did. Who were you to disobey the command of a princess, your closest companion?

✧ A sense of shame and dread fills you. You don't need a tutor anymore. After an hour-long argument with your father, he finally relents. He threatens that if their house falls out of the Targaryens good graces because you refused to be tutored by Daemon, he'll sell you out to a pleasure house. He didn't know how hard that hit you. You felt impure. You enjoyed what you did with Daemon. Why is that wrong? You were taught only to find pleasure in your future spouse. You found pleasure in him, and look where it got you. A strained relationship with your best friend that you had to fix, and your father threatening to sell you out to a whore house.

You feel like you are being attacked from all angles. Daemon begins to stalk you to get your attention. That's what you can call it, right? Stalking? You swear he's following you, even when he isn't. You thought you heard the guards speaking about reporting back to him. Something just feels more off about him whenever you get near him. Your mind began to repress all the memories of your intimate moments together. You just felt so confused, so lost, and so paranoid. Nothing felt right. You could barely remember your own name. At least you'll be able to find a suitor soon. You'll be able to put this all behind you. Not if Daemon has anything to do with it.

✧ After a few months, everything seems to be back to normal. There are no more of those weird tutoring sessions; you have rebuilt your relationship with Rhaenyra, and you even have some decent choices for a future spouse. You did have to carry on the bloodline as the eldest, after all. 

Daemon, however, was far from 'normal'. Not that he ever was. Over those few months, people could notice the changes in him. He became more unhinged, erratic, and easily angered at the tiniest of mistakes. Behind closed doors, he was drinking all of the spirits he could get his hands on. He was spending triple the amount of time at brothels that he usually did. He forgot about everything else, except for the problem of the bronze bitch in the back of his mind. You were nothing like her. You were like a precious piece of jewelry made out of the finest gold and precious metals that were melted down by a dragon's breath. All he knew was that he needed to court you. 

Not even commanding the Nights Watch could tame the beast within him. He flew Caraxes to contemplate. He would eye over where, somewhere off in the distance, you were in the castle. You were probably spending time with his neice, or gods forbid, another man, one of his men that he commands. 

He's just never wanted anything more than you. He knows you aren't his kin or his blood. He knows that marrying you would be an impossible task. It would mean decreasing his chances of taking the throne. You had something, though; you had the Targaryen spirit in you. He could feel it every time he touched you. He could feel the heat simmering just beneath the skin. You were worthy of his seed and worthy of carrying his kin. He could always bribe one of his family members to use as a surrogate in case you have male genitalia or are infertile. Your babies would still be pure Targaryens that way. It just disgusts him to have to think of impregnating anyone but you.

✧ You had a tournament in honor of Rhaenyra finally being old enough to be courted. It was one that would end on a much lighter note, as opposed to the last one, which ended in her mother's death. It was partly your tournament as well. Well, that is what Daemon thought of it as. He would fight for you, and you alone. He understands that voicing this would be improper. You do see it in the way he glances at you while fighting in the rounds he is participating in. When he is not, he's staring into your soul. His eyes never leave your figure. You feel queasy; something is even more off about him now. Your ex-tutor didn't have any feelings past merely using you as another one of his flings; you tried to assure yourself. Only when the last round of the tournament was to commence did he ask for your favor instead of Rhaenyra's.

The crowd was shocked; some gasped, while others questioned the meaning of this. Was Daemon choosing you over Rhaenyra due to the infighting over who was to be the true heir of the Iron Throne? Was he simply being contrary, as always? Or did he want your favor because he harbored more than platonic feelings toward you?

It was unheard of, as it was customary for Targaryens to only ask for the favors of their family members.

He did the tournament. His actions made clear the message he intended to send; he did it for you. 

Rhaenyra wasn't pleased. She threatened her uncle behind closed doors to stop hitting on her best friend. He laughed it off. He taunted her.

"As if there is anything you can do about it. They want me. They crave my touch."

✧ You only tried harder from then on to separate yourself from him. You purposefully avoided him, and it only became harder to do so. It was as if he had memorized your schedule by heart. Little notes and gifts began to be left on your bedding. They weren't signed, but you had a suspicion that it was Daemon's doing. You tried to express your concerns to your mother and father, only to be given a dismissive response. You tried to confide in your siblings, but your female one(s) only giggled and swooned over him. Your male one(s) simply huffed and waved you off, half-heartedly saying that they'd offer you some protection against the prince if the time came. 

✧ You try to confront him. He admits that the gifts were from him. He doesn't admit the extent of his infatuation for you yet. You already seemed adamant on avoiding him. Scaring you off wouldn't do him any good because he still doesn't have a strong hold over the council or his brother. He promises to stop gifting you things and back off if you just do one thing with him. You reluctantly agreed without knowing what he was planning. If you knew it was to ride on Caraxes with him, then you would have simply walked off and not given his compromise another thought. 

✧ You were intimidated by dragons; dare you say fearful of them. They always seemed to be able to pierce one's soul with their eyes. You refused to be near Rhaenyra's dragon, Syrax, for that exact reason. Now you were within ten feet of one, and you were practically trembling. Daemon was positively ecstatic underneath his facade of poised indifference. He would be able to exert control over you because of his title of dragon rider, if nothing else. 

Syrax seemed like an innocent hare in comparison to Caraxes.

However, you surprisingly felt safe as Daemon placed your hand on Caraxes's scales. There was a certain vulnerability in Daemon's eyes that you had not seen before. He seemed to treasure these moments. Caraxes almost seemed to... like you? The dragon could sense his riders affection toward you. In turn, Caraxes felt the same need to protect you and be gentle. The beast even allowed you to scratch under his chin, a purr-like reaction emanating from his long throat. It was like nothing you had ever experienced before. 

☾ The ride was breath-taking, both figuratively and literally. That's the only way you can describe it. It was the first time you felt safe around Daemon. He was in charge of making sure you felt comfortable in the air, his arms possessively at your sides as he controlled the reigns. He could feel your relaxed muscles against his toned chest. His heart swelled even further with an all-encompassing ecstasy that he had never had the pleasure of feeling before. Caraxes responded to both of you with a comforting roar, somewhere in between intimidating and reassuring. You had never felt true freedom in your life. For once, you felt it, even in the arms of someone you could consider an oppressor. 

☾ You were aware of his wife. You knew that these strange feelings Daemon harbored for you had to be temporary. You at least admitted to yourself that he did hold some sort of romantic attraction to you. He admitted the least of it. Still, you fooled yourself into thinking they were temporary. Not just a fling, something more intimate but less binding than a marriage. Even with this knowledge, even after being introduced to Caraxes and riding him with Daemon, your hesitance was still fully rooted within your heart and mind—your soul. He took advantage of you before. You shudder at the thought. You enjoyed learning those things, but were you truly able to consent to them? You were of age. You push it away within your mind. It is the deepest reason for your hesitance, but you didn't want to think on it. Thinking of your tutoring sessions with Daemon only proved to fill you with heat and shame simultaneously.

☾ You chose to do your best to shake all of the invasive thoughts from your mind. You spent as much time as you could with Rhaenyra. She looked at you with such love and cowered behind you whenever things got too tough. From the shadows of the small council, one man in particular envied your relationship: Otto Hightower. He has taken to calling you 'Daemon's whore'. He has been the one since the beginning to spread whispers amongst those in the court about your loyalty to the crown.

Would you choose Daemon over Viserys?

That was a question many asked with their eyes and not their tongues. It was humiliating. You don't even want to associate with Daemon, and yet your time as his student has left your reputation forever scarred. Not to mention how many times you have chosen to state that Rhaenyra's mistakes were your own, for the sake of your friendship. Even with the whispers, it was not enough for Otto. He needed them to be screams. He needed everyone to see you as the whore you were! He has never grown soft towards you because of one simple fact: you threaten his entire plan for his family's ascension to the throne. Alicent has never been able to catch a Targaryen's attention, yet you are the best friend to one and the whore of another.

☾ It was a mistake for you to align yourself so closely with Rhaenyra. She ranted to you about what her fears were and how terrified she was at the possibility of not being the sole heir. You had to listen while Daemon plotted at Dragonstone. You hadn't seen him since the day you rode Caraxes with him. That was well over half a moon ago by now. You were relieved to finally be rid of his presence. Only you thought so. When the gods rose the moon high into the sky and nestled the sun beneath the cusp of the earth, he returned to you. That very night, after Rhaenyra had left your chambers, Daemon had snuck in. He surprised you and urged you to hush yourself.

You had no choice. He led you to the empty cradle, where the last heir passed after living for less than a day. There was a dragon egg in it. He whispered to you about all the things he wanted to do to you. He made a promise that one day your babe would be in the cradle, with his features and your personality.

It felt like a dream you would have after a fever. You still can't be sure it happened. After he left, the realm of dreams tugged you in once again. You woke up, and no trace of him was there. Daemon was getting bolder in his advances toward you. He still feared scaring you off completely, but he has to take what is rightfully his. He is the heir to the Iron Throne, after all.

☾ Years passed, and you grew older. Daemon was off fighting a war in the Stepstones; Alicent gave the king a male heir with another babe on the way; and Rhaenyra stuck closer to you than any tree sap could. Otto was less of a thorn in your side these days. As this time passed, you were plagued with tragedies every time you tried to take a lover. You were the eldest, and yet you were failing your house dearly. They tried their best to get you courted as well. Your entire family was just perplexed. Every suitor you were supposed to marry showed up dead before your wedding day. Were you cursed by the gods? It couldn't be Daemon, could it? It was so far away. He couldn't simply be orchestrating this while so far away.

It simply left you in tears every single time. Rhaenyra was your only solace. She grew more bratty and defiant of her father. She refused to marry that Lannister fellow. She rejoiced when your newest one came up dead. She couldn't help but smile. She didn't want you to get married and leave her. You both were meant to be companions. You are companions, the closest of them. 

Still, your soul was aching, and your body was deprived of something it yearned for. 

Were you really missing Daemon's odd behavior?

No, never.

Well, maybe.

☾ You didn't realize that perhaps you were even worried about him until he returned to the castle. It felt like a piece that had gone missing had finally returned. The king, his brother, was thankful for his submission and offered him one thing behind closed doors. What was that one thing you ask? Your hand in marriage. When Daemon strolled over to you and told you this, you were flabbergasted, even bamboozled. You couldn't just marry your best friend's uncle. 

☾ You tried every excuse under the sun. You tried to say that you weren't up to the Targaryen standards of beauty; he said that you were created by the gods, so graceful and divine. You brought up the fact that you had no blood tied to Old Valyria; he stated that your soul was that of a dragon, more than worthy of his hand. You tried to reason with him by saying that he had another wife who he already struggled to take care of. That angered him. 

"Don't ever speak about the bitch again, dear. Understand me?"

She died as you would learn later. Some sort of riding incident that led to her demise. You offered your condolences to Daemon. He laughed and said that he'd happily spit upon her rotting corpse. He didn't need to lie to you. He also wasn't compelled to tell the truth when you didn't ask for it. He'll make sure the whispers of him murdering his wife never reach your ears.

☾ Rhaenyra simply shrugged and thought that you marrying her uncle was at least a close match for her. She would still be able to speak with you. You would now be closer to her! She wasn't ecstatic, but pleased—maybe even smug. Whatever negative feelings she had toward her uncle being around you were clearly resolved. It only struck terror in your heart. 

☾ Your family would help, right? No. Such a laughable thing. They were overjoyed. They also told you not to screw it up. Talks of the heirs you two would produce, the tie to the Targaryens bolstering your house's status, and many other reasons you didn't care to listen to.

☾ You were—are trapped. You were to marry a man that you couldn't make up your mind about. It could be worse. Every strange thing must have been because of the gods, right? If only you knew the lengths Daemon went to marry you. The people he threatened, the people he beheaded, the poisons traded in markets that aren't pure of heart but dark and foreboding. He finally felt at peace. So did Caraxes. Your family would be so perfect. He could already see you holding a babe in your arms that he had bred into you. Is this what you truly want? Or is that hesitancy in your soul still strong enough to pull you out of his hold and help you escape him?

[avtrbee]

in the beginning

✢summary: in a final attempt to salvage the rift between your families, you suggest a marriage pact between you and and alicent’s second son

✢tags: aemond x targaryen!reader, reader is rhaenyra and laenor second born child

✢tw: kinda possessive (?) aemond, i specifically mention that reader has one purple eye and the other brown and white hair- other than that its all ambiguous, targcest 😭

✢a/n: gods this man has a chokehold on me fr, and the gif isnt mine

You have never seen your mother so angry. After the disastrous family dinner, Rhaenyra Targaryen all but shoved her children inside her solar. The Princess of Dragonstone walks around in circles with fire in her footsteps and a finger in her mouth to soothe her anxiety, no doubt recalling the events a few moments prior.

Daemon sat comfortably on the seat behind your mother, seemingly amused by the situation. His violet eyes seem to glow in delight as he watches his wife scold her children. You had looked at him for help, but he only looked back as if saying, you’ve woken the dragon.

“I had thought you better than this!” She stops her strides and snaps her neck to the children huddled together on an ottoman. You, Luke, and Jace sit as close as you can together- a pathetic attempt to comfort each other from your mother's wrath. It is what you’ve always done, it’s what Rhaenyra had always taught you to do; protect each other.

Luke was the first to speak. “But he called us St-“

“Those whispers had been used against you since the moment you were born. I was wrong to hope you’d get used to it,” came your mother’s cold reply. An echo of the dinner fills the room. You all seemingly recall Aemond’s words, and all the whispers said before his- Strong bastards.

You feel Luke shrink back to his seat.

From the floor, you dared to gaze up at your mother. It was a mistake. As soon as you looked up, her violet eyes caught yours and the fire in her burned greatly.

“You were always the best of them,” Rhaenyra regards you with a furious gaze and a disappointed tone. “I had expected better from you. But for you to strike Alicent’s eldest son-"

“He called them bastards!” You argue, anger seeping through your pores and out to the air of your mothers chamber. “Aegon deserved it.”

“Them,” Rhaenyra repeats. “Them, not you. I had thought you knew better than to meddle in business you are not part of, Y/N.”

In truth, Rhaenyra is relieved that out of all her children with Laenor you are the one no one would dare question your legitimacy. Rhaenrya’s only daughter did not inherit the dark Baratheon hair of their grandmother (or the hair of a Strong, as the traitorous whispers insist), but the Valyrian features House Targaryen and House Velaryon are so famous for- silver as hair and an amethyst for an eye. It was a pity you are her second born and not her first.

Like Luke, you feel yourself curl back in your seat. “I’m sorry, mother.”

“Do you know what you have done?” Rhaenyra’s voice calls out as you cowardly stare at the floor, refusing to meet her gaze. You feel Luke’s hand sneak to hold yours in an attempt to comfort you. “In any other fight, I would have defended you tooth and nail, but this is a fight that you had started.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, unable to say anything else. In truth, it all began with Aemond, the roasted pig, and Luke’s unstifled giggles. Aemond got angry, but words were only words. You had punched Aegon first, and it became the catalyst of the fragile truce. You were not blind nor stupid, you have felt the tension between your mother and the Queen Regent. It had been made worse with Aemond’s bullying and the loss of his eye. And now you.

You knew how important the dinner was until you ruined it. Foolish, foolish, girl.

If there were to be a war in House Targaryen, history would blame Princess Y/N Velaryon and her temper. The fall of Valyria’s last surviving houses was caused by your hands, and a glance at Rhaenyra’s pregnant belly makes the guilt inside you grow. You have done nothing but cause her stress, especially when she is pregnant with your youngest sibling.

“Y/N is your grandmother reborn,” Viserys whispered as he first held you, back when you were still a babe. Rhaenyra watched as her father caressed her daughter’s cheek in wonder at her mismatched eyes.

Perhaps Alyssa Targaryen is why Viserys had favored Y/N out of all his grandchildren, and perhaps she is the reason why Daemon defends her.

“She was protecting her brothers,” came his voice behind Rhaenyra. Or perhaps he is hungry for another war.

“But it’s true,” argued Jace. “It is no use denying it when it is so obvious.” Rhaenyra regards her son with pity in her eyes, the fire of her anger fading regret. “It doesn’t matter anyway, for the fathers that supposedly sired us are both dead.”

“No,” argued Rhaenyra, finally striding over to all three of her oldest children. Her hands extend to touch you and Jace’s cheeks as Luke sandwiches between you. The Princess of Dragonstone kneels in front of her children and regards them slowly. “Your claim to the throne is not given by any man. You have a claim to the throne because I am its heir. ”

You and your siblings nod in unison.

Jace, your oldest brother, attempts to set an example. “We shall apologize to the Queen and her children for the trouble we’ve caused,” he proposes. You wonder what the realm will be like when he becomes King. “Luke will apologize to Aemond first-” Jace emphasizes his last words, fully expecting Luke’s reaction. “And Y/N shall apologize to Aegon.”

Rhaenyra regards Jace with a proud look. “What a great King you will be, sweet boy. But Alicent won’t accept this. Not after Aemond’s eye.” Beside you, Luke cringes no doubt recalling the past. “Not after one of her sons is harmed again,” Rhaenyra continues and it is your turn to try not to cower at your mothers words.

Rhaenyra stares at her eldest children, waiting for the ferocious anger within to lull and fade to a steady fire. Finally, she takes pity on the three young princes and princess whose gaze remains firmly on their laps.

“Look at me,” she commanded and all of you obey instantly. This action seems to let a small smile loose on her face as your three heads jut up to her command reminds her of a small litter of puppies eager for their mother. But you are not pups.

“My three-headed dragon,” she calls to you all affectionately, before kissing your foreheads one at a time. Is there anything she won’t do for you? “I will handle this. Go to your rooms. We depart for Dragonstone in a day’s turn.”

Luce and Jace stand from your shared seats immediately, eager to leave while Rhaenyra grants them her good spirits. But not you. You remain in your thoughts, the impending dread of the destruction of your House brought by your own foolishness is heavy in your head. You feel even worse as you have left your mother to clean up your messes once again.

“Sweetling?” Rhaenyra calls and you look up to her. She smiles as you gently, with all the love splattered in her face as she jerks her head to the doors of her chamber. It was as if she was never angry in the first place. “You may go.”

“Wed me to Aemond.” Your demand comes fast but quiet, tumbling out of your mouth before you had even thought of what you have said. You were grasping straws, desperate to mend your House in the only way you knew how.

From his seat, Daemon had his arms resting on his knees as his fists joined to cover his mouth in contemplation. He has an eyebrow raised in surprise, but his eyes were elsewhere possibly considering the match. You appeal to him first.

“It is a peaceful option, to end the rift between the two families in our House,” you argue. “And I am of age, and so is he.”

“It is a good match,” Daemon concedes, looking up at Rhaenyra. You follow his eyes and you meet your mother gazing at you with pity or sadness in her eyes- you could not tell.

“Do you know what that means, sweetling?” She asks, her hand coming to hold your nape. “You’d have to stay here, in Kings Landing. You’d have to leave Dragonstone. You’d have to leave me.”

“Aemond and I were friends once,” you reply, recalling fond memories you had in this Keep with your cousins. Aemond had always been a kind, soft-spoken boy and though he definitely changed as the years passed by, you were certain he was still the child you befriended deep inside.

Still, you cannot ignore the looks he had given you at the dinner. You had been seated between Aegon and Luke, far from the end of the table where Aemond was but you felt his stare all night as you ate your meal. The few times you dared to look at him, he had already been looking back with a predatory stare.

There is a hunger in his gaze, like a hunter seizing his prey for capture. You hated how he made you feel so small, for you are every bit of a dragon as he is, if not more.

“He will be kind,” you insist, not believing it yourself. “And I…” You struggle to find the right words. “I am of excellent Valyrian heritage. The Queen and Aemond won’t see this offer as an insult.”

“This mess was created by the Queen and I. And now our children are paying for it,” Rhaenyra kisses your forehead again- longer this time, like she wanted to pour out all of the love she had for her only daughter out through the kiss. “I don’t deserve you. I shall talk to Alicent once the sun rises.” Her hands cradle your face, her thumb stroking your face. “Avy jorrāelan.”

I love you.

“Avy jorrāelan,” you reply.

-

As if tradition, ladies and lords, palace maids, stable boys and aspiring knights have all gathered within the main courtyard every morning in hopes to catch Ser Criston Cole and Aemond Targaryen spar on dirt and rubble. Today, even more people are gathered as the two men have been sparing with live steel. You watch with them today, not being able to catch any proper sleep last night.

The clink-clang sounds of steel swords are heard across the yard, creating a rhythm for the hymn of violence Ser Criston and Aemond are so fond of. You sense the fight coming to its end as Aemond’s shield is smashed by Ser Criston’s morning star. At the loss of his defense, Aemond charges with his sword, clashing and slashing while Ser Criston narrowly dodges. Aemond is slower today, you notice and you are soon proven right when Ser Criston manages to put his palm on Aemond’s chest. With a thud, Ser Criston pushed Aemond to the ground, dangling his morning star in front of the prince’s face. Aemond watches the spiked ball swing once, twice, before declaring his defeat.

“I yield.”

Despite the prince’s defeat, his audience shower him with scattered applause. With the fight coming to an end, so did its audience with servants scurrying back to their duties and ladies heading back to the keep. Some fawning ladies and knights chose to stay to discuss their admiration among themselves.

“Do not be discouraged, my prince,” called Ser Criston as he held out a hand to the fallen prince.

Aemond took it begrudgingly. “I am not discouraged.”

“But you are distracted.” Ser Criston says, matter-of-factly with a raised eyebrow.

From where you stand, you see Aemond clench his jaw in annoyance. He averts his face from Ser Criston’s judging glance to your direction. You see the exact moment his eye light up in fascination and curiosity to your presence.

“Niece,” Aemond greets, dusting off the dirt from his breeches. He looks at you similar to how he stared at you all night at dinner. “Have you come to watch how true swordsmen fight?”

You force yourself to smile, ignoring the obvious slight to your brothers’ inferior skills. “My prince,” you greet, looking at his form. Aemond had become tall- unimaginably taller than he ever was as a child. He carries himself confidently, but your eyes are quick. You stare at his upper arm, and the growing dark stain on his shirt. “Come, my prince, you are wounded. Let me treat you.”

Aemond humors you a dry smile. “You have quick eyes, my princess.”

You watch as his tall figure walks towards you, his long legs making the distance between you seem shorter. You turn and walk with Aemond on your heels following your every step. You have no doubt that his mouth is curled in that sly smirk, wondering what business did the daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen have to do with him.

You could feel his curiosity grow as you led him to your solar. He sits comfortably on a chair while you stand, receiving the kit that your servant handed you. You quietly thank her and ask her to shut the door.

“I must say,” Aemond starts, looking around your solar in fascination. He relaxes on your chair like it is his solar he is in, not yours. “I am in confusion as to what I may have done to earn Princess Y/N Velaryon’s special attention.”

You ignore him, heading straight for the bowl of warm water placed beside him before dipping a rag in it. “You must remove your shirt for me to clean the wound,” you say.

Aemond holds your gaze for a moment before following your orders immediately. He shrugs off his tunic without looking away. With his shirt gone, you are greeted by the sight of his pale chest. You immediately take note of his broad shoulders, his arms, and the thin layer of sweat from his previous fight. Aemond is lean, but his physique was hardened by muscles gained from his mastery of the sword. You avert your eyes and try to not let it bother you.

It does, and he notices and responds with a smug smirk.

His arm, finally clear of any clothes, you dab your rag around the wound gently. “I have noticed that there has been a division between your family and mine,” you begin slowly, eyes darting to his face to gauge his reaction. “A division that you have suffered the consequences of the most.”

Aemond gives nothing away from his face but a calm and cool look. If he is in pain from the hot water and his wound, you cannot even tell. You wonder if he is stone cold silent from all the painful memories his brother and your brothers- and by extension you had caused.

No, you remind yourself. Aemond is not with his sister then one would have better chances finding him in your company than his brothers. However, you have always been torn apart by the family, always stuck in the middle as they fight in which you respond by turning a blind eye. You are complicit in his terrible childhood and the loss of his eye.

Still, you have always been polite and kind to Aemond. A bare minimum that he had cherished greatly after the lack of affection found in his family, to the point where your mother suspected Aemond harboring a childhood crush on you after he shyly gave you a red rose from the gardens before promptly running away.

Of course, every semblance of his affection died with the loss of his eye.

“You are angry, I understand that,” you continue, dabbing his wound gently still. “But I was wondering if you would find it within yourself to look past-”

“Look past?” His voice is sharp, but his face remains still. His eye, however, gives his anger away- a blazing violet that echoes the same dragon-like anger your mother had last night. “You ask me to forget that your brother stole my eye out of the goodness of my heart?”

“No,” you reply immediately. “You were both innocent children, but Lucerys should not have come out of that without consequences.”

Aemond tilts his head and leans closer to you. His violet eye searches your face challengingly. “And what do you offer?”

“Me.” Your voice rings out in your chamber as Aemond fails to reply with a sly retort. For the first time, a soft look of disbelief crosses his face. You reach to grasp his hand with your free palm, your mouth ready to list your reasons but before you could even touch him, Aemond had already grabbed your palm and pulled you to him.

“You?” He asked, a darkness filling his eyes. You do not know if he’s giddy or if he is mocking you. His grip on your hands are tight and you feel a tremble wash over you. “If you are to be my wife, you would be mine,” he reminds you.

Aemond’s tone is gentle but his intentions are anything but. You cannot help but swallow in nervousness, and Aemond’s eye follows your throat as the lump travels down. There is a danger lurking underneath your uncle, and he looks at you like he has won a game you did not even know you were playing.

“Yes, I would.” You agree. You try to shift your head to escape his gaze, but his hands capture your cheeks before you could even move. His fingers squish your face gently but with an unheard threat of harm if you dare to move again.

“Mine,” he whispers in awe at you, like he could not believe the possibility. “And what do your brothers think of that?”

“They-” you struggle to speak as his fingers squeeze your face. “They do not know.”

This news brings Aemond a small smile. This is the first time you have ever seen Aemond close to joy after the loss of his eye. “I could do anything to you if you were my wife. You would share my chambers, and my bed. You will bear my children. They surely would not like that, would they?” Aemond looks across the room as if fantasizing the displeasure on your brothers’ face or you growing his seed inside you- you do not know.

You feel his hands crawl to your face, cradling it almost lovingly. “And if I use you for my revenge?” Aemond whispers. “Would you offer me an eye for your brother’s debt, my lady?”

He does not wait for an answer when he continues. “Have you ever seen me without my eyepatch, my lady?”

It takes you a second to recover. You blink at him, wondering if you heard him right. You wring your hands nervously, unsure to where Aemond was getting at. “I can’t say I have, my prince.”

In an instant, his hand leaves your face and snatches his eyepatch off like it was poison before throwing the piece of leather on the ground in disgust. “And now?”

Aemond abruptly stands from his chair, and you are left to scramble away. It was like he was challenging you with the sight of his eyes. You take a step back as Aemond steps forward, leaning down on you to make sure you have a good look at the long jagged line that runs across his left side, and the sapphire that replaced his eye.

You struggle to keep your eyes on Aemond’s bare face as his sudden closeness makes you realize that he still is shirtless. If you tilt your head down, you would be met by his pale chest and if he moves any closer your nose would soon touch it.

“Would you still offer yourself to me, little lady?” Aemond asks. “Even with my sapphire eye?”

A sudden boldness overcomes you. “Are you trying to scare me, my prince?” You tiptoed to his height, leaning in as close as you dared, until your nose had brushed his. You look at him unfalteringly meeting the gaze of his eye and jewel.

“If I am to be your wife, my Valyrian eye is yours by right,” you jerk your head to the right, gesturing to your purple eye. Aemond looks unfazed at your bold declaration, choosing to remain still and stare at you but you see him steal a glance at the right side of your face.

Finally, you take a step back, removing yourself from his personal space and head to the kit your made gave you to get a slave. You turn to face Aemond again, only to find him seated back in the chair.

“My mother is with yours now,” you tell him, scooping a generous amount of salve on your fingers before spreading it across his wound. “No doubt trying to convince her of the possibility of our union. I just wanted to let you hear it from my lips first.”

As if on cue a knock echoes throughout your solar before a maid from Queen Alicent’s staff pops her head in your rooms. She curtsies before she says, “My lady, my prince, the Queen and the Princess have summoned you to the Queen’s solar.”

Before you could respond, Aemond was already walking out the door, eyepatch already back on his head. His arms move to wear his tunic back on. “Let’s go.”

This time, it is Aemond who leads the way as you follow.

-

“Prince Aemond and Princess Y/N, your Grace,” announced the maid as you and Aemond entered.

This is not the first time you have entered Alicent’s solar. The space is often filled with her attendants, as Helaena and her children and Aemond are often inside. Today it is only the Queen Alicent and your mother occupying the solar.

They sit in front of the fireplace to warm them in this cool morning, and a jug of wine on the side.

The Queen and the princess sport wide smiles and a faint blush on their cheeks from drinking.

The ambiance of the room is joyous. Rhaenyra’s head is thrown back from laughter as Alicent’s head is bowed down trying to stifle her giggles. You have never seen your mother look so carefree before, not with your father, nor with Daemon. Thus it baffles you further to see the Queen and the Princess of Dragonstone so comfortable with each other.

Almost hidden behind their thick gowns, you spot their hands interlocked. You turn to the side to meet Aemond’s equally curious stare.

“Oh!” Alicent spots you first. “There you are.”

Rhaenyra turns in your direction at Alicent’s voice. Your mother stands and walks to you, wrapping her hand on the side of your head as she kisses your temple. “Sweet girl,” she coos at you quietly.

“Viserys drones on and on about how she mirrors Alyssa, but she is Laenor through and through,” comments Alicent as her eyes roam your figure up and down. Beside her, Aemond has taken your mother’s seat beside the Queen.

Rhaenyra chuckles warmly. “If you ask me, I find that she is an echo of you, your Grace. Kind, dutiful, beautiful…” She trails off and shakes her head before gesturing to Aemond. “Your son echoes you the most though.”

Alicent looks at Aemond with a fond smile. It is obvious whose child the Queen favors. Out of all the Queen’s children, none have grown to look like her, except perhaps Aemond. He seems like an eerie mirror of his mother’s father with Valyrian coloring, but his eyes and smile are all Alicent’s. “Ah, yes,” she muses. “But his temperament mirrors you, Rhaenyra.”

A foreign look of regret slips on your mother's face like a mask. “Gods help this realm if I were born a man,” your mother whispers. “The things I would have done.”

Alicent and Rhaenyra share a sad knowing look. There is a longing in your mother’s words a deep, old, painful tone. The Queen looks at your mother almost regrettably but filled with affection all the same. The moment feels intimate to both of them, perhaps recalling their childhood when they held each other close to their hearts.

Never have you seen your mother look so vulnerable to anyone, much more in front of the Queen she resents. A quick glance at Aemond shows that this side of Alicent is new to him too.

The moment is quickly broken by Alicent. She clasps her hands together on her lap. “I assume that both of you know the matter of why I have summoned you here?”

You nod at your Queen while Aemond confirms dutifully, “Yes, mother.”

Alicent turns in her seat to regard her son. “I admit I have already consented to the match, but it is your opinion that I value the most. What say you, Aemond?”

Aemond takes a deep breath, his single eye sliding over to look at your mother behind you and finally at you. You know his act of pondering is false. You knew his answer as soon as you felt his gaze at the dinner table, and confirmed it at the glint of his eye when you had offered yourself. You wonder if he is repeating your offer in his head, the promise of your whole being, and your eye if he wishes it.

“I shall do my duty,” came Aemond’s response with a passive face.

Alicent smiles at her son proudly. “Congratulations, Aemond. You will be a fine husband, I know it.” She turns her head to you, “And to you, Y/N. This union is welcome and the realm shall rejoice when it is announced.”

Aemond is before you in an instant, holding out his hand for yours in which you had no choice but to give it. To your surprise, your betrothed merely raises it to his lips for a gentle kiss. “My lady.”

The touch of his lips on your hand jolts you awake and makes your heart skip a beat- from fear or from romance you do not know. A nervous smile spreads itself on your face nonetheless. “My prince.”

“Come,” your mother says, heading for the door. “We must tell Daemon and your brothers of this news.”

The mention of your brothers makes Aemond look more sly as he stares at you to leave. You curtsy to the Queen and now to your betrothed before following Rhaenyra.

“Rhaenyra,” Alicent’s voice rings out.

You see your mother hitch a breath before turning swiftly. “Yes, my Queen?”

“Stay,” Alicent asks, and suddenly it was like the two of them were alone in the room once more. Both Alicent and Rhaenyra were dead to the world when they looked at each other so fondly. There is heavy tension in the air, but different from the fraying truce of last night’s dinner. No one is on guard or cautious. It strangely feels like home. It is healing. “Even for a couple of weeks. The matter is resolved, there is no reason for you to return to Dragonstone so promptly.”

A genuine smile spread on Rhaenyra’s face and she had never looked so happy. “I’d like that.”

A smile tries to spread on Alicent’s face, but she turns around before it grows fully. “You are dismissed.”

-

alicent and rhaenyra: hahaha our children remind us of each other what if they get married

i firmly believe that is rhaenyra was born a boy or if westeros is lgbt friendly, she would have chosen alicent as her wife in a heartbeat.

did you enjoy this fic? check out my masterlist and part two

[novaursa]

Where Dragons Dare (2/3)

- Summary: After your declaration to marry Alicent in the small council meeting, the day of the wedding finally comes. And so does your first wedding night.

- Paring: male!targ reader/Alicent Hightower

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is twin brother of Rhaenyra and is bonded with a dragon. For more of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 5 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

- A/N: This was requested by @witch-of-letters. Enjoy! ❤️ Battle of the Stepstones is add as a bonus, because I love writing dragon battles. The last part will be posted later tomorrow once it is done.

- Previous part: 1

- Next part: 3

The grand hall of the Red Keep is awash with the glow of thousands of candles. The flames dance across golden tapestries depicting the histories of Old Valyria, but today the storied past pales in comparison to the momentous occasion unfolding before all in attendance. The wedding is one spoken of in whispers and rumors, but now it blooms before the gathered lords and ladies with all the splendor and gravitas worthy of House Targaryen. 

You stand at the altar draped in black and red, the rich silk of your doublet catching the light in subtle ways. The fine Valyrian embroidery at the hems speaks of dragons in flight, each thread imbued with dark crimson that shimmers like fresh blood. A black cloak, edged in deep scarlet, flows from your shoulders, fastened at your throat with a clasp shaped like a coiled dragon. Your hair, the silvery-white of pure Valyrian descent, is tied back, letting your angular features and sharp violet eyes take in every gaze, every emotion displayed openly or hidden away. At your side hangs Blackfyre—your birthright as Prince of Dragonstone—its pommel set with a ruby that gleams like a beating heart.

Before you, Alicent Hightower stands radiant in a gown of deep emerald green. The dress, fitted perfectly to her frame, billows out in layers of silk and fine lace, each shimmering with golden accents as she moves. A delicate crown of silver leaves and pearls rests atop her auburn hair, carefully arranged in elegant curls. Her eyes, a brilliant shade of brown, reflect a mixture of pride, joy, and the quiet steel she’s honed under the pressures of courtly life. There is a softness in her gaze, however, reserved only for you as her eyes meet yours—a silent understanding, a shared relief, and a promise of what is to come.

The Septon's voice rings out, leading the words of the traditional vows. Beside you, Rhaenyra is practically glowing with excitement. Her smile is unrestrained, her eyes darting between you and Alicent with genuine happiness, a sister’s joy at seeing her twin brother embrace his own fate. She wears a gown of pale red, adorned with the colors of House Targaryen and a crown of silver atop her flowing locks, her presence radiating confidence as the heir’s sister and a firm ally to your cause. 

King Viserys is seated in a place of honor, his face full of warmth and pride. His smile is wide as he watches his only son wed the woman who has become a daughter to him over the years. He has the contented look of a father who finally sees his children happy, a rare expression in a court filled with ambition and schemes. He lifts his cup in a subtle toast to you and Alicent, his eyes misting over slightly with emotion.

Daemon Targaryen, your uncle, stands near the rear of the gathered nobles, his silver hair catching the light as he observes the ceremony. His expression is inscrutable, but those who know him well enough can see the slight curve at the edge of his lips, the way his gaze sharpens whenever it falls upon you. For all his unpredictability, there is a flicker of pride there—a satisfaction, perhaps, that you finally asserted yourself against the forces that sought to control you. Daemon has always favored those who carve their own path, and today you have done just that.

As the ceremony draws to a close, you step forward to place a cloak upon Alicent’s shoulders, the symbol of House Targaryen enveloping her as you claim her as your own. The green of House Hightower blends now with the red and black of the dragon, a union that cements alliances but more importantly binds two hearts that have long yearned for this day. When you lean in to kiss her, there is a softness, a tenderness in the way her lips meet yours, and the hall erupts in applause, though the world shrinks to just the two of you in that fleeting moment.

As the applause dies down, Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, watches with a carefully controlled expression. His eyes flicker between you and Alicent, a mixture of satisfaction and unease buried beneath his calm demeanor. Though this is a victory for him in securing his daughter’s position, there’s a tension in his jaw—he had hoped to control this outcome more closely, but you’ve slipped from his grasp, a dragon untamed. He studies you with the gaze of a man who sees both a rival and a dangerous ally.

At the feast, Rhaenyra approaches you first, practically throwing herself into your arms. "You did it, Y/N! I knew you would," she beams, her joy infectious. "Alicent looks so beautiful, and you—you were magnificent. I’ve never seen the council so speechless!" Her eyes sparkle with mischief. "And Uncle Daemon, I think he’s actually proud of you for once."

You chuckle, wrapping an arm around your sister. “He probably is. But I didn’t do this for him or the council. This was always for her.” Your gaze drifts back to Alicent, who’s engaged in conversation with a group of highborn ladies, her laughter soft and genuine.

Viserys claps a hand on your shoulder. "You’ve brought honor to our house, Y/N. I couldn’t be prouder of the man you’ve become. Your mother would be so proud, too." His voice carries a slight tremor as he mentions Queen Aemma, but it is quickly overshadowed by his joy.

You offer him a warm smile. "Thank you, father. I’ll do everything I can to ensure that this union strengthens our house."

Daemon is the next to approach, a goblet in hand and that familiar smirk playing on his lips. "I didn’t think you had it in you, nephew," he says, voice laced with amusement. "I was beginning to think you’d let others chart your course forever. But you’ve surprised us all, haven’t you?"

You meet his gaze squarely, your own smile more restrained but no less confident. "Some paths are worth fighting for, uncle. Even if they’re not what others expect."

Daemon raises his cup in a mock salute. “Spoken like a true Targaryen. Perhaps there’s more fire in you than I thought.”

The feast carries on with music, laughter, and the clinking of cups. You and Alicent share dances with the lords and ladies of the realm, but every now and then, your eyes find each other’s, and the world falls away again, leaving just the two of you in this sea of people.

When you finally manage to steal a private moment with her in a quiet corner of the hall, she takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “I was so afraid,” she admits in a hushed voice, her eyes reflecting the firelight. “Afraid that we’d never be able to reach this moment. But here we are.”

You brush a strand of hair from her face, letting your hand linger against her cheek. “You’re mine now, Alicent. I’ll fight for you, for us, against anyone who tries to tear us apart.”

A flicker of relief passes through her expression, followed by a warmth that softens her usually reserved emotions. “And I’ll stand by you, no matter the storm we face.”

The words hang between you like an unspoken vow—one more binding than anything recited before the Septon. 

The night deepens as the feast continues, a blur of music and the warm glow of candlelight reflecting off the ornate dishes piled with food. Laughter and the sound of clinking goblets fill the Great Hall. You and Alicent sit side by side at the high table, your hands occasionally brushing against each other beneath the table. The touch is small, but each time it happens, there’s a comforting warmth, a silent reassurance between the two of you. Alicent’s soft smile, reserved just for you, never quite fades from her lips.

As you’re enjoying a brief moment of quiet conversation, the sound of footsteps approaches. Gwayne Hightower, Alicent’s brother, strides up, his eyes bright with joy. "Sister! Y/N!" he greets, his voice tinged with the exuberance of youth. His resemblance to Alicent is striking, though his features are more angular, his posture that of a man eager to prove himself. "I couldn’t let the night end without offering my congratulations." He gives you a hearty clap on the shoulder, his grin broad. "It’s about time someone put a spark in this old court! You’ve done well, my friend. I’ve known you since we were boys, and I’ve always believed you’d find your way."

You return his grin, reaching out to clasp his forearm in the familiar gesture of comrades. "Gwayne, your support has never gone unnoticed. I’ve always valued your friendship, even when we got ourselves into trouble as children. But I think this time, we’ve both stepped into something greater than mischief.”

Gwayne chuckles. “You certainly have, Y/N. And Alicent—” He turns to his sister, his tone softening with genuine affection. “I’ve never seen you look happier. I’m glad you’ve found this happiness, even if I’ll be the one who has to keep a closer eye on courtly matters with you from now on.”

Alicent smiles warmly at her brother, her hand gently resting over yours atop the table. “Thank you, Gwayne. Your words mean more to me than you know. And don’t worry, we’ll both make sure to keep you busy in your duties, though perhaps with fewer pranks than when we were children.”

The three of you share a laugh, the ease of old friendships and sibling bonds lightening the mood.

Soon after, the familiar figures of Lord Corlys Velaryon and Princess Rhaenys approach. The Sea Snake is every bit the powerful figure one expects, his deep blue doublet adorned with intricate silver embroidery resembling the waves of the sea. Rhaenys is resplendent in crimson and gold, her presence commanding yet warm. There’s a certain wisdom in her gaze as she looks between you and Alicent, as if she sees beyond what most do.

“Prince Y/N, Lady Alicent,” Corlys begins, his voice deep and steady. “Congratulations are in order. The union of Targaryen and Hightower is a strategic move, and one I hope will bring stability to the realm. But more than that, it’s clear to see the bond you share.” His eyes linger on you, a hint of approval in his expression. “And perhaps this is the start of a new chapter where the young find their own path amidst the expectations of the old.”

Princess Rhaenys nods, her lips curling into a knowing smile. “It is good to see love and strength walk hand in hand. The history of our houses has often been marked by conflict, but this—” she gestures subtly between you and Alicent, “—this has the potential to change much. You both carry the future on your shoulders now.”

You bow your head slightly in respect. “Thank you, Lord Corlys, Princess Rhaenys. Your wisdom is always welcome. I hope to earn that respect in time and prove that this union is more than just a political move.”

Rhaenys’ eyes glint with something sharp and approving. “Oh, I believe you will, Y/N. The blood of Old Valyria runs deep, and you’ve shown you’re willing to chart your own course. I, for one, look forward to seeing what comes next.”

As they step away, Lord Tyland Lannister, clad in rich reds and golds, approaches next. His sharp features and keen eyes give away his nature as a man ever mindful of the shifting tides of power. “Prince Y/N, Lady Alicent, it is a joyous day indeed.” His voice is smooth, practiced, yet there’s an undercurrent of genuine intent behind his words. “House Lannister is ever eager to lend its support to the Targaryen line. May your union be fruitful and prosperous. It seems the dragons have found a way to blend strength with the grace of the Reach.”

You nod, ever cautious with Tyland’s honeyed words. “Thank you, Lord Tyland. Your support will be remembered, and I hope our alliance will benefit all corners of the realm.”

He offers a slight bow before moving off, ever mindful of where the winds blow.

The feast begins to wind down, and as tradition demands, there is the looming expectation of the bedding ceremony. The air in the hall thickens with the anticipation of it. Some lords and ladies begin to gather, murmuring and glancing toward you and Alicent with barely hidden excitement. The tension, the ribald jokes, the whispers—it all threatens to reduce the sanctity of this moment to a spectacle.

Before anyone can make a move to initiate it, you rise to your feet, the air of command in your posture silencing the crowd before the teasing can begin. “There will be no bedding ceremony tonight,” you declare, your voice clear and firm, leaving no room for argument. The hall quiets instantly, the murmur of protests caught in the throats of those who thought to see the night end in such a manner.

Daemon, standing with arms crossed at the edge of the hall, lets out a low chuckle, his approval evident in the sharp nod he gives you. “Let the young prince make his own choices,” he says, his voice carrying across the room. “There’s enough spectacle in these halls without turning the most sacred of nights into another charade.”

The crowd hesitates, unsure whether to push the matter. But when you meet your father’s gaze, Viserys nods slowly, an expression of both surprise and respect on his face. Otto Hightower, who had been watching with tension in his eyes, finally relaxes, a subtle sigh escaping him. His face settles into an expression that resembles something close to approval, a rare look from a man who values tradition and order above all.

Alicent looks at you with deep gratitude and admiration, her fingers squeezing yours as she stands. You turn to her, your expression softening as you offer her your arm. “Shall we retire, my lady?” you ask, your voice laced with tenderness.

She dips her head slightly, eyes shimmering with emotion. “Let’s,” she replies, her voice barely more than a whisper as she takes your arm.

Together, you walk down the long aisle toward the doors leading out of the Great Hall, every eye on you both as you leave. There is a certain weight lifted from your shoulders as the doors close behind you, the noise of the hall fading as you enter the quieter, more intimate corridors of the Keep.

As you walk side by side toward your chambers, the echoes of your footsteps and the distant flicker of torchlight create an almost dreamlike atmosphere. Neither of you speaks, the silence between you comfortable, filled with the knowledge that this is just the beginning. When you reach the doors to your shared chambers, you pause, turning to face her fully. You lift her hand to your lips and press a soft kiss to her knuckles, your eyes never leaving hers.

“No more performances,” you murmur. “This is just us now.”

Alicent’s eyes shine as she steps closer, her other hand rising to rest against your cheek. “I’ve never wanted anything more than to be with you, like this, away from prying eyes.”

With that, you open the door and guide her inside, the world outside forgotten as the heavy oak doors close behind you both, sealing away the courtly intrigue and the expectations of the realm. In this moment, it’s just you and her, bound together by choice, love, and a shared determination to forge your own destiny.

The chamber is bathed in the soft light of the fire, shadows flickering across the stone walls as the door closes behind you both. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable but full with the awareness of what comes next. For all the warmth you share, the affection that’s blossomed over years of quiet moments and unspoken glances, this is new for both of you. The air is tinged with the sweet fragrance of candles, the soft rustle of fabric as you both stand there, suddenly unsure how to proceed.

You turn to face her, meeting Alicent’s gaze. There’s a nervousness in her eyes, a slight quiver in her breath, but beneath it lies trust, and something more—desire, hesitant but real. You step closer, reaching out to take her hands in yours, your thumb brushing over her knuckles in a gentle, soothing motion. “Alicent,” you murmur, your voice softer than usual, tinged with both affection and concern. “Are you sure? If you’re not ready—”

“I am,” she interrupts softly, her voice a tender whisper in the quiet of the room. Her cheeks flush pink, but her eyes never leave yours. “I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

You nod, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Slowly, you lean down, capturing her lips in a kiss, tender and delicate. Her lips are warm against yours, the kiss a gentle exploration rather than a fervent rush. You both linger in the simplicity of it, letting it ease the tension from your bodies. When you pull back, you see her chest rise and fall as she steadies her breath, her eyes searching yours for reassurance.

Your hand moves to the clasp of her dress, fingers hesitating for a moment before you look at her once more. “May I?” you ask softly.

She nods, her voice catching slightly. “Yes… I want you to.”

With careful fingers, you undo the clasp and let the fabric slip from her shoulders, revealing the pale skin beneath. The dress pools at her feet, and she stands before you in just her shift, delicate and vulnerable. Her eyes flicker down, shyly avoiding your gaze as you take her in. In turn, she reaches out, her hands trembling slightly as she begins to unlace your doublet. There’s an unspoken agreement between you—a mutual understanding that this moment is as much about trust as it is about desire. You help her with the laces, guiding her hands until your clothing is cast aside, leaving you both bare in the warm glow of the fire.

For a long moment, you simply stand there, your breaths mingling, your eyes tracing the curves and lines of each other’s bodies. There’s a sense of curiosity mixed with reverence, your gazes shyly meeting before drifting again, both of you learning and memorizing the sight of each other.

“Beautiful,” you whisper, your voice filled with sincerity. Alicent’s breath hitches at the word, her eyes shining as she looks up at you, her lips parting as if to say something, but words fail her. Instead, she just reaches out, fingers brushing over your chest, her touch sending a shiver through you.

You gently take her hand and guide her toward the bed, the furs soft beneath your feet as you lead her down onto the mattress. You lay her down with the utmost care, your eyes never leaving hers, searching for any sign of discomfort. Her lips part as she draws in a shaky breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly, but her gaze is steady, trusting.

You lower yourself beside her, your hand caressing her cheek as you lean in to kiss her again. This time, the kiss is deeper, a gradual melding of lips as you both begin to relax into each other. Your hand trails down, brushing against her collarbone, then lower, until it rests just above her breast. You pause, your eyes flicking to hers for permission, and when she nods slightly, you continue, cupping her breast gently, your thumb brushing over the soft skin. A soft gasp escapes her lips, her back arching slightly as you explore her.

“You’re so beautiful, Alicent,” you murmur against her lips, and she responds with a soft sigh, her hand sliding up your back, pulling you closer.

Your kisses begin to wander, trailing down her jawline, to the tender skin of her neck. You feel her pulse quicken under your lips, her breath growing more uneven as you move lower. When your mouth finds her breast, she gasps, her fingers threading through your hair. You take your time, savoring each reaction, each soft sound she makes as your lips and tongue explore her.

As you move lower, her breath catches, her fingers tightening in your hair when you kiss the curve of her hip. You glance up at her, seeing the mixture of nerves and anticipation in her eyes. She’s never experienced anything like this, and neither have you—not truly. But you remember the lessons Daemon half-teased, half-instructed you on during that one visit to the brothel, showing you the ways of pleasure in a more practical, if unconventional, manner. While you hadn’t partaken that night, you watched, curious, and the knowledge lingers now, guiding your movements.

You press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, and she lets out a soft whimper, her fingers clutching at the furs beneath her. You murmur a line from an old Valyrian poem, the words ancient and filled with meaning, letting the sounds roll off your tongue as your kisses grow more intimate. “Gevives isse tolvie jelevre—beauty in every breath,” you whisper, your breath warm against her skin.

When your mouth finally finds her core, she gasps, her body tensing for a moment before she melts into the sensation, her hips shifting instinctively toward you. Her breath comes in shallow bursts, her hand gripping your shoulder as you apply what you’ve learned, taking your time, listening to the way her body responds. When she lets out a soft moan, her voice trembling with pleasure, you smile against her, murmuring another line from the poem—words of love and devotion that have been passed down through generations.

Slowly, you trail your kisses back up her body, feeling her trembling beneath you. Her hands reach for you, pulling you close, and when your lips find hers again, the kiss is hungry, filled with the taste of her desire and the passion that’s been building between you both.

You position yourself above her, your eyes locked on hers as you ask one last time, “Are you sure, Alicent?”

Her response is a breathless nod, her hand cupping your cheek as she whispers, “I want this. I want you.”

You enter her gently, inch by inch, mindful of her innocence, watching her every expression for any sign of pain. She winces slightly at first, her brow furrowing, but her fingers dig into your back, holding you close as she adjusts. When she finally opens her eyes again, there’s no hesitation, only trust. “Move,” she breathes, her voice barely audible, but full of need.

You start slowly, each movement careful, deliberate, letting her body adjust, her warmth enveloping you. Her breaths come out in soft, quick bursts, her nails dragging lightly across your skin as she holds on to you. The tension in her body gradually gives way to something else, her hips meeting yours in a rhythm that’s both instinctive and hesitant.

As the moments pass, the awkwardness gives way to a deeper connection. The tenderness remains, but passion begins to take root. Alicent’s breath hitches when she wraps her legs around your waist, her hands pulling you closer. You respond to her need, moving with more urgency as she finds her own rhythm, her body moving against yours in a dance that’s both new and timeless.

When she pushes herself up, shifting into your lap, there’s a sudden surge of boldness in her gaze, something wild and free. You guide her movements, your hands steadying her as she takes control, her breathless gasps mingling with your own. The intimacy between you grows not just in the physical connection but in the way you respond to each other’s needs, desires, and unspoken fears. It’s a union forged in trust, love, and the desire to explore the depths of what you share.

Eventually, when the night reaches its quiet peak, you collapse together into the furs, breathless and spent, your limbs entangled as you hold her close. Here, in this moment, there’s only the warmth of her skin against yours, the sound of her steadying breaths, and the knowledge that this is only the beginning of your shared life together.

As sleep slowly claims you both, you press a final kiss to her forehead, murmuring words of love in Valyrian, promising her with every breath that this night is just the start of what you’ll build together.

The sky is a bruised shade of twilight, thick with smoke and ash. The stench of blood, sweat, and salt fills the air as the waves crash against the jagged rocks of the Stepstones. This place is a wasteland—a battlefield stained with the bodies of the dead and dying. For over two years, the Crabfeeder’s men have held these islands, turning them into a butcher’s yard. But today, you intend to end it. Today, the dragons return in fire and fury.

You sit atop Dallax, your black-scaled beast, perched on a ridge overlooking the main encampment of the Triarchy’s forces. His green eyes gleam in the dim light, and his body shifts restlessly beneath you, eager to unleash his wrath. His teeth, hidden within the dark flesh of his jaws, retract only when his rage is stoked—a menace lying in wait. You run a gloved hand along his neck, feeling the raw power coiled within him. “Soon,” you whisper, your voice firm yet laced with anticipation. “We will end this.”

Below, Daemon Targaryen plays his part to perfection. Clad in soot-streaked armor, a white banner clutched in one hand, he approaches the enemy lines. The Crabfeeder’s forces, a mix of hardened sellswords and conscripts, watch from behind their sharpened stakes and crude fortifications, unsure whether this is truly surrender or another of Daemon’s ruses. The Prince of the City moves with a calculated slowness, his steps deliberate, his head lowered just enough to give the impression of defeat. But you know him better. There’s a fire in his eyes—a fury barely contained behind that facade of submission. The plan hinges on this moment, on the Crabfeeder’s arrogance and greed.

From your vantage point, you spot Lord Corlys Velaryon’s forces hidden in the shallows, ready to pounce the moment the trap is sprung. The Sea Snake commands his men with a veteran’s precision, their silence a stark contrast to the braying jeers coming from the Crabfeeder’s ranks.

Daemon finally stops, mere feet from the Crabfeeder’s line, where a grotesque figure emerges from the shadows. Drahar, the Crabfeeder, is a ghastly sight, his face hidden behind a cracked and twisted mask, his skin mottled from disease. He raises a hand, halting the jeers, and for a moment, silence reigns.

Then, chaos erupts.

Daemon’s false surrender is cast aside as he draws Dark Sister in a blur of Valyrian steel, cutting through the nearest soldier in one swift, practiced motion. Blood sprays into the air, catching the dim light as the battlefield roars back to life. The Triarchy’s soldiers charge forward, desperate to claim the prize they believe within reach, but they are rushing headlong into a trap.

It’s your moment.

With a word in Valyrian, you urge Dallax into a dive. His wings unfurl, dark as midnight, blotting out the dying light. The air screams past you as you plummet toward the battlefield, the ground rushing up to meet you. “Dracarys!” you roar, the command slicing through the din of battle.

Dallax responds with a torrent of flame that incinerates everything in its path. The first line of the Crabfeeder’s men is engulfed in a roaring inferno, their screams swallowed by the relentless fire. Armor melts, flesh sizzles, and bone turns to ash in mere moments. You bank sharply, pulling Dallax into another dive, this time focusing on the siege engines positioned along the ridge. The ballistae, meant to keep the dragons at bay, are shattered under the crushing weight of dragonfire and claws. Timber explodes, splinters raining down on the screaming soldiers below as you rip through their defenses with ruthless efficiency.

You catch a glimpse of Daemon, now fully engaged in the melee, his sword a blur of lethal grace as he carves a bloody path through the Triarchy’s forces. He fights with a savage joy, laughing as he dodges and counters, the battlefield his stage. Corlys and his men surge from the shallows, catching the enemy in a brutal pincer. The once-confident soldiers of the Crabfeeder are thrown into disarray, their lines crumbling under the combined might of dragon and steel.

You circle back, eyes locked on Drahar, who attempts to retreat deeper into the labyrinth of stakes and pits his men have constructed. But there’s no escape. You guide Dallax lower, skimming the ground, his claws gouging the earth as you close in on your prey. The Crabfeeder looks up in desperation, his eyes wide behind his mask as he realizes his end is near.

“End him!” Daemon’s voice echoes in your mind like a phantom’s dare, though the words are drowned out by the roar of battle.

Dallax’s jaws snap open, his teeth glinting as they slide out from their hidden sheaths. With a snarl, he lunges, clamping down on Drahar with a sickening crunch. The Crabfeeder’s mask falls away, revealing a twisted visage frozen in terror before his body is torn apart in a spray of blood and gore. Dallax shakes his head, flinging what remains of Drahar’s corpse into the dirt before incinerating it with a final jet of flame.

Around you, the battlefield is a scene of utter carnage. The ground is slick with blood, littered with the hacked remains of soldiers. Men scream, their limbs severed, or burn as they try to flee, only to be cut down by Corlys’s disciplined troops. The cries of the dying are a symphony of suffering, underscored by the relentless roar of flames. Dallax moves among the survivors like a shadow, crushing and burning any who dare to resist.

As the last pockets of resistance are snuffed out, you land amidst the ruins, stepping down from Dallax’s back. You scan the battlefield, taking in the broken fortifications, the piles of charred corpses, and the men who now kneel in surrender. Victory is yours. The Stepstones are won.

Daemon approaches, blood splattered across his armor, a wild grin on his face. “Well done, nephew,” he says, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction. “I thought I might have all the fun, but you’ve stolen quite the show.” His eyes gleam with shared triumph, the bond between you strengthened through battle and bloodshed. “The Crabfeeder will feast no more.”

You smirk, wiping sweat and grime from your brow. “Someone had to keep you from getting killed. I couldn’t let you take all the glory.”

He laughs, the sound cutting through the dying echoes of the battle. “You’re learning. Perhaps there’s more of me in you than anyone cares to admit.”

As Daemon moves to rally the remaining men, your thoughts drift, carried away on the winds of victory. The image of Alicent appears in your mind—her gentle smile, the way her hand rests on the curve of her belly, swollen with the child she carries. You think of your son, Aegon, barely more than a year old, his bright eyes so full of curiosity. It is for them that you fight, for the future you intend to build, for the family you have claimed as your own.

The taste of blood and ash lingers on your tongue, but underneath it all is the yearning to return to them, to hold Alicent in your arms and feel the soft weight of your son as he rests against your chest. You think of how you will recount this victory to them—how Aegon will listen in awe, his little hands reaching out as if to grasp the tales of dragons and battles. You smile to yourself, imagining the way Alicent will scold you softly for the bloodshed, though you know she will be proud all the same.

“Soon,” you murmur to yourself, the words almost lost in the wind. “Soon I’ll be home.”

But for now, the battle is done, and the Stepstones are yours. The fires burn low as you gaze out over the broken landscape, your thoughts with your family, even as your dragon’s shadow stretches long over the conquered land, a reminder of the price of victory.

[endless-ineffabilities]

But Daddy, I Love Him (chapter one)

Daemon Targaryen x f!reader

synopsis : the reader is a daughter of the Lord of House Arwen - ever so dutiful and mild-mannered. Slated to be the lady wife of some highborn Lord, someone who is noble and decent. Not the volatile Rogue Prince. Not Daemon Targaryen.

in this chapter : The Rogue Prince and the reader meet. Their fates entwine. A fool is made out of a Lady.

themes/warnings : Daemon being Daemon is a warning in itself, Daemon has a superiority complex, highborn!reader, House Arwen is my own creation (name inspired by lotr!)

series list : chapter one - chapter two - chapter three

word count : 2k ▪︎ masterlist

a/n : the title and the series concept inspired by the TS song ofc <3

Dutiful daughter, all my plans were laid. Tendrils tucked into a woven braid...

Your chambers. The Godswood. The library.

Every day is the same. The mornings start with your ladies in waiting helping you prepare for the day. Running your bath, carefully pressing your frocks, lacing you up in your bodice. Making sure each lock of hair is in place, the right amount of rouge dabbed against the apples of your cheeks.

You were once a perfect little girl, now a perfect little lady.

Soon a perfect little lady wife.

This is your story, already woven, already told time and time again. The same story for all ladies of your standing.

All you have to do is to be good. And so you are.

Thank the gods for the stories you read, enabling you jump into different lives. Adventures and romances you know you will never have, not truly. But you are happy to play the fool with every page turned.

The library has become your safe haven, your home within your home. Nestled high in the sprawling castle of House Arwen. Nothing can disturb you here. No one.

Or so you thought.

The very first words you hear Daemon Targaryen say to you come across as rather rude. You will find in time that he does not mean to be rude. Not all the time, that is. This is just how he is.

"I have always found that story rather dull. Amusing how you seem to be so engrossed in it, my lady."

"Excuse me, but I will you have you know - " you raise your head, taking in the visitor. Or intruder.

"Prince Daemon," you rise from your seat, offering a well-practiced curtsy. An instinctive move of obeisance for a lady like you.

He barely acknowledges your gesture, his face flat and impassive. "That book. I was forced to read it in my youth. Our Maester all but shoved it down my throat."

You immediately do not take to his approach. That book is one of the most famous tales from Old Valyria. He should know, being of Valyrian blood and all.

"I believe there is much to like about this book, my Prince."

"Such as?"

"Well, it depicts a warrior knight of Old - "

"Some warrior knight," Daemon scoffs, not even letting you finish your statement. "He gave up his powers for the love of a wench he knew for just a fortnight. He had every chance at glory but he squandered all of it away. For what?"

"For... for love?" comes your response, though you know he did not really want one.

For someone who claims to dislike this story so much, he sure knows it well.

He mindlessly taps his fingers on a nearby shelf, eyes lazily reading the titles. Drifting through the room with the unmistakeable disdain of someone who is used to having so much, the world practically by his feet, but is disinterested with it all.

You think that you could fall dead right then and Daemon wouldn't care. Wouldn't even bat an eyelash. He rolls his eyes at your mention of love, and it does not help your impression of him.

"There are only two things worthy of love in my eyes, my lady, and that is power and blood."

"Blood? Well, my prince, family is one of the most important - "

"Blood is not the same for me as it is for you. My blood carries a legacy of fire and magic, being of Old Valyria. You would not possibly understand how I hold my blood in high regard."

Oh may the gods strike him down now.

Your hands clench into fists, pressing against your skirts, but you don't have it in you to notice the unladylike gesture. All you can think of is letting him have a piece of your mind. "A family can have a flock of sheep or a horde of dragons, my prince, and it makes no difference to me. Your family is your family, your blood is your blood. But whether you choose to love them does not solely depend on blood."

It is as if he sees for you for the first time then, the moment you show that you have your own voice, and that you will not simply cater to his whims.

He turns eager to press you further, make you break, make you cave in. "What of you, my lady? What is it that you find worthy of love? Family, I presume, from your poorly formed argument? What about a lord husband?"

"I do love my family," you nod. "And when I do wed, I am sure I will love my lord husband just as dearly."

He walks closer, but does not stop in front of you as is the polite thing to do in conversation. He circles you, and you feel exposed by the way he openly takes you in. "Oh, but how will you know? You do not have a choice, do you? How can that be love?"

You do not answer right away, for the prince has just voiced one of your biggest fears. What if you do not find love in your lord husband? What sort of life would that entail? One which you have been preparing for since you entered womanhood, one you always thought you would be willing to accept. It is your duty, after all.

So you say just that. "It is my duty, and if I am able to fulfil my duty, then I am certain that will bring me happiness."

Daemon scoffs, his lips forming a self-righteous sneer. "In the story, do you then think that the warrior knight would have been better off fulfilling his duty and abandoning his love?"

"It is not the same."

"It is exactly the same."

"No," you emphasize, "because he had a choice. I do not."

He had stopped right in front of you, a bit too close for comfort, almost as if he needs to lean in to scrutinize you fully. "Love is the death of duty, my lady. Take my word for it, you would be far better off playing your role. If you truly wish to honour your family, you would not fall in love at all."

He's so close that you can feel his breath fanning your face. If you didn't know any better, you would believe that simply being so near Daemon Targaryen is the reason why your body feels like it is on fire. He gives off heat like a furnace, like a dragon.

Maybe he is a dragon. Is that not what they all say about Targaryens?

You open your mouth to take a breath, lest your throat also burns from the dry warmth, your stomach curling adding to your nerves. It prompts you to ask, "What about you, my prince? Has duty stolen every chance you have at love?"

His eyes draw downward to your lips, and his faint blonde lashes catch the light. The Rogue Prince does look otherwordly. Everything you have heard about him has been inadequate.

His violet eyes meet yours once more. "I would not bother with such frivolity. As I said, my lady, power and blood are all there is."

"Perhaps so. Perhaps true love only exists in the stories that I read."

"You are learning," he nods, and offers what might be his first genuine smile to you.

"Nevertheless," you step away from him, and carry your book back to the shelf. "I do not fault the warrior knight for choosing love over glory. I would choose as he had done, if that were a possibility."

His response is glib, but not meant to offend. "Then you are a fool, my lady."

"I wish I were a fool, my prince," you smile, lowering your gaze. "Aren't all fools happy?"

"You wish nothing more than to be mere mummer who has found happiness in love."

"If only," you say. It's surprising how easy you're finding it to engage in conversation with him. It feels like you have known him for many moons and not only for this moment.

The Rogue Prince, of all people. Which begs the question, what is he doing in the library of House Arwen?

"Pardon me, my prince, but why have you graced us with your presence this morning?"

He turns serious, almost bored, that he has to acknowledge the reason for his visit. "My brother, the King, has sent me to relay an official decree to your Lord father. He is to accept the position of Master of Coin for the small council."

"He... he is?" you swallow. This would mean that you have to go with him and live in the Red Keep. This also signals that your betrothal to Tyland Lannister is afoot. Your father had recently paid a visit to Casterly Rock to arrange for your marriage to Tyland or Jason Lannister. If it is to be with Jason, you would be sent to Casterly Rock. If Tyland, your father would take the offer to be part of the small council. You are to accompany him and begin courtship with the Master of Ships.

At least it will be Tyland and not Jason.

"Yes, I am supposed to meet your Maester here in the library to deliver the royal decree," Daemon replies, the task so insignificant to him, unaware that he has just delivered news that determines the course of your life.

Not that it makes any difference. Your father has always wanted to join houses with either the Lannisters or the Baratheons. Forge a true Westerosi alliance. It seems that he will finally get his wish.

Your thinking gets the better of you, and you stand unmoving, the weight of duty suddenly feeling too much to bear.

Daemon's face scrunches in what can misconstrued be concern. But surely he isn't. He must only be uncomfortable at your sudden silence and blank expression.

"Is something the matter? Are you not pleased that your father is graced with an opportunity such as this?"

"Of course. I am sure that he would be delighted."

"You do not seem to be."

No, you aren't. While you have met Tyland Lannister before, there was never any attraction there. From your side and his. Yours would be a marriage of convenience, for the benefit of both Houses.

How I wish I was the warrior knight.

"It matters not how I feel, my prince."

There is movement by the doors, and the old Maester rushes in all out of breath.

"My prince!" He calls out immediately. "My deepest apologies that I have kept you waiting."

Daemon pays him no mind. His attention is solely on you. Conscious that the Maester observes the exchange, you clear your throat. "I shall take my leave, my prince. The Maester will see to you now."

You tilt your head and curtsy in farewell. As you pass by Daemon, your hand brushes against his, the pads of his knuckes rough against your own. The first and likely the only time your skin will come into contact with his, you strangely think with regret. Still, it catches you off guard and you feel a sensation like needles pricking all the way up your arm.

"My lady," he greets, and under his breath, making sure the Maester cannot hear, he adds, "my lady fool."

Another smile is shared between the two of you.

Love is the death of duty, he had said. Sooner rather than late, you will find out just how it rings true.

Supper with your Lord father is but another constant. You have always been grateful for it, especially since the passing of your late mother.

He is the only family you have around, with your elder sister already married off to some Lord in the Riverlands. She has already done what was expected of her, securing an alliance for House Arwen and bearing children for her Lord Husband.

The mantle has been passed on to you. It was never something to ponder over, as it is not something in your control.

Do your duty. Play your role. Pray that you never fall in love at all, Daemon said.

But might I fall in love with Tyland? Should that not be what I aim for?

"I heard that you encountered Prince Daemon this morning," your father says. "I trust that you acted accordingly as befits his station."

"Of course, father."

"Though it matters little to me how that rogue prince fares." The derision in his tone cannot be contained. Your father has never held Prince Daemon in any regard, viewing him as a waste of his titles.

"The Prince was gracious enough to exchange pleasantries with me."

Pleasantries. Never mind how he mocked your story, your family, and by extension, you.

"Careful, daughter. Prince Daemon is never loathe to chase after the nearest skirt that catches his fancy. I feel for his newly betrothed, the Lady Laena Velaryon. Far too good for him, that one."

"Daemon is betrothed?" you ask, unable to hide your surprise. Last you heard, his wife Rhea Royce passed in a tragic hunting accident. You also heard the whispers that she perished by her husband's hand.

After finally meeting him, you would not count it as an impossibility. But some part of you does not want to believe that he could be capable of something so vile.

"Yes, Prince Daemon has been betrothed once more. No doubt the most fruitful union for their Houses," your father confirms. With all this talk of betrothals, you already know what is coming, but your stomach sinks all the same when he adds, "as will be the union of House Arwen and House Lannister, dear daughter. You should consider yourself highly fortunate. I have toiled considerably to bring about your betrothal to Tyland Lannister."

"Of course, father." The words are empty, worn through, forever echoing in your ears.

Of course. I will do my duty. What is love after all, but a passing fancy, mere fiction entombed in between pages?

The red scales of the infamous Blood Wyrm glisten under the bright sunlight.

Caraxes lets off an ear-splitting screech as Daemon guides him across the skies.

"Daor tolmiot sir." The Valyrian smoothly comes from Daemon like a song. Not far now.

Not far from the seat of House Arwen in the Westerlands. His destination, for some unknown reason.

Just the seventh day after he was sent to deliver the decree, he finds himself returning once more. It is the day that your Lord father, yourself, and the rest of your envoy are set to ride for King's Landing.

And Daemon has decided to extend an offer to you, the Lady Arwen, one that might infinitely expedite your travels.

There were a myriad of justifications floating around in his head. He found out that you are betrothed to Tyland Lannister and his actions on this day would no doubt ruffle the preening lion's mane.

Anything to needlessly anger a Lannister, Daemon would enjoy.

He would revel in the pleasure of bespoiling such a prim and strait-laced Lady such as yourself. It would be like sport to him.

It must also not be forgotten that this would rouse the ire of your Lord father, who has never held any love for Daemon and vice versa.

All these reasons make complete sense to Daemon. All but one which he does not allow himself to entertain.

That he wishes to see you.

Who are you, if not just another proper wench with your honour and your faith for the Seven Gods up your arse? Daemon has much more discerning tastes, from dragonrider to tavern whore, but never one with your disposition.

You are nothing to Daemon. No one.

But that does not mean he will refrain from indulging in the pleasure of causing chaos.

The clouds part as Caraxes dips lower, revealing the outline of your meagre castle.

"Sepār ilagon konīr." Daemon refers to the inner courtyard where a line of carriages await, precious possessions being lugged onto them by footsoldiers.

Caraxes dives down with precision, his wings casting a shadow over the courtyard as he suddenly descends, leaving everyone startled.

Daemon's boots heavily crunch against the gravel as he jumps down, and he scans the wary crowd for his prize.

Soldiers rising to attention, bowing their heads to their prince. Ladies-in-waiting openly ogling him as he draws nearer. The Maester and his apprentices approaching him with rushed greetings springing from their mouths.

And then, there you are.

Standing just behind the small crowd, whispering hurriedly to your companion. You shush when you spy Daemon heading right for you.

"My prince." You perform the usual curtsy. Daemon thinks the movement does not suit you. He much preferred it when you were getting riled up at his remarks back at your library.

"My lady," he greets. "Lovely weather we are having, is it not?"

You appear confused, your eyes narrowing and nose scrunching for but a brief moment, and Daemon relishes in prompting such an unguarded expression. But it reverts back into your polished smile.

"Yes, it... it is, my prince. Forgive me, but I was not aware that we were expecting you."

No. Of course not. "Let me rephrase that. It is lovely weather for dragonriding, and I am inclined to think that you would enjoy the journey to the Red Keep."

"I am afraid I do not follow."

Daemon gets right to the point and his next words ring true, leaving no room for doubt as to his intentions. "My lady, I would like for you to ride with me."

Your posture becomes slack, and you gape at him like he has grown a second head.

"That would be inappropriate, my prince."

"No," he sneers. "It would be inappropriate if I take you for myself right there on the dragonsaddle, my lady, but I merely wish to offer a ride."

Your companion blushes profusely at his words. Apparently the image affects her so much all she can do is stare at her feet.

You, on the other hand, are unyielding. Your eyes blazing right through his own violet. A nagging voice in Daemon's mind insists that this is what he came for. Nothing else.

You finally say, "It is unbecoming of me to even entertain that notion, Prince Daemon. My Lord father and my betrothed would surely not approve."

Daemon takes a step closer, and the two of you stand nearly toe to toe. "But do you not wish it? Do you not wish to fly on dragonback? Much like the heroes in your stories I would wager."

"Those are just stories. It would be foolish of me."

Daemon laughs dryly, "My lady, is that not what you are? A lady fool who dreams of adventure and love?"

You frown when he has you cornered, your thoughts whirring in that foolish head of yours. Daemon feels the need to run his thumb over your pursed lips.

Perhaps I am the foolish one.

The Maester interrupts, breaking the impasse, nervously looking between the two of you.

"My prince," he says, "if you came to speak to the Lord Arwen, he is still in his chambers. He should be on his way down shortly."

You glance at the Maester then back to Daemon, awaiting his response, but he has none to offer.

You tilt your head disapprovingly at his outright discourtesy until he extends his hand to you. "My lady," he says with sincerity, "you shall be made a good lady wife soon enough, but today I invite you to be foolish with your prince."

It is the Maester who speaks, "My prince, the Lady Arwen must not - "

But you rudely interrupt, a newfound fire blazing in your eyes. "Is it as exhilarating as the stories say?"

"Enough to please a fool," Daemon replies.

With a smile, you fit your hand right into his, consequences be damned.

I may not write for him as often, but Daemon just might be my favourite to characterize and the most fun to weave stories with 🖤

This is a fixed miniseries, with a more or less fixed story, so it will only a three-parter.

[barbieaemond]

The King of Qarth I

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Qartheen f!reader (use of third perspective)

Warnings: angst, dubcon (but not really), handjob, fingering, p in v, hints at sexual trauma, self indulgent use of sorcery

Word count: 11k (i know...i'm sorry...)

Author’s note: The foreign words you’ll find are stolen from Greek. Second and final part coming in two weeks. English is not my first language.

taglist: @zae5 @multyfangirl @arcielee @succnfuccubus @zaldritzosrose @kckt88 @venmondiese @miraclealignertlsp369 @ilikechocolatemilkh @credulouskhaleesi @bunbunbl0gs

He had taken each one of them. Dragons, power, the Crown. Snatched them from whatever divine plan the Gods had concocted, for others, never for him, and perhaps this was their punishment.

Death would’ve been a far too kind blessing, he would come to realise in one of those endless days spent wandering, roaming to find some meal, a softer clod to lie on, an identity.

Prince, Protector of the Realm, Rider of Vhagar, Blood of Old Valyria.

They were nothing more than shrouds. Once stripped of them, what was left was merely a man.

And a son. That’s what his mother saw when they threw him on the ground of the Throne Room.

Crawling on her knees like some commoner, she begged and sobbed until her voice became raw and her throat hoarse, chanting obsessively the same plea over and over like a mad woman.

"Please...have mercy in the name of the Mother… my only son...” she had bent so much as to graze the toe of Corlys Velaryon's boots with her face. “you took them all...you took them all...”

Whether she was talking to the Sea Snake, Rhaenyra, the Gods or fate, Aemond didn’t know. He didn’t know the woman kneeling before him, if he ever truly knew her. You cannot know ghosts, only walk through them.

He could not look at her. He turned his head and watched over that crowd of traitors looking down on him, as if they themselves had not looted, slaughtered, and burned more innocent than guilty.

Trained puppets they were, obeying like green little soldiers to Cregan Stark, a northern savage who had taken upon himself the right and duty to do justice. Corlys Velaryon knew it well, having spent days and nights in the dungeons as an accomplice in the poisoning of Aegon the Elder. And there they were, taking over the reins of a kingdom shattered and embittered by war.

But with the promise of Alysanne Blackwood’s hand in marriage, the Wolf had been tamed. He had stopped howling about trials and executions. Now, caution moved and bogged down their decisions. But one thing was clear as a law written in stone: there had to be peace, no matter the cost. Hence, a marriage had been arranged, between two children who, for no reason, had been taught to see the other as the enemy, whose eyes had seen too much death; orphaned and thrown like marbles into a game that brought neither smiles nor laughter to their sepulchral mouths.

She was looking at him, Jaehaera, and in her empty eyes Aemond could see Helaena climbing up the windowsill and letting herself fall.   

“What happened to Vhagar?” The Sea Snake asked “Kinslayer! What about your dragon?”

"Dead.” He lied, although he didn’t know for how long that lie would remain so. That rope in his heart had loosened, weakened, but it still held. She must have crawled off to some remote place, perhaps beyond the Neck, to recover from the injuries to her neck and right wing.

Then the Sea Snake had turned his back, consulting with his council of leeches. Exile. He heard them say. Essos. And then that word he hadn’t heard for a long time. Dragonless. A kinder word for useless. Powerless.

“Let him go, Corlys. He’s always been a spoiled brat. He won’t survive for long in those savage lands.” Someone said outside the cell they threw him in, shackled with chains on wrists and ankles like some rabid dog.

He won’t survive for long.

How he wished they were right. How he wished to look into the beady eyes of the Stranger.

Alicent would curse him, perhaps she would slap him as she used to slap Aegon for being so blasphemous, not to the Gods, but to her. Aemond was no father, and no matter how much he could try, he’d never understood the fierce, unforgiving grip motherhood had on a woman.

When he saw her for the last time before being thrown on a ship to Braavos, he realized it was the only tether that kept her alive. Him and Jaehaera.

“Just a little longer, please…just a little…” she pleaded to his jailers. With the arranged marriage, cruelties had softened, and concessions became more frequent. The Dowager Queen was granted to see her son for the last time.

“Mother!” he screamed as they dragged him away “Keep your fucking hands off me!”

He needed to speak to her. He needed her to tell him she was lying.  

“Mother, there’s a woman…”

“The Strong witch? Aemond, she’s…They captured our last allies from the Reach and…they said they found a woman in the woods but…she was in pain…and bleeding….”

The Gods’ punishment flowed through the long-cowled robe of the Stranger. And he took them all.

Aegon, Helaena, Daeron. Alys and the baby.

Alicent could not bear to see the last piece of her flesh and bones being cloaked by the cold shroud of the Stranger. And so, she crawled and begged to preserve his existence.

But that, that was no existence.

It was a limbo, a hanging life for the damned. And he was one, wasn't he? He killed kin, he killed innocent men, women and children, coming from above like a heaven banished God unleashing his wrath on the world. And even gods pay for their sins.

Only he would gladly have stuck his head in a noose or waited for the hangman's blade, a death worthy of a soldier, rather than wandering like a derelict, rootless and restless, with that rope pulling and fraying day after day. Or Weeks? Moons? He had no idea how much time had passed since he’d set foot in that limbo.

He seemed to be living in a slumber, a Milk of the Poppy hallucination. And yet, the ground was real beneath his exhausted feet, as was the heat, and at some point, the hunger.

The leeches had tried to appear civil and compassionate, lying to his mother’s face about the gold they would give him, to sustain himself once reached the East. But naturally, they didn’t keep their word. If he died of starvation, he was sure they would have lit a candle to each God in the Grand Sept. They probably prayed for that to happen.

Or maybe not. Maybe there was no greater gratification and source of amusement to know that the haughty Prince Aemond was tasting the everyday humiliation of having to steal in order not to starve, of not having clean clothes, feather pillows to lie on, the disgrace of not being able to give orders to anyone, but rather having to suffer them.

He stayed in Bravoos for a short time. It was too dangerous, too close to Westeros and too wary if anyone ever caught the color of his hair under the cloak’s hood. He remembered his history books quite well. It was the only one among the Free Cities that did not yield to the Valyrian empire; indeed, it was founded by a group of rebellious slaves fled from the tyranny of the Dragon Lords.

Volantis, on the contrary, worshipped the Old Empire. But in equal measure, they worshipped slavery. The city swarmed with mercenaries and slavers, peddling men and women like meat for slaughter, ready at every corner to steal children from the streets. And in Volantis Aemond understood that if he did not want to end up in some butcher’s hands, he had to be what he had always been: a soldier. For he realized that everywhere in the world, the most valuable currency was not gold, nor castles and titles, but blood.

This man for new fresh clothes, that woman for few gold coins and a mattress to rest his back, not to sleep. Sleep eluded him, as well as remorse. Unless his body shut his mind out of exhaustion, he lied there for hours on end, with blood drying on his hands, listening to all the ghosts floating around him, and trying to find a grip—something to hold on to. Duty had been the blacksmith who forged him and the altar to which he devoted himself. Duty to his family, his brother, the crown, the throne, even Alys, yes. For all her riddles and stumps of prophecy, he wanted her. He wanted that son.

But here, he had no high purpose to serve but himself. Stripped of all honors and many more curses, he fell into a daylong stupor, made of blood, humiliations and silent cries for revenge.

Until one day, the rope went taut.

Vhagar burned away the stupor. She had found him. For the second time, she had been his salvation. And on her back, he found a fragment of who he was, but who he was supposed to be remained a distant thing, clouded in smoke.

He flew south, over the ruins of Old Valyria, and then east, crossing all of Vaes Dothrak to the Red Waste, and by the time he realized he should've veered north or south, it was too late.

He was in the middle of the widest and driest desert on the eastern continent.

The Garden of Bones, as they called it, and with good reason. For in those few times that Aemond decided to land to allow Vhagar to rest, all his eye could see were sand, devilgrass and bones. But he didn’t care about the thirst, the dry and cracked lips, the white tow his hair had become.

Vhagar was his only concern. She was starving. She could not fly too high in the skies. And so, along with all the misery and humiliation, came the dread. For if Vhagar died, the last rope, the last tether, which had perhaps kept him alive up to that point, and perhaps kept her alive, would break.

But then, just as it happens in some book of adventures, or simply in dreams, a mirage, a true oasis in the middle of the desert, surrounded by the highest walls ever built in the history of men, guarding the greatest city that ever was and will be: Qarth.

“Hmm” she ponders, pursing her lips. “I’m not sure about this one. What do you think, Nyla?”

The young maid stops her morning chore and blushes. “I think it would match your skin wonderfully, your Highness.”

She hears giggling behind her shoulders, where two of her most trusted maids are braiding her hair after oiling them with mirrh and cinnamon. “You hear that, Nyla? They’re questioning your candor.”

“I am not, your Highness.” says Dora, one of the giggling girls. “But if you were looking for a less partial opinion, let’s say a more objective one...you should have asked me or Mysha.”

“Well, as it happens, I was looking precisely for a partial opinion. Look at her. She’s changing my chamber pot and still, she thinks that shade of purple would suit me wonderfully. Oh Nyla, I think you will soon become my favorite.”

“Is that a yes then, your Highness?” the merchant wastes no time to ask, standing in the center of the room with silk drapes of several colors resting along his arm.

“Yes, Jorio. Two yards of that purple silk.”

The merchant nods swiftly, too swiftly she notices. The man is acting awkwardly since the moment he stepped into her private rooms. Usually, he’s a big talker, a true born seller. He could make believe one could heal from Greyscale if they just wrap themselves in the soft embrace of his silks. But not today. He seems in a hurry. The exhibition of his goods too quick and excited. And then the sweat, lumped in a wet sheen around his bald head.

“Anything else, your Highness?”

Her forehead creases, acknowledging a thought, new but not quite, as if it has always been there. “Perhaps something green?” she ventures.

“Green?” inquires Misha “That’s a first.”

She shakes her head in a dismissing way. “Must be my father’s sorcery.”

The shadows, kóri, they speak to you.

“What do you have in green, Jorio?”

The merchant fumbles with his silks, a turmoil moves his hands clumsily until a few drapes of fabric flutter on the ground. He stoops to pick them up, only to drop the others still clinging onto his shoulder in a chaotic rainbow of colors on the white marble floor.

“Jorio, what is the matter with you today?”

“I—Nothing, your Highness, my apologies...”

“You know if you have problems with your trades, the Salt King and I would be more than happy to help you.”

“It’s not that—no. Must be all the fuss in town.”

“Pirates again?”

“Uhm—no, it’s the…beast outside the walls.”

“The beast? What beast?”

The man swallows, visibly. “A dragon, your Highness. A huge dragon, higher than the city walls.”

“But…that is not possible...” Misha tries.

“I’m telling what I saw with my own eyes. The Thirteen gathered outside the walls. I saw the Spice King along my way here. He said they were about to parley with the Milk man, see through his reasons.”

"Milk Men don’t ride dragons.” she corrects, standing from the soft cushions piled and spread on the ground. “This man’s hair…what color are they?”

“White as midday sun.”

"Your Highness! Come..."

The Salt Queen joins Dora on one of the brightly sunlit balconies overlooking the Route of Trade. There is indeed a great bustle in the town, a motionless bustle however, gazing with open mouths and bewildered eyes at the small procession moving up the street. The City Guard is leading, with their shields and spears to protect The Thirteen, rulers of the most important trading city in the world. They are all dressed in bright colours and precious jewels embroidered in their silk tunics, hanging from their necks, wrists and fingers.

If she narrows her eyes, The Salt Queen can swear she can see the gold ring her husband wears on his nose. What catches her eye though, is not gold or any other bright color, but black, and then white.

There is a man walking down the street with the thirteen, a tall man with plain dark clothes and a mantle of silver hair, white as midday sun.

“Wife, may I introduce you to our noble guest?”

A woman comes forward to greet him when Aemond enters a lavish hall with several windows adorned with colorful drapes of silk. He is sure he has never seen so much marble in his life, feeling even more inappropriate given the state of his clothes and his whole demeanor, shamefully far from the clean, soldierly appearance that left mouth agape.

“Prince Aemond of House Targaryen, from Westeros.” The Salt King declares as the woman stops just before him. He stands tall and imposing, no matter the misery of his shabby clothes, the state of his disheveled hair falling in silver tangles down his back. He is still a Targaryen, his chin is high and proud.

“More like from the Old Valyria.” She says raising an eyebrow, and sizing him up and down. “He seems to have just emerged from the Doom, miraculously unscathed.”

The Prince does nothing but seethe his teeth behind his dry lips, a distant shame in his eye that quickly turns into a focused and unblinking rage.

“Welcome to Qarth, my Prince. I’d trust your journey was uneventful but…I can see the Red Waste takes its toll, even on Valyrian beauty.”

Aemond takes a good, long look at her, inevitably lingering on her chest, dressed as the common Qartheen fashion dictates: one breast exposed. But a lot more of her is exposed. Her shoulders, her arms and legs, a glimpse of her hips, all crossed by swirling bundles of lilac silk.

If any married woman in Westeros dressed like that in the open, he’s sure any husband would lock her up. At least he would.

“You must excuse my wife, Prince Aemond, or rather, get used to her habit of speaking her mind.”

“Come now, Xavos. Surely Westerosi women can voice their thoughts?” she moves, walking past Aemond and her husband to reach a small table inlaid with gold to pour some greenish beverage into a cup. “I had a maid once, she was from…Rich Garden?”

“High Garden.” He sternly corrects her.

“Ah, yes. A delightful creature, always smelled so good.” She says distractedly “Anyway, she fled from your lands because she liked girls and not boys and she didn’t want to devote her life to being a brood mare sucking a flaccid cock until her hair had gone white.”

Her maids snicker somewhere past Aemond shoulders, stiffening his posture at the liberties those commoners are granted. “I should hope you Westerners listen to your women more than you do your horses.”

Aemond watches as she takes a sip and laces his hands behind, slightly tilting his head for a moment. “Where I come from, women do not possess such a sharp tongue. Furthermore, and fortunately, most of them have manners. They know how to address a Prince of the Realm.”

She turns to leave the cup on the same table and glances at Nyla. “Oh, he bites.”

“This is not Westeros, dragon prince.” She says turning to face him with a righteous smile “I don’t need to ask your permission to speak. The Salt King is my husband, that is why you will hear my maids and everyone else address me as Your Highness. So, you may lower that chin and stop waiting for me to bow down to you because technically my rank is higher than yours. You might say the only one meant to bow in this room were you.”

The silence that follows is so stark that the air the Prince quickly exhales through his nose sounds like thunder, alerting the Salt King. "Come now, wife. Don't wake the beast.” he says lightly, stiffening a smile “And I mean it quite literally. You should see the size of Prince Aemond’s dragon.”

“I heard.” she acknowledges “Jorio said he’s higher than the city walls.”

“She. And twice, than your city walls.” The Prince corrects her again, just as sternly. “She’s the largest dragon alive in the known world.”  His chin remains high and haughty, simply because he can. Because she knows he could raze the entire city to the ground just by snapping his fingers. So, she looks down and says “Since you will be our guest, it is my duty as matron of this house to make you feel welcomed. If you would be so kind to follow me, your Grace.” She forces her tone to be as much as corteous, but then she smiles “Is my tongue acceptably sharp to your liking now?”

“Where are you taking me?” he asks as he follows the Salt Queen along one of the corridors, made of the finest marble with high arches of white stone and gold glittering under the midday sun.

“Down and down, to throw you in the dungeons.”

Aemond stalls for a moment and she does the same. “I was joking.”

He gives her that stern, distrustful look she starts to think he has etched on his features since his first wail and huffs. “God, have you lost your humor in the Red Waste?”

She resumes her walking, and Aemond follows, glancing around as they pass through many people, some of them are dressed like maids and servants, some others with long tunics of silk and jewels embroidered in the fabric. They speak to one another, he notices, as equals. But they stop altogether upon seeing a living Valyrian walk among them.

“God?” he asks “Which one?”

“Whichever you want. R'hollor, the Many Faced…I’m not picky. It helps me sleep better at night to know I didn’t dump all my sins on one God only.”

He is sure from his education and his mother’s faith that religion doesn’t work that way, but he has more pressing matters at heart. “Will you meet my requests?”

“About your dragon?” she asks stopping before a large wooden door closed. “Can’t she hunt on her own?”

“In the Red Waste? In these barren lands? Perhaps you should put your pretty head outside the city walls and see with your own eyes how big she is.”

The woman smirks, seizing him up and down and furrows her brows. “You seem very keen on emphasizing how big your dragon is. I should hope it’s not a compensating factor for the lack of something else.”

She pushes the door open, not bothering to wait for Aemond who just stands there for a moment, a little dumbfounded by the salt of which the Queen's tongue seems to be made. His bewilderment is only destined to worsen as he crosses the threshold and looks around.

Right in the middle of the palace, amidst all that marble and white stone, stands a wild courtyard, wild and beautiful in its unspoiled nature. Climbing plants and fruit trees grow undisturbed around a large square pool, decorated with mosaics of a thousand colors, harboring the most crystal-clear water he has ever seen; small clouds of steam rise from the surface, pinching his nostrils with the unmistakable smell of sulfur.

There are people bathing together and, obviously, much to his dismay, naked.

“Do you not take baths in Westeros?” the Salt Queen asks, faking true curiosity at the puzzlement she can read on his face, slowly turning into repugnance as he looks at her with a cutting answer.

“We have decency, in Westeros.”

She does not bother to disguise the long sigh blowing through her lips and then she turns to clap her hands vigorously, three times.

“My friends, apologies for the interruption!” she announces as everyone in the pool and outside turns to look at her “I must ask you to leave the pool for the time being. Our…prude guest demands a little bit of privacy.” 

She can feel the Prince glaring but ignores him altogether to stop one of the servants.

“Priya, fetch some oils. And some silks, fitting for a prince.” She turns her head to look at him from head to toe, as if valuing a new drape of silk or a new sculpture to put in the Hall of Trade, but then she creases her forehead, as she often does when knowing. “Blue perhaps? To match the sapphire.”

The constant scowl seems to leave his features and she hears his question before he utters a single word.

“My father is a warlock. Magic runs thick in his blood, he says, as well as in the blood of his blood. Sometimes I sense things, bits of knowledge, and sometimes they happen to be right. But you don’t need to be afra—”

“I’m not afraid of sorcery.” He cuts her, his tone flat, his features stoic as ever and she looks at him, curiously, perhaps wondering what lies behind all that stone.

“Very well. Sapphire blue for Prince Aemond.” his name slips into his ears in a strange, liquorous way; vowels are more open in this part of the world.

When they’re left alone, she signals towards the pool. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

He hesitates for a moment, but it is not as if he has never undressed in front of one of his old servants. And frankly, he is too eager to get those filthy clothes off to be bothered by a foreign woman watching.

He throws everything on the ground without too much care, and she watches without too much shame, because that's not how things go there. Bodies, both male and female, they are not something to hide, but something to be displayed and worshipped.

Her eyes linger on scars, old and new, on a lithe body that once belonged to a prince and a soldier, now marked by misery, dirt and hunger.

“Everything.” she says at one point, when he’s left with only his battered cotton pants on.

Aemond thinks he heard wrong. But she only blinks, keeping her face blank.

“Is this the common way to welcome guests here?” he scorns.

“Actually, it is. At least after the incident with the scorpion.” she doesn’t bother to wait for a question or an eyebrow rising. “My husband’s great grandfather hosted a merchant from Yunkai once. He came here with gifts of all sorts among which was a poisonous scorpion, hidden in his clothes. The old Salt King died but so did the merchant. Fell face down in his chamber pot while taking a piss. Quite ironic, don’t you think? You have to be careful when handling such vicious creatures.”

He only looks at her, and she's the one to raise an eyebrow. “I could turn away if you like.”

Aemond sighs loudly, moving his cutting jaw at the umpteenth humiliation and then lowers his pants. She stares into his eye and surely, surely he thinks, she wouldn’t dare to wander down.

But a moment later her eyes sink past his snatched waist, and she smirks.

“I believe I owe you an apology.”

“What for?”

“Questioning your…natural gifts.”

Aemond blinks, running on the verge between scowling, raising his eyebrows and huffing a laugh.  Certainly, it never happened to him to talk so bluntly about his cock with any highborn lady barely met, let alone a supposed queen.

“I’ll leave you to your bath, dragon prince. The Salt King and I have much to discuss.”

“Such as?” he deadpans, not really interested while he dives into the clean water.

“Well, a Targaryen Prince is not an everyday occurrence.” She says following his every move, the way water glides on his skin, silver hair floating on the surface like moonblooms. “We’ll make sure to have a feast worthy of your noble taste this evening.”

“And then talk behind my back about what to do with me?”

“Undoubtedly. And I will tell him the truth.”

“Hmm.” He hums, settling on one of the underwater steps of the pool, resting his shoulders against the rim. His mood instantly improves, so he pins her with his eye and looks her up and down. “Do you believe to know my reasons? You’re quite sure of yourself…your Highness. Unless your father’s sorcery allows you to read minds, I dare say even rather pretentious.”

“I don’t need sorcery to know that you, in the first place, do not know what you’re doing here.”

“And what makes you so sure?”

She sees that chin tilting, lifting with a hint of challenge. And she takes it. She has the truth, and indeed, she doesn’t need sorcery.

“Because Qarth is still standing.”

She gets no answer, just that diffident stern look to which she darts the faintest of smirks and then leaves the pool, under his watchful eye that stays on the door for a moment longer, before he lets his head sink underwater.

The Salt Queen gives instructions for the most sumptuous room to be given to Prince Aemond. She sees to it that he is provided with several silk suits and that food is served to him immediately when he has finished bathing. She has observed his body with pleased eyes, so scrupulously she knows the Prince has not had a decent meal in weeks.

“Did he settle?” Xavos asks when she enters his private room.  

“In time, I’m sure he will. Valyrians have an impressive disposition to make their own what does not belong to them, do they not?”

She hears him murmur something in return from where he stands, on the balcony threshold that overlooks the city and its massive port. The Queen sits on a soft armchair and starts to twirl her hair around one finger, curling her mouth into a thoughtful pout. “I was thinking goose for dinner. Or salt beef? We should save goats and pigs for the beast. Apparently, poor thing is starving.”

In the silence that follows, she turns to her husband. “Xavos?”

The Salt King turns with one shoulder and a half-bitter smile. “We have a living threat who could burn us all to the crisp walking within our palace and our city, and you speak to me of geese and pigs?”

“It’s useless to cry over spilled milk. You let him in. You let greed lure you all like a piper with a flute. I’m wondering, on which tune did he make you dance?”

He walks to her with slow feet and looks at her after a long sigh. “Dragon eggs.”

“I should’ve known.”

“Cyril began talking of an opportunity of a lifetime. Of the Greatest City that ever was and will be becoming even greater. Think about it. With dragons…Qarth might become the center of the whole world. A newborn Valyria. If we play our hand right—”

“Quit the fancy words. What exactly are you asking of me, Xavos?”

She knows he is asking for something. She has known him for more than ten years, and he has asked, has demanded, a lot of her. She knows that when his voice drops a note, he wants something, as if whispered, it becomes less degrading.

He trails his index finger on her chin and lifts it. “To make him dance to your tune.”

“You overestimate me, husband. I cannot reason with a tiger when my head is in its mouth. Besides, he might be easy on the eye, but he’s as agreeable as a plant of spikes.”

She speaks smoothly—not a flinch or a blink at her husband's hand sinking between her lilac’s folds, and then between her inner ones. “Since when you are so reluctant about who’s allowed in your bed?”

“Don’t confuse me with yourself.” she says lifting her chin to look at him, unbothered by the circling his finger draws on her dry bundle. “I fuck who I want for pleasure, rarely out of boredom, but never to prove a point.”

Abruptly, he slips his finger deep inside, hurting her. “I should have taken your tongue as well.” 

 “And still…” she forces a smile over the painful grimace twisting her mouth “it would not have given you what you so desperately seek in every hole.”

His unwanted touch leaves her and he straightens, pacing lazily behind her seat. “He’s young. He’s had a rough time. Surely, he must’ve missed the intimate company of a woman.”

“For that kind of company, there are pleasure houses.”

“Don’t play dumb, now. You saw how proud he is. How do you think he will take it if we send a whore to his rooms?” Xavos grips the back of the chair and leans down slowly, speaking to her ear. “Listen to me. Cyril is right. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. We must make him feel…important…coddled, even.”

“Even if you shackle his feet with gold, you cannot turn a dragon into a lamb, Xavos.”

The Salt King sighs impatiently, and his tone drops just as earlier. “Do as I say.”

Young Nyla interrupts her masters as she enters the room, and the Queen turns her head. “Nyla, what is it?”

“We have escorted Prince Aemond to his rooms, your Highness.”

“Good.” Xavos says, and then looks at his wife with a pointed stare. “Make sure he has everything he needs.”

The Salt Queen barges in and halts on the door, bewildered upon seeing her trusted friend Mysha on the verge of tears, staring at the ground as if she’s waiting for an execution.

“My deepest apologies, my Prince, I meant no disrespect.”

“What happened?”

“Uh—Prince Aemond asked for some herbs, your Highness. An ointment, for his eye.”

“Aye. I did ask for that, not for you to fucking touch me.”

The Prince is snarling, his eye wide and menacing like a hound on the brink of defense yet hunting for flesh. His face is clean now, the Queen notices, shaven; his hair is damp and pulled back, leaving his chiseled features, that infuriating chin, and high, prominent cheekbones in plain sight. Stupid as it may sound, she can't help but think of one of those marble sculptures she likes to buy from art dealers.

“You may go, Mysha. I will assist the Prince.”

“I don’t need assistance.” He hisses with threatening calm. “Leave.”

He caved in the pool, but he will not suffer another humiliation in front of these foreigners. At least not with something so delicate and private as his eye. But of course, he realizes with annoyance, this woman will not falter at any of his empty orders.

“Are you dismissing me in my own Palace?”

He looks down, sighing and fuming, and she beckons Misha to leave the room.

“You must understand, servants here are treated differently. They’re granted more liberties.”

“I see. As the ones you so generously grant to slaves.” he mutters, and starts to fidget with a tray offering ginger roots, turmeric powder, and eucalyptus leaves.

“Oh, spare me. Of all people, you Valyrians are the least entitled to give a lecture on morals.” she counters, watching his long, tapered fingers hover without touching anything. Clearly, he was used to servants doing it for him.

“May I?” she offers, but doesn’t wait for his permission to make room next to him. “There are no slaves in this palace.” she tells him "How can you expect loyalty from someone you bought with something as cheap as gold?”

“Cheap as the golden ring your husband has stuck in his nose? He looks like a fucking boar.” he says as his eye trails on her profile.

“My husband is an imbecile. This city did not become the greatest that ever was and will be with gold. Trade is our currency. We call it antallagí. Exchange.”

“A true-born merchant’s wife.”

“Or a boar’s one?”

He huffs, and she turns, feigning shock at the faintest of smirks curling his lips. “So you’re not made of stone after all.”

She studies him for a few moments—more than is deemed proper for a married woman, in Westeros at least—but she can't help it. She wonders how it is possible that exile and moons of misery have not bent this man; what drives that rigid posture, whether it is too strict an education or it is all a lie, masking an effort to keep control, to impose it on others but perhaps more on himself.

“Ointment is ready, your Grace. It may burn a little, ginger is a godsend, but it’s tricky. I could help—”

“I need no help. Leave.”

The stone is in place once more. But she won’t have it. 

She raises her eyebrows, biding all the time in the world.

Aemond chews thorns as he looks at her, swallows them, and tastes them again, piercing his tongue. “Please.”

“That must’ve cost you a lot. But it isn’t so hard, is it?”

His lips flatten in a thin line, and she smiles. “You are a second son, are you not? That’s the reason for that stubborn chin. You must stomp your feet to make anything yours.”

“Careful, woman. I’ve taken tongues for far less.”

“Why? Did you not see eye to eye with them?”

He moves like lightning, invading her space until he is a breath away from her face, and his mouth breathes fire. “Listen to me. I care not who the fuck you are or which title you make your slaves call you. I am not here to allow you to make a fool of me, Queen or no Queen. Mock me once more, and I’ll carve the word please on your vicious mouth.”

He waits for the fire to catch on, even though flames do not seem to touch her; she's unwavering and solid as marble.

“Get out.”

“I don’t—” she chokes on her words, on his hand seizing her jaw; cold fingers, leaving embers on her skin.

“I said, get out.”

That evening, the already lavish palace of the Salt King was polished and decked out duly to honor the foreign guest. The walls, lit by braziers of fire, stood like a beacon amidst a sea of marble and white stone roofs. The Hall of Trade was a treasury, crammed so full of gold that it looked like a pirate's dream. Pillows were piled on the floor, long tables held food of all kinds. A huge bowl of wine welcomed the guests, who were given a goblet they had to dip into the large bowl and drink, otherwise they would not be allowed inside. It was tradition, a sort of good omen.

It pinched Aemond's nostrils when he brought the cup to his mouth and, thankfully, drank it in small sips. Despite his prudence, by the second he felt his tongue on fire from how spiced it was. By comparison, Arbor Gold was wastewater.

He wears the sapphire blue silk tunic, with a silk belt cinching his narrow waist, but his hair is different. Mysha learned the lesson she asked, and when he gave his consent, she got to work and braided his silver hair. Most of them are loose, falling down his back in a curtain of white. Others are laced in one, two, three braids, softly meeting at the back of his head.

If he thought the Salt Queen’s hospitality was somewhat a little too forward and a lot more intrusive, he had to reconsider when he found himself cornered as soon as his silver head caught the eye of every guest. Men and women, old and young, flocked to him with eyes full of wonder, as if the Salt King had captured some wild and rare creature and called all his friends to make them look.

But they didn’t just look. They talked openly and freely, voicing thoughts that, in Westeros, would have stayed inside one’s head.

“Look at his hair! They seem like moon rays!”

“And the skin! Whiter than milk!”

“What happened to his eye?”

“If only my wife were here…she always wanted to see a Valyrian!”

He had just gotten there, and his teeth were baring.

“My friends, please! Let our noble guest breathe!” the Salt King chuckles as he comes forward among the bewildered audience, looking like the loot of some theft, for all the gold and diamonds and emeralds sewn on his orange silk tunic. “Come, my Prince. The first taste is yours.”

Aemond catches a movement on his right and there she is, the Salt Queen, in a crimson red sparkling like a bloodied dew given the little, tiny red stones woven in her silks. Her hair coils into an intricate bun crisscrossed by a paper-thin gold chain that crowns her forehead with small, rough rubies, like grains of salt.

For a moment, he’s so enthralled by her figure, and her eyes, even more piercing because of kohl, that he fails to notice the clay plate she’s holding, filled with fruits. Some he has never seen, except in books, but he has no time to take a guess.

“Your first taste, my Prince.” she chimes. “Sweet or tart?”

His gaze falls back to the plate, but not before stopping, again, for a blink, on that absurd fashion of one bare breast. “Tart.” He says tightly.

She smiles, as if she knew, and puts the plate down. Aemond watches her bejeweled fingers pluck off a grape and turn, her hand in midair but not quite outstretched toward him. He nothing but give her a pointed look, one that translates only into a stern and irrevocable I can eat by myself.

“My Prince. My wife means no offense.” the Salt King explains “In Qarth, it is deemed a great honor, given and taken, and an excellent omen for the guest's stay, if said guest is fed by the matron of the house.”

His throat bobs and the Salt Queen can’t quite decipher if the dragon prince is more humiliated or angered by the prospect of being fed by a woman like a baby who just teethed. At last, he sighs and leans in, but her hand withdraws a little, leaving him with his mouth slightly open, stretched forth like a beggar waiting for charity. It is not Aemond who bites the grape, but her who finally, after another straight stare into his eye, lets it drop into his mouth.

The crowd erupts in a cheerful clapping, as does The Salt King who goes to stand just between his wife and the Dragon Prince, placing a friendly hand on his shoulder “You see, Prince Aemond, this is one of the extraordinary gifts of Qartheen women. They know exactly how to hold...and when to let go.”

Aemond does not bother to look at him, he is too absorbed, annoyed and deep down, without him knowing it yet, enticed by the tranquil smile that curls her mouth and at the same time curls his pride, mocks it, strips it bare and outright laughs at it, goading everyone else to do so.

Behold, the pink dread!

 “Without further ado, let the feast begin!” The Salt King announces joyfully and in the same moment, a delicate and sweet melody fills the room, while Aemond chews what’s left of that grape, tasting his own bile.

An hour later, Aemond is fuming. Fuming because ruling the most important and influential city in Essos, he should’ve known the Thirteen were aware of everything that went on and was currently going on in the West. Perhaps even more than he knew. Did they know something about his mother?

He banished that thought from his mind just as he trained himself to do in all this damned existence.

They knew about the Dance, they knew about Aegon the Usurper, they knew of Rhaenyra the Cruel, the Storming of the Dragon Pit. They knew the kingdom was dreadfully impoverished and in the hands of a young boy.

But they spoke about it as if they were discussing the weather. Qartheens cared nothing about what was going on outside their impenetrable walls; whether it was a new king on a throne far away or a war that had killed thousands and thousands, it was all tittle-tattle to kill time between one cup of wine and the next. He was asked about this battle or the previous one without thinking that he had lived through that war; he made it, he carried it and perhaps he still carried it within him.

He was fuming for this, he was fuming for how women, and even men, gawk at him, for their bizarre custom of hosting a feast without a decent place to sit and eat like normal people do. He was fuming because no matter how much he tried to ignore it, a spool of crimson would always catch his eye.

Grabbing one more cup of wine, he decides to take a breath outside, standing on one of the marbled balconies of the Palace. Air does good to extinguish his fires, but it does not clear up his mind. Perhaps he should blame the wine, perhaps his head is still smoky.

Because you, in the first place, do not know what you're doing here.

As much as he loathed to admit it, the Salt Queen was right. He tricked himself into thinking the main reason for his coming here was Vhagar. She was weak, due to the wing's injuries as well as the old ones, and most of all, she was hungry. But with the promise of goats and pigs, came the clarity and the knowledge that he had no reason, no plan. He only knew he had leverage—a dreadful leverage made of talons and fire on these merchants and their city. But what to do with it?

He hears voices somewhere near, and once more, crimson pollutes his sight. The Salt Queen and her husband are talking behind a tall white pillar. He can’t quite hear what they’re saying, but she catches his stare almost immediately. The talking ceases, and Aemond knows they were talking about him, of course they were.

Xavos comes out of his hiding place with a placid and benevolent expression, walking right past him without a word. But she stays, and she looks, and then she walks to him.

“That will go to your head.” She warns as he empties the cup “I didn’t see you touch any food.”

The spiced wine burns his throat, makes his tongue sour and impatient. “Is your husband aware of your excessive concern about your guests? Or is it a thoughtfulness he has ordered you to reserve only for me?”

“I’m just being considerate since you’re a foreigner and not well acquainted with Qartheen tastes.”

“How exactly am I supposed to eat? Standing?”

She huffs a laugh and shakes her head trimmed with gold and red as she gives him a bemused, though genuine, look. “Good God, how spoiled you are? I thought misery made men humble, but clearly not men of House Targaryen.”

His jaw moves annoyingly, and he leaves the empty cup on the marble, but he doesn’t let go, holding it by the edges in a white-knuckle grip. She notices it as she leans against the marble, with her back to the city, and gives him a long, inquisitive look. “After all the misery you suffered, I thought you would’ve liked the attention…perhaps you do…perhaps…you want more.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” he asks boringly, and just as sourly, staring at the city.

“I must say, I’ve hosted so many people, from so many different parts of the world, and yet��I’ve never found myself before a face so full of contradictions.”

His eye pins her. “Need I remind you how you left my room earlier?”

“With your hand around my neck, because you couldn’t take a joke.”

“I don’t like being mocked. And I don’t like being played like a pawn. So, unless this is another one of your absurd customs, tell your husband to stop parading you around me like a whore. It looks bad when you insist on others calling you queen.”

“We all play parts, dragon prince. Sometimes, they blend. But in the end…it takes little to know the real you.”

Aemond chokes on his breath as her hand slips between them like water, cupping his crotch with a grip of steel, and fire, burning from her fingertips through the fabric. She holds it like a weapon, and his defense is low. She sees his throat bobbing down once, and twice, rejection curls his mouth, but not strongly enough to shove her hand away, to not start to harden against the flames of her fingers, brushing all his length until she cups it once more.

“Whore or queen?” she whispers, brushing his parted lips “Someone in there doesn’t seem to care.”

His grip on the cup loosens, a tremor runs down his spine, and he dawdles in the sensation, one felt before, elicited by other hands, and yet new. It’s been so long. The surge to touch, to clutch, to taste, drains his head of blood. But she eludes him, tilting her head to the right and then to the left to avoid the vise of his lips; her grip loosens, running the back of her fingers against his cock in a feathery brush, touching without touching.

He grinds his teeth to choke a whimper, but then she’s cupping again; she feels him go completely hard for her, and the knowledge washes over her like tongues of fire prickling down her back and between her thighs. The soft, slippery silk allows her to unleash her lunges more fiercely, to easily close her hand around his cock, and that same silk helps her to glide her hand deliciously up and down.

He's breathing hard, almost panting, brushing the tip of his nose against hers; her eyes are open, basking in the sight, the little twitches of his mouth as bends to pleasure, the breathing turning heavier and heavier, his hand that starts to flex. She imagines how those slender fingers would feel between her folds, how easily they would slip inside, and why, why is he not touching her?

“Do it…” she breathes. “Do you want me to say please? I would…there’s no shame in begging, dragon prince….it only makes you free…”  

“Your Highness, my apologies.” Nyla calls her Queen suddenly, and she stops her wicked ministrations, abruptly bringing Aemond back to his senses.

“The Salt King sent me after you.” The young maid says, apparently unfazed by what she clearly witnessed. “We’re playing kottabos.”

"Ah, yes, of course.” she tries to regain some control, although she was panting on the sole anticipation, and goes back inside.

Aemond stalls, taking a long sigh in the fresh air to try to stop the blood from boiling. And he follows.

Kottabos, he discovers, is quite a tricky game. The rules are simple: one has to throw the last drops of wine inside their cup to hit a white plate balanced atop a bronze pole. It requires a bit of dexterity, because the player must put the index finger through the handle of the drinking cup and throw the drops while sprawled on pillows, laying on their elbows.

The Salt Queen, it seems, is quite adept at this game. It takes her only two tries to hit the plate and she’s rising from the pillows, bowing her head to thank the cheerful audience. Aemond's eye bends as the crimson veils bend with her every movement; he slips between them and lets them wrap around him, even though he should not, even though he reproaches himself for letting the blood, the wine, the flesh, that has been starved of other flesh for too long, win.

“My closest friends know I’m very fond of sweets and cakes but…on such a special occasion, I choose a special reward.” She announces when the crowd has quieted down, and before she even turns around, he feels her gaze on him as if she had two more eyes on the back of her head. “A sweeter reward…or perhaps tarter.”

She moves towards him, and every step she takes barefoot on the marble is an unmasking. With every step she takes, it seems to him that she is touching him, as she did just before, and more; he feels like her fingers are slipping under the silk, setting fire to his skin.

She stops in front of him and yet, he still sees her moving, feels her moving like a sea creature and her thousand tentacles of crimson silk.

Maybe he should put the wine down.

Wine is not for you, brother mine, your mind’s too heavy. It’ll soak like a sponge and you'll fall into your own vomit.

What she does not put down is her aim, moving her hands diligently as she grabs his face and draws him close to kiss him on the lips, and tilt her head back to look at him, so close she’s breathing his breath. “This…is your first taste.”

“Good! The Queen has chosen her reward. Let us play another round, shall we?”

Again, Aemond does not bother to look at the Salt King, he looks at her and the faint twitch between her lips at her husband's words.

“Come.” She says taking his hand, and he doesn’t know what drives him to follow her, whether his mind is too soaked, or his flesh is crying out to be fed.

What is certain is that now her bare feet tread the marble of his rooms and he is closing the door.

“I hope you don’t mind if we do it here. I don’t take men into my rooms.”

“Why?”

“I’m jealous of my things.”

“Liar.”

“What?”

“So used to play parts and yet, you look down before lying. Disappointing.”

“I’m surprised you were able to look at anything above my cleavage.”

This time, he lowers his gaze, but not to lie. He knows he has looked, many times, and the excuse of not being used to such a custom starts to creak. She walks up to him and looks at him with that knowing smile that makes him want to clamp his hand on her mouth and wipe it off her face, and maybe stick his fingers inside.

“Are you a virgin, my Prince? Did you have a wife in the West? Children?”

He swallows, and her eyes fall on his throat.

“Is that guilt you just swallowed? Or sorrow?”

“Why don’t you listen to your father’s sorcery while keeping your hole shut?”

“I told you, I am no witch. Qarth is the center of the world. Do you think we don’t know what happens in the East, West, North and South?” she angles her head and whispers in his ear “We know everything… Kinslayer, Terror of the Trident.”

She speaks his war titles in that liquorose way, opening the vowels as if she is casting a spell, but he hears the mockery. It is the same that loosened the tongue at the Strong bastards, the same one perpetuated by Alys. But Alys' mockery was different. She spoke in riddles, visions and flames. This woman speaks in truths.

“Do you regret it?” she whispers, and her tentacles thread their way through the silk “All those innocents you have burned…all the ones you have lost.” lazily, she pulls at the laces of the blue tunic and he stiffens, flaring his nostrils. “See? I don’t need sorcery. The more you stiffen, the more cracks reveal.” She straightens her head to look at him with eyes darker than tar, wandering over his face and he feels branded. “I can see them around you…ghosts…why don’t you set them free?”

“What is your fucking game?” he wants to seethe, but she’s so close to him it comes out as nothing but a hiss.

She smiles again and this time the victory is full. "The game is over, your grace. I won, and you're my reward. I will admit I never had such a pretty one...care to show me that sapphire or are you still keen on playing the prude bashful prince?”

Aemond has no qualms about touching her, grabbing her face with nails digging into her cheeks as he pulls her close, turning her chin to spit anger and all his tumbled restraints into her ear “Perhaps I should shove my cock into your mouth to make you shut it, hmm? Is that what you want? What your husband wants? That I fuck you like a whore?”

She stiffens, thrashing in his hold that she may not have expected, and manages to turn her head just enough to look at him, scoffing. “Is this the only way you know to use your hands?”

A taunt, another one. It turns his eye pitch black and he leans closer to her lips, almost baring his teeth, almost as if he wants to bite the words—the mockery, the victory—off her mouth. But once more, she eludes him, tilting back and so, any reason burns and dies into his head.  

“D’you want to play games, don’t you? Let’s play, then.”

Still gripping her cheeks, he roughly pushes her into the room, letting her go for only one fleeting instant of freedom, just long enough to grab her shoulders and force her to turn around. A gasp escapes her lips, but the next moment she’s bending on the table, he’s forcing her to. A thrill spills into her blood, making her insides clench with anticipation, and dread.

He traps her, planting his feet between hers to stop her from closing her legs. She tries to pull herself up with her back, but he scowls, pushing her head down to keep it firmly glued to the table. She whines as his long fingers pull at her hair, tearing the gold and red chain off, and she can hear him fumbling with the silks, the other hand hiking her crimson gowns up.

“My Prince, please—”

“Begging already?” snarling, he spits into his palm and gives a few quick tugs to his cock, hard and aching “I wonder who’s coming from. The whore or the Queen. Either way, you’ll get your reward, your Highness.”

“Wait—” she whimpers as she feels the head of his cock teasing against her folds, something coils in her belly, and something else, something cold, grips her heart. “Not like th—”

She chokes on her tongue as he slips inside her, easily but painfully, all the way in. Hissing, his hold on her hair tightens, a coarse exhale coming out of his parted lips as he adjusts to her walls, hot and wet, but tense. She’s tensing all over.

“Why are you fighting me?” he pulls her up by the hair, leaning his face close to hers “You wanted this, did you not? You have been teasing and mocking me since I set foot in here.”

“I—”

“No. I’ve had enough of your talks and taunts. Here’s what’s going to happen, whore queen. You will keep quiet and take it. And if I want to fuck you again later, I will. You are not in charge here—not you, not your husband, not all the fucking Thirteen. So don’t fucking push me, unless you want to die with fire skinning you alive.”

Without too much grace, he forces her back on the table and starts a relentless pace, fisting the crimson fabric and pulling to keep her low back flushed to his crotch. His pants mix with flesh slapping harder and faster as he tries to pour on her, and into her, the grief and rage, the misery and fire he’s made of. She writhes beneath him, arching and crumpling against the wooden with violent gasps; she feels like burning but inside, she’s torn in two.

She clamps her hand on the wood to grab onto something, just like that evening. She feels her, and his, arousal coating her thighs, just as blood did that evening.

The little girl wants to run, but the Salt Queen doesn’t want him to stop.

She’s sinking in her mind, but burning in every corner of her body and soul.

She can only moan, her mouth agape and dry, leaking saliva on the surface as her head bounces at each wild rut, hitting that inner spot over and over.

“Look at you, hmm?” he taunts her with purpose, perhaps vengeance “Fucked so good she lost her wits.”

Look at you, little whore. Bet you like it, eh?

Squeezing her eyes shut, she finds a raw voice hidden somewhere. “Harder—”

“What?” he slurs with a heavy-lidded eye, the braids are almost loose, dangling on his face at each thrust.

“Harder—” she pleads with her eyes still shut.  

“Greedy wanton thing—” hips start to snap brutally, in a hurtful way, just as she wants, even if it’s hard to even breathe. Pleasure overwhelms her, drives her up towards the peak. But she finds she cannot climb; her mind is holding her down.

He grunts with each snap and curses in some foreign language she’s not aware of, and she doesn’t care; she’s too focused on letting herself burn. But it’s like sitting in front of a fire and barely feeling the flames.

And then his hips jolt faster, once, twice, and he halts, gripping her hips firmly, coming inside her with a long, satiated groan.

Completely spent, he slumps on top of her, resting his head on her shoulder blades to catch his breath. However, she is quick to slip from the scorching alcove, to slide out the door with her mind drowned but her heart pounding out of her chest.

"Your Highness!" Dora wakes from her slumber, and reaches for her Queen.

"Nothing, Dora." she says in a voice still hoarse, almost scratching. "Draw me a bath, please. And fetch mint and wormwood." Moon tea.

She starts to undo her silks and feels a distant smell of smoke sticking to her skin. Like one who has bathed in fire.

The morning after brings no clarity, because truthfully, Aemond does not need clarity. Everything is drastically simple. He is no coward. However his mind was less clear than usual, he could never blame wine for how he behaved a few hours earlier. And why would he?

Whether she was acting on her husband’s orders or not, she wanted him. And he wanted her. He could concede that he'd acted in a harsher way than usual, that he’d let rage and grief guide his purpose. It was not the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. But it all worked in his favor. A demonstration, a shift in whatever power game the Salt King and the other merchant Kings thought to play out. He only made it clear that he was not some precious pet to be coddled and ridiculed.

She had teased and mocked him at any occurrence. He’d only showed her the price of playing with fire.

His blue silks are fresh and clean when he sits down to have breakfast with Xavos; his long silver hair is tied up in a single low braid that starts from the center of his head and gathers lazily down his shoulder.

He has yet to get used to this strange Qartheen custom of sitting on pillows to eat; at least, however, he regains his appetite when he is served dishes once familiar to him, and less exotic.

"I took the liberty of having you prepare a breakfast akin to your old habits.” Xavos says chewing bread with olives “Ham, cheese, venison. And we have fresh fish every day. Blessed be the trades."

The Prince is sincerely grateful, though he would be a lot more grateful if the Salt King were able to shut his mouth when the sun is not even high in the sky. He goes on and on about the supposed trades, and then about the salt he so proudly sells to every corner of the world. He is just about to go on another monologue about the Thirteen and their hopeful wish to receive the Dragon Prince in their Palaces when he stops, frowning at the young maid clearing the place set next to the king. “What are you doing?”

“Apologies, Your Highness, but the Queen will not attend breakfast. She feels indisposed this morning.”

Immediately, Aemond glances up at her and she’s brave enough to hold it for a bunch of seconds before looking down and making her way to the door.

“Maid?”

She halts upon hearing the Prince and turns around.

“Tell your Queen I was promised something. She said she would see to it personally. And I expect her to keep her word.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

“Wait.” he stops her again, his tone almost bored, and slips a hand into the folds of his blue silks, pulling out a gold and red chain. “Take this. She left it in my room last night.”

He throws the jewel on the table and resumes his knife and fork, not bothering to look at anyone, certainly not at the Salt King who is indeed looking at him, looking as pleased as ever, like the cat that caught the mouse.

The Salt Queen did not in fact forget her word. She promised him she would see to Vhagar’s condition, ordering to save goats and pigs to feed the beast, put them on carts and send someone with the Prince to reach the desert, where the dragon was resting.

However, she should've probably assumed that such an apparently simple task would've turned out to be a lot harder to carry out.

She’s just about to finish her late breakfast with Mysha and Dora, when Nyla breaks into the parlor with quick feet.

“Your Highness—uhm—Prince Aemond is at the door, he asks to be received.”

“What is it now? He doesn’t like how the sun rises here?”

Mysha and Dora giggle, but the Queen stays serious and turns to Nyla. “Tell the Prince he will have to wait. I am sure that even in Westeros, barging in during meals stands for bad manners.”

Nyla leaves, but it’s with even quicker feet that she returns to her Queen in barely a minute.

“My Queen, Prince Aemond is quite adamant on being received immediately. He…also says that…keeping guests at the door is a synonym of bad manners in Westeros, as he is sure, anywhere else in the world.”

Tapping her fingers on the table, it takes her a minute to sigh loudly and stand up, throwing the kerchief on the table.

“My Prince.” She greets him as she stops at the door.

In his usual soldierly stance, he looks past her for a moment before locking her blank gaze. “Still adamant on not letting me in?”

“You were not that drunk last night. I believe you heard me just fine when I told you I don’t take men into my rooms.”

“Hmm. But you did take me, and quite eagerly, if memory serves me right. Are we not past such formalities?”

“Gloating like some common man is not very royal of you, your Grace—"

“Tis’ not gloating. And I might say, not very royal of you either to beg me to fuck you harder, your Highness.”

“You’re right. Fucked me so good I didn’t come.”

The proud mischievous smile that kept stretching his mouth vanishes in a blink, and she has to sigh to stifle her own. “What is it, my Prince?”

“You gave me your word.”

“Indeed. And I kept it. What is your complaint now?”

“Your slaves refuse to escort me in the desert.”

“Well, I can’t blame them. Can’t you feed your dragon on your own? Or are you too humiliated by the prospect of carrying a cart of dead pigs?”

From the way he is staring at her, and having already tickled his pride when the sun is not yet high in the sky, she knows he will not yield on this matter.

“Fine. I’ll go with you.”

“My Queen, it is not safe.”

“Do not worry, Dora. I’ll take the Sorrowful Men.”

Aemond almost laughs to himself as he stands on the left edge of an enclosed inner courtyard of the palace, resembling the training yards of Westeros. There are men intent on training with spears and swords, dressed in strange uniforms made of blue drapes and a strange golden mask on their faces. The carving makes the mask weeping, with a single tear embossed on the gold.

Aemond has no idea how they can see, as there seem to be no holes in those eyes of gold. But his gaze returns at once to the Salt Queen, talking to one of those men, with a large turban on his head. Some kind of commander, he assumes.

He bows to her and then six of these mysterious men march forward and surround the woman.

The Prince glances at each one of them, standing tall and proud as ever with his hands laced behind, seeming unperturbed by these safety measures. In fact, he says “Truly there’s no need to trouble these men, your Highness. What do you expect me to do? Feed you to Vhagar as soon as we are in the desert?”

“These men are not a safety measure for me, but for you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. To prevent you from having certain…Targaryen ideas.”

“Six armed men against the largest living dragon seems like a somewhat unequal battle.”

Narrowing her eyes, she watches as the same placid arrogance bathes his features, but she thinks now it’s the right time to wipe it off, and she knows exactly how to do it. “Sorrows bring sorrows.”

All at once, the Sorrowful men move, drawing their spears with impressive speed and aiming the sharp points at the prince. His whole demeanor changes, becomes menacing, she notices, but he does not flinch. She walks among the weeping men avoiding the spears until she stands in front of the prince and snatches the mask off his face, to wear it herself.

“Listen to me. These men live to serve me. They were slaves once, bought with something far more valuable than gold: freedom. And they chose to stay by my side. If I told them to take the only eye you have left, right now, they would do it. If I told them to cut your cock and bring it to me right now, they would do it. A shame, I will grant you that. So, you’re right, you may be in charge here…but if you push me…you will be dead before you have the chance to say Dracarys.”

Whatever cutting remark the prince has in mind, he does not have time to say it, as he is suddenly distracted by a strange sound, a whistle, like the cry of a bird.

Aemond turns his head and the Queen does the same, recognizing that sound at once. The Sorrowful Men lower their spears and a man steps forward, dressed in a strange purple robe. Aemond stares at him warily, wondering why, in the name of the Seven, this man’s lips are blue, like a corpse.

“Father…” the Salt Queen greets him, taking Aemond by surprise, but sounding a little surprised herself to see the blue-lipped man.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t answer to his daughter, because he can’t. He starts to move his hands in strange signs, circles and lines. And Aemond is grateful for his strict education, for he knows what that man is doing. Sign language. He is either mute, or tongueless.

Unfortunately, he cannot understand what he’s saying, but his daughter can.

“Kóri. Will you not introduce me to your noble guest?”

The Salt Queen sighs, casting a brief look at the Prince, and then she introduces him. “Father, this is Prince Aemond, of House Targaryen.”

The blue-lipped man looks at him with wide eyes, charmed to the point of looking unsettling. And then he bends into a long bow. Not even when Aemond sat on the Iron Throne, someone had bowed so low before him.

He tilts his chin down to greet him, and sees the warlock’s hands moving. “On behalf of the Warlocks of Qarth” the Salt Queen translates “I welcome you, your Grace. It is a great privilege to see a descendant of Old Valyria in the flesh. Your blood is as ancient as our beloved great city.”

Aemond cannot stop his eyebrow from raising, nor his tongue. “It seems at least one member of your family knows good manners.”

“You must excuse us, father, we have to go.” she hastens to say, but as soon as she takes one step, her father grabs her arm.

“Don’t run from me, kori. You have been knowing, yes? More than usual.” and then his hands rise and fall once more. “Trees wail. Leaves are bleeding. The doom, kori. The doom is near.”

PART 2

thank you so so much for reading!! 💕 💕

[cherryheairt]

Dragon Dreamer pt. VII

tags: @beebeechaos @r-3dlips @emery-aka-emmy @watermel0nsugarhigh @delaynew @hueanhdang @thelastemzy @purple-1995 @pedro-pascal-love @littleblackcatinwonderland @fall-winter-heart97

cw: blood, death, violence, threats

The minutes passed excruciatingly slow on top of Morningstar. Seamus pressed tightly against her back still, as if he was afraid of the dragoness trying to throw him off. Daenys wouldn't put it past her, honestly. If it wasn't a risk to catch her, Morningstar would buck him off like an ornery stud.

Even with the wind blowing past her at such a high speed and the altitude of the flight, Daenys only felt a flaming heat. It burned through her veins like fire, unrelenting with its assault. She became dizzy with the overwhelming thoughts in her mind. She hadn't foresaw this to her conscious belief.

Daenys couldn't go back to the Red Keep. Not until Rhaenyra was on the Iron Throne and could protect her. She would be trapped in a snake pit with no way out except for death. She would rather die than return alone. Aegon was a drunken cunt who found enjoyment in tormenting others, found his nightly entertainment in fighting rings, and found his pleasure in the many whores of flea bottom.

Aemond was even worse. He had great skill and wit to aid him, but his madness made him the most dangerous of the two.

Otto and Alicent were compliant with the brothers now that they were reigning. Unstoppable, Daenys knew. The Queen Mother wouldn't do anything for the defense of her step-granddaughter, not in a thousand years. Otto might even suggest for Aemond to take her as a wife in a display of dominance over Rhaenyra's claim. Her eldest daughter, sister-in-law to the King.

The thought did not help her nausea. She couldn't go back.

A better fate would be to die at a formal execution. A statement to the Realm; not even the high-borns were safe from treason.

She would die there. Body or spirit, it did not matter. Daenys wished to die on her own terms, not to the whims of a whore and a madman.

Her own mortality haunted her. A princess, eldest daughter to the Queen, meant to have the blood of the dragon. Destined to die on her dragon, yet not be honored with 'a dragonrider's death'. There was no being shot down by a scorpion in a great battle for the history books. No dragon dance to perform in the skies with another beast. Only a man. A craven.

She would be alone, only with Morningstar. Like her ancestor Aerea, who mysteriously disappeared for an entire year with her dragon to Old Valyria, only to return and die without telling her story. Daenys would be remembered for her madness, not her sacrifice. A footnote, perhaps, in her mother's reign. No chapter would be dedicated to a girl who did nothing.

It wouldn't matter. Daenys wouldn't be alive to care about her legacy. She was born with her dragon. She would die with her, too. The thought comforted her more than anything else could. She was a proud dragonrider, and that's all that mattered in the end, perhaps.

Seamus squeezed her waist, knife at his thigh, almost poking into hers carelessly. Not that it would matter if it did, she could return to King's Landing with no limbs at all, and Seamus would still be rewarded. "Can't this beast fly any faster? I thought dragons were supposed to be Gods."

"She cannot fly against the winds so easily." Daenys told him, resisting the urge to tell him it was common sense. She should've fed him to Morningstar when he presented her with the wolf's head. She was naive to believe he was clueless instead of slighting her intentionally. What a coward. He couldn't even fight Cregan head-on, despite his age and experience difference. Proudly, Daenys knew that Cregan was a rare once-in-a-generation talent. As a Stark should be. He would be in the history books of great and important leaders throughout Westeros history. Perhaps most known for his protection of all that resided south of the Wall or his aid to the Queen during the war for the throne. The Wolf in the North.

Maybe her death would inspire Cregan to send more bannerman than he originally planned, out of pity for the Queen's loss. Though, she secretly hoped it might be to avenge his short-lived lady friend.

He scoffed, "what a joke."

"Do you wish to walk to the crownlands?" She bit, regretting it when he dug his blunt nails into her skin. She would be left with plenty of bruises littering her skin on the morrow.

"Watch your tongue girl, or I will remove it."

She nodded quickly, refraining from speaking any further. When had she grown so mouthy? Only days ago, she would've never imagined saying such things to a man who had a knife to her back, or anyone, for that matter.

Daenys grinded her teeth, looking ahead sharply. It was only clouds below, grey skies spanning for miles ahead. If Cregan was following on horseback, he would've long since lost sight of her. She prayed that he was, even if he could not do anything from such a distance. The thought comforted her.

Morningstar shrieked, the sound jarring even to Daenys' tuned ears. It was higher-pitched than usual, like she was calling out for another dragon. Or a person.

A thought formed in her head. Morningstar did not have to bite someone to kill them. She, like many of the other dragons, had one thing unique to her. Baelerion had his unmatched size. Meleys was the fastest of the living dragons, even with her large form. Caraxes had a long neck, resembling a bloodwyrm. Sunfyre had his renowned beauty. Syrax had a regal grace to her that no other dragon matched.

Morningstar released a blue fire from her chest, burning hotter than the orange and red fires of her kin. She seldom used it, other than to cook her food. It scorched everything it touched in less time than other dragonfire. Daenys bit her cheeks anxiously. She would not live to the sunrise.

She would not see the bruises form and eventually fade.

She would not see her dear brothers again, nor race in the skies with Vermax and Arrax.

She would not feel her mother's warm embrace.

She would not see Cregan's kind eyes again.

But it would be her choice. Her sacrifice. For once, Daenys would do something. Perhaps not heroic, like her fathers', or significant like her mother. She would prevent herself from being held hostage with her timely death. Daenys knew that if she were taken, put to the gallows publically, Rhaenyra would back down in order to save her only daughter. It was obvious what the smarter option was, objectively.

She swallowed down her nerves, coming to a solemn acceptance.

Sliding her hand up her bunched skirt, Daenys slid the dagger slowly down her leg, uncaring if she nicked her skin. She could only feel the cold pommel in her grip and the hot adrenaline in her blood. On one side, she clutched her dagger. On the other, she reached for Seamus' weaponed hand. She snatched his wrist in a chokingly tight hold, trying to force his hand to open and drop his dagger. He jerked in surprise, not expecting the underwhelming Princess to act out. In his sudden movement, the dagger grazed her neck, drawing an angry red line of blood from it. She gripped the wrist tighter, his body acting against him and opening his hand up to drop the dagger. It fell to the forest floor, long out of his reach. She whipped her other hand down on his, stabbing it straight through his hand and into the saddle.

Seamus screamed out in pain, howling curses at the girl. "Forget alive! The King will have you returned in bits and pieces!"

When he tightened his arm around her waist again, she pulled the dagger back to her chest, allowing his blood and twitching hand to smack her across the jaw wildly. She twisted and fought in his grip, hot blood smearing across her face and neck. Seamus' eye was squeezed shut painfully from a scratch she managed to give the eyeball directly; the sight pridefully reminded her of Aemond. They both heaved with effort, fighting each other and to stay on the saddle. Below, Morningstar fluttered her wings in a panic, hearing Daenys yelp into the cold air.

He reached for her dagger, grunting when she continued to slice at his exposed hand's flesh. They continued their struggles, both covered in blood now. Daenys turned at the waist, taking the flying fist at her eye with a crazed look in her violet eyes. She stabbed the dagger into his soft belly, satisfied at hearing him cry out. When he pushed her into the front of the saddle, hands trying to keep a grip at her neck, she cried out. At her struggles, he slammed her repeatedly into the hard material of the saddle by the tight grip of her scalp, leaving her breathless and light-headed. "Stay still, you little brat!" He growled into her ear.

"Dracarys!"

Morningstar repeated her cry, refusing the command fiercely. Seamus left the dagger in his stomach to keep himself from bleeding out, though he was tempted to in order to kill the Princess faster. He would have to be satisfied with feeling the breath leave her throat.

"Dra—arys, Morn—!" She yelled breathlessly, wheezing at the excertion. The pressure was too much, black spots filled her vision.

Finally, after much reluctance from the white beast, the skies erupted in a beautiful icy blue light. Daenys, still pinned to the front of the saddle, could only shield her face uselessly with a single arm. Seamus, enchanted with the sight, had sat up. Daenys grinned hauntingly, baring red teeth to no one. Blood smeared across her lips and face, giving her the appearance of the dead already. At least Morningstar would return to Cregan. He would not be left clueless.

Morningstar easily flew through the impossibly hot flames, her dragonscales keeping her unscorched. Seamus, however, was not so lucky. His pain-filled screams didn't last very long, the blue fire-lit man lighting up the clouds like a thunderstorm. Daenys, too, was covered in the dazzling light, but her throat made it impossible to scream.

Morningstar knew the fate of her rider, mournfully calling out for her one final time. She sung the song that Daenys was always happy to hear, sometimes singing back when they were alone. The dragoness did not waste time flying any further toward the crownlands, descending toward the snowy woods and to the nearest clear patch she spotted. The smell of burning flesh filled the area that she landed in, the sound of two bodies individually thumping to the melting ground. But Morningstar refused to look at the bodies, refused to have the sight of Daenys tainted with what she had done. Killing her own rider, a sacred bond broken. The dragon curled in on herself, waiting to join her rider in death. No matter how long that took.

🗡

Daemon ruled over Dragonstone's council in Rhaenyra's absence. Jacaerys and Daenys have both yet to return, not yet receiving the dreadful news. Rhaenyra had left on dragonback immediately after the raven came, searching for anything to let her see the truth of it for herself. Daemon mourned Lucerys, too, in his own quiet way. He had to be strong for his family, for the living.

He left the council in the afternoon, wandering the empty halls of Dragonstone. Missing three children from its vast halls, the castle was a shell of its former vibracity. Daemon passed Jace's chambers on his way to Joffreys room, then paused when he noticed Daenys' door ajar.

He remembered that it had been closed when she left. Daenys had always been particular about who went in her room, constantly reminding her younger brothers to knock before they entered. Carefully, he creeked the door open, hand resting on his sword.

No one was inside.

Only a few scattered books and pages on her desk that Daemon knew wasn't the work of his daughter. She was a tidy person, never a thing out of place in her quarters. It brought her peace within her little bubble. Perhaps Joff had gotten curious, rumaging through her 'girly' romance books, as the boys liked to tease her for reading.

He approached the desk, ready to organize the books and place them back onto her shelves. He noticed the scribbles on the pages, the first instinct he had to associate with them was Joffrey's childish writings, but upon closer inspection he saw that they were a repeat of the same words.

Dates were placed at the top of each page that he turned to. A personal journal, Daemon concluded. Curiosity got the better of him, sitting to read what the contents were. He wished he had put the book back when he delved into the rabbithole that was Daenys' mind.

Every day, for the last seven years, was dated throughout many journals. Some worn, some newer. She started to document her 'dreams' after Laenor's death. There was one most nights. Some mundane—forseeing what she would eat the next day. Others painful—like Daenys knowing that she would take a tumble from the steps of Dragonstone's cobble steps. Others, on a rarer occasion, prophesied important events in their family's life. Most of these dreams were documented in an obsessive way. Sentences were written down hundreds of times, no doubt mindlessly by Daenys, who was still deep into her vision.

She foresaw Viserys' death, Aegon's usurping, Meleys killing hundreds of smallfolk in the dragonpit, Rhaenyra losing Visenya to stillbirth. Why hadn't she ever said anything, before hand? The dreams are always dated either the night before they happened or merely a few days later. Daemon flipped furiously through the journals, looking for answers.

Daenys kept returning to one dream. One, that wasn't foretold. Laenor's death by fire. She had never trusted her mind to tell her the truth after it had not warned her about her own father's demise. She cursed the Gods boldly in writing and cursed herself for letting her father's life slip out of her grasp.

She did not know a truth from a lie, though all those that haunted her after were true. Still, she did not confess them to Rhaenyra or Daemon in fear that she would be wrong. One wrong warning and disaster might strike from ill preperations. Daemon rested his head in his hands, rubbing at his temple stressfully. It was Rhaenyra who went through her journals, too. She must have searched through every word of them for a glimpse at Lucerys' fate but found nothing like Daemon had. Daenys left Dragonstone before she could foresee his death. Daemon couldn't find it in himself to be cross with his daughter. It was his fault she never confessed her visions anymore. He had plotted with Rhaenyra to fake Laenor's death, keeping it a secret to all in the realm except for themselves, even Laenor's children.

Could this have been prevented? All of this, the war, the usurping, Luke's death. If only Rhaenyra and Daemon had confessed their sins.

🗡

It was hours that Cregan spent on horseback, looking between the trees and the skies in hopes of spotting the white dragon. Dusk had gone ahead, running at a pace that a horse could not keep up with for nearly as long. He was forced to walk most of the time, lest he killed Red by exhausting the poor horse. Every second that passed by was torture. His mind never let him forget the terrified look in Daenys' eyes.

He let her slip away again. This time, due to his own stubbornness. He distanced himself from the Princess, a hundred reasons why nagging in his brain. But none of them mattered now, when he had allowed her to go off on her own. He knew she was upset. He knew that she was leaving the campsite because of the unbearable silence.

Cregan knew, and still let her out of his sight. He failed again after promising that he would protect her. Those sad violet eyes, which had looked at him with all the trust in the world, were out of his reach.

Taken hostage on her own dragon, being used for Knott's selfish desires. Cregan knew he would be a man damned to eternal suffering if he believed in the New Gods. For the first time in his life, he regretted not following them. His only punishment would be his own guilt, which would eat away at him for the rest of his mortal life.

Cregan straightened in his seat when Dusk came sprinting to Red's heels, barking urgently. Cregan signaled for the direwolf to go on again, commanding Red to gallop in a chase. What had he found? Cregan hadn't seen or heard Morningstar since they had left, only instinctively going straight South like he knew Daenys woukd guide Morningstar. Dusk must have heard something that his owner could not.

The direwolf held himself back in terms of speed, staying at a pace that Cregan could keep in his sights at all times. It was not another half hour before Cregan spotted Morningstar curled up in a clearing. Dead? No, that was impossible. There were no threats to the dragon so far North.

Cregan slowed Red to a hault, jumping from the mount with a frantic resolve similar to his wolf's. His whole body was tense at the sight of Morningstar alone. If Seamus had forced Daenys to land and took her somewhere on foot, the dragon would be at the treeline, tearing out trees one by one to get to Daenys.

Where was she?

He almost didn't want to know.

Cregan approached Morningstar slowly, holding his hand out and brushing against the dragon. No response. No growl, no purr, no lifting her head to see who had approached her. He would assume the dragon was dead where she laid if he did not watch her middle slowly move up and down, as if she were only in a deep sleep. "Morningstar," Cregan murmured, coaxing the dragon to wake up.

Only the winds of the North filled his ears as they rustled through the trees. Dusk's growl perked his ears as he focused on the dragon, futility attempting to make her wake.

"What is it, boy?" Cregan asked from the other side of Morningstar. He walked around to where Dusk's call came from, freezing upon the sight. A large, extremely burn body lay dead on the floor next to the dragoness' wing. It was pure black, no sign of any distinguishing features that once dorned the body. To Cregan's relief, it was the size of an adult male. Seamus was dead.

But where was Daenys? And what happened to make Morningstar not be pleased at her work?

Dusk nudged at someone stuck under the body, whining and sniffing at it loudly. Cregan dragged Seamus' corspe away from it, tossing it aside with a disgusted sneer. Serves the bastard right.

It was Daenys, bare as the day she was born. Curled up instinctively to protect her own body heat, though the fire from Seamus seemed to have done that well enough. How was she alive? Unburnt, unharmed? She looked serene, peaceful, as if she were simply taking a nap in the forest with Morningstar. Cregan stiffended, realizing the situation. He swiftly covered the girl with his cloak, taking her into his arms like one might a wet and shivering kitten. Her skin burned to touch, almost making Cregan drop her: but he persisted through the burn.

Cregan considered himself an avid learner of the histories. It was his duty as a Lord and The Warden of the North to know everything about the Seven Kingdoms and all their houses. That included the Targaryens'. Never once, in any of the expensive texts he can arduously labored over in the late nights after his father died when he was only three and ten, was a fire-proof man or woman every mentioned. A secret, mayhaps, hidden by the Targaryens to not give away their strategies.

It was hard to say. When she woke, Cregan would simply have to ask her himself. For now, though, all that mattered was that the sweet girl was alive and in his arms again. As it should be.

Cregan lifted his head from looking at Daenys' worry-less face. When she was awake, she always had some underlying fear hidden behind all her other emotions. It dominated her, consumed her. Cregan saw it even when she was laughing, when she was safe. He wished to make it go away, to chase off what haunted her soul. But even the strong Lord could not fight internal battles for someone else. He could only hope that she gained enough strength of her own to save herself.

Like tonight. Daenys saved herself from her kidnapper. Cregan would soon figure out how she did it and how she survived it. He had a dark feeling that he would not like the answer.

He brought Daenys to Morningstar's eyeline. Shut, like her rider's, Morningstar looked a mirror image of Daenys. They both looked so much more at peace when not plagued by their thoughts.

"Here, girl..." Cregan murmured, lifting Daenys for Morningstar to notice. The dragon lifted its eyelid slightly, the scent of Daenys filling her nostrils. Immediately, the dragoness' violet eye widened and she jerked up. Delight washed over her features, as much expression as a dragon could have. Morningstar rosed to her wings and hind legs, sniffing at Daenys as if this were only a deceitful dream. Cregan grinned at the sight of the beast being active once more, assuming she had become despondent due to her rider being injured or presumed dead.

He shared in her relief and delight both.

After allowing her to reunite with the Princess, Cregan mounted Red carefully, placing the woman in front of him, facing him to lean on him in her sleep. The cloak still covered her, leaving a slight chill over the Lord's back and shoulders. It did not matter, as long as she was safe. The whole ride, taking well into the sunlight, was spent with one arm clutching the reigns and the other firmly across her waist to keep her safe and close. He rested his chin on her shoulder, breathing in her smokey scent, content to be in her presence again. Even a minute without her felt like torture, not knowing how she wad faring all alone in a perilous situation.

Finally, once they reached the campsite again, Morningstar flying far ahead to it and waiting, Cregan placed her into his tent and bundled the Princess up in more furs. He did not wish to dress her, so it would have to do. He didn't sleep, watching over her and the campsite as he waited for the Princess to awaken.

It took nearly a full day for that to happen. Cregan grew more worried with every passing hour. Night had come, making it almost twenty-four hours since Daenys had been taken on dragonback by Seamus Knott. He stared at her intensely, watching every breath she took and every twitch mistaken for her waking up. He began to wonder if he should turn back to Winterfell, or even continue foward to the closest house, coincidentally Knott. He would be reluctant to take her to the very house where the vile man who hurt her was breed in, but a maester was a maester.

Daenys woke with a pained gasp. Cregan nearly jumped with her, stunned at the movement. "Cregan..." She called for him before she opened eyes. When she did, eyes bleary from her long sleep and likely more unpleasant dreams, Daenys teared up at the sight of the man sitting in front of her.

He was quick to wipe away falling tears, ungloved hands gently caressing her soft skin. "You're safe, my girl. He is dead. He can not hurt you again." He promised her, brows turned up in sympathy for the distressed Princess.

"I know he is dead. I killed him." Daenys sobbed into his warm touch, clutching onto his wrists like a lifeline. "I didn't—I wasn't even sorry for it, when it happened. I was glad that he would die, to hear his pained screams."

Cregan brought her to his chest, wrapping her safely in his embrace. "You cannot blame yourself for what you felt. You are not a bad person for it. Men kill all the time for selfish reasons. You killed to save yourself. It is okay."

"It does, Cregan. It does." She insisted, shaking her head vehemently as she gripped his tunic.

Cregan felt unsure of how to comfort her. He was never the best with words. He killed his first man because of his duty as Lord and Warden. Executing a deserter of The Wall for his crimes and disloyalty. He felt no guilt because he knew it had to be done. Such was the way of his station and the Old Way.

He could only hold her, stroking her hair while she cried. They stayed like that for as long as it took for Daenys to calm. Even after she quieted down, they stayed in one another's arms for the familiar feeling of bittersweet solace.

"I knew you would come for me. Thank you, Cregan." Daenys spoke up hoarsely. Cregan looked down at her, placing a strand of hair behind her ear and ignoring the spots of blood on her face.

"I would've ridden all the way to King's Landing to find you."

She truly believed him.

"I should've headed your advice, then." When he gave her a confused look, she continued. "When you wanted him gone. You didn't trust him from the start, I was naive to believe a kinslayer could ever have honest intentions."

"You wanted to see the good in him, even after I told you his crimes. That is not a sin, Princess. If you only ever saw the bad in your subjects, you would never trust again. You were fair in giving him a chance." Cregan mused, resisting the urge to rest his chin on her head. This position was too familiar for a Princess and a Lord—especially when both were unwed. They ignored that fact multiple times throughout his journey.

Was Cregan a fool for not caring? A better man would've surely escorted her back to Winterfell days ago when the wolf attacked her. The North was no place for a princess. He was a selfish man.

He was not before he met Daenys.

At the very least, he hoped that she did not think him bawdy or vulger for being so close to her. He had never known himself to be a slave to his baser desires, never visiting brothals at every want and whim or taking a mistress before he was wed. No, he was not like most men in that regard.

But oh, how he yearned for her. To simply be in her presence was a blessing from the Old Gods. To hear her brilliant laughter or speak her mother tongue so gently with her dragon. Every little expression she allowed him to bear witness to; joy, sorrow, fear, regret. He wanted it all, forever. Wanted Daenys to be kept safe in Winterfell with him, at least then he could always know she was sound.

She had grown so much in her little time with him. So shy and guilt-ridden to even be stepping foot in his home, though it was well within her rights as a Princess to do as she pleased. She remained gentle although she witnessed the brutal killing of a predator who nearly took her life—killed a different kind of predator herself. The little rabbits and the wolf were given kind words and careful handling even after they felt no pain. The titleness man being mourned and cried for even after he had attempted to use her for his own grab at power.

Cregan wished to covet all of her purity and goodness for himself. To keep her away from all things tainted lest they successfully drag her into their clutches. In Winterfell, she would be safe to flourish. Like a rare winter rose, which could only grow and bloom in specific conditions, Daenys could not do so in King's Landing–or even Dragonstone.

He decided then that he would make the offer to Queen Rhaenyra. His council had advised him of such things when Aegon first usurped the Iron Throne, telling their Lord that the Queen would ask for men, and it would be wise to ask for something in return.

If that made him a selfish man, then so be it.

🗡

Daenys wished she didn't wake up from her tumble off of Morningstar. It would be easier if she burned alongside Seamus. From the moment she gained consciousness, memories and guilt flooded her senses. She killed a man without remorse. For her own defense, Cregan had valiantly reminded her, but that didn't do anything to sooth the bile in the back of her throat.

She was a foolish, spoilt, and naive girl for trusting such a man. She would not make that mistake again. Daenys was glad to see the winter Lord, as well as Dusk and Morningstar, but all that did little to lift her mood. The night passed slowly with Daenys staring at the tent's roof, counting the passing seconds until Cregan woke and they would start their journey once more. She glanced at him, admiring his sharp features in the little light provided by the moon. She was vaguely aware of her state under the furs, and even more aware of how he had seen her before he wrapped them around her. For some reason, she couldn't bring herself to care for her modesty.

A nagging question burned in her mind.

Why hadn't she caught fire like Seamus did? Her kin had never recorded such an event in their histories, nor had she dreamt of such things happening to herself nor other people. Laena Velayron was burned to death by her dragon, Vhagar. So clearly, the bond was not what saved her. Daenys wished to test herself once more against fire, but feared that she would not be so lucky a second time. There was no way to know her true condition for certain until she returned to Dragonstone. In the castle, all Valyrion texts were kept and passed down the generations straight from Lord Aenar Targaryen.

Beside her, Cregan stirred. He was closer tonight than he had been previous nights. Much closer, in fact. Their breaths mingled warmly when she faced him, and his arm lay outstretched slightly towards her own. She was exceedingly grateful to the man for all he had done for her over their time together. Patient with her trances, teaching her to hunt and defend herself, comforting her in her dark thoughts. Slowly, Daenys interlocked her fingers with his, squeezing once. She shifted to her side, planting herself close to his body heat and comforting scent. She slept beside him for the remaining hours of the night.

🗡

get yourself a ride or die (literally) like Morningstar, who was determined to let herself starve to death because she couldn't live without her best friend.

i hope cregan's little monologe didn't sound dark or controlling, he truly does love her and wants her safe, knows the south lands would not be good for her because they never have been.

how does one write in a man's pov? I will never know. I feel like I always made them too dark or cold. anyway, I hope yall enjoyed the chapter 🩷 feedback appreciated