#targ!reader

[dipperscavern]

i was listening to this song, “nothing burns like the cold” and the title is so stark man coded. I picture this scenario with cregan who has a targaryen!wife; and they’re making out (otw to the throes of passion, when a gust of cold wind hits them; she breaks from the kiss to make a remark about the freezing weather, and mid complaint his hand traces her bare skin making her flinch, he chuckles and prompts the “nothing burns like the cold”. i am going to combust.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME. traces her bare skin and she flinches and he CHUCKLES ARE YOU SERIOUS!!!!!!!

he’s so fucking GOD he is so damn cocky. like he knows he’s a good kisser he knows how much wanting you feel etc. and usually he’s silently assured but sometimes when things get heated he gets smug and it’s so annoying but what could you say? you’re not what you think you are?? LIKE HE IS THOUGH

and he’s so mean sometimes literally playing with you like that. devouring you with his mouth and getting you bare and then teasing you about the cold? COME ON. hand on your bare skin mid complaint… oh and his hands are cold so you gasp and twitch away from it BUT it’s on your back so you twitch into him OHHHHHKAY THEN

and chuckles at you for it. he is such a bully jesus. but then he kisses you to make up for it and the contrast of his warm tongue and cold hands is something to someone with blood as hot as yours

[fairysluna]

HERE AGAIN

43. “Go on ride my thigh.” WITH HARWIN

knight in shining armor.

When the Red Keep is attacked, Ser Harwin is the one in charge of your protection. Spending the night by your side, he finds it hard to keep his emotions under control.

MASTERLIST

PAIRING — Harwin Strong x Targ!Fem!Reader.

TAGS — fluff (a bit too much, I'm sorryy), smut —thigh riding, nipple play, oral fixation, praise, virgin!reader, dirty talk—, sexual tension, descriptions of nudity, mentions of blood and violence, murder. If something is missing let me know!!

AUTHOR'S NOTE — small context: here the dance of the dragons doesn't happen, Rhaenyra never fucked Harwin and the greens and blacks are a lovey dovey family. Long live fanfiction for this. A big, big thank you to @bucknastysbabe for beta reading this!! Ilysm!!🤍

My baby bel, i think i put a bit too much fluff into the mix while writing this, but i hope you like it and enjoy it. Ilyy🤍

WORD COUNT — 3.6k

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤenglish is not my first language.

A thunderous sound woke you up from your peaceful slumber. By looking around in the darkness of your chambers, you could tell something was wrong; a strange atmosphere appeared in the air, something odd that brought an inexplicable chill in your spine. You arose from your bed, walking barefooted towards the nearest window and peeking outside - the cold wind that entered the room sent shivers through your body, causing goosebumps to arise across your skin. It had to be the hour of the Wolf, you could barely see a thing.

There was a group of guards marching towards the entrance of the Red Keep; you heard them bellow, but you were not able to make sense of their words. They ran from one side to another, picking up their swords and shields, giving commands to one another. You grew curious to know the reason behind such a fuss and the answer came quicker than you expected. While you were observing a knight standing beside the arsenal and keeping guard on the perimeter, another man silently approached him- wearing all black, camouflaging in the darkness of the night.

A small part of you told you to look away, but you stood there - eyes fixed on the guard. Curiosity killed the cat.

Out of the blue, the black-clad specter reached for the knight, and before you could discern what the man had done to him, you saw red flooding out under the moonlight - staining his prestigious white cloak. You froze in your place as you saw the guard falling to his knees before his entire body reached the dirt on the floor. The air escaped from your lungs as you witnessed such a gruesome scene, feeling your heart beating frantically in reaction.

It only became worse once the unknown man looked up, right at your window. Right at you, steely eyes glinting.

Immediately, you took a few steps back - your hand covering your mouth and muffling a squeal as soon as you realized what had happened. Chills traveled around your body, and before you realized, your cheeks were soaking with tears of horror and fear. It was suddenly hard to breathe, your chest feeling heavy and tight. That man saw you, he would certainly come after you now.

Your feet kept moving, eyes fixed in the window as you walked backwards, as far as possible from that frightening scene. In that moment, you felt your back hit something cold and hard before two strong arms wrapped around your body and squeezed you between them. You yelped, screaming hysterically with the thought that it will be your turn now - squirming desperately as you tried to be freed from the arms of the person who was holding you down.

Then you heard his voice.

“Princess, it's me!” The familiar voice exclaimed, loosening the grip around your body and allowing you to turn around to see him. He removed his helmet, throwing it onto the floor. “It's me, my sweet princess,” he repeated, this time more calm and with a soothing tone in his timbre. He placed his big, calloused hand on your cheek.

The relief washed over you as you saw your beautiful knight in shining armor standing before you, tense shoulders instantly relaxing as you locked your lilac eyes with his deep brown ones. His gaze was soft, but it still showed signs of his preoccupation for you. His thumb brushed against your skin, wiping the tears that had fallen down your face. You leaned towards his touch and he sighed.

“You're safe with me,” Ser Harwin murmured. “Everything will be okay…” His impressive frame towered over your smaller one; you had to look up at him as your hand wrapped around his wrist.

Harwin was taken aback once he felt your trembling arms wrapping around his armor. You hung from his neck as he picked you up from the floor. One of his hands held your waist, while the other went to your nape - keeping you close to him. The coldness of the metal was pressing against your cheek, and you closed your eyes - silently crying against his shoulder. Your heart fluttered inside your chest once he tightened his grip around your body; you felt safe in his arms.

“Shh… it's fine,” he cooed against your ear. His lips pressed against your head. “No one will hurt you if I'm with you, princess. No one will harm you.”

“What happened? What's going on?” you asked between sobs.

“Some miscreants managed to go through the gates, they're now being secured in the black cells. They’re trying to find those who are inside the Keep,” he explained while he slowly put you back on your feet - a soft whine involuntarily left your lips once you stopped feeling his warmth. “I've come as soon as I heard.”

“Is my family safe? My mother, my siblings? Rhaenyra and the children?”

“They are all being guarded by members of the king's guard,” Harwin replied.

You nodded before you took a look around his face, as if you were trying to search for some wound - just in case he needed your help. “Are you hurt?” A little smile appeared on his handsome face once he noticed your worry. “Did- did they hurt you?”

“No,” he answered. “And you shall not worry about me, princess…”

You pressed your lips in a thin line before murmuring - a bit embarrassed, “you know I'll always worry about you.”

Harwin paused to take a look at you; his heart beating fast with the mere sight of you, feeling like a green boy whenever you were around, staring up at him with those pretty, sparkling eyes of yours. So beautiful, so precious. It was no secret between you two that your feelings had flourished like roses in Spring. Yet, even when the deep affections were obviously mutual, both of you were scared to act on it. It was forbidden, and - somehow - that made it even more tempting for both. How scandalous, King Viserys daughter has the Hand’s son as a paramour.

“Mayhaps your royal highness should go back to sleep,” Harwin suggested. “On the morrow all this would be just a faint memory.”

“I don't think I will be able to do it,” you told him, taking a step back and wiping your tears away. “I lost all my sleep with what I've just seen…it was awful, terrible…”

Harwin approached you again as he noticed your despair - your voice breaking in the middle of your words and your eyes glistening once again by a layer of new tears. He cupped your face, brushing his thumbs against your cheeks.

“It's okay, my sweet angel,” he murmured, pressing his forehead against yours - you closed your eyes. His closeness made your heart beat faster, and the syrupy way the name that came out of his plump lips almost caused you to sigh. “Come here, let's sit down for a second, alright?” Harwin motioned.

Obediently, you grabbed his hand as he guided you through your room, finding a comfortable spot in the large settee right in the middle of your chambers. Once Harwin turned around, he finally noticed what you were wearing; a thin see through nightgown. His eyebrows twitched and mouth went dry. He knew that the right thing was to look away, give the privacy you needed - yet he couldn't manage to take his eyes off of you, his lovely princess. He followed a path from your face, going downwards towards your neck and collarbones - he even imagined how they would look with small marks from his lips printed on them. He continued shamelessly eyeing you, finding your breasts; he felt his throat getting dry once he noticed your pebbled nipples peeking through the white fabric of your nightgown. His mouth watered, resisting the urge to think how they would feel against his tongue. Unexpectedly, he felt his pants getting tighter.

That's when he knew that enough was enough. You were a princess; his princess. You deserve the utmost respect. He couldn't allow himself to think of you in that way, especially on a night like this one.

Harwin cleared his throat, sitting down on the couch and tapping the empty spot by his side - once again, you obeyed. Your body curled by his side, clinging into his armor, laying your head on his chest as his arm went around your shoulder to keep you close. You squirmed a bit, trying to make sense of the feeling between your legs - the one that grew more intense once you noticed the desire on his eyes.

“Close your eyes, try to rest. I'll be here when you wake up,” he promised.

You nodded, making yourself comfortable and doing what he told you to do - and you really tried, yet it seemed impossible for you to take that horrid image off your mind. Your whole body would tremble with the thought of being murdered in the same way. Each time you would close your eyes, that was all you could see. It was torturous, a bone chilling fear that didn't let you rest.

That scarlet blood seeping down white cloth played over and over again in your racing mind.

Before you noticed, you were sobbing again. Harwin, chivalrous as always, grabbed your quivering body and placed you on his lap, rocking your body from side to side as a desperate attempt to try and calm you down. It wounded him to see you like this, so scared and defenseless - he even wondered what he could do to make your anguish go away.

“He saw me… he'll come and try to- to kill me!” you whined - your lower lip shaking uncontrollably. “I cannot- I cannot stop thinking about it all.”

Growing up as a princess left you inside a bubble. Behind the thick walls of the castle you never had to watch or see something as such - the evilness of people. Harwin has always told you that you had a pure heart and soul, always oblivious to the wrongdoings of the people. You never knew how cruel people truly were, and now that you saw it you couldn't stop thinking about it.

“Nothing will happen to you, not if I'm here,” Harwin softly whispered. “I will always protect you, my precious angel.”

But then he thought of his words again; he might protect you from the enemies, from the dangers of the world, but how was he supposed to protect you from the torment that was caused by your own mind? How could he possibly make you forget about it?

He knew the answer, but he knew it was wrong. Terribly wrong.

“Come here.” Harwin invited you to sit on his lap. In any other occasion you would doubt a bit before assenting to do it, but in that moment all you wanted was to feel safe, to feel him against you as he got rid of all your fears with his mere presence - you couldn't resist.

His hands grabbed your hips as he lifted you up and motioned you until you were sitting on top of him - your arms around his broad body as you laid on his shoulder. His hands went to your head, his fingertips softly caressing your scalp while he soothed you again.

For him, it was quite hard to ignore the fact that the only thing in the middle of your nudity was a thin piece of fabric that did nothing to hide your body. He could see it, but you could feel it. At first you just sighed - the coldness of the metal covering his thigh would touch the heat between your legs, which was growing more intense with every passing second. You shivered, holding back a gasp when you accidentally moved your hips.

Out of the sudden, a thunderous sound similar to the one that woke you up was heard again. Your body jumped due to the shock, and your eyes widened with terror.

“Harwin…” you mumbled his name, almost as if you were begging him to make it stop, even when you knew he couldn't do anything more than stay by your side.

“Look at me, Princess,” he replied, his voice becoming slightly raspy as his big hands went to your hips. You felt how he started to pull your nightgown upwards - he had given up his hesitation to do this, defiling the pure little angel. How your doe-eyes and small body contrasted against his large frame, Strong was ensnared. The knight no longer fought against the carnal urges. He needed to take your mind elsewhere, and this was the only way he could think of. You tried to look down as he kept pulling the only layer of clothes that would cover your body - the only thing that separated your warmth from the coldness of the metal on his thigh, and he grabbed your chin, forcing you to keep your eyes on him. “Don't look away from me, angel…”

You obeyed, slightly parting your lips as the fabric brushed against your flesh, and once your cunt was laying naked on top of his leg, you felt a shiver running down your spine. Harwin’s honeyed gaze did not tear from your face at any moment, reluctant to see your most vulnerable places. He felt unworthy of it. He wasn't going to see you, he wasn't going to touch your vulnerable petals - he was just going to let you use him as you please.

“Ser Harwin…” you repeated his name in a gasp as his hands moved your hips on top of him. Gentle movements at first, just to see how you would react; that's when you moaned, feeling metal rubbing directly against your clit. It felt odd, but extremely good.

“Don't stress your mind any further,” he whispered, almost feeling breathless. “Forget about everything, just focus on what you feel…”

With your eyes closed, you placed your hands on his shoulder in order to find some stability when he slightly quickened the pace. The whimper that left your lips would be carved in Harwin’s mind forever, haunting his nights and increasing his need for you. You were there, in front of him looking so angelic, yet so sinful - he was tightening his grip on your hips, digging his fingertips on your flesh as a desperate attempt to hold back; the urge to rip that nightgown was almost unbearable. He needed to touch you, even when it was awfully wrong to do so.

One of his hands left your hip, moving upwards until it cupped your face. Your cheeks were burning beneath his touch, too flustered and shy to hold his haze for too long. You weren't stupid, you knew what was going on and you knew what it meant, yet it was hard for you to care when it felt this good.

Involuntarily, you started to move your hips on your own, growing needy and aching to feel more of him. You longed for his hands on your skin, touching every inch of you until his scent was spread all over your body - yet, he denied you of that, too scared of not being able to stop if he got to fondle your curves.

“Does it feel good?” he asked, his voice so deep and husky, almost making you purr like a kitten between his arms.

“S’good…” you whined in response, mouth agape and letting gasps fall from your lips.

Harwin shifted his position, trying to find some comfortable posture that would make him forget about the ache inside his breeches. He laid back on the settee, spreading his legs and letting you place your hands on his chest. You soon started to move your hips again, moaning his name.

“Fucking hell…” he groaned, now getting a full view of your body. “Go on, ride my thigh…” Those words slipped his lips before he was able to stop them. He felt ashamed, but you loved to hear them, driving your pace harder in reaction.

Your eyes opened and you found Harwin looking up at you as you used him for your own pleasure. He sat there, your weeping cunt coating his armor with your slick as you rubbed yourself on him; you quickly noticed how hard it was for him not to look down - not to look at the sinful view of your swollen bud brushing against him. Instead, his eyes remained on your face, lost in your glossy eyes and swollen lips. He was bewitched with the way your face would express the pleasure you were feeling; Blessed may be the gods for giving him the opportunity to see you like that.

His thumb moved closer to your lips, and you were quick to trap it inside your mouth, sucking and nibbling at it while your movements became more intense. Harwin couldn't resist, and he moaned once he felt your tongue swirling around his digit, imagining how that very same tongue would feel on his cock.

“This feels better than your pillow, doesn't it?” He suddenly groaned. On any other occasion, he would be too ashamed to mention that - the fact that he has heard you pleasuring yourself, yet he couldn't help it… the words slipped out of his mouth before he was able to hold them back. “Do you think of me when you do it?” He asked, almost begging to admit it, longing to hear you say it.

Though you were in no position to speak - too overwhelmed already, you manage to mumble a positive answer, humming as you nodded. A little smirk appeared on the knight's face, making him look even more charming than he already was. You felt your body melt in his arms.

With the motion of your body becoming more intense - faster, your nightgown slowly started to fall down your body, exposing your pebbled nipples to the hungry haze of the man beneath you. The struggle inside his mind was killing him, he wasn't supposed to touch you yet his body craved for it. His mouth watered at the sight while you kept moaning around his finger.

“Touch yourself for me, my angel,” he murmured, as if that would cease his cravings.

He removed his hand from your face, grabbing your wrist and relocating it to your breasts. You moaned at your own touch as you pulled your nipples and played with your own flesh. You leaned forward then, pressing your forehead against his, open-mouthed as you gasped when he grabbed your hips to control your movements once again. Harwin closed his eyes, groaning when you whined and mewled.

You sounded so beautiful.

“Come on, my princess,” he breathlessly said. His lips were merely a few inches away from yours. He fought the urge to devour your swollen lips. “Fucking hell… my angel, keep rubbing your sweet pussy against me. It feels so good, doesn't it? Bet you can’t think of anything else…”

“Harwin, I- I feel…”

“Sh… just let go. Fuck yourself on me, use me as you please. Let me help you empty that pretty head of yours.”

Harwin gave one last look at your trembling body before he started to bounce his leg, thick thigh adding more stimulation that almost made you scream. It was too much - the possessive grip around your hips was making it hard for you to think about anything else. You fantasized about him, about his hands, about his mouth… you longed for his touch, to feel huge calloused hands on your silken skin. You wondered how it would feel to have him inside of you, to let him defile your body. You wanted it so bad.

The thoughts soon started to push you over the edge. The metal covering Harwin’s thigh was soaked with your slick, it was slippery enough to fasten your movements until you couldn't hold it any longer. Your body weight fell forward, your hips twitching as your release oozed out of your weeping cunt, his name falling from your lips like a chant - as a way to thank him. Harwin felt his cock aching underneath his trousers, painfully hard, too damn close to coming undone.

“So good, my beautiful princess…” he whispered as he caressed your hair. His touch burning against now sensitive skin. “Bet you're not thinking about that bad man anymore, are you?”

You could only whine in response. Tired, overstimulated, and sleepy.

“Let's get you to bed now, shall we?”

Harwin grabbed your waist, lifting you up effortlessly as you leaned on his shoulders. Ever the gentleman, he fixed your gown and covered your nudity as he took you to the bed. He placed you delicately over the soft mattress and you hummed when he wrapped your trembling body on the silk sheets.

He leaned back then, but you grabbed his hand before he could go further away. “Please, don't,” you mumbled, looking up at him through your eyelashes. “Stay with me… Lay here.”

“My princess-”

“Please.”

And he couldn't say no.

You heard how he started to get rid of his armor, slowly detaching the pieces of metal from his body until there were just thin layers of clothes covering his body. He cautiously laid behind you - not wanting you to feel the hardness under his trousers, yet you grabbed his hand and forced him to wrap his limbs around your body, feeling the need to have him as close as possible.

Silence fell on the room, just hearing his calm breathing as he closed his eyes and smelled the sweet perfume lingering in your hair. But then, you spoke again.

“Ser Harwin?” you uttered his name so delicately it almost felt like a caress.

“Yes?”

There was a small pause, a moment of doubt. You continued regardless.

“I… I think I might be in love with you.”

Harwin's heart skipped a beat on his chest, and a smile appeared on his face. He felt a joy that he had never felt before.

“Princess?” Now it was him calling your name.

“Yes, sir?”

“I am in love with you.”

TAGS — @islandfantasydream

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[zephyrrr101]

Not like her

Pairing: Daemon x niece reader

Warning: Targcest/incest, DUBCON?, size kink and breeding kink light, mention of somnophilia, slight manipulation, fingering, p in v, unprotected sex, first intercourse, sweet Daemon, Daemon being a soft uncle hubby.(Because I simp) All ASOIAF warnings. MINOR DNI (but do with hungry bitches care?) also not proof read. High Valyrian translation might or not be wrong.

You looked around the Throne Room which had now was filled with hoards of people, All the nobles have made there way to King’s Landing to attend your sider sister, Rhaenyra’s wedding to your cousin Ser Laenor Velaryon. It was a match made out of convenience, you had known that.

Father had not told you much, nor had your maids and lady companions, all having been sworn to silence by your father. But it didn’t take much for news to not get to your ears. Red Keep was never able to keep gossips.

Apparently, Rhaenyra had been seen beyond the walls of Rad Keep during hour of wolf with someone in unseemly situations. There were no proofs that anyone had, but it had been enough for your father to set this betrothal to push the rumours away.

They weren’t rumours.

It was your sister’s sworn shield who had been the man who Rheernyra had shared her bad with that night. She had spoke to you of this a week after, since you broth were always close, your mother’s death bringing you even closer. You did not mind. Several lords went around having bastards, women too laid with men before marriages, you knew of it, why must Rhaenyra be kept from something she wanted But your sombre mood was not for your sister’s situation. Rhaenyra was strong and she welcomed things in her life with courage, even this marriage. Your issue was that your father, after he had talked with Rhaenyra, had a conversation with you too. You will be wed by the next year to a man of your father’s choosing. He did not seem to want another one of his daughters going and finding trouble.

You had hoped your father would give you the same liberty of choosing your husband that was given to Rhaenyra. You would not had minded choosing, you weren’t picky. You were a second daughter, getting many in a good family was always supposed to be your job. But you would have rather preferred if you could have a little bit of choice in it.

Thank you, Rhaenyra, I love you. But you fucked it up for me, Fuck you.

“Something on your mind, sweet niece?” You turned to Daemon who sat on your right. You were given the seat beside the Queen Alicent, not your preferable place, things between you and Alicent were awkward. She was your sister’s friend turned step-mother. You didn’t talk much, it was weird.

You sighed, turning to your uncle, who had come back from his trip to Stepstones a few days back. He had proven is determination when it came to the barren land. He had won it and now with your father’s blessings looked after the protection of Westros from there, visiting the place some times. “Father is setting up my betrothal.”

Daemon frowned, you could tell he was not happy, Daemon had been a constant in your and Rhaenyra’s life even of he was banished half of the time, more to you. While Rhaenyra had your father, you had your uncle. “Who?”

“I cannot say,” You fiddled with your cup of wine, you had lost your focus, drifting off in solace of solitude. “Father has not told me. But he says I will be wed by this time next year.”

Daemon did not reply. And you turned your attention to middle of room, Rhaenyra and Laenor had started to dance. You tipped your cup up, finishing your wine in one go you did not notice anything after that.

You did not notice how Daemon’s hand clenched around his cup as he glared at anything he could see, how his lilac eyes would fall over you, locking at your distressed race, how he counted each line that marred your forehead, how your tongue had slipped out of your mouth to catch the stray drop of wine and how licked it, your red tinged tongue moving over your lips wetting them. And you certainly did not notice the way he gripped Dark Sister’s pommel when Ser Harwin had come to ask you for a dance and you had agreed, leaving with the large dark haired knight.

No you did not.

You danced with other lords but again found Your way to Ser Harwin, or he did to you.

He spoke something to you, learned down so only you could hear him, Daemon could only imagine how he would be taking in your scent of jasmines, such a calming fragrance.

You nod.

He could not hear you from the distance but he had been around you for a lot longer to imagine how sweet your laughter must be in Strong knight’s ears.

This was it.

Daemon slammed his cup on the table, gathering attention of a few people around him and walked away, his brother’s cautioned words, blurred in his ears.

Ser Harwin was telling you about his tales of City Watch, how he sometimes sees the most hilarious things. Your favourite being the one where a certain lord was hit and thrown out of a pleasure house by one the workers and Ser Harwin had found him crying drunk with a bruised cheek. You had not noticed Daemon’s presence until he asked Ser Harwin if he could have a dance with you.

Who was he to say no to a seasoned warrior and dragon rider who could burn him to ashes if declined what he wanted.

“Ziry issa?” Is it him? Daemon asked you, you had well spotted the frown on his face and anger that was flowing in his lilac eyes. Something you could not comprehend.

“Skoros?” What?

Daemon takes your hand his, you let him guide to where ever he wants to, which happens to the farthest part of the dancing area, lesser people are here and you understand that whatever it must be that he wants to speak of he doesn’t want other to hear.

“Harwin,” He looks away from you and you follow his eyes, finding them on your father. It takes a moment for you to realise what he is asking.

“gimin daor,” I don’t know. You sighed. “It doesn’t matter does it, kepus? I must trust Father in his choice.”

“Your father’s choice?” He whispered, you could feel his breath tickling on your neck. “Look at this choice of his. Laenor is a good man but he will bore your sister senseless. And let us not forget his tastes.”

“It’s not that I don’t wish to marry, kepus,” You mutter, you suddenly found his doublet more interesting than the music or the dance. “But...”

Daemon hummed, his hand softly drew circles on the small of you back, you felt a shiver going through you.

“I understand politics but... I’d rather not be used as a pawn for gain without my say. At least without me knowing who I will be tied to for my whole life. I love my father, I really do,” you sighed, your eyes fell on your father and Alicent sitting beside him in a green dress. This wedding looked more like a disaster. “Look how miserable Alicent is. I do not wish to be another Alicent, kepus.”

Daemon listened to every word that left your mouth keenly. He embedded all of them in his very soul. His niece, his sweet and young niece who had been nothing but kind to him despite everything he might have one that could have hurt her. Even when his brother had sent him away for giving a moniker to his dead nephew all those years before. She had come to say good bye to him. Told him how she did not care for a boy who she didn’t even knew and wished him a safe journey, His little doll who always came to him when she didn’t like the braids her maid would put in her hair and have him redo everything.

I do not wish to be another Alicent, kepus.

And he imagined you, sitting beside some very aged lord, with life span of no long than a few years, who didn’t seem to be caring about anything but the cup of wine in his hands, children standing beside you and one in your hands, all while you looked sullen.

No. He couldn’t let it happen, Not when he knew how marriages like that ended up being.

He smiled at you, one his hand grabbing yours and other one caressing the soft skin of your cheeks, He looked at you with such intensity, with such fondness that you couldn’t help but feet the heat crawling up your neck.

“You won’t end up like her.” He told you and you knew better than anyone that his words were not hollow. It was an unsaid promise.

The wedding did turn out to be a disaster. Rhaenyra’s sworn shield had murdered Ser Joffrey Lonmouth, an event which had led to a rushed marriage between Rhaenyra and Laenor. As soon as the chaos erupted, your uncle had pulled you away towards the doors of the hall since you both were closer to it than the royal table.

The stress had caused your father to collapse and another thing had come to light some disease was eating him alive and now he had lost his arm.

In all, the day had been a like riding a wild dragon.

From what you could tell it was past midnight. And you could think of nothing better than trying to put yourself to sleep. It hadn’t taken much too. As your head hit the pillow and darkness engulfed you.

You had been sleeping deeply and peacefully. The tiring and stressed moments of the wedding had lulled you like an infant after having drunk a tummy full of milk.

You could not understand what it was that had woken you up. You felt hot. Surely it wasn’t winter and days in King’s Landing were hot sometimes but not so much to cause her such bother. Though it was not enough to cause you to get out of your sleepy reverie.

You let out a whine when you felt something moving over you leg and your shoulder, making you pull your leg away and shake your shoulder to put whatever was causing you discomfort away. The point between your legs felt wet, making you a bit worried about your moon blood but you were too far gone in sleep to care.

It was the wine you had drank like water before going to sleep. Curse the fucking thing.

It was a sound, something like a chimes that hit each other when wind flowed, that made you snap out of our daze a little bit. You forced you eyes your to open as much as they could which wasn’t a lot. You were drunk and sleepy. But you could recognise that voice and figure even in your blurred sight.

“Kepus?”

Daemon smiles at you. There were very few people who had seen him really smile genuinely. You were one of them. But this smile was different. There was something different about it. You couldn’t comprehend it.

Daemon hushed you, his hand softly laying you back again, It was then when you slowly started to come to sense. He was hovering over you and you felt his other hand between your legs, right on your...

“Kepus, what are you doing?” You almost shrieked, understanding what was going on, “Kepus, what—"

“Be quiet, sweet girl,” Daemon whispered, and leaned down, his lips falling on your cheeks, so, so close to your lips. His fingers circling your cunny, a place that was not supposed to be bare to anyone but your husband. “You didn’t want to be a pawn, right?”

“But-but Daemon—” whatever you were thinking of saying was long forgotten when you felt his his finger entering you, your breath hitched at the foreign sensation. “We shouldn’t.” You whispered, you weren’t sure if you had spoken it or if it was in your mind only.

“And why?” His voice low, you felt as if you were speaking of some centuries old secret with him. “I promised you that I wouldn’t let you be married just like this. I will keep my promise, sweet niece.”

“Daemon,” you whispered, your denial was dying on your lips with him adding another finger in you, his thumb rolling around your nub and his lips on your neck. He hummed and those were the sweetest vibration you had ever felt on your skin, a shiver passing from the junction of your neck and shoulder to your core. Some cold wind had not caused this. This you know. It was him, your kepus who did this.

Your hands went to his shoulders, bare shoulders, he did not have his tunic on. Your skin touching his warm one. He was always warm. Like a dragon. “Please,” you gasped feeling his fingers go deep in you and you squeezed his shoulders.

His fingers moved faster in you, his teeth biting at your ear, “Is this what you are asking, sweetling?”

If only you knew what you wanted. Whatever it was, you didn’t want to let go of this feeling. “Yes-fuck-kepus!” You moaned feeling his fingers curl in you. And then another on being added.

“Don’t worry,” Daemon kissed your forehead, and you realised how really small you were in front of his tall stature. Even laying he could easily reach you forehead when his fingers were far down. “Kepus will take care of. Always.”

You knew he would. Mayhap, it was that fact that you had not called out for someone.

You felt your lower abdomen clenched, you weren’t sure it was. It felt as if someone was pulling at it but from inside. And somehow it felt good too. “Kepus, Kepus, there...”

“I know, sweet girl,” his fingers moved in you even more faster, and that was all you could feel. “Let go. Just let go.”

His thumb softly pressed on your nub and you gasped.

Something washed over you, something ecstatic. You felt free. Just like when you were on dragon back.

You panted, feeling as if you were knocked out of breath. Maybe you were. You look at Daemon, as he softly pulls his fingers out of you, putting them in his mouth, you couldn’t help the heat on your face when you remembered that it was your arousal that he was happily sucking off his fingers.

You looked at him in daze, everything seemed hazy for a few moments. Daemon leaned over you, his knuckles brushing your cheeks before his lips dropped on yours.

They were surprisingly soft, you had always imagined him having a hard touch but here he was, touching you as if you were made of glass, that you would break at the slight wrong caress. You felt his tongue on your lips, and you opened, letting his soft muscle of his mouth melt into yours.

You let him do what he wished to for some moments, unaware of what you were supposed to do but it didn’t take you long to catch up and you moved your tongue against his, you felt losing breath by every moment though nothing seemed to matter. It was heaven where Daemon was taking you. And you did not want to fall down from there.

“Fuck!” You heard Daemon curse as he parted from you, and his lips fell on your jaw and something hard rubbing your core. Your hips bucked up, unconsciously and you moaned. “Stop doing that, sweet girl,” Daemon spoke, his lips were moving down and down from your jaw to your neck, his hands pushing the sleeves of your slip down, his mouth leaving wet trails between your breast.

“kepus,” you were too lost. Your uncle looked like one of those Gods of Old Valyria. So beautiful, his burnt skin like stars on the dark sky. Your hands wrapped around his arms, feeling his full strong muscles, your finger traced the healed wounds, you felt your inside twist and turn. “kepus,”

Daemon pulled away, his eyes were dark, almost pitch black, he was sat between your legs. When did that happen you weren’t aware. You chest heaved as you took each breath greedily and watched his hands moving to his breeches’ laces, pulling them and he shed off them off. You eyes were on him, whole of him and your breath hitched.

So lost in the sight of him you didn’t know when he came back and kissed you, until his cock rubbed into you and you moaned. “Kepus,”

“Shh. It’s alright.” He whispered, his hips moved, you could feel him even when he wasn’t inside you. “Fucking hells, you are wet. You want this just much, don’t you?”

You didn’t get to answer him, feeling his head on your entrance, at this moment.

“This will hurt, sweetling.” Daemon kissed your forehead, his hands brushed your cheeks and hair just like when he wanted to comfort you at any peril of your. “but it will become better. I will make it all better.” And with that he pushed inside you, slowly, and you felt yourself stretching around him as he moved in slow, sucking in breath sharply and curses leaving his mouth, all faded to you.

He wasn’t lying when he said to would hurt. “kepus,” Your nails dug into his shoulders and he kissed your cheek with caressing your head all the while.

“Good girl, such a sweet girl, taking my cock so nicely.” You could hear his groans loud and clear even when he was speaking softly and slowly. “so tight, so firm. But you will take it, won’t you?”

You didn’t answer but hid your face in his neck, tightening your hold on him. You felt tore apart, yet you didn’t want to let go. “so big, kepus,” you whispered as he continued to bottom himself inside you and he kissed your neck saying words of praises.

It felt like hours when he stopped, Daemon by then had bit on your neck several times, you felt as if you’d had bled, but there was no worry about it. He won’t hurt you. You knew.

“Open your eyes, love,” He whispered and you did, he was just a hair width away from you and you could look at his eyes so clearly, his pools of lilac, light than that was your. You wished to have his eyes in your childhood.

He kissed you again and you kissed back. You couldn’t have enough of his mouth on yours, the taste of yourself and the wine mixed in both of your mouth was so sweet to you.

“Come to Dragonstone with me,” His forehead touched yours. Both of you were breathing each other in, “Take me to husband and I will take to you wife, in tradition of our house. You won’t be like her. Ever.”

You won’t be like her, he said. And you knew he was true to his words. He will be. He will not. Not like Alicent.

Not like her.

“Avy jorraelan, Kepus.” I love you, uncle.

Daemon smiled. It was the most beautiful sight you had ever seen in your life. “Avy jorraelan, donus rinus.” I love you, sweet girl.

Daemon moved in you, slow at first, so deep, you moaned at each stroke, every time his hips met yours, you couldn’t help but cry out first in discomfort and then in pleasure.

His lips descended upon your breast, taking your nubs in his mouth, he suckled at one like a babe hungry for their mother’s milk, his other hand playing with your other and his hips pushing into yours. You couldn’t hear anything but his grunt and groans and your moans and whimper.

Daemon held your legs, putting them around his waist. If you thought he was deep before, he was reaching way inside you.

“This cunt, your cunt was made for me, sweet girl. Look how good it take me. Even when you were asleep. Getting wet for me. It knows it’s mine. You know that too, don’t you?” you ought to feel humiliated and offended at such words. Being owned by some was not something you liked. But the way Daemon said it only made you clench harder around him making him groan, “fuck, yes. Yes, you do.”

“Yes. Yes, Kepus.” You whimpered at his fast pace inside you. Lost in the world of pleasure you were, you couldn’t hold your noises anymore. But of course you uncle would remedy it for you, putting his lips on yours, drinking every single sound in which left your mouth.

You clenched, your hands in his hair, pulling at them, feeling the tugging feeling as before in you. Daemon knew it all well.

“Going to give you my seed and you will swell with our child, sweet,” Daemon muttered in your ear. You felt yourself liking the prospect. Even imagining it in your head as your uncle rutted in you.

Our child.

“Yes”, you nodded, kissing his neck, “a babe, Kepus. With your eyes. I love your eyes.”

“Whatever, my sweet girl wants.” He grunted and you clenched on him again.

“Fuck, kepus.” You moaned, you were sure by now you had scratched his back bloody. “I... I feel it. It hurts.”

“I know, sweetling,” he muttered, “Let go. Just like before. Let it go.”

It wasn’t long you felt the same bliss wash over you and you felt warmth fill you in. Daemon’s seed, you knew it was as you both panted. Daemon stopped moving inside you after a few more strokes, but he did not pull out. He lowered himself to your bed and pulled you on him.

You rested your head on his chest, some silver hair, rubbing against your cheek, you took in the scent of his sweat, his skin glistening under the moonlight that fell in your room.

You felt him pull the sheet over the both of you, his hand running over your hair and exhaustion began to take over you. Your eyes drooped but you kept blinking the sleep away.

“Sleep,” Daemon kissed your head and you fell asleep just as quick as you had woken up, you hands wounded around his neck.

You prayed it not to be a dream.

[eldrith]

˗ˏˋ A Golden Cup ˎˊ˗ Jacaerys Velaryon

jacaerys velaryon x targtower fem!reader [part four of a golden cage series.] words: 14.2k. synopsis: The chains of faith are not so easily cast aside. notes: we are soooo locking in to trauma in this chap. we are soooo drinking from teacups and gossiping with our friends. we are sooooo going to an awkward dinner party. we are sooooo teaching our boyfriend how to pray. we are sooooo scared & sooooo miserable! this is sooooo unedited! but sorry to the people who are here for smut bc there is none in this chapter. enjoy the plot <3 xoxox (pretend i didn't disappear for half a year tyvm) warnings: emotional complexities. unreliable narrator. maybe premonition. canon-typical violence/blood/injury, angst. character death. religious trauma, all kinds of trauma, inner monologues, kissing and some fluff. doubting religion AND the crown. foreshadowing if that's a warning requests closed. this is for my irl roommate & personal kissing mannequin @dipperscavern . & for the loml & other kissing mannequin @systraes . you are the void i shout to. fate into flesh or whatever they say idk. febu previous. series masterlist. masterlist.

PEACE FINDS YOU IN THE MOST BIZARRE OF CIRCUMSTANCES. 

It has followed in every step of life – the moment a foot slips from a stirrup, a smile in the first drop on dragonback. Quiet prayers whispered through the torrential downpour on the night your brother slayed Lucerys; Patient words under the scrutiny of the Queen’s entire court. A hand, unwaveringly gripped around sharp steel as your betrothed pointed his sword down your nose. 

Perhaps it is a simple and base instinct, some quiet mechanism within the folds of your skittish mind – or, even more likely, a small cry out for mercy to the gods who watch upon those simply caught in the trappings of circumstance. 

You were just a young girl, barely old enough to steadily hold yourself upright, when they’d placed the babe in your arms. 

Such a small creature. Fresh from the womb, the Septas had pressed him to your chest, murmuring you would be fine for a few minutes; that you had the wisdom of the Mother already, although you'd hardly seen three name days pass yourself.

His skin was so very soft – wisps of those paled curls, the very same that grow from the crown all your siblings, glinted so gently in the muggy heat of afternoon; little shining threads of gold caught in the glaze of sunbreath. 

And that violet gaze, locked up at you; an innocence so premature, so unassuming. 

It had arrested you, that gaze: Devotion, love, those pure things which he only just learned and had yet to truly understand. All because he knew not any other way; a warmth that had entrapped you within your mind, reeling to recall any similar expressions of affection from your mother nor father at any point in your small life. 

You’d come up with scraps: A half-prideful stare from your father, the whisper of Rhaenyra on his breath; your mother’s approving glance when you turned your nose at the presence of the boys wearing cloaks of blue and curls of deep umber. But Daeron - so little, so loving; it had sent such distraction through you that you noticed not as his skin grew rather flushed against the blanket, as his wails grew louder by the short-passing moment. 

Your mother wrapped him herself – that, you’d noticed; in lovely cerulean stitching, etched with small embroideries of towers and dragons – but in your admiration of such needlework, his cries became shallow gasps and wails. 

You’d known not what to do; entranced in such a calm, paralyzing shock – you’d never seen such light go out of a gaze, never heard such wails taper into pitiful whimpers. 

Fear slapping your spine rigid, a solemn beat of your heart as you stared helplessly, flooded with an arresting, unnatural calm. 

The Septas returned not moments later, and you still thank the Gods to this day that they did. 

Daeron’s breath had been faint – and later that night under the blanket of dark, you’d wondered with tears in your eyes if he’d gone and met the Stranger while still in your hands, if just for a moment. 

But the Septas returned.

The blankets had been ripped away and you’d remained in the corner, hands frozen still in the shape of his little bundle, eyes wide and fingers trembling. There’d been nothing within your mind as you watched the Septas scream for the Maesters, as they rushed to cool the expiring soul of your young brother – a wash of calm, in the fear that’d gripped you so tight. 

You’d not understood until much later - only when the Septas whispered while you hid behind curtains thicker than your hair. He’d nearly died. 

After all, one should know better than to trust children with children. 

“Princess.” 

And her voice comes to you in a song; or perhaps, a warm memory of silkspun silver tresses and a dreaming gaze – of gentle hums, of clicking legs, of fingers tracing delicate wings through golden cages. 

“Princess.” 

You swear, you could feel her fingers trace your spine now- 

“Princess.” 

Your eyes open; less than startled, though your inhale is sharp from your nose. 

The tub is warmed with water, and you are bathed gently within it. Your sister is beside you, her gown a deep charcoal; a shade of burnt ash, of rusted spikes somewhere far below where you sit.

Her vision swims in the reflection of your bathwater; You suck in a breath. 

“Helaena.” You whisper, blinking away the smudged drops of bathwater from your face.  

A quiet moment. 

“Pardon me, my Princess?” 

Your blink is languid – water sticks to your lashes, clotting your vision until your sweet sister beside you nearly looks like a spider; then, she is a snake – a strike of fear, and sharp spokes which jump up towards you at the end of a long path, and you’re falling – another blink, and you jolt. 

Helaena is gone; instead sits Elina, your handmaid. She watches with widened eyes as she tends to your tresses with a comb and soft hands. 

A gentle shake of head, the motion snagging a tangle within the spokes of the comb – but you do not wince, eyeing the girl beside you with a bizarre stare. The world is cloudy; not only the skies above, but your own vision, your foggy mind. 

“I’m–” You blink again, fighting a sheepish fluster from your cheeks – two other girls in your chambers attend to you, as well. One, scrubbing your nails, the other across the way, preparing evening tea – and they too have paused, hands slowing as they turn to watch you with owl-eyes. 

Your lips flounder for only a moment. “Pardon me. I thought… I was recalling memory, I suppose. Of… the Red Keep.” You admit dreamily – you’re unsure why you admit such foolish delusion, though the two girls beside you keep their eyes focused nonetheless. 

The maid across the way quickly turns her head away when you seek her; and with quick fingers, she pulls her sleeves over a glimmering spider’s silk scar. An inkling of recognition, slipping away in the afternoon breeze; she measures a dark red herb into a small steeper before the ridges of her spine straighten slowly. Outside, a bird calls. It sounds like a cry. 

“Have you slept much as of late?” Elina wonders from beside you, a wisp of blonde peeking from her tied hair. She is a sweet girl – the fondness you hold for her is one tinged with only a piling guilt these days, one which adds in each passing moon. You clear your throat, unoccupied fingers trailing through the ripples upon the water. 

A spiced aroma grows within the steamed room – the handmaid has begun pouring your tea, and it bleeds a crimson colour into the teacup. A flash of familiarity in the sweep of her face, though you blink and it is once again gone; It is not often you do not particularly recognize one of the members of household, though perhaps as of recent, such politeness has gotten away from you. 

“Forgive me,” your voice is a dream of a far away land. “The Queen’s council has left me…weary this evening.” You admit, sighing.

In the quiet passing of time, eventually your nails and body are cleansed; your mind troubled with thoughts of marriage – but more so with lips, cherry and bitten, with a voice low and murmuring; with a warm gaze turned sharp in the fall of eve; of whispered words and promises in a room floating with ancient dust.

With a quieted voice, you dismiss the maid to your right.

Only moments before the tea is set for you, its tendrils curling up viciously and out towards your open window; the scent is spicy, foreign. “Is this a new blend?” You wonder aloud - the girl with skittish eyes nods, a small squeak from her throat, “Yes, Princess.” She affirms. “A gift from the Queen herself. In congratulations.” Her voice warbles, fingers twitching – a vision of nerves in court, of fingers against a dress of gold.

And there, in the mirror of her anxiety, is that phantom limb once more; a memory lost to a life that is far gone now. 

You hum, transfixed on the steam which curls out in spools over the stone table beside the tub. A peculiar gift from the queen – the tea swirls opposite the steam of your bath, and its scent tethers you to the heavy pull of your spine. Your stomach rumbles in interest.  

She bows and takes her leave; it is not until you are once again alone with Elina that you speak once more. Through the peace of eveningfall, you ask her of her love again – and as always, she flushes like a rose. 

The island breathes in green, slowly blinking a sunset of orange and pink; Elina whispers of the boy she loves as tendrils of scented oils climb into your nostrils and soothe the aches in your muscles. It is a tale she has amused you with many times but one you have not grown weary of either. 

A fisherboy from the east coast of the island – a sweetheart since her age of ten, if there ever was such a thing; he has brown curls, an upturned nose, and a laugh like the raucous sea. 

Though times have indeed changed, perhaps just as much for the common folk as for you in your ivory castles; with the influx of wartime supplies to the island across the sea, she must only dream of him now; and her tales of youthful kisses and chivalrous walks upon a shoreline grow melancholy as you stare out the window before you, Moondancer’s shadow echoing in the rippled waves of the tides far away. 

In the dawn of her tale, she murmurs gently, eyes glancing to the shore. “He says he’ll marry me after the war’s end.” 

It is quiet for a long moment. You find nothing to say to her words.

It does not last long – after the final whispers of his name die on her tongue, she clears her throat, endeavoring to wrangle through the knots and tie back your hair. “Something troubles you, Princess.” There are more words waiting on her hesitant tongue; she does not release them. 

It is a moment of gathering thought in which you decide she is far more friend than anyone else upon this rock – and that, even without her station, perhaps she’d endeavor to listen to your troubles anyways. “It was decided this evening,” You inform her in a rather formal tone, “that I am to wed Prince Jacaerys after all. Our marriage will be quite soon, and before all of the smallfolk on the Island.”

And then, an afterthought as you gaze to the peeking wander of ships headed west, “perhaps Driftmark, as well.” 

Her hands slow in your hair, breath puffing upon the crown of your head. “-That is… quite wonderful news,” She agrees, though her tone bleeds through false words; she knows you all too well, it seems. “A royal wedding will bring a much welcomed recess from the times we live, my Princess.” 

Her words fall hollow into the empty chasm of your wounded heart. Sardonically, you smile to your sullen reflection in the pooled bath below. A wedding… while the kingdom prepares to bleed. 

Words, those buzzing pests of voices from the council not an hour past: “-And we are to assume that a royal celebration might distract the masses from the acts committed? From the war that brews?”

There’d been sharp looks shared at the news of you and Jace’s resurrected betrothal at council this afternoon; half-surprised, half-concerned glances from both your cousins across the Painted table, though you could not bring yourself to return their gazes. For Daemon’s stare, much too hot and much too amused, burning into the side of your visage; the slippery serpent he is, eyes glancing between you and Jacaerys, taking in the rigidity of your spines with a mirthful glee. 

It would have been more excruciating yet had not the discussion been propped by more relevant topics to discuss, as to the efficacy of your union having any effect at all on the tides of war. 

The realm watches, Lord Corlys had assured, many lords await the wind to tip the scale. Their marriage is not about turning heads. 

Indeed, it is not - and such a burden even in youth, your betrothal was: A thin bridge held together by the grasp of youthful hands that did not wish to touch, an abyssal gap fractured into splintered verdant and carmine shards. 

And in these more forgiving moments, when you may wish to let yourself down easy; what an inconsolably crushing weight on shoulders no older than ten and two. For all of those nights you spent lying awake upon sheets of down, wondering up at the swimming dark of the ceiling why the gods had chosen you as your mother’s branch of olives - as your father’s forgotten dove, the small creature who’d always been seen as the shadow of others. 

This marriage is not about turning heads, Lord Corlys is correct. Now, it is about swaying swords. 

And the thought had been floated – a fickle thing, some brush by way of wind through the chamber doors – boats, they’d said. Tidings. 

“-to cause a shift. The Sea Snake’s blockade at the Gullet strangles the trade routes. King's Landing starves, yet Aegon dines easily in the Keep.”

Indeed even now, in the syrupy aftermath of the council, you must admit it is a clever move. 

“Along the wedding celebrations, we send boats – as far as the Capital.” Though it’d been your own voice speaking such words, there coils such gripping guilt within you. And there’d been Queen Rhaenyra, nodding solemnly. The boats, to be laden with food - grain, salt, preserved meats; a gift from Dragonstone, tidings from a fruitful green and black union. 

Their rightful Queen’s heir; a gift from him and his new wife, the Prince and Princess of Dragonstone. 

In recollection, your brows furrow. “There is much more to be done than attend some wedding. It surely is not of much interest to the smallfolk in these times.” You sniff, brushing hair from your face in the swirling quiet. “Especially for the Usurper’s sister.” 

The hand within your tresses pauses at your words; for a moment, only the sea breathes.  “But the smallfolk love you.” She sounds nearly startled by your words, as if the sheep of thought had yet to cross her mind’s pasture. 

You’d laugh, if you had the gall - the smallfolk? The smallfolk have never had the luxury to hate you, nor to love you; never truly had much power to do anything but bend beneath your heels. It is how it has always been. 

In youth, a procession had spurred your urge to reach towards a commongirl who had called your name. The sun was high in the sky, and she, a girl of your age – it was then that your kinslayer brother had ripped you back into the cart with a sharp glance. They do not love you, he’d snarled; They are dogs at the foot of a table. Grateful, for scraps discarded from the hands that feast. 

As it is, you are incredibly discomforted by Elina’s words, and perhaps it shows on your face – for she falls silent, instead beginning a series of braids from the crown of your head. 

“The smallfolk endure us.” You murmur, “Because they have to.” 

She does not much respond, and in the silence you hear the voices of the council, reverberating in the breaths from your lungs. 

“In every tavern, at every hearth from here to Stoney Sept - the people will speak of your union, of your generosity. The Queen’s heir and his wife – gifting the smallfolk with life.” 

Perhaps it is the most prevalent way to avoid bloodshed – noble bloodshed, that is – though it sits incorrectly in your chest. “A gracious gift – the masses will surely remember the ones who saved them from the crimes of war.”

Moondancer flies across the setting wildfire of eve, and you grow more pensive and dreadful by the minute. 

“Your tea grows cold.” Elina observes with a concerned glance. 

You cannot help the faint smile that befalls your visage at her concern; though you have no interest in its contents, you see her lingering stare, the interest in a pursing of lips. Steam spills from the saucer – it smells of wonderful spices from Essos.

“You have it,” you decide after only a moment, eyes fluttering shut as she finishes the braid upon your left temple. 

You feel her hesitation in fingers, hear it in the surprised giggle she belies. “Oh, no, my Princess, it is for you.”

You smile at her uncertainty, keenly aware of her similarities to the golden-locked sister you left across the sea. “I insist, Elina.” You nod, gesturing to it, eyeing the tendrils of steam which rise from your heated skin. “Go, now. You must have it, it smells much too pleasant to be wasted.” 

Her grin is bright when she gives in – and with a giggle that you nearly reciprocate, she lifts the teacup to her lips; a long sip, one which heats her cheeks perhaps at the action of using utensils higher than her station. Her flickering eyes and giddy cheeks are endearing – the tea is red upon her lips for only a split moment as she pulls it away.

She enjoys her cup while you leave the bath – a preparation she aids you with while still reposed by the table upon your insistence; supper has been called, and you must meet your family once more for a rather excruciating celebratory feast. 

Despite your trivial woes, the evening falls in serenity; you, Elina by your side, sipping gently on tea and whispering about the beasts in the sky. 

YOUR GAZE FINDS HIM BEFORE HE IS EVEN AWARE. 

Jacaerys, with a templed posture down the flickering hall, a soft clinking of fine leather and metal. A set jaw, one that turns in his sweep – and then eyes of amber find yours. There is a light within them you can still yet see, like feathery papered wings, drawn to your own flickering flame. 

A less hurried stride – though no less purposeful than your own – Jace slows his pace when your eyes lock, far enough that his tousled curls blur around the edge of your vision. 

Beneath the sleeves of your mahogany gown, your fingers pluck at skin; you still your own pace, swallowing under the weight of silence heavy around you.

There’s a brief moment of recognition, some momentary breath from both parties – and yet after a glance from both pairs of skittish eyes, the hall is deemed empty of lingering stares. 

And quite rapidly, the distance between you and your betrothed shortens. 

It is bizarre, your pull – and yet you stop only a step away, closer than you’ve been since the Painted Table this afternoon in such heated fervor.

A twitch in his hands, a shift of his weight – he is rather awkward now, and you bite your lip as you both hover in the middle of the stoned floor. Your hands ache to feel his heat, though you linger in your yearning, waiting with baited breath and heated cheeks.

Your name, syrupy and unsure, is the only thing to fall from his lips. 

The Prince’s eyes flicker between your own, head declined just enough to stare straight into your own gaze. You’re arrested only momentarily before you snap back to the present, clearing your throat – a rush of heat through you at the soft turn of his gaze, the downturn of his brows that more than likely mirrors your own expression. 

There is so much to say. 

“Hello.” You select dumbly; though it is received with a small flicker of amusement, some repressed grin that yields a soft turn of dimple in his grin. 

“Hello,” He echoes, and it is too much at once – his soft echo of your own awkwardness, the huff of amusement you share. Your face turns hot under the memories of activities held in common between you just hours ago, at the stupidity of your hushed tones, the odd giddiness as if between childhood lovers finally permised to embrace: But that is, as ever it could have been, not the case. 

And then, in the groaning whispers of falling nighttime, in the empty hallway, you and your betrothed reach an understanding. 

Dark eyes turn upon yours and you sway just so upon your feet, unsure if speaking would worsen this feeling that dances on the tip of your tongue.

And when he is quiet, when he is just as unsure of what to do as you are, he is so very handsome. 

A curved jaw, the turned slope of grace he shares with his mother; and a fire within his gaze that sets you warm. Are you truly of the opinion that my actions are driven by nothing more than desire?

Your lips press tight as you cast your glance away, the chiding ramble of your mother in your mind: Rather hypocritical. You sin. 

Your inhale is sharp; the amber that flickers over your face, a look twisted in pity – you clench your teeth, clearing your throat. “Jace.” You perhaps plan on guiding your foolish jolts towards conversation in a certain fashion; though his brows lift, a flash of concern through his stare. 

His lips, glossy upon the light of torches, press together in some twistedly alluring mix between a smile and a frown. 

A hand finds yours; palm warm, soft against your own, and it sends your mind reeling; so delicate a touch. Your brows lift only slightly, fingers lacing with his own after your eyes flick over his tailored shoulder warily. 

“Are you…” He does not continue for a brief moment, instead urging closer with half-step — your spine straightens, swept in the woody scent of the forested Dragonmont that accompanies his presence, towered by his imposed height, charmed by the searching warmth in his eyes. “-are you alright?” 

He finishes his canvassing in a bent whisper, with knitted brows and pouted lips. After all, it is an odd question — one you’re unsure how to answer; and it lingers, heavier than perhaps it was proposed. Yet Jacaerys waits patiently, teeth worried within the cushion of his bottom lip.

The sting of embarrassment — of a hawkish stare from the rogue prince, the shame, the stupidity of limbs tangled in the dusty light of day — a spoil of some war of bodies upon a table, of fingers knotted in desperation. 

And your answer comes easy as ever in a nod and a forced, falsified fable, a lie so often told through your teeth. “I’m fine,” You murmur, “Are you?” 

Perhaps it is this moment it hits the prince before you; with a gaze that trickles in a slow leak to the floor separating your pointe shoes from his own boots, he hesitates. 

“…I’m not sure.” 

It’s a vulnerability; a gaping wound, putrid flesh forgotten in the sun, that festers with each passing day — I don’t know, you agree — I don’t know, but I am scared. 

It has never done well to reopen a wound not yet healed. 

Your thumb runs over roughened knuckles, his fingers twitching within your grasp, jolting at your very faint touch, though you pretend not to notice. 

He seems to find words to fill the absence of sound in the halls. “It’s been some time, but I… tried speaking to them.” His eyes flick away as red lips press together. Your stare must be a breath too blank, for he continues, “–The gods,” He elaborates; your brows raise at his candor. “I suppose for some guidance.” He decides. 

His words find you with surprise; not particularly due to what he says but rather for the sheepish way in which he delivers the information, as if unsure how you’ll react. He searches for something, you realize; perhaps the same very thing absent in your own heart. 

His eyes are wide, specks deep through a ring of ambered honey – though some twisted thing, that same seed that unfurled and sprouted within your older brother; that envy – it blossoms in your chest, unruly and vicious. 

“The gods don’t listen,” you retort swiftly, a sardonic grin flickering miserably across your smile. 

His head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing in faint surprise; it’s only now that you register your previous words, a slithering lick of shame curling up your spine. 

“No?” Jacaerys wonders – a flicker of surprise that you are not foolish enough to believe is any semblance of disagreement; rather Jace’s preconceived notion that you ring true still among the devout. 

Your cheeks are warm, and his eyes are low upon your face. Does he see your mother staring back at him? 

A clearing of your throat as you nod, “Not to me, at least,” the edge of your voice is mercifully smoothed by something almost playful; your fingers shift within his grasp, brushing over the calluses on his knuckles. “Perhaps you’ll have better luck, my Prince.” You smile – and though he delivers a less than skeptical look, you’re thankful for his restraint. 

And of course, the very dimple of his you so admire blossoms upon his smile when he looks down in the scarce light. “Let us hope then, Princess.” 

And despite yourself, a jump within your stomach at his tone, a skip in your heart. Some giddiness, perhaps in reaction to the dread which surrounds the castle, leaks through your chest.

As though deciding within his mind, he looks back to you, clearing his throat. “I know that– that we’ve not had much time to ourselves,” He starts, “Though I’d hoped we could–” 

But as his mouth opens once more, footsteps: A sharp laugh muffled only by the separation of stone walls; and then your cousins round the corner, their smiles bright. 

Perhaps through some instance of habit, your hands drop each other immediately – you, pulling back and Jacaerys taking a half-stagger towards the wall at the startle as if mere children caught stealing bread from a feast table – both of you glancing down the hall with burning visages. 

A weak breath from your lips as you clear your throat uncomfortably, nodding to them as they wave down the tunneled hall. 

But Jacaerys’s invitation, half-swallowed by the ignominy of unexpected company, still draws necessity from your gut. “We should, Jacaerys,” you agree with a murmur, sending him a small nod as you turn to him once more. 

He need not elaborate; you know well enough he wishes to speak in private. “Perhaps on the morrow?” You suggest, fighting the tension of strained courteousness. 

A press of his lips in a concealed, tight-lipped smile brings forth a dimple to the curve of his cheek; a flutter at the sight as he casts his gaze down once more, awaiting your approaching cousins as their conversation tampers to greet you. 

DINNER AWARDS NO REST OF TENSION FOR YOU AND JACAERYS. 

The hall’s table is set in a long stretch; The scrape of dishes against forks, the crackle of the hearth – you drown in it, not well used to such calm manners of gathering; more oft than not since you arrived upon the island have the feasts with the crowned family ended in sharp tongues and bitter stares. Such instances are, momentarily, absent from the dinner tonight. 

Candles drip tallow slowly from their silvered limbs across the walls, backlit and outshined by the bright licks of peat flames – and you, sewn together by the numb acceptance of change, resign quietly in your chair to be gawked at in some form as plans are proposed, rather casually, for the location of your upcoming union to Jacaerys. 

At the head Queen Rhaenyra sits – and with a fold of her hands, nods towards a proposed setting. “Perhaps we hold the ceremony here on Dragonstone," she suggests, “Once more, a Targaryen marriage on Targaryen soil.” 

It is a thought you’d given little attention – spare for this afternoon as Elina had sipped upon your tea and you’d laid your eyes to watch the free churn of silvery purple wings against the sun in the distance. 

And a voice from aside Queen Rhaenyra, slumped in the frame of his chair. “I might remind you that the sept here isn’t exactly grand. It gathers dust with each day.” 

The mention of the Sept bristles you; There is a rippling agreement through the table, though with a spare glance to your side, you find Jacaerys fixated upon the vegetables before him, eyes far-off and consumed. Rhaenys carries the same bemused practicality as you’ve always known within her as she begrudgingly agrees with your uncle. “Nor has it seen a ceremony in years. It could hardly hold enough folk for our intentions.” 

And the thought of the sept – its cold, hardly adorned walls which whisper in echo to your own quiet prayers; a place uninhabited by any besides the Septas and your own festering thoughts. 

The goblet in your hand is gilded with curves of thorned flowers along the base of the cup, your visage corrupted and warped in the golden reflection. You can only stare back at your warped countenance in hopes the conversation will soon end.

It is your cousin’s voice from across the way which gains your attention next, as the contents of your cup slip into your stomach. “It may gather dust,” Rhaena agrees rather gently, casting a quick glance at you, “But it’s hardly abandoned.” 

And if the many pairs of eyes were not already upon you, they find you then; Lord Corlys, sitting at the far end of the table, hums. 

“There is but one person who keeps that sept from falling entirely to ruin.” His eyes land on you not unkindly – and perhaps in desperation, you find some kind of warmth in his words, as if to acknowledge a quiet dedication he perhaps admires, or simply acknowledges. Your cheeks burn in the shadow of the woman left across the sea, who sits dowager and whispers prayers into the wind of your dreams. 

Though in turn of their intentions of setting you at ease, the thought sends a new wave of guilt swirling through you, well-aware of the true purpose of visiting the sept so habitually.

A faint smile curves on Baela’s lips, and she leans forward. “Perhaps it would be appropriate, then? Breathe new life into it, make it…” Though it seems any hope leaves as she trails off, aware of the tepid spirit that surrounds the wedding, of the uncomfortable breaths that fall in tandem from your lips and Jacaerys’.

 “...Sacred again, in a way.”

The thought is wholly unpleasant to you; perhaps in your mother’s stern voice in the back of your mind, whispering sharp daggers of criminality into your veins. 

Daemon chuckles softly, a sardonic smile tugging at his mouth as he glances at Rhaenyra. “Forgive me, but the future king and queen marrying in a sept nearly swallowed by time is hardly a fitting legacy.” His gaze flickers to you, as though assessing how you might take such a slight; you level him with a stare mirrored in equivocation. The king consort lifts a shoulder. “We’d hardly want it to feel like a funeral.”

A needle carefully placed to sew a new line, red and thin. He aims for the eyes with his sharp point; some stirring amusement within his stare that causes your stubborn proclivities to roar, but you know better than to let temptation unravel you. People much worse than him have tried. 

We’d hardly want it to feel like a funeral. 

“If it were more frequented, perhaps it wouldn’t feel as such.” You choose instead of the lash of tongue you reign in; the words are sharp and whipped relentlessly – a vision of your mother in green, spilling her words from your tongue as easy as letting a breath into your lungs. 

The table falls quiet at this, and in a cold wash of shame, your eyes fall back to the table.

Around you, wary eyes flicker; in a sickness bouting through your stomach, a youthful Jacaerys’ words follow your echoes: It’s like she opens her mouth and her mother speaks through it. 

It is a moment in which shame floods the features of your face; and you, awkward as a newborn doe, swallow back your pride. 

The room is quiet, but through your embarrassment you register a sudden pressure against your leg; A warm surprise of pressure against your calf. 

It is, in a moment of breath, merely a boot sliding against your gown and pressing against your leg under the table. A gesture of reassurance. It is your nature when your gaze flicks momentarily to the prince sat beside you – his jaw remains terse but his gaze has grown quite warm when he returns your glance. 

A small nudge from him in the quiet moment; and with a swallow of affinity, you nudge Jacaerys back. His lips twitch just so; you pretend not to notice. 

It is only a breath of a moment after that you realign your face into a more serene expression – and with that, you feel a tinge of pride, breathing through the ravaging sea of spite that crashes against the cliffs of your heart. The blood of a Hightower is thick in ambition, you’d once heard Lord Corlys say; perhaps, he is correct. 

The smile upon your face might be plastered, but it is radiant. 

“Apologies. Though I appreciate the dramatics as always, Daemon,” You address the man with a thinly veiled tone of respect, “Perhaps we should find somewhere… more large. Alive. To gather a larger crowd of folk.” 

It is the smallest of gestures — a soft victory within some inlaid battle of words — but you sense Daemon, for all his sarcasm and derision, recognizes it as such. His mouth curves slightly, but the tilt of his eyes does not soften, nor does the rest of Jacaerys’ foot against your own slide away.

There is a brief silence at the table as the meal is served; roast lamb, stew with wild rice, fish – and a few more cups of wine for you and your intended both – in which Daemon proposes a toast. 

“To the realm’s future,” He lifts his cup; the others follow suit, as you lift yours with a stare burnt into the man’s jaw. “And to the union of our future King and Queen. May you have a long, happy marriage.” 

The words from his lips have scarcely fallen before you see the tense ridge of Jacaerys’ spine, one which straightens your own in a rise of hackles. It is a harmful thing, really – and with a practiced grace, you and Jacaerys both receive the toast with smiles and kind words.

And it would be a lack of verity if you said you did not feel a growth of warmth through you when Jacaerys turns his cup to you, sharing a small glance and smaller grin. 

It is a private thing, a quiet moment: A hand, reaching across a tumultuous river. You grasp it back with a clink of your goblet to his own. 

The dinner rolls on; the sun is well past its set into the horizon, and even with the light of candles brings you a breath from the oppression of daylight. The food is hearty, enjoyable – it is unlike the many times you’d sat at this very table, surrounded by eyes which saw you a serpent. 

And the poison which drips from certain cups this evening is not that of distrust; nor those of old wounds well festered and sored: No, they are instead some foolish urge to prod a slumbering beast, to dangle a fool by his ankle atop a spire and laugh. 

In a shimmering glance away from your warped reflection in the boat of gravy before you, a voice brings you to the surface. “I’d assume it would,” Daemon agrees half-heartedly to some forgotten sentence from his daughter; he sits forward, “Though there is much to plan for beyond merely the smallfolk. We must gather arms from the Houses, as the Prince reminded us at council earlier.” 

At the mere mention of his title, a stiffness grows once more in Jacaerys’s gaze, though he tamps it down with a measured exhale; a rather thin line to thread now, as you stir your tea and watch its tendrils of steam crawl from its cup.  

 “All is merry to plan a wedding. Though perhaps some of us will find some plans to put our passion to good use beyond the Painted Table.” a glance to you and Jacaerys both, his eyes mirthful, “Yes?” 

A moment too late you register your own irritation; the gall of your uncle to believe he has any right to dangle such foolish deeds over your heads – as if he himself is any vision of the Father. 

The thread has been pulled; Jacaerys unravels shortly. 

“–If you have something to say, Daemon,” Jace’s voice is controlled in that threadbare way it can be, and his jaw is clenched sharp enough to reflect the light of the hearth behind you. “–then speak plainly,” His voice is low and volatile, “We all tire of your riddles.”

In a rush of shock – or perhaps worry, should Daemon take Jacaerys’s challenge in its face-value, your hand flies to the side.

You find yourself grasping Jace’s forearm below the table, a warning or comfort - Perhaps something in between. 

His hand flexes just beneath your grasp, though he does not shake it off. 

Murmurs and clink of silver slow around the table; your eyes meet the Queen’s, and with a helpless blink, you look away. In the wake of Jacaerys’ hiss, Daemon’s brows lift, eyes flickering deviously between you and Jacaerys. “Dare I?” He wonders, the sparred bounce of gazes at the table alarming you. “I merely remind us all, there are matters to consider besides the wedding. After all, some bonds are forged long before vows are spoken–”

“-Enough.” You snap; it is a sharp whistle of wind over a peak, though it does enough to quell the tension that courses through your betrothed’s muscles. 

“Right,” A voice deep from down the table, and Lord Corlys shifts upon his seat, “There are more pressing matters at hand than whatever game you’re playing.” 

Daemon chuckles under his breath, lifting his goblet again in mock surrender towards you, murmuring into the rim, “Pressing matters indeed.” 

Your blood boils; but in lieu of any burst of emotion, Jacaerys simply turns to you with a gaze more molten than honey atop a boilpot; an exasperated glance, one of disbelief and a vague sense of panic.

You respond with a subtle, helpless shake of your head – an acknowledgement of your shared misery, one that nobody else in the room is keen to. And then in some exasperated moment, a flicker of amusement in his stare, shared only with you. You share it in return. 

An odd thing, to keep close the simmering truth, a thing so wrong and iniquitous. Jacaerys takes your hand and squeezes it gently under the stone table before dropping it to reach for his cup. 

And though the conversation around you carries on rather rocky, you bathe in the silence for the remainder of the dinner. 

JACAERYS ACCOMPANIES YOU AFTER THE FEAST. 

Though not explicit, you see the glint in Rhaenyra’s eye when he offers his arm to you – and it is not until you’ve rounded the corridor away from the stone drum do you and Jacaerys drop the masks woven onto your visages, the tense square of shoulders – and your hand uncurls from the crook of his elbow as a cat would wake from slumber. 

A memory from a time so recent, though it feels ages ago – Jace and you, walking quietly towards your chambers; though tonight, you have warm cheeks from wine and not from the remnants of his lips.

It is not until you approach your doors, with your swordsman posted outside, that you slow to murmur, away from wandering ears. 

Your hand stops at the crook of Jace’s elbow, coaxing him a step closer as you sigh. “Daemon is…a vexing character.” You put it rather lightly, some form of apology or complaint lodged within your throat. “I often wonder if he lurks in corners merely in hopes of stumbling into matters that are not his,” You attempt a joke – though your heart thumps oddly at the word matters, and you ignore it steadfastly. 

Jacaerys huffs, clearly just as thorned as you are by the entire evening, though a direct tick of his lips lets a breath pass before his murmur. “Like flies to shit, that one.”

His bluntness chips away at the emotions swirling within you; and a surprised laugh escapes your lips, bubbling into something warm. 

Laughter pools from you before you can stop yourself.

Jacaerys, perhaps startled by your reaction, looks to you; at the sound his own face lights up – a genuine, bright smile. A smile which softens his features, which gives way to those boyish looks that are so often concealed beneath princely decorum and furrowed brows. 

And in a soft mix of laughter, Jacaerys’ chuckles murmurs as unfeigned as your own giggles – in the fading of the harmony, your eyes catch the sight of the guard at your door; his eyes flick away, and you swallow back the heat rising in your chest. 

There is a mountain of words unspoken between you and Jacaerys. Though it is a late hour, and there are many things to be done in the morrow; so Jacaerys, with a hesitant touch, takes your palm into his grasp swiftly, eyes glancing to the stone beneath your feet. 

A thumb brushes over your knuckles – and then he bends, his lips ghosting over the back of your hand; an earnest gesture, perhaps, as it heats your face more so than the wine did at dinner. 

Your hand falls to clutch your skirts when he steps away, amber pools of honey taking in your own gaze, searching perhaps uncertainly for your response. You smile in a poorly concealed heat of awkwardness, clearing your throat as if that might ease the moment. 

“Sleep-” He clears his own throat, “Sleep well, Princess.” 

You nod as he turns, watching the glint upon his glossy tresses in the torchlight. It is only as he’s taken a step away that you respond, calling to the rich slope of his shoulders. “–You too, Prince Jacaerys.”

THE PRESENCE OF YOUR DREAM IS IMMEDIATE. 

The wind is sharp in the lick of shadows; and you know you’re not in the realm of the living, no – you’re melded to the ground upon which you stand, stranded in a field of bones. A figure stands just ahead – a girl with pale hair that drips over a gown of gold; your sister turns to you.

Helaena’s eyes, painted in a flickering violet stare as you stagger; paled lips crack open,  though no sound escapes - only the flutter of wings, delicate, fragile, frantic. 

A butterfly, circling above her head. 

A deep unsettle leaks into your subconscious as the sky above, an inky chasm, shifts just so – and the butterfly flutters; climbing frantically upwards, yet looms above a monstrous, scaled form that growls with ancient breath. You cannot seem to warn the butterfly of the impending jaws above, and it strikes fear through your quivering breast. 

It is not until you’ve pulled your legs from the gnarled roots of ricages and spines which litter the ground that you reach Helaena; her eyes, slipped as dying stars anchored on a bright heat that rumbles in breaths high above. 

Wings turn to ash above you; they find your inhale, seeping into your lungs in one quick gasp. The butterfly is gone – its papery embers burning away into your blood. 

Hands, cold and spectral, shove you back into the darkness; you fall upon bones which crack in whispers of your name below your weight, and Helaena steps forward, her lips still moving in whispers you cannot hear. 

Her hands hold a chipped teapot; an old one, with etchings of flowers and dainty ladies washing against a peaceful brook.

It is cracked, though. And with her absent stare, you watch in horror as out crawl spiders from the teapot’s fissures – into her palms, skittering down her arms, crawling up her neck.

Your scream is silenced by an echoing crack of ancient stone; a tower in the distance, cracking in half as a shadow falls from high above where it kisses the clouds, a thunderous plume in the wake of its descent. The ancient breaths from above grow hot with unrest as ashy wings of butterflies fall to bless the decaying ground around you. 

“The girl,” Helaena mouths, her voice swallowed by the rising wind. There is a searing pain in your eye - the glint of a knife, a breath forever held by the crashing of some distantly cold waters. “The girl.”

You wake with a gasp, tangled in your sheets, the remnants of the warning still burning in your ears.

The girl. 

A jolt to the living realm brings a trickle of clammy sweat down your chest; the hearth across the way is surprisingly stoked and well alive.

And then, a strangled noise – a groaning mewl, some doe struck by a hunter’s bow, awaiting the mercy of a quick knife. 

The edge of the room stirs with movement and you’re jolted with shock – you blink sleep from your eyes with the gust of wind upon dust-blown streets, sitting up with a thickening pulse. You leap out of your skin when your vision adjusts to the light of the hearth in the room, a gasp flying from your lips in fear. 

At the foot of your bed, a spectre of a girl  – hair loose, her skin ashy in the moon’s whisper; a gasp from a mouth much too crimson as she sways upon uneven footing. 

“Elina?” You croak, heart within your throat – but that gasp, again; and she is doubled over, breathing in sharp gasps. Unease awaits you in the cavern of your chest. 

“What’s happened?” You ask quickly, rising from the sheets with a shaky fear. 

There is no response: but the girl stumbles forward, her throat beginning to pulse unnaturally – you leap to your feet, wider awake than ever before. 

“P-princess,” she chokes out, her body trembles - fingers fall against the post of your bed frame, her voice weaker still than her hallowed visage. “I– didn’t–” but her breath is not correct; it heaves out laborious, sickly. 

Her eyes meet yours, and your heart sinks below your stomach; a drop of crimson rolls from her nostril, and then a cough full of wet blood that sputters into her palm, darker than you’ve ever seen.

“S-something’s wrong.” her voice, desperate. Bare feet slap against stone as your hand grasps her arm; skin yields clammy. Panic pulses through you – her lips are a frosting purple, marred only by stretch of bloody string which pulsates from her nose and has begun to drip its way upon her dress. 

Your chamber doors are heavy, though you rip them open and spit into the hallway, shaking as the dredges of murky sleep are wiped away by alarm. 

Your shout is sharp as a dying hound, “Fetch Maester Gerardys!” You tremble as you nod to the guard, “Now! And alert the Queen– tell,” You look down the hall, unsure what to do, breathing ragged and sporadic, “Tell Jacaerys, tell–” 

A yelp, startled as a kicked kitten from behind you and you can only stop yourself, snapping back to your maid’s side, letting your chamber doors remain open as the guards rush down the corridors. 

Elina’s frame collapses as you reach her; you fall to your mattress, pulling her into your arms with shaking breaths – and she, with weak effort, presses her hand into your own. 

There is no such moment for you to do anything but sit; and so you do, a sense of numb calm washing over you as you coo to her, wiping hair away from a sheened forehead. Her head lolls heavy against your shoulder, tears soaking the sleeve of your nightgown – veins protrude, purple and ghastly, from her eyes and forehead, spreading down her chin under a trail of blood. Any offer of water is slapped across the stone floors of your bedchamber. 

“I’m scared,” she whispers, her voice trembling as she curls closer to you, her breath coming in shallow, pained gasps. “It hurts.” 

Your throat tightens – her eyes are wide, terrified; a gasp of striking resemblance to that haunting stare from your dreams.

You can only hold her tighter, cradling her head against your chest as if you could shield her from whatever is eating away at her from the inside; though she has begun a series of horrifying convulsions, and you scramble to remember any such prayer for the sick in the recess of your cobwebbed mind. 

“I can’t… I can’t remember-” You mutter helplessly, fingers shaking as you stroke her hair, whispering useless comforts as her body shakes against you.

Her hands are tight; wrapped in a clutched embrace, her muscles spasm and kick, marring you with short bursts of pain as you hold onto her, your own tears falling onto her face as a violent foam of bloody saliva begins to brim through her paled lips. 

“No-” You hiss, palm cupping her cheeks – but the blood spreads, it taints; eyes have rolled back, her body convulsing as blood pours in a leak from her nose, drips of crimson tears from the corners of vacantly yellowed eyes. Trails of it foam over your grasp from her mouth – choking, she’s begun, and you’re helpless to watch, your breaths eerily calm in the wake of her gasping gurgles. 

Maester Gerardys enters first; followed closely by three pairs of feet slamming against stone, but still you rock gently, a horror encasing your mind as you stare at the girl, stilled in your arms. 

Your lips are still mumbling, though your chest burns in the need of breath that will not come; the small bird of a girl in your arms, her blood staining your pillows, her heart stilled after a rapid acceleration and a heaving rattle of breath through blood-stained teeth. 

You do not let go of her when Maester Gerardys arrives to your side; with a wail and a panicked grasp, you shoot daggers towards the man with a snarl; a cornered hound. 

Your name rolls gently from hesitant lips, though, and it arrests your panic. 

Jacaerys is just beside you – clad in a sleeping tunic and trousers, cheeks flushed, eyes wide in concern. Your grip loosens around Elina at Jace’s whisper; And when you back away, his arm is around your waist, pulling you away gently. 

Queen Rhaenyra, hand over her breast as she watches; and Daemon, eyes dark as he stares from the girl upon your bed to the blood that stains your hands. In the light of the hearth, Jacaerys lights the few candles beside the bed, and you watch with a hitched breath broken only by the sound of your quiet sobs. 

 Maester Gerardys pulls back from her figure, his voice laced with a gentle, perturbed sorrow. “She’s with the Gods.”

Time escapes you.

Your fingers shake in the fabric of Jacaerys’s tunic as he holds you steady, easing you onto the settee across from the hearth; he remains as Daemon and the Queen repose in succession. 

And when Rhaenyra’s palm finds the stillness of your knee, as your stare smolders into the roar of flames before you, Daemon’s voice is shockingly gentle, quiet. “What happened?” He asks – and you stir only then from your halted fear, glancing to where Maester Gerardys and the guards gather the body from your sheets. 

Your lashes flicker, and though the press of Jacaerys’ thigh upon your own is warm, you cannot look away from Elina’s stained blonde hair, tresses marred by a thick paint of blackened blood as it sways in the arms of the guard passing by. 

The girl, you hear your sister’s voice whisper. You swallow thickly, shaking your head faintly.

“I…” You croak, shaking your head, “She… woke me. Elina. She’d helped me prepare before I went abed – she acted rather normal, though she’d mentioned a stomachache…” Your brows furrow as a distant memory strikes you. “Her pupils were the size of saucers.” 

They had been, truly. Pupils blown wide, her lips slick with saliva she wiped with a sleeve – and a whisper, once more as she undid the hair she’d braided into place just hours before – we’ve kept the chambers quite sweltering this evening, haven’t we, My Princess? 

“Did she act any differently?” 

Your mind stumbles in its tirade down a dark staircase of trivial moments through the day; And then, some horrifying thought that pierces your stomach, paranoia rippling through you. 

“Tea.” You murmur, shaking your head, “The tea you gifted me, that’s all,” You murmur, eyeing Queen Rhaenyra. A blank visage flickers in the lick of flame beside her, though her countenance furrows in unfamiliarity. 

A slight shake of the head, a bewildered breath from her breast – she need not say it; the tea that was served was not from her. Three pairs of eyes watch you, though in your panic, you jolt upright, only aware of the sleepgown you wear once Queen Rhaenyra places a blanket upon your shoulders. 

“-I was served a new tea this afternoon,” You glance at the table in the corner of your chambers, where the odd girl had prepared it. “I- I was told it was a gift, from the Queen–” in a sickening memory, you exhale, “she drank it this afternoon. Elina. It was prepared by a new handmaid who said she’d come from the kitchens, though I swear I’d–” 

And it is as if the storm breaks.

In a flash of a moment, memories flood through you in a pounding horror; the girl with her wrist scarred, flickering eyes behind doors of the Hand of the King. 

A sea away, and moons ago yet – a green gaze that ducked away when you and your siblings haunted the halls of the Red Keep, and young, dutiful ears which listened to each word uttered by you and your kin. 

“She was there. The Red Keep.” You utter, eyes burning a hole through the stone table, mouth open. The shoulder that brushes your own tenses; a shared glance between the three that you nearly miss in your dissociation. 

Daemon is upon his feet within moments, voice barking at the men who crowd the room – an order of the kitchens to be torn apart in search of a tea, red and spiced; and to find the girl with the scar on her wrist. 

THE MORNING COMES. 

It always does; despite it all, the morning comes – and this time, it kisses your shoulders with a chill, seeping into bones weary and plastered heavy to foreign sheets. 

Not foreign, particularly – for you know the softness upon you as though a touch of a familiar palm, the quirk of a familiar boyish grin. And you wake slowly, eyes heavy enough to keep you asleep, but you wake smelling of him. 

You are not sure what weakened part of you reaches out – to find him, in the chasm of darkness that returns as you do to consciousness; but your hand drifts over the empty space where he should be, only to find a soft crumple of parchment left in his place.

Before your eyes open, you already know.

His absence does not surprise you, nor does the cold weight of realization that settles upon your chest. 

The girl. A poisoned cup; the last shuddering rattle of breath from a sweet friend. Dreams of the sister you left, of a thick thread that wound your wrists and tethered you to hands that wanted nothing; a murder of an innocent because of… 

Your eyes are weary, and they burn. 

Jacaerys brought you to his chambers last night when your shaking slowed; after Maester Gerardys checked upon your tongue, tracked the flickering motions of your eyes, heard the beats of your heart. Jacaerys had not followed Daemon out the doorway upon some warpath once the whisper of poison fell from Maester Gerardys’ lips – he’d remained instead with a hand hovering over yours, his eyes upon his mother, who had taken you into her side as a mother would a hurt child. 

You recall, as you stir under his sheets, how you’d heard his heart beat beneath your ear last night - too steady, too forced.

The rhythm, a caged fury for the sake of a girl who’d barely looked at him without baring her teeth; a buzzing regret for the unripened detestation harvested towards her over fields of youth past. Guilt can be a fickle thing. 

And it is indeed a frequent visitor at the doors of your mind; it slides in through the cracks when you sit up in bed, head pounding, aching for sustenance though the thought of food leaves your stomach hollowed in fear. 

The note is unfolded slowly; Jacaerys’ hand is scribed with no lack of care, though they are quick, speaking of duty and matters with Daemon.

Though he says nothing explicitly, you know. The handmaid who prepared your tea yesterday - they search for her, or worse, they have already found her; and what is left now is that cold calculation of the Father: of justice.

With a shiver, your fingers twitch to your sternum - some odd remainder of a habit formed in youth, watching your mother clutch her seven-pointed-star round her neck in times of strife. You come empty-clutched instead - a seven-pointed chain that’d been casted into the ocean  along with the ring your mother gifted you for your nameday many moons ago, now. 

Jace’s request sends a strike of warmth through you as you blearily read the scrawled words to send Ser Steffon to fetch Jacaerys when you wake. 

Maester Gerardys, too, is mentioned, and the thought of him fussing over your health makes your chest tighten; there is no such relief in the notion being tended to, not now – not when your heart crawls up your throat; a creeping spider up the spout of a teapot, a coil of serpent wrapping around your neck. 

Blood still clings to the gown you’d held Elina in, as it sits rumpled and untouched upon the floor of Jacaerys’ chambers – you wear a simpler one now, retrieved from your boudoir by the hands of your betrothed.

You leave the mound of furs and sheets behind in a slow slide towards the window upon Jacaerys’ far chamber wall. 

The fog still clings stubbornly to the sea, curling like a serpent over the rocks, refusing to retreat beneath the morning light. 

It is not the attempt on your life – that itself has yet to soak through the surface of your ever-porous skin – but rather the absence of the voice which rouses you from slumber each morning, who combs and styles your hair; who bathes you, who laughs with you, who whispers. She is gone. 

Along the distance, the fog eats at the fishing villages; mere dots, no larger than gnats even when you squint. You wonder where Elina’s love lies, and if he woke with the same emptiness in his heart that you did. 

Below Jacaerys’ window lies a glance at the Sept of Dragonstone; a pierce in your chest that calls upon the emptiness of your heart. 

You do not heed your betrothed’s wish to seek him when you wake; instead, you pull round the cloak draped along the table beside you, tying it doubly to account for its larger size; and you slip past Ser Steffon, who watches and trails behind you at a measured pace. 

IN SOME LINGERING SHAME, YOU’RE KNELT BEFORE THE GODS BEFORE DAY FULLY BREAKS. 

It is not until you step out into the bailey, wrapped in a cloak that is not your own, does the sky split and begin to weep. It laments its sorrow upon the walls as you blink hard ahead, hoping to cease the endless churning of torment spiraling in your mind. 

When you find yourself within the dry stone walls once more, the cloak remains upon your frame – a comfort, in its lingering scent; or a repentance, in its damp chill upon your shoulders. 

The gods watch as you kneel in silence; the storm blossoms, cackling at some ancient jest in the sky, and you keel over in your grief, sinking to the soil buried far below the stone.

The Maiden’s face watches you – and in her, you see Elina; in that sweet laugh, the ceaseless effort to remain your handmaid, your friend – despite it all. And the reward she was given for such trust, such loyalty: To die on a mattress of the one she served, one final breath sacrificed for the truth:

It hurts. I’m scared. 

“Elina,” You whisper with watery words, watching the candle before you light in flame. Your throat constricts. That sacred little lamb, taken upon the altar of your very own mattress. 

Innocence, a token offered to gods who never answer – and, mutedly, you wonder. That death was sent for you, after all – so how would you look, eyes wide and unaware of the sharpness of a blade descending towards you?

Across the hall, someone slinks through the shadows. Smoke swirls. A candle is lit with shaky hands. 

And there is the blue lamb, too, you think - the one I could not save either. Fingers shaking, pressing the flame against the wyck beside it; it catches with only an extra breath. 

“Lucerys,” You whisper, watching the candle flicker.

And nothing changes. 

The rain falls outside. The pit lingers within your stomach.There is a scuff – perhaps a Septa, crossing somewhere behind you. A heavy door drags open from the Bailey outside, and in a breeze of the world’s breath, someone enters. 

You duck your chin in prayer, that way you did in childhood under the watchful gaze of your seven-pointed mother. 

Today, you worry. 

Like some favored cup that you’d grasped too tight, afraid it would fall from your clutches and break into thousands of shards – and how instead you’d watch it shatter in your protective, ignorant grasp. Red rivers of disbelief from a trembling palm; pain, that naive version of love. 

Father - you look upon his statue, disbelief in your heart. I worry that love is merely a mirror of violence. 

That pathetic something – that yearning, an empty chasm that blossomed even in the days of your youth – with cheeks still cherubic and eyes still bright; five children, white of hair; youthful play, ruddy cheeks, fattened legs. Giggles and breathless yells from behind curtains – from a time when whispers were nothing more than a playgame. 

The Crone remembers – and you wonder, then, as you look upon stone shrouded in a cloak. What has become of them, now? Of any of you? 

And who are you, but the sister who fled? Who are you, but the one who haunts the halls of the Black Queen, with blood of emerald and a dragon that could turn on them in a moment’s notice? 

Fingers grasp the stone before you, and white wax drips in slow tears. Crone – you gaze into eyes carved in sorrow, of sagacity unreachable. I worry that wisdom comes only when it is too late. 

In your youth, you’d been gifted a plant in an achingly beautiful painted Braavosi pot; the joy of your nameday, you’d insisted upon tending to it. It’d been hours – each day, admiring its pebbled leaves, bursting with budding fruit from within. Hours curbing away the prying, destructive hands of your elder brothers and cousins, of sitting in awed silence watching the leaves change in the sunlight with your sister.

And then came the day you’d woken to its dead leaves. In your devotion, obsession, you’d given it too much water. Mother – you look upon her statue, disbelief sewn far into the creasings of your heart. I worry that my care only brings ruin. 

The face of mercy watches you, and it brings nothing but a tremble of hatred through you. 

A flash of your own resentment – and of the tarnished beauty which once beheld your own visage, marred by the presence of you upon his side. Despite efforts taken by others to ensure otherwise, you will still remain forever haunted; forever wondering how you could dare stand with Jacaerys when you so taint the memory of his lost brother. 

It is a horrible thing, the chain of fate. 

A fate written long before you two were placed into cradles as babes, far before you two were given each other’s name as a promise, then as a threat, then as a promise once more. Smith – your heart aches, and it aches for what is to come. I worry that I cannot shape what I wish to mend. 

It is the most difficult perhaps, to regard the young woman etched in stone to your left. 

In her face is each that you’ve ever come to know. Baela, the first and best of your friends upon this island; Rhaena, the girl whose company you seek with the knowledge that she will regard you as kin, not adversary. 

The humming of your sweet sister in her chambers; in quiet harmony with the buzzing of insects, needles pricking her fingers and singing softly to the blood that beads from her flesh. You’re nothing like Helaena, your mother said. And what tragedy, you think as you consider the draped innocence of the Maiden aside you, what a regret that is. 

 And your mother, for all that she isn’t – for all that she is. For the girl she lost in her youth; for the distaste, perhaps, in the aspects of you that much too echo the girl she once called friend – through some the absent admiration of a father who held you close, who whispered Rhaenyra instead of your own name when he spoke of his love and admiration. 

That name, too – still after these years a stinging sore of regret, jealousy; Rhaenyra, the name you cannot help but reach toward, hand forever extended into emptiness. Rhaenyra, the one you’d picture when you watched yourself in the mirror as a girl, tilting your chin as if there were already a crown upon your head. 

Rhaenyra – you’re just like Rhaenyra, your father would whisper, proud; and it is, indeed, why your mother watched you with serpent stares, why your family turned chin upon you each time you dared speak her name in years after.  

Perhaps there is no particular malice in the end. 

You are no fool to believe that Rhaenyra resents you for what has been done by the hands of your blood; but knowing you are bidden forgiveness is not the same as accepting it. And in that festering void within your breast, the one which vies for affection, for the love of a mother’s touch, for acceptance – there lies one small residual pool of envy. 

 Rhaenyra, Helaena, Alicent, Baela, Rhaena, Elina – your throat, tightening as you consider then your very own name, that cursed name that falls from lips spitting and serpentine; what are you, to them all? 

To the girls here on the island who wear red and black maid uniforms and speak with you like you are one of their own, just to die by the hand whose grasp searched for your own throat? 

Maiden, you wonder with worried eyes, I worry I will swallow the women I love. 

There comes no such reply, but still you remain in folded grief for some time.

The rain falls outside the stoned walls of the Sept, but in here you remain dry. The island is drinking – or perhaps it cleans itself.

It is a pity you are not there with it. 

A candle burns out, and in a shaky lump of grief, you move to relight the wyck. 

The doors behind you scrape against the stone, and a wet onslaught finds your ears as you shiver in the breeze. Your fingers shake against the stick, watching the flame dance. 

“Lucerys,” You say once more, voice less of a whisper and more a plea. 

The clink of metal behind you startles your focus – you turn to face the visitor with an open mouth and wide eyes. In a breath of panic, you start. 

A boy, shrouded in the swimming shadows of the Sept’s rounded columns – waterlogged breaths, curls that breathe with his chest, alive, sinking, but alive – and the slip of water rushing around him, swelling like the tide as he moves from the shadows. 

Luke, you almost call out – but the black of the tunic catches with the silver scars of a wettened sun  – and there, a familiar face, searching eyes, the lick of a tide in the slope of his nose. 

Jace. 

The pearls of lost memories sink to the depths and you are no longer with that ghost – but instead alone with the Gods and with your betrothed. 

There is no greeting, but instead the locking of your eyes to his in acknowledgement – and he approaches you as you turn back to the altar, hands clenched to avoid their shake. 

“–Do they listen today?” He wonders, breaking the shell of silence; a tentative thing carried through the space of the Sept, a ripple on a calm pool. And though he delivers the query with all intentions of seriousness, you cannot help the small blushing of warmth that floods your cheeks at his recalling of yesterday’s spite. 

The gods don’t listen.

You crack the first smile, toothless and small – but he almost eagerly follows suit; and in the small grins shared between you, there is a breath of peace. 

“Not any more than they have before, I’m afraid.” You affirm, brushing invisible dust from your sleepgown; it is only when his eyes dip over your frame do you register the cloak you still don, its embroidered sigils of red and black upon the nape of your neck and boyish scent still clinging in the aftermath of the dampened path to the Sept. 

You have made no motion to rise to him; though he indeed, still as a pole, has remained without effort to sink to you either, and so you stare up at him. Jacaerys clears his throat, eyes flicking to the two lit candles before you and back to your gaze. “I’d hoped you’d send for me when you woke.” He whispers, some kind of warmth blossoming upon his cheeks. 

You watch the flush stain his skin with some assurance; a live boy stands before you, swaying upon his feet, hands perched upon the pommel of a sword and eyes lit with some hesitant kind of hope. You nod absently, “I didn’t much feel like being poked and prodded.” 

You’d meant by Maester Gerardys; though in a moment, you see something almost like amusement reflect in Jacaerys’ eyes – though he nods, concealing his dimpled grin and a small laugh. “I cannot hold you to blame for that.” 

In the silence, a gap of beamed gray sunlight finds his tresses; and streaks across one amber eye of his, melting in warmth as he watches you warily. You swallow down the part of you that blossoms at a face so beautifully made, and you wonder how he sees you now. 

“Why do you come?” His question strikes you once more in the quiet walls. 

Perhaps a Septa crosses the way – though your sights are anchored on Jacaerys and his wandering tongue as he glances towards the stony faces staring down at you. He, with an absent voice, continues: “If it’s not for them?” 

You swallow hard, fingers knotted like roots within your lap. A ruminating silence, until your voice finds its quiet whisper. “The chains of faith are not so easily cast aside, I suppose.” 

His gaze follows your own to the statue of the Mother, looming before you; a shift upon his boots as rainwater slides down the leather to kiss the stone floor. 

“And I know here no one will disturb me.” You add as an afterthought, some attempt at humour in the dreary silence, “Some say this Sept is gathering dust these days.” 

Your words achieve their desired effect: The prince gives you one of those rare smiles, hands held in some mocking surrender. “I am not some.” He defends; to which you nod with a rare smile of your own. 

“No, you are not, Jacaerys.” 

It comes much warmer from your lips than expected – the moment passes thickly between you. A rusty memory, to converse so casually with each other – a talent perhaps still being honed, though you feel a birth of warmth in his presence, against the shell of cold that this day has woken. 

Still he steps closer, hesitant in footing but deliberate in air, and you tilt your head, curious. “Still,” he speaks, “I hope you might… Let me join you.” 

In the moment following, his gaze flickers to the altar; then rises uncertain back to you. His words are awkward, falling hesitantly from his lips, yet still genuine; with their insistence strikes within you a tenderness that must have been absent for far too long. An effort.

“You wish to pray?” you wonder, brows suspended in your surprise. 

He merely nods, fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve; a boyish vision despite the burden of his station weighing around him – and your heart skips. 

“If you’d show me how,” he says, quieter yet; and a half step towards the altar so that you are nearly in line, you on your knees and he wavering in his height. “I’ve never been quite… good enough at it. Septa used to take me by the ear and scold me when I was young.” 

It’s a memory faint but easily recalled in your mind – Jacaerys and Lucerys, with youthful smirks plotting across the altar. A shove, a snort concealed in hands folded to prayer – a pious posture from you, though your eyes flickered so often to their whispered snickers, pressing your lips together when the Septas struck across the back of their heads. 

You take in the sincerity of his expression, the slightly placated feeling that has spread from the rare childhood memory so lacking in strife; and how he stands before you, as if asking permission for something far more intimate than prayer. 

Slowly, you incline your head, gesturing for him to kneel beside you. “Alright, then. Come.” You instruct shakily. 

The sword lies first upon the stone; then comes the sinking of his knees, slow to drop; you resist a squirm, the sight of him joining you sending a quiet warmth through your chest. 

It is quiet when he finds himself knelt aside you, hands loose and lips bitten. His tunic brushes your cloak – though you piously fold your hands, looking forward once more if only to avoid the heat that has inconspicuously grown upon your cheeks. 

A beat, then two. Slowly, through a glance, his hands fold like yours, though they shake in the reflection of the dreary sunbeams. 

Outside, the rain ravages the walls; your breaths fall in quiet releases, echoing each other in the dust. 

“I’m not sure what to say,” his voice is rough as it interrupts the silence; a cascade of shivers involuntarily tumble down the ridges of your spine. You’re struck with some spare memory of hands, warm against the line of your back as sleep took you last night; hands that have taken their own time to slide over planes of goose-prickled skin, that have held, and wished, and reached. 

Your eyes fall to the candles, unable to meet the gaze searing into your profile – it strikes you, the peculiar kindness of it; the bittersweet, stilted understanding that ties your heart to his own. 

There is that lingering feeling – that knowledge that, should last night have gone peacefully instead and you’d woken to Elina with comb in hand, Jacaerys would not be here; But still, he’d still have such warm, open eyes – such pouted lips, such a face carved by worry and patience. A change, rung through the effort made to be by your side; You scrub the thought from your mind and clear your throat. 

“I often start with a blessing,” you whisper into the air before you, “These days, it’s been for the realm.” At this, he says nothing; harboring a rather absent stare into the flickering candles. 

His hand drifts to the light; and soon, it wavers with the flickering flame of an incense stick. His hand suspends, hovering in apprehension, but then his voice comes in a quieted whisper. “For the realm,” he echoes your words. 

You do not dare glance at him; though in the corner of your vision sits his profile, softened by the gentle glow of flame and backlit in the torrential gray leaking from outside. Vulnerability drips from plush lips as he moulds over the words he endeavors to speak; and a moment of silence yourself as you shift, the emptiness in your chest warmed by the presence of his heat. 

He whispers his prayer quietly, and you do not wish to impose; you remain beside him, blinking hard against the rising guilt that crawls up your throat, that reminds you of soft girlish smiles and gentle boyish laughs. 

You do not hear his words, but you feel the gentle rumble of them from his chest to your own as you begin a silent whisper of prayer, Elina’s name falling from your lips.

And then comes the song of your voices, hushed and solemn in the Sept; it is in its way just as similar, just as reverent to choruses sung by your lips shared in the past – though for instances much different than now. 

“–For those I’ve failed,” his voice washes into your consciousness, head bowed low and words whispered for none other to hear. Your eyes open at this; pulled from the depths of your own swirling grief, your head bowed in a beat of regret and vision flashing with a blue lamb, submerged in the cold sea. 

Palms, damp and shaky, press to the stone altar. Your eyes find his, open and wettened with memory; it strikes your heart. “Now, I’d pray for the future,” Your voice, so quiet, faint. “That it might be more… kind than the past.” 

His swallow is silent, but you see his chest expand with a breath. The air, so heavy in the weight of shared grief. “For the future,” he echoes once more; and his gaze, though still fixed on the flickering candles, seems distant – seeking out a vision only he can see. 

His tongue swipes over his parted lips, brows furrowed in a soft emotion; you cast your gaze to the candles burning before you. He hesitates, his voice faltering before it firms again, quiet still in the empty Sept. “That I might be worthy of it. Of the realm, and–” His voice tapers off only momentarily. “ –And of those who are beside me.” 

It is in the breath that his small confession catches your breath almost imperceptibly; your chest tightens at his struggling tension of jaw, of that countenance so often set with the sternness of duty. 

There is a softening in his glance to the side, not nearly reaching you, but perhaps trying – something so close to vulnerability that it makes your heart lurch.

His gaze meets yours after a final moment, and in them you see your own reflection, your own yearning heart that beats against the restraints of awkwardness, of regret, of grief and of disdain. 

His gaze is yours, and it feels like it has been for some time. 

“That’s–” Your voice comes choked, uneven; you take a moment to gather yourself once more, cheeks flaring as you hold his stare. “A noble thing to wish for.” 

The tension between you hums into the heavy silence of the Sept. You should look away — ought to, even — but you don’t; for it is a miraculous thing, to gaze into one’s eyes and feel yourself stare back. 

Perhaps his hands fall first, but yours fall just after – and in the silence, your heart slams in your throat, mind hazy with the feeling of being seen and known. A furrow, gentle and longing, of his brow as he watches you; a ghost of his hand upon your arm, trailing along the cloak’s embroidered sleeve. 

Perhaps you lean first, or perhaps he does. 

It is not until your breath brushes his lips and his warms your own that you give in to the ache in your breast; And it is clumsy when your mouth finds his own. A kiss born not of passion but of some grief, some shared loss, some unbearable weight of what cannot be undone and what looms in the weight of crowns upon your heads and a war of fire and blood upon the weeping horizon. 

There is some hesitancy that, if ever before, has grown between you; a soft caress of his neck with your quaking palm, a warm presence of his hand upon your hip, turning you towards his kiss. Your hands grasp without thought, without purpose – a search for life in a crumbling plane of ruin. 

Salt upon your tongue, your nose slides upon his own; a fragile solace, this connection is. 

But the haze of such vulnerable intimacy is dissolved in a breath: Jacaerys stills completely, and his warmth is gone from you in the very next moment. 

“Jace,” You murmur as he shakes his head gently; a wet gaze between you, though you’re unsure whose it is. Perhaps both. “No,” His voice is strained in that quiet, pained way you recall – from early days finally released from your cell below the castle, from nights when the agony persisted in heated glares and serpent tongues.

He does not look at you before he rises, movements slow, deliberate – and you take the moment to gather your own mind, to swallow down the rush of surrealism that has fallen into lead upon your stomach. Seven stony faces watch you as you rise beside your betrothed at the altar, a slump in your shoulders that mirrors his own. 

“I shouldn’t have,” He admits, shaking his head as his hand tentatively grasps your own; his palm is moistened with the tremble of regret, and you swallow down whatever stab of guilt rushes up your throat. A squeeze in return; a flush of embarrassment upon your cheeks as the remnants of his lips linger upon your own in some dizzying breath. 

You shake your head as you brush nonexistent dust from your nightdress. “I shouldn’t have, I-” 

“Please,” He murmurs; a plea, true and genuine – and he tugs your hand just so. “I am sorry.” 

It is surprising to see such earnesty from him, though his words bring about a warmth to your chest. It goes unspoken, as so often things between you do – now is not a time for such recklessness; and though Jacaerys might perhaps be a sole comfort while the world weeps, you know now is not the time to escape in such securities. 

Your nod is gentle, as is the kiss you deliver to his warm cheeks. They grow even more red in the absence of your lips. 

“It's alright,” You agree, clearing your throat at the sudden memory of his lips, plump and warm, against your own. 

Though with his words dissolves any distraction you’ve sought in the previous moments: “There is something else,” He explains, “I come with word from the Queen and Daemon.” 

Despite his hand in yours, dread welcomes you once more into its embrace. 

“They’ve found her?” You wonder; and there once more crashes a bout of anxiety into your ribs. His eyes swim – pity, perhaps, hiding in the folds of gold, of reverence, of verity. 

He nods only slightly, eyes searching between your own.

“Yes.” 

A breath catches in your throat – some odd angst of mourning for your adversary, then; to the girl she perhaps was before your grandsire wrapped his talons tight around her. Jacaerys lifts his hand, and soon your hair is brushed behind your shoulder. 

“You do not need to go.” He promises, “I can have the dragons readied, or tea sent to the library. Or I could have a bath drawn–” 

Kind suggestions; though you shake your head sharply, glancing to the Father and then meeting Jace’s stare. “No,” You protest, hand dropping his own to gather yourself. “But will you–” A cleared throat, biting your lip at the pain that echoes through the empty caverns of your chest. The words do not come commonly; an odd thought, some secret in front of the gods - and so you whisper in that tongue you both share. “Kessa ao māzigon lēda nyke?” 

Will you come with me?

His lashes tangle in a slow blink, though he acquiesces immediately to your request. “Of course. Hēnkirī.” 

Together. Your swallow is thick, and the pit of your stomach eats at you. It is a slow march to prepare your leave; the beating of a heart not your own, faced upon the gates of some shadowy fate – but the hand in yours warm and guiding, and his voice is slow and quiet. 

Bells ring in the near distance, and in their warbled way, they sound of wedding bells. Some part of you blossoms reborn, a bud at the first breath of spring after years of winter; Jacaerys sends you a smile, and it is soon mirrored upon your own visage.

Fate is a peculiar thing, yes - but you are relieved that Jacaerys is the name of yours.  

And even when you and your betrothed pull up each other's hoods in preparation for the rainfall, you do not realize that you’ve just risen from below the watching shadow of the Stranger. You do not realize that the shrouded figure has watched over your every prayer; and when you turn, you do not notice as its shadow follows the train of your dress. 

You do not notice the snuff of the two candles, blown in the wake of your leave - and you do not feel as the Stranger watches you leave the Sept, arm in arm with Jacaerys. 

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[bl00dlight]

Ghostly Flame

Aemond Targaryen x OC sister x Alys Rivers {NSFW}

Warnings ● more carpet munching, graphic language, general smut and filth, implied homophobia, age gap, dubious consent, violence against female character, heterosexuality, Aemond being depraved as fuck and lowkey the worst, oedipus complex, full blown targcest, mentions of Madame Sylvie (sorry yall), Alys Rivers being a trick ass bitch, not proof read

Word count ● 4.7k

Author's Note • Long awaited. It's finally here. Holy fuck it's actually... like insane how long this took for me to dwell on. I'm not gonna spoil anything but this one is a bit gross. In a good way. Sick sick sick.

Masterlist / Ghostly Flame ● Part I

Part II

The sight on the Prince Regent's bed was indeed, not a mere dream. He stammered as a flood of emotions suddenly whipped against his skull.

As he entered, Aemond's face darkened and the breath in his lungs all but vanished. Hs let fist slowly curl, though his eye was transfixed on the two women, watching as his paramour's mouth moved against his sister's skin. Despite it all, the disgust and rage that was brewing; for a brief moment he enjoyed the sounds and sight before him.

And yet, Aemond knew it was but a vile sin, a betrayal of both his bedmate and beloved sister. Still, the sight stirred heat within him.

Alys continued in her ministrations, her tongue moving with precision, seeking to please and to tease the princess. The witch was so engrossed in the task before her that she hadn't noticed the door or the figure which loomed in the shadows.

The sounds of his sister's mewling was enough to drive him over the edge. The prince clenched his jaw, he stalked towards the women and spoke, his voice ringing in the quiet of the room. "Alys."

Just like that the sounds of their pleasure had come to a deadened stop. Slowly Alys pulled away, and turned towards Aemond. Daera opened her eyes with a flash, her body jolting with fear and suddenly the humiliation rang true.

Aemond's own heart was hammering in his chest, his mind racing with thoughts he had never dared admit aloud.

"Tell me," Aemond whispered, his voice rough and low. "Do the both of you take me for a fool?"

Alys bowed her head and spoke gently, "My Prince, I..."

"Silence." Aemond sneered, stalking towards Alys. His fist soon met with her raven hair, gripping at it as he forced her head up at him. "I have had my fill of your vile tongue."

A silence brewed before he suddenly shoved the woman back to the ground. Alys winced as he body hit the floor with a startling thud. Daera shook, her hands in her head as she had pulled the sheets upon her bare flesh out of modesty. It was comical, still she seemed to care of propriety, even though her own brother had seen her in such a state.

Aemond grunted, raising a hand up as though he was to strike the woman before him. Alys stayed deadly still upon the ground, gritting her teeth, awaiting his hand to make contact with her flesh. Though he felt his rage stir he swiftly pulled his hand away. He could not strike her, no, instead he launched and gripped her arm, forcing her upon her feet.

"You dare humiliate me? You dare bring such shame upon me? Defiling my own blood, my sister! Upon the very bed I let your treacherous head lay, no less!" Aemond's lonesome eye was narrowed in a maelstrom of emotions, anger, betrayal, jealously, humiliation.

Yet in truth, he felt one thing; weakness.

Alys glared at him, speaking oddly calmly, "Of course not, your grace..."

"Then speak, bastard! Speak on the sight before me... of you upon my sister and why my eye was witness to it! Speak to why you... why you dare go against me, after all I have done! I spared you, or do you forget?" The prince gripped her flesh sternly and his gaze faltered as he felt sorrow bloom.

Daera looked away, she couldn't bare the scene before her. Couldn't bare what she had done, she hadn't even known what led her to do it. She had no excuse, no reason. It seemed to have happened before she had any idea it was occurring.

The princess wiped her tears, her heart aching. "Brother..." she muttered weakly, sorrowfully.

Aemond turned his head sharply, "I SHALL HEAR NOTHING FROM YOU!" He snapped at Daera, forcing her back into submission.

His gaze came to Alys once more, whom at this point was holding back a low snicker. Her hands came to his chest, and a low hum was earnt from the prince at her soothing ministrations.

"You are not so tempting as to distract me. I see you for what you are... a snake in my own den." He lowered his tone, as his hand came to her raven locks and gripped them.

Alys gave him an incredulous look once more, "You... you do not mean such things, I have been nothing but faithful, my prince."

"Yet your mouth was upon my sister? You think that faithful?" Aemond retorted swiftly, fastening his grip.

"I... I do not deny how such may seem an act of betrayal. But it was in service to you, your grace." Alys flinched as his hands laced themselves in her hair forcefully. Her voice still measured.

"Do not dare speak such folly-" His temper flared as Alys spoke over the Prince.

"It is not folly... I have brought her, swayed her senses so they may receive what is so deeply suppressed within her. She had not come for me, my prince. She came for you." Alys' voice like a siren song, she let her hands run to his cheeks. Gently stroking at his sharp features.

Silence beckoned for a moment, as Aemond found himself lured by the witch's words. Her eyes gazing with reverence upon him, yet there was a glimmer of something else. Something she had seen.

Slowly, Aemond's grip upon her hair eased flattening to cup her head, "What do you see?" He muttered, his eye scanning her carefully.

Daera's sobbing had eased now, and she watched with baited breath as her brother and the witch spoke before her. She noticed the tilt of Alys' head the low chuckle as she leaned in to Aemond's ear, muttering something unknown.

There was a noticeable shift, the sharp line of his jaw hardening as he eased into her touch. Daera caught a low hum from him, an inquisitive one as Alys nodded.

The prince turned to his sister, her trembling form. No doubt her mind already a place of torment for her. His gaze scanned over her pale flesh, silver hair - so much like his own. Though she looked more like their mother in her features. Melancholic round eyes, full lips; a soft cherubic face. She was a woman grown and yet, still appeared so much like the docile girl she once was in their youth.

Aemond leaned down, his silver hair catching in the moonlight as he gazed upon his sister sternly. His hand gripped her wrist.

"I ought to punish you." He said firmly.

Daera instantly weakened at his words, her head tilting, tears streaming as she simpered, "Brother..."

His hand suddenly clasped her cheek, silencing her whining, "Do as I say."

The Princess's eyes searched his lonesome one, her gaze coiling in uncertainty. She shook her head, disturbed by his sudden change of demanour. Her heart thundering as she knew whatever was to occur, was something she ought to be fearful of. She felt the need to beg, to plead for forgiveness. Though she remained still.

"I do not blame you, for failing to resist my Alys' charm. You are but a woman... you stand little chance against her, for even I find my resolve wavering in her wake." He slowly rose to his feet, and Alys came to him, slowly unstrapping his leathers from his chest.

"You are not... mad with me?" The Princess whimpered, squeezing her nails into her palms. Allowing the pain to distract her from her shame.

"What Alys has seen.. changes the matter." Aemond spoke with a new found clarity, though there was a bitterness that lingered upon his tongue.

Daera shook her head in response, she looked at Alys, whose hands were upon his breeches, unlacing them. Before she could continue he pulled her hands away from him. "No." Aemond muttered, slowly turning to his sister.

Daera found herself trembling once more, her eyes watery, desperately searching for answers as she whispered, "Seen what?"

It was the uncertainty in her eyes which made Aemond look away, his gaze narrowed upon the ground as he mumbled to Alys, "I cannot..."

The witch let her hands cup his face once more, soothing the fear he felt within him, "You can... and you will, desire has sown it's seed long bef-"

Aemond swiftly gripped her wrists, interrupting her, "Do not presume to know of my desires! She is my sister..."

The raven hair of Alys fell upon her pale shoulder as she turned to face the princess before her. Aemond's eye wandering for a moment upon her bare flesh... her breasts.

Daera looked into the green landscape of her eyes, flashes of them lingering between her thighs caused a spark of shame within the princess and she looked away. Alys chuckled softly, turning back to Aemond.

The witch leaned in, her hands coming back to his jaw, one slowly trailing down his neck. She hummed, smiling softly as Alys whispered to Aemond, "You are the blood of old Valyria, your grace... fire courses through your very flesh. A fire I have felt lick at my womb and that shall lick upon hers..."

Aemond's gaze met his paramour's in an intense exchange of understanding and trepidation. Though he was soothed by her gentle touch upon him, soothed by the wisdom her foresight granted him. She was right, it was not as though he held no desire for his sister. He had merely suppressed it. Why long for something that shall never be his to keep?

Their mother never sought to the betroth them, so Aemond simply focused on matters of duty; of becoming a formidable force in battle. Though he could not embrace Targaryen tradition entirely, he sought to expand upon it in other ways. He would seek to become a fierce dragonrider. A man of skill, for his legacy would be his own.

As he gazed upon his sister, he felt the sudden urge to comfort her. The tears that rolled upon her cheek meant for a greater challenge. He would not force himself upon her, but he could not deny the fire set ablaze in his blood when his eye wandered her flesh.

She was to be his destiny it seemed... and if Alys' vision proved true, the mother to his true born heir.

He stalked towards her, and once again found himself reaching over. As he extended his hand to cup her cheek she flinched, and Aemond merely persisted.

Daera however, was not so much aware of what Alys and Aemond spoke of. If anything she was still mortified by the fact her brother had seen her indulge in such sin.

Her gaze widened at the feeling of his palm upon her fleshy cheek, "Please... forgive me...I know I have tainted myself in the eyes of the Gods, but you must let me seek absolution from you. My resolve has grown weak, I see it now... I..." The princess mumbled, fanatically searching her brother's stoney gaze as he watched the trembling of her lips.

Silence beckoned, and Aemond remained still. His eye scanning over her, his thumb rubbing against the plushness of her cheeks. Her eyes that wore sorrow so beautifully, just as their mother's does. Large, comforting eyes... for a moment he felt a sense of boyish peace dawn upon him. Remembering how once, Alicent would gaze upon him with concerned filled eyes.

Though he had not spoken to his mother in many moons now, could not bare the sight of her. It was in Daera's simpering expression he found a small sense of comfort. She was but a piece of home. Though his youth was not always a happy one, there was peace. There was... a familiarity which made him wish to crawl within his sister's arms and pretend nothing bad had befallen them.

"Brother..." She whimpered, begging for him to say something; pulling the Prince from his thoughts.

Daera's eyes were caught by the familiar saunter of Alys' bare frame. She came to Aemond, leaning down as her thin, pale fingers tucked his silver hair behind his ear. Gently she cooed, "Go on, my prince... take what is yours."

With that Aemond glanced briefly and Alys, and then slowly looked back upon his sister. He moved now, shifting his weight to crawl upon the bed. His hand still gripping at her cheek, and the other now finding her waist, pulling her from the sheet and forcing her before him.

Aemond gazed softly, tentatively, at her. His hand moving to her silver curls; her hair so similar to her mother's. His fingers twirled a strand delicately, as though it were made of glass. He suddenly brought his face near her, his cheek grazing hers as he buried his nose within her locks for a moment. He breathed in, closing his eye. The familiar sweet smell of honeysuckled flesh filling his senses.

The princess was in complete shock, she had never known such affections from her brother before. Her eyes widened, her gaze meeting Alys', who came to the bed, sitting at the end as she removed Aemond's boots. Soon, her pale hand reaching over to stroke Aemond's hair gently. The princess furrowed her brow, positively unfurled by the scene before her. Her tears had all but come to a halt, not for the fact shame had left her, but for the fact she was overwrought by the absurdity of it all.

Aemond pulled back slightly, and both he and his sister let out a sharp breath. Her eyes wide, watching him carefully as he gently grazed his nose upon her cheek. His hand coming to her lips. Lips which were too, like Alicent's; swollen and quivering.

His eye, narrowed upon her and he caught her discomforted demanour. His fingers moving from her lips to cup her cheek as he muttered, "If it is absolution you seek, then let us not allow what transpired to be in vain. So, do as I say."

Daera though confused, did not protest. She nodded and heard her breath catch within her throat as he hummed slightly. Aemond brought his other hand to her cheek. A look of determination filled his eye though he seemed conflicted.

His gaze locked upon her lips, he wanted to kiss her, wanted to touch her. Though he knew not how to. Aemond grunted again, unsure of himself. An awkward tension rose as he stammered like a boy. The Prince huffed, looked down as humiliation coiled in his belly. He felt weak, he felt the fool.

He had, in truth never been with a woman as young as Daera. Though she was but a year younger than he. She was unlike Alys... unlike Madame Sylvie. Both of which had known the ways of initiating pleasure. He had never had to worry of such things, for both women brimmed with the confidence only within a mature woman, to take charge. Neither were coy, nor demure. Neither stuttered nor flinched when presented with his desire. Neither seemed so... shocked by his forwardness, nor hid behind maidenly virtue, nor looked upon him with judgement. They were women whom he felt safe with, secure with. He did not have to wear the mask he had crafted so precisely for himself. Did not have to act with the hard faced confidence of a man. Aemond could be unsure, with Alys and Madame Sylvie. He could let go of his masculine fortitude and be a boy once more.

But this was not the case with Daera. He could not help but find the judgement in her eyes, enraging. Already he thought of the million ways she may be laughing or repulsed by him. Already he thought of how she would reject him if he were not willing to do as had been taught men are to do. Take charge.

He could not falter with her, could not be seen as weak.

"Alys..." He muttered lowly, his head turning slightly as to call his paramour to guide him.

The witch continued stroking his hair, cooing softly as she gave him a knowing look, "As you would me..." Her voice soft, knowing he would understand her implication.

Aemond gave a small nod, his gaze then returning to his sister. A look of determination yet also... fear in his eye.

Daera had watched the interaction transpire as though she were but a mere spectator in her body. It hadn't felt real at all, it all seemed like an elaborate dream, and betwixt the moonlight and shadows of Harrenhal, he wasn't fully convinced it wasn't.

The princess found herself sharply returned back to reality as the feeling of her brother's breath upon her neck made her flinch. His fingers gently moving the strands of her silver curls away, before the soft and warm sensation of his lips met her neck.

Daera went to protest, but was met with the cold palm of Alys upon her other cheek, her fingers lacing in her hair as she pulled the princess' head to one side. Exposing more of her neck for Aemond to place his lips upon.

Alys smiled softly and gently stroked the coil of worry lines upon Daera's face.

"That's it." The witch lulled gently, slowly encouraging Daera to lean into her brother's touch. To which the princess slowly raised her hand to Aemond's silver strands, her fingers coiling into his scalp, earning a low groan.

She closed her eyes, focusing on the sensation of his lips moving up her neck, his hands now moving upon her bare body, falling between her plush breasts, down onto the soft planes of her belly.

It was not long before she felt Alys' lips press into her own, a small whimper leaving the princess.

It was that sound which egged Aemond further, he kissed up Daera's jaw, hoping to siphon more of those sweet sounds from his sister. He felt the familiar touch of Alys upon the band of his breeches, already unlaced. Her cool hand shuffling them down, before reaching in, palming his stiffened length. The sudden feeling of his paramour's hand upon him made him groan. Though he swiftly pulled away from the soft flesh of his sister, his head turning to Alys' sharp face.

"I shall do it myself." His words a quiet yet sharp command.

Alys conceded and resumed her position behind him, gently she stroked his silver tresses. Slightly annoyed by his barking at her tonight. Though she supposed he probably still seethes over her seducing Daera so easily.

The princess was terribly lost in the moment. She had eased to her brother's advances and slowly, his hand came to move her head towards his and pressed into hers gently. Daera whimpered and he pulled away, catching a breath. It was with that kiss that her blood had been set ablaze by him. Suddenly, her hands reached up, catching his cheeks in her palms and attempting to force her lips back into his.

Aemond, pulled away slightly, if not only to tease her for her eagerness, but also to remind him he must remember she had not ever been touched by a man. She was unwed, a mere maiden and similarly to him, probably starved for affection.

A dark desire bloomed as he noted her pleading gaze, a sense of control he did not get with his older lovers. It felt good to be the one whom was bestowing another with affection. Filling a lovelorn void with her that he himself shared. He found her stammering endearing, familiar in a way.

He pulled back again, if not to see how her pretty face coiled in desperation. Just as his would. His hand moved to the back of her hair, gripping her strands roughly, her head tilting back before he spoke lowly, "Tell me you desire it."

Daera's eyes beamed with a sudden awakening desire. Her cunt growing warm, as she whispered, "I desire it."

Aemond's jaw clenched, his voice soft, "Do you want me?" His eye wide, expectant.

Slowly, the Princess let her hands move into his hair as she furrowed her brow, as if he had to ask, she thought. Her voice equally soft, needy, "Yes, brother."

It was those very words which set his lips to hers again. He forced his breeches from him, Alys aiding. Aemond let his knee pry Daera's legs apart, his hand moving to finally touch what he knew would already be ready for him. His fingers grazing her wet core, just as their lips upon each other grew far more intensive in their ministrations. Daera was again, shocked by how wet everything felt, and his fingers sliding between her cunt made her mouth open slightly as a moan left her.

He pushed her down, and his head turned to guesture for Alys to get behind Daera. The witch did so, moving so that her legs were parted where Daera's head lay between. Aemond looked down upon his sister then up at his paramour. His eye narrowed as he let himself slip a finger into Daera's entrance.

A sudden moan left the princess and her hands gripped at his upper arms, she found her head tilting back as a simpering gasp left her. His other hand guiding her knee upwards as he pushed two fingers within her. Slowly stretching her. His eye caught Alys again, who herself had seemed to find the ordeal so pleasing, her own hand worked upon her. He watched as she circled her cunt, then slowly fucking herself with her fingers. Though Daera hadn't noticed, she was too busy writhing beneath Aemond as his fingers had grown terribly fast.

Suddenly he stopped, pulling his fingers from her, his gaze still harsh upon Alys as she pleased herself. His jaw clenched as he had remembered the sight he had walked in upon.

Daera found herself letting out a small whine as he had stopped, she looked up at him, when she was met with his hand clasping her cheeks. Aemond spoke with a swift determination in his tone, "You will tend to Alys as I ready you."

Daera had opened her mouth to speak before Aemond interrupted, "Turn around."

With that, Daera had found herself most shocked, though slowly, hesitantly she turned to her belly and moved towards Alys.

Aemonds voice rang in the thick silence of the chamber, "Tell her what she might do." He said lowly to Alys, his gaze too busy scanning the vast expanse of Daera's pale back, her plump rear and fleshy thighs.

Alys hummed, titling her head, her hands coming to Daera's cheeks to pull her forward, "I shall take the girl's mouth." The witch spoke smugly, her hand pulling at Daera's hair as she lowered the princess' lips to her cunt. "Slowly, my pet..." Alys cooed. "With your tongue."

Daera all but whimpered as her mouth met the soft, delicate folds of Alys. She was not sure how to go about it, but she started with slow, languid licks, hoping she might gauge where Alys was brought pleasure. The witch hummed and chuckled with pleasure, her hips slowly circling as she pressed Daera's mouth upon her cunt further. She instructed the princess lowly, and soon Daera was using her tongue to circle Alys clit, winning groans from the older woman.

Aemond had found himself oddly transfixed by the sight, his paramour instructing his sister. It was as though he was watching himself in a way. Though the sight of the two woman before him, was far more thrilling than he had anticipated. Alys' head tilted back, forcing Daera to move quicker, and Aemond slowly pryed apart her thighs. His fingers finding Daera's soaked core.

He grazed her clit, winning gentle moans from her as his other hand kneaded her rear. Alys, moaned again, her peak dawning as she cried, "The prince watches us... sweet girl. He watches with reverence."

Her words sparked a quick hum from Aemond as he found himself focused on Daera again. He leaned down, his chest pressed upon her back as lewd sounds of the two women filled the chamber. He moved his sister's hair to the side, exposing her neck and back. Aemond pressed gentle kisses into her, his hands trailing her soft flesh.

As he went to kiss her again, Alys had pulled Daera's hair harshly, forcing Aemond to lose his grip slightly. He looked up at his paramour, watching as she rolled her hips on his sister mouth, chasing her endless peak.

She was indeed a woman of great fortitude, but this was not about her pleasure. This was about legacy, this was about himself and his sister... and their duty to House Targaryen. Aemond's hands wrapped around Daera's waist, suddenly pulling her away from Alys' cunt.

The witch's eyes opened swiftly, and she gasped. "Your grace?!" She barked, almost like a mother would towards her child.

Though Aemond paid little attention to Alys as he laid Daera down upon her back again. "You've had your fill." He muttered.

The raven haired woman scoffed, "So I get nothing then? I brought you the girl-"

Aemond raised his hand, his tone aloof as he gazed down upon Daera. "Leave us." Aemond spoke lowly to Alys, he was too transfixed on the way Daera had brought her hands to his cheeks.

"My Prince..." The witch begged. Alys let her gaze grow wide and discontented.

"Hm.." Aemond looked up to the older woman, his gaze unwavering, stern, "You may go."

It only took one disgruntled look from Alys before she gave a nod, biting her tongue as she moved away from the bed. She dressed herself once more and left without any protest. After all, she was but under his mercy.

The silence in the room was startling, Daera's eyes widened, and her hand came to Aemond's eye patch, though he forced her hand away. He did not say another word as he settled between her legs. Aemond moved her hand to clasp his length, guiding her hand up and down to ready himself.

His lips met hers as he moved her legs to wrapped around his hips, and slowly, Aemond let his cock graze her folds. Both of them moaning at the sensation. He felt his resolve weaken, and with that, he pushed into her entrance ever so slowly. Giving her time to adjust to him.

Her core tight, so tight he felt himself wince as he tried to push further. Daera squeezed his arm making him force her hands to his cheeks. "Calm yourself." He said lowly.

Daera obliged, she closed her eyes, trusting the sensation that currently stung with pain would soon dissolve and it did. He eased himself into her, and Daera marvelled at the sound he made when he had finally pushed within her. All that could be heard from her was a deep gasp, her head tilting back. As he rocked his hips, fucking her slowly, her hands laced into his hair and his face buried into her neck. Daera suddenly began to moan softly, wantonly as the sensation became more and more pleasurable as her core loosened. She began to feel herself relax, and he slid in and out of her with ease. Aemond at this point was all but lost, he kept moving into her, his hands cupping her face as he moved between his face in the crook of her neck or kissing her harshly. His moans growing more intense, their names flying from the other's mouth. Panting and cursing filled his chamber, alongside low growls as he relished the feeling of her warm cunt upon him.

"Sweet sister..." He grumbled, nodding as his peak was soon to come. "Have me." He said, almost sweetly against her flesh. He wanted to bury himself in her, hold her tight. And that he did, their bodies flushed firmly against each other and Daera had instinctively began to rock her hips against his.

She moaned, grappling at his hair as she whispered, "Aemond... my brother..."

It was her soft coos which triggered him to come fiercely within her. His seed causing an odd warmth to spread within her. As the moment diffused, the heat between them had caused both of them to become flushed, panting gently as they lay entwined upon the bed. The shadows enclasping them both, yet in their arms both found a sense of peace. Daera coiled into him, her head resting upon the top of his.

Aemond laid upon her, letting her arms wrap around him, her soft flesh against his taut frame felt like bliss. He breathed out, speaking softly against her skin, "Alys... she.." Aemond stammered breathlessly against her neck, leaving small kisses.

Daera raised her brow, her hands coming to his hair, gently grazing his silver tresses. The moment felt beyond intimate, she felt a strange tie to him. One that had been all but lost to their distant youths.

He let his hands gently carress her face, his cheek nuzzling against her own as he whispered softly, cooingly into her ear,"She see's a silver haired boy upon the throne... a boy who comes from the flesh of two dragons. The mother... a great beauty, the father... a feared warrior. Of darkness and light, joined by a ghostly flame of longing. Separated by time, brought together by blood. It is us... sweet sister. Alys sees us."

[randomgurl2326]

I just got an insane thought. Stick with me on this one.

I think that Benji and his Targ!Darling would be exactly like Scarlet Overkill and Herb from the minions movie

I mean Herb is a fucking simp, this we know. You know who else is a simp? Benjicot motherfucking Blackwood. And Targ!Darling is a total badass; just like Scarlet Overkill.

Just two crazies goin’ to war together. Normal couple shit.

I know I might sound like a fucking nine year old but I thought about it when I went to see the new Despicable Me movie with my little sister (for the lore ammiright😏)

Anyway, that’s my though of the day, love y’all

[spoolsofgreenspoolsofblack]

command me. - aemond targaryen.

MINORS DNI- smut ahead you will be blocked <3

prompt- aemond has always been able to you get you to do his bidding, his voice brings you to your knees.

wanted to put something out as im so bored lol might start writing feyd rautha smut too (did NOT know i could be attracted to a bald person)

warning; nsfw, dual masturbation, no penetration, smut, cum eating, aemond being vocal.

You awaken as Aemond enters your chambers, his steps thunderous as he makes his way to you; standing at the edge of your bed. His flushed appearance and clothing let you know where he'd come from, training with Ser Criston usually got him heated. Aemond and you where by no means married, or even heading that way; but alas sometimes you two yearned for each other in a way only you two could sate.

Your nightgown hid nearly nothing as you stretched your arms around, a meek yawn as you rubbed your eyes. "Aemond... lekia(brother), what time do you call this?" You smile up at him as you crawl to him, your nightgown slipping down as you moved. Aemond smirked, letting out a hum of approval. you pushed your hair to one side, before wrapping your arms around his waist; inhaling his scent. Aemonds hand slipped through your hair, enrapturing themselves in your silver locs. His built frame leant over you as he pulled your head back, you let out a whimper at the pain; but your thighs clenched as you leaned back.

"Have you been well-behaved, mandia?(sister)" Aemond purred, smirking as he let go of your hair; moving his hand down to cup your cheek. Violet clashed with violet as his thumb traced across your lip, your lips parted as you smirked at him. Gods, had you tried to kill him? Aemond moaned at how sinful you were as you took his thumb graciously. Your lips trapped his thumb, taking it deeper as you wrapped your tongue around it.

"Lean back, sȳz riña (good girl)." Aemond groaned hesitantly, not even the gods could tear his eyes away from you. You let go of his thumb and leaned back, laying on your elbows as you watched him.

He went over to your fireplace and picked up one of the chairs at your desk, the leather of his shirt pulsed as his muscles involuntarily flexed. You felt your body get weak as he placed it across from the bed.

Aemond bit the hair tie around his wrist as he placed his hair in a bun. You sighed at the sight, he was simply so beautiful.

Aemonds eyebrow pinched, "Getting impatient, dear sister?" You watched as he fiddled with the latch of his eye patch, his fingers adept in many things. "No, just admiring; although confused."

His eyebrow quirked, as he placed his eye patch in his pocket. "Calm, ñuha jorrāelagon(my love). Undress for me." He smirked, watching as you immediately moved into action; fingers fumbling at your laces.

Aemonds snarky smirk fell when you eagerly pushed your night gown down, your nipples hardened at the cold air; Aemonds lack of smirk didn't go unnoticed by you as your fingers trailed down to your lacy garments. "What now, brother?" Your breathy voice cut off his thoughts as he watched you tease yourself. He grunted as he unlaced his pants slowly.

"Get yourself off, rene.(slut)" Aemond watched you as you pushed your garments aside, revealing your wet cunt. He groaned as he pulled his cock free from its confinements, a whimper left your lips as your fingers gradually crawled down to your sopping hole. Your slender fingers dug into your cunt, satisfying your carnal desires enough for you to let out a wanton moan.

Aemond seemed breathless as he fisted his cock at the sight of it all, your legs shaking as your fingers built up a rhythm, your silver tresses seemed to stick to you as your face pinched, and your other hand trailed up your stomach and to your breasts; leaving behind goosebumps as your pinch your nipples.

Aemond hisses out as he watches you come undone, your fingers shaking as you rub your pearl. A sight that makes Aemond move his hand faster along his cock; the sight before him making him cum. Your loud moans filled his ears as you squirted, panting and whimpering. He groaned as his fisting came to a halt as his pearly white semen landed onto his hand. His eyes turned to you, "Come here, beloved." His now quiet but demanding voice made you do as he said, your shaking thighs didn't help as you pulled yourself off the bed and into his awaiting presence.

"Kneel," He smirked as you sunk to your knees before him. You knew what he desired for you to do, so you took his messy fingers into your mouth - eyes closed as you swallowed his cum eagerly; a moan leaving your flushed lips as you taste his salty liquids.

"What do you say, girl?" Aemonds clean hand falls to your throat as he pulls his fingers from your eager mouth, you whimper meekly. "Thank you, brother." the words fall from your lips before you can catch them, his grip tightens, gently of course.

"Not quite." Aemonds stern voice and faux frown made you clench your thighs, "Thank you.. husband." You smiled up at him, as he released his grip on your throat. "Good girl," His praise sends you into a spiral as you lay your head in his lap, blissed out.

[feyhunter78]

Pink Pastels Pt 28

Description: It's time for the gala, and you meet two surprising figures there. Pt 29

You smooth out the nonexistent wrinkles in your gown, the soft material clinging to you like a second skin, emphasizing your curves perfectly, and giving you one hell of an ego boost.

“Y/N are you almost ready to go?” Miguel calls from your shared bedroom.

You give yourself a final look in the mirror. Makeup? Perfect. Hair? Gorgeous. Outfit? Stunning. You have to hand it to Miguel; he knows your style. You adjust the flower pendant around your neck, then step out of the bathroom, joining Miguel by the full-length mirror in the corner of the room.

“Ready.”

He looks at you in the mirror’s reflection, suddenly losing his grip on his tie. “Mi Vida…you look—”

“Like a princess! Mamá looks like a princess.” Gabi says, throwing her body onto you and Miguel’s bed before rolling over onto her stomach and admiring you, her head resting in her hands.

You turn and beam at her, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “Thank you, sweetheart, you look very pretty too.”

Gabi smiles and jumps up, twirling around in her dress. It’s a sparkly purple dress, the color matching your own, and Miguel’s tie. “What do you think, Papá?”

In an effort to make Alchemax seem more family friendly, they opened the gala up to family members, citing there would be entertainment for any kids that attended if their parents wanted for a break from them.

Miguel finishes tying his tie, then scoops Gabi up. “You look beautiful, mija.”

Gabi smiles and wraps her arms around his neck. “You look very handsome, Papá.”

“Like an emperor?” You suggest, giving Miguel a teasing smile over Gabi’s shoulder.

Miguel’s admitted he has a certain, and elaborate fantasy in which he is a superpowered emperor, and you are a princess that he whisks away and seduces. You haven’t yet given it a try, but even the mere mention of it nearly whips Miguel into a frenzy.

“No, that’s silly, he’s wearing clothes, Mamá.” Gabi giggles.

“Of course, I’m wearing—what?” Miguel’s brows furrow, and he looks to you for clarification.

“Oh, oh, we were talking about that story, The Emperor’s New Clothes, in class today.” You fill Miguel in, both proud of Gabi for remembering details about the story and glad she didn’t ask any other questions about why you referred to Miguel as an emperor.

“It’s a weird story, I like Beauty and the Beast better.” Gabi says, playing with the end of Miguel’s tie.

“It is a little silly, but the moral of the story is what’s important, remember?”

“Yes Mamá.” Gabi says.

“Why don’t we stop talking about people not wearing clothes and head to the party?” Miguel says, shooting you a look.

You smile mischievously at him, then head toward the door. “We’re waiting on you.”

You hold Gabi’s hand as you walk into the massive ballroom where Alchemax is hosting their gala. It’s in a nice hotel, one you’ve certainly never had the money to stay at before.

“It’s so pretty!” Gabi says, her eyes darting around the room as she takes in the finery before her.

“It really is.” You say, taken aback by how absolutely gorgeous the venue is.

“It was better last year, the CEO really slashed Monica’s budget, said she went too overboard last time.” Miguel comments, snagging two glasses of champagne from a nearby waiter.

You take it gratefully. “Well, I think it looks wonderful.”

“Miggy! Gabs! Y/N!” Monica’s voice rings out through the air.

“Speak of the devil.” Miguel jokes, turning to face his half-sister, who is rapidly approaching.

“Auntie Mon!” Gabi cries, rushing forward and throwing her arms around Monica.

“Hey kiddo!” Monica says, smiling down at Gabi. “You excited to see the petting zoo?”

“Yes, yes, yes, are there sheep?” Gabi asks, bouncing up and down on her toes in excitement.

“You bet there are.” Brett, Monica’s husband says, smiling widely, and he bends down to be face to face with Gabi. “You want to come with Uncle Brett and see them? If that’s okay with your dad?” He looks up at Miguel.

“Please Papá, please, I want to see the sheep.” Gabi begs, giving Miguel her best puppy dog eyes.

Your fiancé predictably folds and nods. “Okay, but be careful.”

Gabi promises to be careful and takes Brett’s hand, letting him lead her out the doors and into the garden area.

“Sheep?” Monica asks, raising one eyebrow.

Miguel shakes his head fondly. “I don’t know, they’re her newest obsession right now.”

Monica laughs. “Remember when we were back in school, and you were obsessed with that really specific pen brand? What were they, G-something?”

“Sharpie S-Gel.” Miguel says almost automatically.

A catlike grin spreads across her face. “Like father, like daughter, huh?”

You stifle a giggle, there are dozens of those pens scattered around Miguel’s apartment.

“Monica, darling, are you teasing Miguel?” A voice you don’t recognize asks.

Miguel stiffens slightly, and Monica turns, a playfully annoyed look on her face. “Mom, he’s a grown man, he’ll be fine.”

Standing before you are two women. One, a tall red-haired woman with piercing blue eyes and an elegant air to her, you assume she’s Monica’s mother, and the other a slightly shorter Mexican woman with curly dark hair and warm brown eyes. She’s wearing the same pantsuit as Monica’s mother but in powder blue instead of black.

“Yes, but he’s sensitive.” Monica’s mother says, smiling brightly at Miguel. “Miggy, darling, how are you?”

“I’m doing well, Nancy, and yourself?” Miguel asks, stiffly holding his hand out for her to shake.

“Mijo, don’t be so stiff, hug your Aunt Nancy.” Miguel’s mother says, taking a step forward and lightly swatting him on the arm.

“Oh Connie, please, don’t push the boy, I know he’s not the biggest hugger.” Nancy chides playfully, giving Miguel a quick hug.

You’re torn between freaking out, quietly cussing Miguel out for not telling you his mom was going to be here, or introducing yourself, but luckily Monica makes the choice for you.

“Mom, Aunt Connie, this is Y/N, Miguel’s fiancée.”

Nancy’s perfectly painted lips blossom into a brilliant smile, but Connie’s brow furrows.

“What about Ava?” She asks.

Your stomach drops.

“What about her, Mamá?” Miguel counters calmly.

“She’s Gabriella’s mother, you can’t just replace her like that.”

And now your stomach begins to churn uncomfortably.

“Can we have this discussion in private?” Miguel asks, his tone leaving no room for discussion.

Connie nods, and you look between Miguel and Monica.

“I’ll be right back, cariño, enjoy the party.” He reassures you, before he leads his mother away from the main crowd.

Nancy purses her lips, then pulls out a chair. “Never liked that Ava girl.”

Monica sits as well, motioning for you to do the same. “She’s a bitch.”

You bite your tongue.

Nancy seems to notice and places her hand over yours. “Oh, don’t worry, she’s long gone, ran off with some Californian.”

“Oh, yes, Miguel told me.” You say, praying they’ll believe that’s the real reason you look like you want to vomit.

“Not everyone can make an affair work in their favor, it’s hard work.”

You blink owlishly at her.

“I saw Miguel and Monica in school together, made the connection, went to Connie to ask woman to woman what was going on behind my back. Turns out she had tried to end the affair multiple times, but Tyler wouldn’t let her, until one day she finally gathered her strength and broke it off. Now, Tyler and I were never soulmates, but it hurt to know what he had done, and I wanted revenge.”

Monica grabs her drink and downs it.

“I’ll spare you the boring details but, rest assured, Connie and me and made sure Tyler could never negatively affect our lives ever again.” Nancy finishes, picking up a knife and cutting into the food set before her.

“That’s good…?” You say uncertainly, looking to Monica for help.

Monica just shrugs. “Hey, I didn’t pay for college, or my wedding, I really can’t complain.”

“Needless to say, I keep my husband on a short leash, and I have no patience for cheaters, so Ava was never my favorite.”

“I…yeah, no, she sounds awful.”

Maybe it’s better to keep your mouth shut, technically you were kind of cheating on Todd with Miguel, but it’s different, right? Todd treated you horribly, he didn’t care about you, and you broke up with him before you and Miguel actually ever had sex, hell you didn’t even know it was Miguel until the end.

Besides, Todd would’ve jumped at the chance to get his dick sucked by his favorite female superhero, and wouldn’t have even felt bad about it, at least you felt bad…

Speaking of Miguel, you wonder what’s taking him so long.

Tag list: @miggyoharaswife, @badbishsblog, @imisshim2much, @wanderlustingcastaway, @lynn-9703, @sleepyamaya, @erensbbg, @sweetea85, @ilovemiguelohara, @natthernandez, @stxrrielle, @ihateuguys, @jenniferdixon05207, @blep-23, @luvisaaxoxo, @minimari415, @emerald-09, @violet-19999, @kenchosaikuo, @groovycass, @youcantseem3, @lovefks, @nightshxdex, @dusstory, @aesniri, @munsonssecretblog, @kirke-is-my-name, @starbearieee, @chatoicboy, @act1839, @needsleep3000, @totally-not-georgia, @witchy-lizard, @cxmeiloorun7, @justrandomlolidk, @chimpkinnuggies, @alicefallsintotherabbithole, @loser-alert, @wwwellacom, @ryantryan6969, @lollipopin, @blakeaha, @youcantseem3, @a-cult-leader, @verexi, @purpleskiesandroses, @they2luv1naia, @sophiaj650, @idolautism, @rheannajrs, @merakiq, @rexs-wife, @sukaretto-n, @twilight-loveer, @f1shb0nez, @callsign-blue, @marcelineormars

[just-some-random-blogger]

Accidental Targ #2

YAY! We finally got through scene II! Now that Daemon's in the modern world with us, we obviously have to add a modern love interest 😁😁

tbh maybe this is too many choices bUTTT HIHIHH ✨variety✨ For context, this man would be her boss (cos we love a good power imbalance 🤣) and obviously has a super massive soft spot for her #sugardaddycore lmao

[zephyrrr101]

Let me help you

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x sister reader

Warning: Targcest/incest (that's the hype about Hotd loves), fingering, consensual everything basically, dirty talking, all the ASOIAF warnings, slight Dom Daemon, MINORS DNI.

Lots of thanks to @officialaemondtargaryen for being my beta for this one. Love you lots hon.

The day had been very tiring. You had lesson with your Septa continuously. And the woman had seemed to swore that she would not leave you alone until you have finished sewing your house sigil into the tapestry you were supposed to do for your grandsire, King Jaehaeyrs', soon approaching name day.

Your feet felt frozen with the long sitting, so did your back. Your hands ached before but now everything felt numb. Shaking them, as you tried to remove the numb feeling that seemed to have spread up to your elbows. You couldn't help but curse her as you got into your chamber after asking your sworn sheild for your maids to be called.

"Tried?"

A shriek left your mouth and you turned around to see your older brother, Daemon lazily lying on your bed with an amused smile.

"Fuck you, Daemon!" You sighed, leaning over the now closed door with your hand over your chest that reached there out of fright. You loved your brothers, you did, but Daemon was just as much of little shit as much he was charmer.

"Well, if you insist..." He drawled and you grabbed the closest thing to you and threw it at him, very obviously not hitting the target as the very expensive brass vase had landed on your pillow a good one hand away from your brother's head. Did you care? No.

"I'm already tired, Dae. And annoyed. So if you're here to rile me up, I suggest get the fuck out," You moved around the room, making your way over to other side of bed and laying down on your stomach very ungracefully, pushing the vase down on floor.

You think Daemon understood that you were quite serious. Well, he better have or else you were going to hit him perfectly on his perfect annoying face.

You felt his hand caressing your hair, the hair of same color that you shared with him. It brought you comfort as his fingers moved from the crown of your head to base, his fingers, just the right pressure, oh your brother could also be just as sweet as infuriating he was when you needed him to be.

"What happened?" He whispered and he turned you over and laid beside you. Now you were facing him, you could see a frown on his beautiful face. Along with your hair, you shared your nose with him, longer than that of Viserys'. And your cheekbones too. The same cheekbones that he was now caressing.

"My Septa had me doing needlework all day." You told. Daemon snorted at it and he received a poke in ribs for that whe you continued your complaining. "Do not laugh. My hands are numb from working on that tapestry. My legs and back feel just as useless."

"Is my haedar so much in pain?" He mused, sporting a smirk, but his words were genuine. You knew. Always.

Daemon was a mystery to most. You had seen girls gush at him, your maids-in-waiting were just mad about him. When you looked at him you saw nothing but your brother. A brother you loved and hated? No. No. You didn't hate him. He was more of like... A leech? Yes, a leech you did everything to squeeze the life out of you. But he did you just as much. Maybe more than anyone did. Just you did.

Daemon sat up leading you to frown at his action. "Where are you going?"

"Nowhere," he smiled at you and shifted over to the end of the bed, taking your feet in his hands. "Let me help you." His slightly calloused hands pressed into your tender flesh, rubbing and squeezing and your eyes closed at the relief you felt as you let out pleased sighs. His hands moved up first to your ankles, rolling them as easily he could, then to calves, massaging your muscles tenderly, then around the knees and then above them with soft circular motions and then—

"Daemon," one of your eyes opened as your look at him sternly.

Daemon grinned, nothing just concern seemed to be there anymore. His fingers now made there way up to your inner thighs, his movements alternating between hard and soft and with each movement he seemed to move more closer to the apex of your legs.

"What are you doing, lekia?" You retorted, knowing where it was leading to.

"Being a good brother and helping my sister relax, of course," he leaned down, slowly coming up, and hovered over you, his face just above yours, you could easily smell Caraxes on him along with the leather vest that he wore most of the time and the sweet fragrance of Arbor Gold that was both of yours favourite.

"We can't, Daemon. Not now. I've called my maids." You tried to push him off you. As much as you loved Daemon doing all the other worldly things to you, getting caught was not something you could afford. Daemon did not budge. He simply dipped down, his lips meeting yours and you easily melted into him.

"Send them away. Who cares?" It wasn't that hard for you to be convinced when he was making such good effort.

One of your hands pulled at the hair, pulling him more into you as the other found it's way inside Daemon's tunic as you traced his skin. You loved the way his body felt on your skin. Each muscle strong, you could even trace some small scars that he received while training or in duels. Everything that made your brother beautiful.

His mouth left wet kisses down your jaw, his teeth nipping at soft skin of your neck and you gasp when he sucked on your skin. He was going to leave a mark. He was doing it deliberately. This bastard! You could feel your small cloth getting wet. Oh, he did it again. Biting that spot on your neck. You loved it when he did it.

Your hands moved down his chest, you caress every inch of his you could with the tunic that still was attached to him and moved down and down and down, reaching the lace of his breeches.

Daemon grabbed your hands, and pulled them up, keeping them prisoner above your head. "Daemon, what—"

"Hush, sweet sister," he spoke, and left a kiss on your lips. "Let me take care of you." He unlaced the top of your dress, the sleeves coming down swiftly and he suckled on the tits softly. His fingers found their way to your small cloth, unlacing the barrier that was between him and the sweet nether. "My, did I do that you, haedar?"

"Daemon," you gasp, his fingers moving through your lower lips, his thumb ghosting over you pearl, a shriek followed the gasp when you felt him flicking on it. "Fuck,"

His chuckle echoed in the otherwise silent room where just your breaths could be heard. He bent and you felt it, his tongue slowly moving along the rises and lows of your cunt. He nibbled at the skin around your clit, sucking it and you moan.

His fingers caresses you and he slowly entered one digit inside you making you gasp.

Daemon rose, his fingers still in you, you could see your arousal coating his lips, his pink lips that shined under the candle light around your room. "I haven't even started and you're clenching like that?"

You moan out his name as he moves his fingers inside you, going back to sucking your pearl, lapping on your arousal. "Hmm, haedar, you taste like nectar of gods." He spoke while licking your juices and he added another finger inside you. Grabbing the sheets around you bit your lip to not make too much of a louder noise. Your sworn shield stood outside. If he heard anything, you would be sent to silent sister's just like your aunt Saera and you were sure that you won't be able to run away like her.

You undid the laces in thr front of your dress, loosening it around your chest, your mounds slipping out and you caress the skin, circling your fingers on your pebbles, pulling them and a moan left your mouth at the pleasure flooding through you from them and Daemon's fingers in you.

Daemon looked up and scowled at the sight of your fingers on your nipples. He smacked your hand with his other one, his fingers in you pausing and tugged at your pink tit.

You squealed in pain and glared at Daemon as he pulled back his fingers before adding another one. "Don't touch yourself," He gave you a stern look. "Good princess don't do such things. They let their elder brother take care of them."

You moaned as he thrusted his fingers inside you deeper, you could feel his rings in you, he was so deep. The other hand now playing with your mounds pulling, pinching caressing. "That feels good? Hmm? You are clenching on my fingers, sweet girl."

"Please, Daemon," You moaned, your hands finding his shoulders and you grabbed it hard, Daemon felt your nails biting his skin, his breeches becoming tighter with each moment. "Need you, Daemon."

"Need me? How so?" He grinned and he curled his fingers inside you, before pulling them back and pushing in again this time deeper and then again more deeper as if trying to find how far he could go just with his hand.

"Your mouth." You suck in a deep breath, "on me,"

"On you? Where? There's a lot a of places on you."

You would have thrown something at him again if he hadn't pressed his thumb on your clit making you almost scream. "My cunt! My cunt, damn it Daemon! Just fucking—"

You covered your mouth as soon as you could. You hadn't even been able to see when Daemon hand went back to sucking your pearl and lips. Your abdomen clenched, you were near your peak. And Daemon apparently knew that too since he had increased his pace.

"Princess!" Your maid's voice sounded muffled through the closed door. Or maybe it was the haze you were in. "Princess, we've come with your bath water,"

You glanced at Daemon between your legs and found him looking up at you with a devilish look in his eyes while he sucked and lapped on you like a hound who hadn't been fed in days and you felt yourself clench. Oh that infuriating bastard was enjoying it.

"Princess?" You maid called out again, her voice now sounding concerned.

"A minute!" You yelled and gasped. You couldn't see what Daemon was doing, but it felt like a blessing from Gods.

Your head was thrown back in your pillow and you felt your eyes rolling back as you reached your peak, your hand on your mouth, muffling all the moans it could as you came down from your high.

Daemon rose, still sitting between your legs, both you panting heavily. His lips glistening with your juices, he was grinning. And so were you. Daemon moved, coming to hover over you, he dropped and your lips met his, you tasted yourself on him and after a moment he pulled away, a fond look in his lilac eyes.

"What about you?" You asked, pointing at his cock, straining inside his breeches. You were tempted to loosen the laces and take him, but you knew that time was not on your side.

"I'll handle it. Maybe I'll visit Silk Street," he shrugged.

You sat up on your bed as he got off the bed, you glanced between him and the door where your maids stood outside, "Where are you going to hide?"

Daemon gave you a confused look, "Why must I hide? I am going to my room." You were even more confused as he started to walk behind your bed.

"Daemon the maids outside—" Him pushing a part of wall behind you had you stop talking. Well, it actually moving had you shut up. "What in the seven hell? Daemon?"

Your brother smirked at you as he entered what you now understood were the secret tunnels Maegor had built in the Keep. He had known about them. That fucker!

"You little cunt! Fucking—"

"Good bye, sister. Enjoy your bath. Your maids' are waiting." And he quicked his way inside the tunnel, closing the part of wall leaving the room as he wasn't even here.

Damn, your brother. You loved him so much.

[bronzefuryfic]

So I may have been overcome by the need to draw Rhae because I love her. Anyway, this is for you, I hope you like it 👉🏻👈🏻

Omfg Misa!!!!!!! This is incredible!!!!! I love your interpretation of Rhae- especially the braids and especially especially the bronze hair clasp with runes on it. Such a cute detail!!! This is unbelievably thoughtful, thank you for taking the time to do this and share!!

[bl00dlight]

Ghostly Flame

Aemond Targaryen x OC sister x Alys Rivers {NSFW}

Warnings ● Carpet munching, graphic language, general smut, FxF, age gap, targcest, dubious consent, drugging?, not proof read

Word count ● 3k+

Author's Note • This was meant to be a one shot. Now it's a two parter. This actually has a plot. I dont write smut without a plot and the x reader is so overdone atm. So ive written up an OC. This part is some serious lesbo action. Happy pride to all my homo milf lovers. This one is for you.

Masterlist

Part I

The halls of Harrenhal were no place for a Targaryen. Somber and damp... shadows cast by no flame engulfed the walls. It was an odd place, a cursed place. 

As the great Targaryen civil war raged on, Prince Aemond Targaryen had seized Harrenhal for himself after his uncle, Daemon Targaryen fled it. There, Prince Aemond enacted his plan of destruction upon the Riverlands. Burning all, innocent or otherwise, loyal or traitorous. Indeed, Prince Aemond did not discriminate for who would meet the fires of Vhagar. 

However, none met his wrath quite like the House Strong. For Aemond slaughtered all Strong Bastards and Strong nobles he might come across. Leading to the House facing extinction. No man, woman or child seemed to escape the Targaryen Prince's wrath... but one... a bastard woman by the name of Alys Rivers. 

A witch, whom he took as his war prize. A bedmate to distract him during the cold and clawing nights in Harrenhal. The Prince swore he heard the screams and cries of those he had slain. Though he dare not admit it, it unnerved him. Alys' talents in apothecary came most useful to him, for she oft brewed him tonics to ease such tension he claimed was from war. 

Though he had found other measures in which to use the woman for, when it came to matters of easing tension. Alys was a woman of many talents indeed.  The Prince could seldom admit to himself the bastard had grown on him, something he kept hidden within his heart.

Just as his younger sister was, tucked away in Harrenhal's stoney depths. The Princess Daera was a delicate thing, much like her sister Helaena; unaware of the evils that dwelled around her. Unaware of the depths of depravity and violence her own brother held buried within him. Or so Aemond thought. 

After Rhaneyra had taken back King's Landing, the Princess Daera had managed to escape her half-sister’s capture. Being aided by a Kingsguard to flee the capital and join her brother Aemond as he campaigned through the Riverlands. 

They had settled in Harrenhal for several weeks now, and Daera had spent most of her time dwelling it's cursed halls. At times sitting in the Godswood with the raven haired bastard Alys Rivers. 

Daera found it strange how the woman had taken to her. Sometimes insisting on helping her bathe and dress. The bastard claimed it was her nature as a wetnurse, and was in servitude to Prince Aemond and the Princess. That it pleased her to tend to Daera. 

Though it was apparent how Alys unnerved Daera at times, finding her staring intently. Her green eyes locked upon the Princess's soft form. 

Similarly to Aemond, Princess Daera oft took the tonics Alys left for her, since her arrival at Harrenhal also came with paralyzing nightmares. Tormenting the princess with strange and devastating visions. Visions of her family's death... of Aemond's death. 

Some of which leaked into her waking moments. Daera had oft found herself coming to Aemond in the dead of night, frozen with terror as she had heard disembodied voices calling for her... yearning for her. 

●

Princess Daera sat in her chamber, it was a far cry from her former one in the Red Keep. The walls stoney, grey and the bedding always cold and lumpy. Only the fire provided the much needed light which seemed to get lost amidst the shadowy landscape of Harrenhal. 

She rose, making her way to her bed. The hour was rather early considering, but there was little else to do once it darkened outside. And it was a great comfort for Daera to hear the bustling of people still awake. Far better that the void of silence the castle was known for. 

The soft howling of the wind echoed through the halls outside, and Daera tried her best to ignore the frightful noise. This place... chilled her bones like no other. 

Daera turned her head, looking out the thin windows etched into the stone. Gazing upon the moonlit landscape of the Riverlands; all burnt to a cinder now. No doubt her brother’s doing. 

As she came to her bed, she sat and saw the tonic Alys had left, neatly placed upon the side table. Daera brought it to her lips, drinking it squarely and she prepared herself for the familiar wince that would follow as the bitter herbs hit her tongue. But it did not come. 

It tasted different... sweet? 

A warmth filled her bones, an ease. Mayhap Alys had found a new recipe, one which was more effective? As the princess laid down, her hair pooled like a river behind her. She shut her eyes, drawing the covers over her frame. The feeling spread from her chest to her toes. Easing her, mellowing her temper. She stretched, indulging in the bliss of it, like a cat in the sun she could feel herself go mindless to its heady comfort. The world around her felt softer, kinder. Even the lumpy bedding. With that, Daera drifted off and the Princess's dreams were as strange as they always were. Though less terrifying admittedly. 

She dreamt of her chambers and its strange silence. Of herself, sleeping. In the dream the Princess opened her eyes, awakening to the dark, stoney chambers. The fire dimmed and the world around her cast in a strange fog. 

Outside, the wind wailed softly and she came to the window, gazing upon the scorched earth lit by the pale light of the moon. It was an odd sight. Such beauty, forever scarred by flame. What irony that the Riverlands were now dry. 

Suddenly, she felt a familiar chill run through her bones. The same chill she oft has in his nightmares. Her eyes widened, and Daera remained still until her attention was drawn by a voice which beckoned from the halls. 

Daera turned, tilting her head as she walked slowly towards the doors. Her pale nightgown and robe trailing. Her heart thumped slowly, though the voices grew, she did not fear them for some reason... 

As her hand came to the cool doorknob, Daera turned them slowly, carefully pulling the heavy wood. What she faced was nil but an empty hall. Shadowy, lit only by the strands of moonlight which casted a fractured glow upon the stone. Daera stood back, a trickle of fear running through her as the halls themselves felt like a looming force not to be disturbed. 

But the voices grew again, beckoning her. The Princess couldn't quite make out what they were saying, some in fact seemed to not be speaking in the common tongue at all. But they were soft, luring. 

Daera followed them, slowly moving through the halls in a daze. Her body coursing now with that familiar warmth from earlier. If she wasn't sure she was already dreaming, she could've sworn she might fall asleep.

She made her way through the dark, half unknowingly. It seemed the world around her melted into the shadows. The only confirmation Daera had she was moving forward were the peaks of light from the thin windows. The dark had engulfed her completely. It seemed the halls were but a maze she had no sense of navigation for, but as she came across two large doors, a strange feeling bloomed within her. That this was where the voices were leading her too. 

Daera opened the door, her eyes heavy as they set upon the familiar sight. Though it was dark, only lit by a few small candles and a dying fire. The chamber was streaked by the moonlight illuminating a sight she had seen many times. Aemond's bed. Somehow, it seemed she ended up in his quarters here in Harrenhal. 

Despite having walked what she thought was the opposed way. 

She entered, closing the door behind her and when she turned again, she was met with pale skin, raven hair splayed out upon Aemond's bed. Alys. 

Daera stopped, her eyes opening as she came to see how the woman lay bare. Her sharp face peering up at the princess, and giving her a warm smile. 

Alys moved, sitting up slowly and Daera turned her head; a coil of embarrassment within her that she would walk in upon Alys in such a state. 

But the bastard only gazed, her green eyes leering over Daera's curves. The two women said nothing, before Daera felt the sudden urge to turn to face Alys. 

At first she wished to cringe, but as her eyes scanned the bare and pale flesh of the woman before her, that warmth grew. 

Daera found herself taking in Alys' breasts, her hips and thighs. The silvery ripples of stretched skin upon her belly, contrasted with her raven hair - thick like a belt of the night sky. 

The Princess moved closer and closer until she stood before the witch. Alys sat neatly upon the edge of the bed gazing upwards. Daera's eyes grew wide, both with desire and shame. 

It was a forbidden temptation to indulge in, an act which would tarnish Daera forever; even if it was just a dream, even if it was the conjurings of her mind... to know such desires lay within her was enough. 

Daera stepped back, uncertain - just as she did the pale and harsh grip of Alys snatched her wrist. The witch tugged her closer until her legs were pinned between the sitting Alys.

"Where are you going... surely you wish to stay." Her voice had curled, a thick sultry husk as she glanced up at the Princess. 

Daera felt herself shake slightly, her mind reeling at the thought of it all. But she nodded, sparking a smile from Alys. 

"Good..." Alys murmured. "Sit yourself here...." She gently patted the edge of the bed, a gesture which seemed less of a request and more a demand.

Daera sat quietly, the warmth spreading through her as she took a peak at the pale and soft bare flesh of Alys beside her. The Princess squeezed her thighs together to stifle whatever feeling dwelled between them. 

The witch snickered, moved closer before she let her hand slide upon Daera's clothed thigh. Alys leaned in, her lips grazing her ear, "I can smell such shame... and such desire..." Her voice but a whisper. 

Daera froze, her eyes watching as Alys hand slid between her clothed thighs. 

"All this cloth you wear, it is such a hindrance. Surely it does no good for you to adorn something so... restrictive." The witch whispered once more, feeling the layers or fabric which hid Daera's skin. 

"Modesty is a virtue for women..." Daera spoke softly, shakily. Though the conviction in her voice weak. 

Alys tutted and scoffed, "Mm... is that what the Dowager Queen taught you? That you are but a vessel to be adorned by the virtues men bestowed upon us? You are a dragon... my girl." The witch let her pale hands come to Daera's robe, peeling it off her. 

Alys discarded the robe to the floor and Daera let her. The Princess caught in a daze of uncertainty and desire. The warmth spread through her core at the mere suggestion of what the bastard woman claimed. 

The princess felt cool lips at her neck, kissing and siphoning at her skin, as hands worked to rid her of her nightgown. Daera let out a shuddered breath. 

"Indeed, I've much to show you Princess. Just as I have the Prince..." Alys spoke lowly, raising her brow as she revealed Daera's form before her. Her small clothes still sitting over her pelvis. 

The princess turned her head, catching the green eyes of Alys. A chill ran down her spine at the mention of her brother. They were in his bed... doing such sinful things. Exactly where the witch had surely gotten her brother to do the same. 

Daera tilted her head, her eyes pleading as Alys had grabbed her chin, pulling it so their faces met. The witch's fingers then grazed over Daera's plush lips as she whispered.

"Such pretty lips... gone unkissed.." Alys inched forward, cupping Daera's jaw. Suddenly their lips met in a slow, languid kiss. Daera found herself slightly shocked by the sensation. It was... wetter than she had expected. 

The princess leaned in, as that warmth spread through her. She kissed Alys back, winning a small moan from the woman. Alys grinned, feeling a sense of victory dawn over her as she reached between the Princess's legs, grazing the warmth of her clothed core. 

Instantly the sensation sent Daera reeling, she found herself turning, kneeling upon the bed as Alys did the same. The Princess let her hands come to Alys' hair, trailing down until she reached the soft peaks of her breasts. 

It was swiftly that Alys' herself moved her lips to Daera's neck, trailing down until she reached the Princess' plush breast. Her lips wrapped around the pink bud which adorned one, sucking softly. 

Daera tilted her head back, her eyes wide and she found her hips moving equally upon Alys' hand as it rubbed against her clothed core. It was so wrong, so utterly unthinkable that she dare let her brother's bedmate touch her. 

Yet Alys muttered against Daera's breast, her hands now finding the band of the small clothes which covered the Princess' core. "Such a desirous girl..." 

Suddenly, Alys forced Daera to lay flat upon the bed. The witch hovered above her, pulling the small clothes from the Princess' form. 

Daera looked upon Alys in a complete daze, the warmth which flooded through her blood had rendered her useless to any protest. And she watched as Alys slid down, pulling Daera forward until her legs dangled over the edge of the bed. 

The bastard pulled herself to kneel directly in front of Daera. Her head was now level with the princess' thighs, and as she looked up at her knowingly, a maligned smirk played on her face. As the small clothes fell to the floor Alys' hands began to crawl up the princess' thighs, trailing upwards, like spiders upon white silk. 

The witch sat up, her own thighs pressing into the bedding as she gazed up at Daera. Her fingers found purchase on the princess' upper thighs gripping and then parting them. Daera gasped, squirming as she watched the witch claw towards her, her head settled between Daera's open thighs. 

"There we are..." Alys purred, as she pressed her face against the Princess's flesh, kissing her lightly, taking in her scent. The witch muttered once more, "Sweet... like moonbloom." 

Alys took her time, kissing and nipping at the soft skin of her legs.  The witch's hands gripping and stroking Daera's flesh. 

"Have you ever had someone before, princess?" she asked, her breath warm like a summer evening.

Daera looked down, her brows furrowed in surrender. Her core aching and wet, she had never felt she desire before, never felt such need demand it be tended to. The Princess whispered, "No..." 

"Mm, as I thought, a flower left to wilt." The witch let her lips move upwards, trailing towards Daera's core, she spoke once more, "How lucky I am to be... to taste not just a dragon, but a maiden too. Lovely..." 

Alys placed a kiss upon the princess' core, though feather light, was but enough to make Daera's body shudder. 

The witch chuckled, her breath hot against Daera's slick folds, "Sensitive..." she murmured, a smirk upon her lips.

And just like that, Alys used  her hands to spread the princess' legs further, swiftly clasping her mouth upon Daera's cunt. 

The witch's tongue began to move, swirling as a serpent against the sensitive skin. She lapped up Daera's wetness and the princess was all but awe struck by the feeling. She parted her legs further, her hands coming to Alys' black locks, tugging at them. 

Her head falling backwards in bliss, mouth hung as a soft whimper left her. The feeling of Alys' tongue upon her felt like fire shredding through her skin, Daera moved her hips slightly chasing the intensity. 

As the princess' head dropped back Alys let her gaze wander upwards, enjoying the sight of the girl unleashed. Such a demure temperament Daera seemed to embody, seemed all but lost as the Princess groaned. Alys felt satisfaction coil in her, to have the silver haired girl brought to a whorish state only fueled the witch's ministrations.

She pulled back for a moment and muttered, placing teasing kisses upon the wet cunt before her, "Does it feel good, sweet dragon? To feel my mouth where no man has laid claim to you before?" Alys' voice like a siren song. 

The teasing kisses and soft tone of the witch made Daera whimper once more, she nodded. Her voice trembling, "Yes... my Lady.." 

Alys chuckled, enjoying hearing the princess call her 'lady'. The sight was one which was most wanton, the two women in such a vulnerable embrace, indulging in desires that would surely see them hung. Though a strange flicker of affection coiled within Alys. Unlike her brother, Daera was easier, sweeter. She was not used to such control, for usually she was the one to lay below a dragon. Aemond was rarely tender in his touch, at times it had seemed he merely wished to relinquish himself of something than indulge as Daera seemed to. 

Indeed, Daera seemed desperate for it, longing to be touched so tenderly. It was only a few times Alys had managed to encounter such need from Aemond. To have him laying in her arms, wrapped in an embrace. Though he oft acted above such affections after they took place. 

Alys tilted her head and spoke cooingly, "Such a pretty thing you are...such pretty sounds you make." With that, her tongue curled, finding the sweet, pulsing core of the princess once more.

Her hands gripped and pulled Daera closer, until she was all but pressed flush against the witch's face. Alys moaned at the sensation of her own cunt flooding with desire. 

Quickly, Daera felt the intensity building. She moaned, her head tilting further back as her back arched into the feeling. What a dream this was, what heavenly visions her mind had created. The pleasure so intense Daera hadn't noticed the sly sound of an open door. The slow, heavy footsteps of boots upon the creeking floor. 

A lonesome eye narrowing upon the scene. Raven hair buried between pale thighs. Silver hair catching in the thread of moonlight upon his bed. His paramour's lips upon his sister's cunt. 

It was no dream at all. 

○Part II○

[randomgurl2326]

this is a little excerpt from my benji blackwood x targ!reader fic. I’m already over a thousand words in and I still have a lot more to go.

enjoy this tiny bit of angst😈

[sluttysnowangel666]

His Second Wife - cregan stark x reader (request)

summary: two years following the death of cregan’s first wife, he accepts an undesired marriage proposal to rhaenyra targaryen’s daughter. rhaenyra’s daughter, who had loved cregan the moment she first met him as a young girl, immediately loves and accepts cregan’s first child as her own. yet it is still not enough for cregan to find his own love for his new wife.

cw: mean cregan😓, widow!cregan, targ!reader, loss of virginity(reader), rhaenyra’s daughter, angst to fluff, unrequited love, sex, happy ending

do yall notice i always post a long ass story usually around midnight or later ( i’m unwell)also this is long af soz it was a detailed request and I wanted it to be to a T. this is SOO long. i prolly should have done two parts… oh well @lillithsalvatore hope you enjoy it love ❤️

masterlist

“How do you feel, my love?” Your mother asked, placing a warm and comforting hand on yours.

You sighed. “Nervous.”

She gave you that warm and sweet smile of hers. “I know. I hope you know this choice was not easy for me to make, as I know this was a hard task for me to place upon you.”

“I know, mother.” You say with forgiveness, giving her hand a squeeze.

“Had it been any other lord I would have surely declined but… Starks are the most honorable among men. I know your union will be blessed by the gods.”

You give her a smile, blindly trusting her words. You had met him once, and you knew he was kind. In fact, he had left a paw shaped imprint on your heart. You thought to yourself no union could be more suitable. You knew he had married once before out of a prior marital alliance, but the marriage had been short lived, lasting only a year before his first wife died in her birthing chambers.

It took more than four moons before you arrived at Winterfell, as if every power in the world was set on preventing it. You were not a superstitious person, so you simply thought all the bad things that happened prior to your marriage was coincidence.

Each time you went to leave, something prevented you. Your mother miscarried your baby sister, Lucerys was killed by Aemond, Daemon went silent at Harrenhall, Rhaena ran away and was lost in the eyrie before revealing she claimed Sheep-stealer.

You arrived in the dead of winter, and the journey had not been kind to you. You got a chill on the way up, causing you to stop at an inn for a few nights, you had came across raiders who killed one of the many men escorting you, and your clothes were ill suited for the weather.

You did eventually arrive at Winterfell thankfully, all in one piece.

You stepped out of the carriage cautiously, eyeing the snowy landscape surrounding you. It went as far as the eye could see. You held your hand out, letting the thick snowflakes fall and melt in your hand.

“My princess.” You turn to see Cregan, walking towards you. He bows, forcing a politeness. “Winterfell is yours.”

You bow in return, “No need for such formalities, Lord Stark. This is your home, and I am honored to have you welcome me here.”

He nods, choosing to say nothing else to you.

“Please show the princess to her chambers.” He says to one of the servants, then immediately turning on his heels to leave. Your jaw falls slightly, surprised at his curt demeanor.

You compose yourself, trying to hide the slight hurt in your features before making your way to your private chambers.

You bathed immediately, welcoming the hot water against your skin. No water could be hot enough for your dragon blood, but what they had drawn up for you would do nicely.

Your wedding was a week after your arrival, the lord having given you time to settle in. You had not seen him much during that week so you chose not to bother him, assuming he was busy with duties.

When you walked down that snowy path to the red weirwood, Cregan stole a glance at you. You looked beautiful, and he felt horribly guilty for thinking it. He felt like what he was doing was betraying her.

You said your vows, swearing your love before the old gods. You smiled at Cregan and he gave you a forced one in return. Guilt wracked his whole body. He felt guilty for you, knowing he wouldn’t be able to give you a union where you were loved, he felt guilty for liking your smile, he felt guilty for forgetting hers.

There was a feast following the ceremony, nothing large due to the pains of winter, but it didn’t bother you. The small gathering felt intimate, compared to southern weddings where lords and ladies travelled from all over the realm to witness it.

It was here you met Cregan’s son, Rickon.

“Hi, little one.” You said. He was only two, a fat little babe who looked just like Cregan.

“Rickon, this is my new wife.” Cregan said. The way he worded it made you twitch, it had sounded so strained. He didn’t even use your name. You told the boy the name he could call you, but he said nothing as he hid behind his father’s leg.

“I apologize.” Cregan said, his voice showing no sign that he actually was sorry.

“It is alright, my lord. He is just a babe. He and I will have time to get to know each other.” You said. Cregan tensed up, suddenly remembering again this union was forever.

“Excuse me, princess.” He said, turning and walking away with Rickon. Your heart sunk a bit. You could start to sense it now, Cregan was not in the slightest invested in your union together. You felt lost, out of place suddenly.

You sat back down at the high table, overwhelmed with nervousness. You bit at your nails and the skin around them, biting until they bled. You missed your mother dearly. Being here, in this room among strangers who didn’t care much for southerners to begin with, made you feel small.

You had sat there for an hour or two, not moving or eating once, save for your cuticles.

Cregan came to you, not noticing your nervous state. If he had noticed, he chose to ignore it. “I’ve put Rickon down… Would you please accompany me to my chambers?”

You looked at him, the nail bed of your thumb resting between your teeth. You nodded, standing and staring at the hall one last time. You locked eyes with a man, who noticed you both about to take your leave.

“Is it time for the bedding ceremony, Lord Stark?” The man asked, erupting a few cheers from the men mostly.

“No!” Cregan nearly barked the order. “There will be no bedding ceremony.”

The men in the crowd shuffled awkwardly at his outburst but accepted.

“Princess.” Cregan said, walking away and not waiting to see if you were following.

You did anyway, struggling to keep up with his quick pace. You had the sense he wanted this to be over with quickly.

He held the door as you both entered his chambers. You took in your surroundings. It was a clean and large kept room with a lit hearth and a large bed. A thought passed your mind, even though you tried to push it down.

Did he share these chambers with her?

Cregan began to take off his armor and furs, again not watching to see if you did the same, only assuming you were. If you weren’t, he didn’t care.

“Um, could you help, my lord?” You asked, referring to the laces of your white wedding dress.

He sighed, walking over to you as you turned your back to him. Your eyes welled with tears, but you tried to hide it.

His hands were gentle with the laces, not tugging at them as you expected him to. He obviously had experience doing this before.

He grew emotional as he undid your dress, but he hid it well. It was a weird sense of deja vu. Your hair looked like hers from the back and he felt like he was back at his first wedding.

You pushed the dress off, revealing the sheer linen soft dress underneath. He hadn’t moved from behind you, trying to maintain his composure. You walked away from him, lying on the bed and biting your nails again.

He finished disrobing besides his briefs, and you stole a glance at his back. It was huge, muscular and scarred.

He walked over to the bed, getting between your legs and pushing up your shift.

“Is this alright with you, princess?” He asks. “We need not consummate this if you are not ready.”

For the first time it seemed like he kinda cared about how you felt. His hand still had a hold of your shift, which was resting on your pelvic bone.

You nodded, “Is it alright with you, Lord Stark?”

He nodded, pushing your shift up the rest of the way to reveal your chest. He wanted to fall on his sword for the way he kept stealing glances at your breasts.

He pushed his briefs down, and you choked on your breath at the reveal of his length.

“Oh, gods.” You mumbled under your breath.

He rubbed himself against your slit, and your heart stilled for a minute. The feeling was foreign and intense.

He gently grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand away from your mouth. You hadn’t even realized you were still doing it, it was starting to become like breathing. A natural, unintentional habit.

Your hands fell to his biceps to steady yourself. You looked at him, but he did not meet your gaze. He instead bowed his head, watching himself enter inside you.

You dug your nails into his arm, gasping in shock. He gently shushed you, telling you it was okay.

“Please, please.” You said, not knowing what you were even pleading for.

“What?” He asked gently, his voice low and almost mimicking of your whining. It sent a shiver up your spine.

He was slow and gentle with you, not in it for any pleasure himself.

You touched his chest and his hair and his arms, and while he didn’t stop you he made no effort to touch you himself. His hands rested beside your head, holding up his weight.

Your hands found his arms again and you moaned softly, feeling your peak building in your stomach. You closed your eyes and pressed your forehead to his head, moaning as you spilled onto him. He closed his eyes as he felt it, and guilt wracked him again.

He gently pulled out of you and stood up, immediately dressing himself into his nightwear. You pushed your shift back down and pulled the linen covers over you, immediately going back to biting your nails at his reaction.

He laid beside you, not facing you and not saying anything.

You said nothing, but it hadn’t gone unnoticed how he intentionally avoided spilling himself into you.

———

It had been 3 months since your arrival to Winterfell, and you had adjusted as well as you could given the circumstances.

You did not often see your lord husband, but you were used to it. He spent a lot of his free time in the crypt where she was. It hurt, but you gave him his peace and he appreciated that you didn’t hover.

“Mummy!”

“Sh, sh, love.” You say as Rickon runs into your chambers.

Cregan did not like when Rickon called you his mother. He’d gotten upset with you a few times over it, and you assured him you would correct Rickon when it happened.

“Mummy.” He repeated. You giggled. pulling him into your lap. You shook your head and tapped his nose, saying, “Nooo. Not mummy.”

“Mummy.” He laughed, and you ran your fingers through his thick brown curls.

“What ever will we do with this mop on your head, my son?”

“He is not your son.” You turned to see Cregan standing in the door way. “And his hair is fine.”

“Apologies, my lord.” You said, curtly. He ignored your attitude.

“Come, Rickon.” He said, beckoning his son.

“No, mummy.” Rickon whined, holding you.

“Go see papa.” You told him, and with your blessing Rickon ran to Cregan.

Cregan gave you a cold stare as he left, and you returned the favor.

You were growing ever so agitated with your husband. He had welcomed you into Winterfell, but not his heart. The only time you both had shared a bed was the night of your wedding, to which Cregan had made sure not to give you an heir.

You had no one. Rickon had you, Cregan had you even if he did not want you, yet you were alone here in Winterfell.

You decided to write to your mother on Dragonstone, requesting for Jacaerys to pick you up on dragon back so you could visit your family and hopefully receive advice. You had left your dragon, Silverwing, at home. You did not want to disrespect the already hesitant northern people, and you did not want Silverwing to be cold or hungry.

That night when you were brushing your hair before bed, there was a knock on your door.

“Come in.” You looked in the mirror and saw Cregan’s half sister, Sara, enter.

“Hi, Sara.” You said. She came up behind you, taking the brush from your hand and slowly combing it through your hair. You two had formed a unique bond, given you were both considered outcasts in Winterfell. You were a southerner, she was a bastard. They were two sides of the same coin here in Winterfell.

“I heard what happened today.” She said, and you hummed mindlessly. “My brother can be a bastard.”

You smiled at her in the mirror. “Is that so?”

She nods. “I wish I knew what to do, Sara.”

“We northerners love hard, princess. We are unwaveringly loyal. The wound of losing Aly is still fresh in my brother’s heart. Give him time. He knows you love Rickon, and that scares him. I don’t know why.”

“Was Aly pretty?” You ask.

“You have a southern beauty we do not see often in the North. Aly was not a beautiful woman, but she was a fierce fighter. That is how history will remember her. She was born fighting, and she died fighting. I know you are a fierce fighter as well, princess. You are the blood of the dragon. Do not let the grief my brother holds make you feel small.” She kisses the back of your head. “Throw a fucking book at his head if he acts like that again.”

You laugh, her joke comforting you. She turns and leaves you alone, your head clouded with thoughts of Aly.

You heard back from Jacaerys within a few days that he would arrive shortly to bring you home. You had not yet told Cregan, as you knew he wouldn’t care anyway.

A few days following the letter from the raven, it was Sara’s name day. Cregan had decided to celebrate with a feast, one bigger than your wedding.

You all sat at the high table, your husband and sister in law drinking heavily. Although Cregan was a big man, the amount of ale he consumed that night seemed enough to kill a horse.

“My princess.” A servant rested her hand on your shoulder. You and Cregan both turned to look at her, and she grew nervous, not expecting Cregan to pay any attention or perhaps she would not have asked the princess the request. “Rickon has had a nightmare and wants no comfort of the maids. He is requesting you by name specifically, princess.”

You turn to look at Cregan for his approval. He gives a quick nod, which you hadn’t expected. Perhaps he only obliged since Rickon had requested you by your name, rather than requesting his “mother.”

You walked with the maid to his chambers, opening the door.

“Mummy.” He said through sniffles. You turned to face the maid.

“I thought he requested me by my name.” You said.

“That is your name, princess… to him.” The maid closed the door.

You turn to face Rickon with a gentle sigh. “You know papa doesn’t like that word.”

“Mummy.” He just says again. You walk to his bed, fitting yourself in to lay with him. He cuddles into your chest, and you play with his hair to help him sleep.

“Say it okay.” He says.

“Hm? What do you mean, child?” You ask.

“She say it okay to call you mummy.”

“Who?”

“Mummy did.”

“No, you have to call me my name, sweet boy.”

“Not you, mummy. My other mummy said it okay.”

“You confuse me, Rickon.”

“Mummy says ignore papa.” You chuckle softly.

“Sleep now, my love.” You say, and he slowly falls asleep while you hum him a soft song.

You rise, tucking him in and giving his head a kiss.

You open his door to return to the feast, and Cregan is there waiting.

You gasp, covering your mouth quickly to not wake Rickon.

“Gods, you scared me!” You whisper/yell at him. He says nothing, his eyes in a glossy and drunken haze.

You close the door, nearly standing chest to chest with him.

“I heard you sing to him.” He says softly. “Where did you learn that song?”

“He taught me it.” You say, as you go to step past him when he stops you.

“Cregan?” You say confused, turning to look up at him.

He takes your cheeks in your hands and slams his lips on yours. You freeze for a second in shock, before immediately returning the kiss. He presses you against the door, and you moan into him as you quickly grow wet with Cregan’s sudden change of behavior.

He moves to press gentle kisses on your neck, biting softly here and there. His fingers dig into your hips, grinding himself into you. You moan softly, trying not to cause too much noise against the door.

“Not here.” You moan. He avoids your eyes, taking your hand and pulling you further down the hall to his chambers. It was only your second time in his room. He lifted you into his strong arms, wrapping your legs around his waist and pressing you against the wall.

You both hadn’t even undressed, but you loved the thrill. Your husband finally wanted you after three long grueling months. He pushed your dress up to your waist as you unlaced his breeches.

He took you there against the wall of his chambers, fucking you so sweetly, fucking you in a way that would surely produce an heir.

Your moans filled the halls, and the servants began to spread word that the lord had finally moved on from his first wife.

He carried you to the bed, placing you along the edge as he stood, fucking you with sloppy and drunken thrusts.

You moaned his name, both of you drawing so close to your peak as your hands rested against his stomach. He leaned closed to you as hand moved beside your head to hold his weight, and the other moved under your lower back to lift you slightly off the bed and pull you more into him. The angle sent you over the edge, crying and moaning his name.

Your moans pushed him over, but his next words made you sick.

“Fuck, Alysanne.” He groaned, burying his head in your neck and spilling his seed into you.

You gasped, not even sure you heard him right.

He kissed your neck a few times and then rolled off you, not noticing the look on your face.

You laid there unmoving, still in your dress which was now damp with sweat, and your thighs now sticky with Cregan.

He fell asleep the second his head hit his pillow, still in his clothes.

You choked back a sob, moving your hand to your mouth so he wouldn’t waken. In reality, you could’ve started screaming and he wouldn’t have woke, or even shuffled.

You exited his chambers, trying not to be sick on the way to yours.

“My sister!” Sara drunkenly yelled as she seen you in the hallway. She took notice of your disheveled dress and hair. “Oh my gods, did you and Cregan just…?”

You ignored her, but she noticed the tears on your face. “Wait, sister what is wrong? What happened?”

You slammed the door in her face, throwing yourself into your pillow and screaming.

—

“Mother would be furious if she knew you were sleeping this well past sunrise.”

You groaned, lifting your head from the pillow to find the voice in the room.

“Jacaerys?” You said, when your eyes landed on him.

“I take it the feast for Sara Snow was a success.” He says, making fun of you. Your hair was sticking to your face, wet with a mixture of tears and drool.

“I guess you could say that.” You said, wiping your hair to the side.

“You’re disgusting.” He says.

“Gods, five minutes you’ve been here and you already frustrate me! Get out!” You say, both of you immediately teasing and arguing like you had never left home.

You push him out of your room.

“Don’t touch me, wench!” He whines, smacking your arms.

“Piss off! Go harass the bloody Lord of Winterfell.”

“I’d rather harass the Lady.” You push him out of your doors, turning and pressing your back to slide down the wall.

You hear him knock again and you rise to your feet, angry. “Jace, I said-“

You don’t finish your sentence, since as you open the door it’s Sara.

“I wanna talk about last night.”

“I don’t.” You say, going to close the door on her before she pushes it back open.

“What happened?” She asks, angry. She closes the door behind her and follows you to the bed. You sit on the edge and rest your elbows on your thighs, burying your face in your hands.

“Did my brother hurt you?” She asks, worried.

“No, no.”

She rests on her knees in front of you, placing her hands on your knees. “Tell me what happened.”

You sigh, trying to hold back your tears, but you cannot. “We had sex.”

“Isn’t that good? What went wrong?”

“He called me Alysanne.” You sob out.

“Oh, no.” She says, moving to sit beside you and wrap her arms around you.

“I cannot stay here no longer, Sara. I am being haunted by Alysanne. I find letters she wrote to Cregan, her clothes, her weapons. Rickon thinks I am her and Cregan wishes I was.”

“I am sorry, princess.” She says, sadly. “I thought I knew my brother better than that… Perhaps, if you talk to him about these past few months things can be different. Just give it a try, yes? You have your brother here now. You can leave if things do not work and the marriage can be annulled.”

You did not even wish to think of that possibility. It would be so shameful for both of your houses. You would do everything in your power to make it work.

You cleaned yourself up and went to Cregan’s chambers, knowing he would be hungover.

And you were right.

You entered his room without knocking, finding him in a bath with a warm rag over his eyes. Three times now you’ve been in his chambers.

“You can set it on the table.” He says, not moving the rag.

“What?”

“Oh.” He says, his voice changing in tone. “I thought you were the maid.”

You say nothing, unsure of where to even begin.

“Can whatever you’ve barged into my chambers for wait until I am done.” He asks, only the question is more of a statement.

“No.” You say, angry. You walk over to him and pull the rag off his eyes. He squints at the brightness, then gagging on the air as if he might be sick. “We’re going to talk, Cregan. We’ve been married for months and I don’t think we’ve ever truly had a conversation once. It is all I am asking. You could at least give me that. You’ve given me the cold shoulder for three months, and I’m tired of it. I’ve helped raise your son, I’ve loved you and I’ve cared for you even when you didn’t want it. You owe this to me.”

He sighs, defeated. “You are right in that, my princess. I apologize. We can talk later, alright?”

“No, Cregan. We will talk now.”

“You wouldn’t rather talk when I am of a clear headspace?”

“No. Now.” You say. He sighs again.

“Say your piece.”

The words left your mind the second he said that. You had this conversation in your head many times before, but now it was here and you could not handle the heat of the moment.

He raised his eyebrow at you, as if you were dumb.

“Oh, do not do that. I thought you Starks were supposed to be the most honorable among men. This whole marriage I have been treated with everything but. You are a disrespectful man, Stark. I am truly sorry about Alysanne-“

“Do not speak to me about my wife, ever!” He yells, pointing at you.

“I am your wife!” You cry out. “You chose me, whether you were ready for another marriage or not! I left my home, my family, my dragon to be with you! If I cannot have your love, is it too much to ask for your fucking respect?!”

He goes quiet for a few moments, “You have always had my respect, princess… and I know I have erred in the way I’ve treated you these past moons. But this marriage is just a duty. Nothing more, nothing less. This marriage is not out of love… so do not expect me to love you back.”

You laugh, dryly. “You called me Alysanne last night… Do you remember that? No… I suppose you were too drunk. You never would have touched or cared for me like that sober.”

He says nothing, but his hands grip the side of the tub and his face is contorted with anger. You rise, hiding any sort of emotion on your face.

“The dead don’t need lovers. Only the living.” You said. He threw his rag at the door as you walked out, not even granting him a second glance.

The memories of last night flooded back to him, and he rested his face in his hands, crying at his behavior. He had let down Aly, his son, and you.

He did care about you, he did love you in his own way. He just didn’t know how to show it. He didn’t want to show it. If he had shown it, he only would have betrayed Aly even more.

You went down to the crypt, somewhere you had never gone before. You had no reason originally, no people to mourn.

You stood in front of her plot, staring at the statue of her. She had been a skinny girl, with long dark hair and ‘plain’ features. You thought she was a beauty in her own way. You saw why Cregan loved her.

You cried. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help him.”

Your hand touched her statue, then you stood and left the crypt.

You said goodbye to Rickon, Sara, and then you left with your brother on dragon back, ready to be home with your true family.

———

“You’re a fucking fool, brother.”

“You think I don’t know that? Gods.” Cregan rested his head in his hands. He had sent every raven in Winterfell to Dragonstone, yet not one had responded in the weeks since you’d left.

“We’ll be lucky if the bloody queen doesn’t declare war on us for you scorning her daughter.”

“I am trying here, Sara! I’ve sent my ravens, I’ve sent men to retrieve her. There is nothing more I can do!”

Sara slammed her hands on the table. “Go and get her your bloody self, Cregan. The trip to Dragonstone will give you plenty of time for reflection.”

Sara turned to leave, and Cregan knew it was his only option of getting you back here. He would go and get you and make things right. He had to.

You had your own time for reflection, riding home with Jacaerys made you realize how much you missed being on dragon back.

Your mother of course welcomed you with open arms, but was wracked with guilt that you and Cregan’s union was not working. You paid it no mind however, spending your days patrolling Dragonstone on Silverwing.

Cregan had taken his horse and a few men to retrieve you from Dragonstone. The trip by horse was long, more than several weeks.

The entire time he rode in silence he thought of you. He thought of your last conversation and the final words you had said to him. The dead don’t need lovers. And you were right. Alysanne would not have wished to see him treat you how he had, she would not have wanted Cregan to spend his time sulking or being angry. He only wished he had realized it before he left.

He loved you. If only it hadn’t taken you leaving for him to realize. You were kind, gentle, beautiful. Traits Alysanne didn’t have but it was what seperated you from her. It had been how he was able to find his own kind of love for you, even when he didn’t consciously realize it yet. His own bitterness from losing Aly had made forget his honor.

Cregan arrived about two moons after you had left. He was aching, frustrated, and desperate by the time he reached Dragonstone.

It was dark, pouring rain, and you were playing with your brothers Viserys and Aegon when he arrived.

“Your Grace!” A knight came into the room shouting. Your mother looked up from her book. “Cregan Stark of Winterfell has arrived and requests an immediate audience with you and the princess.”

Your mother looked at you, and you looked like you’d seen a ghost. Your heart sank and your face went pale, but you nodded.

You met him inside the council chambers with your mother and his men. He was soaked, shivering. You could hear your heart beating in your ears, that was how nervous you were.

“Cregan.” You said, walking towards him and pushing him by his arms to the hearth to warm him up. It was another thing he loved about you, your protective nature, so he said it.

“I love you.”

“Cregan…”

“Love her?” You both looked at your mother, whose face was angry. “You love my daughter?”

“Your Grace.” Cregan said, removing his sword and bending his knee. “I’ve come to beg your forgiveness.”

She walked towards you both. “It is not mine you need to beg for… I sent my only daughter to you, and you spurn her for your dead wife?!”

“Mother!”

“You will not interrupt the Queen when she is speaking.” She commands you. “What do you have to say for yourself, Lord Stark?”

He stands. “I have nothing to say, Your Grace. You are right. My behavior was unacceptable. The princess deserved none of it.”

“Why are you here?” Your mother asks him.

“I’ve come to ask the princess to return home.” Your mother scoffs at him.

She looks at you, then back to him. “You are lucky it is not my decision to make.”

She turns and exits, leaving and commanding his men to wait outside the doors so you both could be alone.

You were even more nervous with just the two of you in there. It is silent for a few moments before you speak.

“Why the sudden change of heart?” You ask Cregan.

“It took you leaving for me to realize I love you.” He says, taking your hands in his. You roll your eyes, taking your hands back and stepping away.

“I can’t believe you.” You say, starting to sob.

“I know, I know.” He steps closer to you again, taking you in his arms as you cry into his chest. “I’m so sorry.”

“I loved you, Cregan.” You say, crying. “Since I was a girl I loved you. I thought you were different from other men. But, you’re just like the rest.”

Cregan cries into your hair. “I’m so sorry, my princess. I’m so, so sorry.”

You both stand there, holding each other and crying.

“Please come home.” He says. “Let me take you home.”

“Rickon misses his mother, Sara misses her sister… I miss you, you my wife.”

You pull away to look at him, trying to read his normally stoic features. You can see he means it.

“Okay.”

———

You returned to Winterfell on Silverwing, no longer having the strength to remain apart from your dragon.

Cregan had to endure another long and grueling trip back to Winterfell, which you enjoyed knowing he was suffering while you road through the skies.

Rickon had cried tears of joy when you returned, and a week later when Cregan arrived Rickon cried again.

You and Cregan had remained in seperated chambers while you still navigated your marriage, but Cregan made a point to spend every moment of his free time with you.

But you had been keeping a secret from him.

After you returned home to Dragonstone originally, your blood never arrived. The maester determined you were with a babe, which would arrive several moons away in the dead of winter.

Your thick furs and dresses made it easier to hide from Cregan, as you were not ready to tell him.

The babe had complicated things. If you had not been pregnant, you might not have returned to Winterfell when Cregan came for you. But you knew you had a duty, and you believed if Cregan could love you then you could fix your union.

Cregan had indeed put the work in the second he arrived home. He attended to you, conversed with you, ate with you, laughed with you, but gave you the space you needed and gave you the option to be intimate with him when you were ready.

It was strangely like falling in love all over again. You blushed around each other, got nervous and flushed, made each other’s hearts race, shared a first kiss when you were both ready.

Cregan had undoubtedly fallen madly in love with you, and he regretted not taking the time to do it sooner. He couldn’t make up the time he lost being afraid. All he could do now was love you without guilt, love you without fear, love you without shame.

Normally Cregan always knocked on your chamber doors before entering, but for some reason this time he hadn’t. He didn’t know why he didn’t knock, he didn’t know if it happened unconsciously or if he was too busy wrapped up with his thoughts.

Either way, he entered without knocking and by that point the cat was out of the bag.

He said your name, greeting you with a smile, only for it to fall off his face as if it had never been there.

You were in the bath, relaxing in the burning water, but that wasn’t the problem. He’d seen you naked, although it hadn’t been for a few months by this point, but him accidentally invading your privacy wasn’t the problem either.

It was the bump in your belly that was a problem.

Your head turned sharply, covering your chest quickly. “Cregan!”

“Sorry.” He said quickly, turning around to avoid disrespecting you.

“It’s fine.” You said, dropping your arm from your chest. “You just gave me a fright.”

He said nothing for a moment, only continuing to face the wall.

“What is that?” He finally asked. You sighed, stepping out of the tub and into your robe.

You walked up behind him, resting a hand on his shoulder. He turned around to face you now, and his eyes fell down to your other hand resting on the small bump in your stomach.

“Perhaps it’s time we talk.”

“You think?” He spits at you, immediately apologizing after. “I’m sorry, princess. I didn’t mean to be cross with you.”

You said nothing, walking over to the seats by the hearth hoping he would follow.

He did, and he sat next to you, his eyes never leaving your belly.

“Can I?” He asked, gesturing to your stomach. You nodded, untying your robe so that you were bare. You grabbed his hand, bringing it to the small bump.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I could have accommodated for you, made sure you were comfortable.”

“Truth be told it’s been hard for me to accept I’m truly with a child.” You say, “The reality had not set in until… well until you just now found out... I am sorry, Cregan. I should not have kept it from you.”

He chokes back a sob. “Feels like just yesterday Alysanne had Rickon.”

“He will be overjoyed to know he will have a little brother or sister.” You tell him. He looks at you, his face full of emotion.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks and before you can even finish nodding your head, you’re already leaning in to kiss him.

“I love you. I love you so much, my wife.” He says in between kisses.

His hand did not move once from your stomach the whole night.

[pizzapottah]

the future queen

summary: Sources say that the Wandering Princess was downright brutal to her uncle Vaemond Velaryon during the trial for his petition, despite having shown fondness of him in the years before. When he himself made her notice that, she laughed in his face, "Oh, dear uncle, did you hope to receive a kinder treatment than the others that come in this room and demand some fleeing claim over some land just because I hold your brother dear in my heart? Then you shall know at your own expense that everyone who tries to harm my brothers harms me and, by consequence, the Throne."

pairings: cregan stark x velaryon!reader (no use of y/n), platonic (familial) relationship between the targs/velaryon and reader

word count: 7.0k

warnings: aegon is not a rapist not because he didn't rape dyana in the series but because I don't want her to suffer, mommy issues, i support women's rights and wrongs, vaemond is killed, my girl reader is going THROUGH it, aegon and princess' shenanigans (they hate everything and everyone)

author's note: rhaenyra when i catch you rhaenyra... but also aemond. AEMOND WHEN I CATCH YOU AEMOND THIS WAS ALL YOUR FAULT

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As always, you enter to find the tapestries back to a boring green. “Ugh,” you huff, “not again.” 

“Again?” Oscar asks, confused. 

“Happens every time I’m away for more than three days,” you mutter. “The wench changes the tapestries and hides the paintings. Like it’s named the Green Keep.” You bark at the first servant that passes, making him yelp, “You! Find the steward and tell him that the Princess is calling for him. I want these horrendous tapestries burned once and for all.”

The servant nods, trembling, and promptly runs away. “Aren’t you a bit too harsh?” your friend asks. You shrug. “If you think I’m harsh, then you should see the way Daemon treats the servants. Besides, I don’t treat them badly. It’s just one of the bad days. I make sure they get paid plenty enough for the trouble.” 

As you keep walking, lords and ladies of all kinds briefly stop to greet you, but you move on quickly, barely thanking them back — there’s no reason for them to make such greetings for you, when you’ve been away for barely a sennight. You figure they’re mostly happy to see you because it means the Queen and the Hand will be getting off the Throne soon. 

A month or so ago, your grandsire fell ill. The Maester wasn’t sure he would make it, but he did — he was just… weak. Too weak to attend court, to hold the councils and settle the Kingdom’s matters. 

And so his responsibilities were passed down to you. That was because he didn’t want his vicious wife as regent nor his Lord Hand on the Throne, after the various accidents that had happened when he had let them do it. I want you to understand what it’s like to take care of the Kingdom, he had said, wheezing. To learn who you should support and how to do it. 

There is no manual to learn how to rule. You could listen to the lords all day while they give you their advice, and you would wake up the next even more confused than before, so — as your mother said — there’s no other way to do it but to understand it yourself. 

You think that in the end, you worked pretty well as regent. You were the only one who dared speak back to the Queen and Lord Hand, so the councils went pretty smoothly, and court was held without too much of a hassle. But then you had to go to the Riverlands to help Oscar, and the Red Keep was left in the hands of the green wench and her vulture of a father. And as it always happened, you returned to find it changed: the tapestries of your ancestors were replaced with portraits of the Seven and the dragon statues with towers, seven-pointed stars and so on. 

It’s really incredible how in a sennight they've managed to turn the Keep upside down. Shivering, you briefly wonder how the castle would be if it was completely in their hands. 

“Princess!” someone calls behind you. It’s the steward, who pants and bows before taking a napkin from his pocket to wipe away the sweat from his forehead. “It is good to see that the Riverlands have treated you well. I hope your travels went without any problems.” 

You nod briefly, pointing at Oscar. “Yes, they were fine. Could you show Ser Oscar Tully the guest rooms while I go talk to my grandsire? He’ll be staying for a while. And, most importantly, tell the servants to bring back the old decorations; take the new ones to the Dragon Pit, Nādrēsy will take care of them.” 

The steward nods, unphased; it’s not the first time you make him burn the Hightowers’ decorations, so he must not be surprised at all. “Will do, Princess.” He bows to Oscar, showing him the way. “If you’ll follow me, my lord…”

The way up to the King’s chambers feels like forever. Before you departed for Riverrun, you made sure that the guards assigned to his rooms were ones you could trust — so that no Hightower page or servant could enter and poison the King, as they have already tried numerous times. You made sure the only one who was allowed in the chambers was Grand Maester Orwyle — and Mushroom, when your grandsire needed a cheer-up — who you paid generously to make sure that the Hightowers couldn’t get to him. 

“Lord Commander, Ser Erryk,” you greet the guards, right out of your grandsire’s quarters, They bow their heads, murmuring their own greetings, opening the doors for you. The smell of burned wood and the warmness of the room engulfs you as the guards quickly close the door behind you, your grandsire barely raising his head from the pillow. 

“–’Nyra? Is that you?” he rasps. 

“No, Grandsire,” you reply gently, taking a chair and sitting down beside his four-poster bed. You murmur your name, “It’s me, I have returned from Riverrun.” 

“Ah,” he murmurs, letting his head fall back down into the pillow, raising his hand for you to take. “It all went well, I hope?”

You squeeze his hand, barely nodding, “For now, the matter has been settled. What about you? What has the Maester said?” 

“That I need to rest,” he coughs, “did you know Rhaenyra has arrived, too?”

“I figured out as much; when she wrote to me, she was already on the boat to King’s Landing.” 

He hums. “She has shown me the boys– oh, they have grown so much. And little Aegon and Viserys…”

Ah, yes: he had never seen them before. Your mother hasn’t come back to the Keep since Joffrey's birth, and she only ever allowed you to sometimes bring Jace, Luke and Joff to the capital, insisting that Aegon and Viserys were too young — as if you weren’t almost a dragon rider by Aegon’s age. 

“They are so cute, aren’t they?” you chuckle, “They don’t look like Daemon at all, thankfully,” he adds. “They look a lot like Rhaenyra when she was little– a lot like you, too.” 

You are happy to see that he remembers when you were little — he has been forgetful as of lately, calling the Queen ‘Aemma’ and referring to Otto as ‘Lyonel’. Sometimes he slips with you too, calling you Rhaenyra, asking you when you plan to do the tour to find a husband. You haven’t heard him talk about Aegon, Aemond and Helaena in ages, and when you bring Aegon or Helaena to visit him with you, he seems to be hardly recognising them.

“It pains me that we were all reunited because of Vaemond’s petition,” your grandsire says, voice strained. “I would like to keep your mother closer to me, closer to the court– but the only idea seems to repel her.”

“I’ll talk to her,” you reassure him, “you know I have my ways. Besides, I can’t always be here. The Hightowers…”  

“I don’t trust anyone in this castle more than you and your mother,” he seethes, “how can I change Lord Hand, if you already have your own matters in the Seven Kingdoms and my own daughter won’t stay with me? This trial, the petition– it would’ve never happened if I hadn’t married Alicent and Otto wasn’t my Hand.” 

You press your lips into a thin line. “What has happened can’t be changed, my King. After these matters are dealt with, with your permission, I would like to… clean the court, so to say, from all the snakes that have made it their nest in these last few years.”

“Of course, of course,” he coughs violently, trying to scoot enough to lean his back against the headboard. You hear a clutter outside, but ignore it for the most part, focusing on the heavy breathing of your grandsire. “Do of Vaemond what you think it’s best for the Realm.” he coughs again, trying to straighten up, “Could you pass me my quill and paper? Otto’s started to become more and more meticulous, and I suspect that without my word, he won’t leave you to handle the petition…” 

You do as he asked you while the rumble outside is getting louder; if earlier it was only a few whispers and angry stomping, now it’s turning into what seems to be a full-on argument between the guards and… Oscar? Is that his voice?

Your grandsire continues writing the delegation, handwriting shaky, and you’re horribly reminded yet again of how much he’s aging. ‘Tis a wretched thing, watching someone you love slip and slip and slip until only the Stranger can catch them. You wonder when the last time you’ll be able to talk to him with him recognizing you will be. 

“The seal,” he murmurs, passing the letter to you, “forgive this old man, I don’t think I should be trusted with wax as of now, or I’d spill it all over the letter.”

You shake your head, “Never apologise to me for such a trivial thing ever again, grandsire.” you smile at him tenderly, caressing his hand. “I’d be glad to seal every one of your acts and letters for the rest of my life, if it meant having you by my side.” 

You are preparing the hot wax for the royal sigil, when the doors slam open and the guards yell curses as they try to keep out a panting, screaming Oscar. “The trial!” His voice is so shrill that for a moment, you wonder if it’s just a maid dressed up as him. “They’re making it start now! And your grandfather–” the guards push him back, closing the doors with a loud bang!, making your grandsire blink in confusion. “What was that about?”

You hurriedly pour the wax, only half-melted, over the parchment, blowing air upon the sigil in hopes to fasten the making. “Sorry, grandsire, I fear this was my call for the Throne room.” You press a kiss onto his forehead, leaving even more confused than before as you dash out of the chambers. “Oscar! Oscar!” 

You find him outside, right in front of the doors, arguing with the guards, insisting to be let in. “The Princess’ orders were specific,” Ser Erryk reiterates, “no one, besides very few, are to be let in–”

They stop at your sight, and you wave them away, hurriedly marching down the stairs while being followed by Oscar. “So, I guess the trial is starting now?” you muse, not actually amused at all. He pants, shaking his head. “The steward– he, he was showing me to the rooms, aye? And then a guy wearing the Hightower signet came and asked him for a fine pillow for the Lord Hand so that he could sit more comfortably on the Throne during the ongoing trial. And then– gods, I looked for you everywhere, I have no idea how you manage to live in this castle– I heard some maids talking about the arrival at Driftmark of Lord Corlys, who apparently is on the verge of dying.”

Your what?! echoes through the hallway and makes a few maids flinch and some guards straighten up, but your steps don’t slow down. “You mean to tell me Vaemond called this petition because my grandfather is deadly injured and nobody thought of telling me? And even worse, that right now Otto Hightower’s arse is sitting on the Iron Throne with a pillow? My ancestors have burnt down entire cities for far less!” you gag, “Oh, forgive him, Aegon, he doesn’t know what he’s doing… sitting on the throne he forged with his fallen enemies’ swords out of dragonfire– with a fine pillow no less!” 

The guards that are stationed outside the throne room clearly have no intention of blocking your way in, opening the doors for you with no fuss and bowing their heads, “Princess, Ser Tully,” 

A page jumps at your sight, interrupting Vaemond’s speech by yelling out, “The Princess, ambassador of the Crown and the Seven Kingdoms and– uh… Ser Oscar Tully, accompanying her.” 

Murmurs spread across the room; your mother smiles at you, moving forward but then stopping — you know she has just stopped herself from hugging you — and Vaemond tries to smile, too, but it ends up being more of a grimace than anything else. You try to think more of your mother rather than him, or else you’re going to strangle him right now, in front of all these witnesses. 

“Princess,” Otto Hightower gloats from above, sitting on the Throne with his stupid, horrendous green pillow. “You’re awfully late — unusual of you.” 

“Well, Lord Hand, I would’ve been on time if only anyone had told me that the trial’s time had been moved,” you hiss, “and I think that’s probably why you didn’t bother sending anyone to call for me. Now do me a favor and get your smelly and sensitive buttocks away from my Throne.” 

He raises both eyebrows, forehead wrinkling. “Pardon me?”

“I am not going to repeat myself twice, Otto,” you say, harsher this time. “I am the wielder of Blackfyre, which is the royal scepter. No one can hold court or trials without it, unless they’re the King.” he moves to open his mouth, but you don’t let him talk — he doesn’t deserve that privilege. “Besides, if you need a pillow to sit on the Iron Throne, were you really made to sit on it?”

Daemon laughs openly; besides him, everyone tries to keep their chuckles as silent as they can, even if you’re sure Mushroom’s going to combust soon if he doesn’t laugh out loud. “The Throne is made out of swords, nobody would ever be comfortable in it,” Alicent butts in– you had hoped she had called in sick today. Of course not. The sight of Aegon still holding in laughter from your remarks to Otto lightens your mood a bit. “But that does not matter. He is the Lord Hand, and unless the King has given other instructions, he is to replace the void left by the regnant.”

You snort. “Yes, grandsire said that you would have given me trouble about that. In fact, he did leave special instructions.” you pass the delegation to one of the public notaries present. He nods at it, confirming to everyone in the room the truth of your words, “Well, I guess the matter is settled then.” you squint at Lord Hand dearest, “Off of my Throne, and be quick with it.” The proud expression of your mother fills you with more happiness than it should. 

To say that you’ve had a rough relationship with her in the last few years would be an understatement to say the least. 

For the sake of your brothers, you try your best with her. You still love her dearly, but in the years your resentment towards her has grown immensely, and even if you would still die for her, that doesn’t mean that sometimes you just don’t want to kick some sense into her. You hope that after this, she fucking wakes up. You hope that she finally acknowledges that she stole what should have been your careless years and used them as her own. 

As for Daemon, you don’t necessarily despise him as much as you did once. Sure, he’s obnoxious and loud and a terrible man, but you can’t just continue to ignore him for the rest of your life. Your conversations these days mostly consist of sly remarks and jabs, but they are not made out of spite anymore, rather out of respect and complicity. In the end, Daemon — whether you like it or not — has seen you grow up, and sometimes, you think it could even be fondness the thing that softens his eyes when he looks at you  — something much similar to the gaze he holds exclusively for his own daughters. 

You nod to your grandmother Rhaenys and glare at Vaemond, proceeding to sit on the Throne and throw the cushion over the ends of the sheathed swords that surround the King’s — for this occasion, your — seat. You keep Blackfyre in your hand, holding onto the handle, keeping it like a scepter– like your grandsire once did. “Go on, Vaemond,” you muse, “I’m really curious about what you’ll say in your defense.” 

Vaemond’s eyebrows shoot up so high that for a moment, you think they might start flying around the room. “Pardon me– defense? I am not accused of anything. I am claiming my legitimate right for the Driftwood Throne.” 

You narrow your eyes. “If what I’ve heard is correct, you are issuing the legitimacy of my brothers.”

He blinks. “I am, Princess. Driftmark must–”

You huff, “That matter was settled long ago. The King himself said multiple times that anyone questioning Prince Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey Velaryon’s lineage was to have their tongue cut; besides that, our father, Laenor Velaryon, has always declared them to be legitimate. Did you think you were exonerated from such considerations, perhaps?”  

“I didn’t, Princess,” he hisses, and from the glare he sends Otto, you understand that they had planned not to bring that up. “But now the legacy is at stake. With my brother between the land of the dead and the one of the living, I want to set things right for the succession.” he falters, “I– I had hoped you’d understand.” there is much more behind his words, and you take immediate notice of it. 

You snarl. "Oh, dear uncle, did you hope to receive a kinder treatment than the others that come in this room and demand some fleeing claim over some land just because I hold your brother dear in my heart? Then you shall know at your own expense that everyone who tries to harm my brothers harms me and, by consequence, the Throne."  you wave your hand in the air. “My grandfather is not even dead yet and you already hover around his possessions like a vulture! Has nobody told you that during a Lord’s absence, a regent is named to make all the decisions for him?” 

He seems to be horrified. “The regent has much less of a claim over Driftmark than I do–”

“Yet my grandfather didn’t name you,” you counter. “I wonder why, uncle. Could it be that the regent holds his wishes more to her heart than you do?” You raise your eyes from his form, “Princess Rhaenys, a word?” 

Your grandmother steps up with a smile on her face. “Gladly,” From the way she looks at you, you understand that once you get out of this room, she’s going to brag about you to all her friends and every servant that is willing to listen. “It was ever my husband’s will that Driftmark pass through Ser Laenor to his trueborn son– Jacaerys Velaryon. His mind never changed, nor did my support of him. As a matter of fact, Princess Rhaenyra just informed me of her desire to marry Lucerys Velaryon to my granddaughter Rhaena to strengthen the bonds between our houses once again.” she chuckles, “And, as it is both Targaryen and Velaryon tradition to do so, Prince Jacaerys’ and Princess Helaena’s firstborn could marry Prince Lucerys’ and Lady Rhaena’s firstborn daughter.”

“Creating an engagement between kids who have yet to be born is a little tricky,” you murmur, an eyebrow raised, “But I don’t have anything against it. We can consider this matter settled once and for all– even if, I’m sure, once he wakes up, my grandfather will waste no time in stating his will once again.” you sigh, “I hereby reaffirm Prince Jacaerys of House Velaryon as heir to Driftmark, the Driftwood Throne and the next Lord of the Tides.”

“You break law,” Vaemond hisses, “and centuries of tradition that I had hoped you’d have understood by now, niece.”

You shake your head. “Don’t try that with me, uncle, you know it won’t work.” you point your finger accusingly at him, “The regent has spoken, and her word is Corlys’. Besides, what good would you do ascending to the Throne of Driftmark? You’re old and you have no heirs, no daughters, no wife. You’re just a second son who hopes in his brother’s demise to have all that he could never have by birthright. Prince Jacaerys is already betrothed to Princess Helaena; the Velaryons will be princes, Vaemond, princes!”

“The fact that I have no heirs can still be changed,” he bluntly says. “I’m still young enough to find a wife.”

You grimace, “Yes, yes, there are way older men than you that get married at their elderly ages, but it will be a great feat to find you a wife with the face you find yourself in, even for all the gold in the world.” 

“You dare tell me who deserves to inherit the Velaryon name?” he rages, “I will not allow it!”

“Do not forget yourself, Vaemond!” you state back, “I myself hold the Velaryon name, and you have no right to tell me who deserves it and who doesn’t when my own father and the man that is now miles away, fighting for his life, taught me everything I ought to know to carry it with pride!” 

He points angrily at Jace, “That is no true Velaryon, and certainly no nephew of mine!” the whole room gasps; you get up from the Throne, surely matching the tone of anger. “Continue and I’ll have your tongue cut out for this, Vaemond–”

“You all may run your house as you see it fit!” he shouts, “But you will not decide the future of mine. The Velaryons have survived the Doom and a thousand of tribulations aside– and gods be damned, I will not see it ended because of this–”

He stops in his tracks; from the look in your eyes, he knows that if he ends the sentence, he could lose much more than his tongue. But Daemon taunts him, “Say it.”

Vaemond’s right eye ticks. “Her children are bastards!” he bellows, causing the fainting of one of the ladies standing behind and the general outrage. “And she is a whore.” 

Before you can yell out every insult under the sun and call for the guards to bring him to the Dragon Pit so that Nādrēsy may feast on him, a sword comes behind him, slicing his head in two — leaving his tongue intact. Many scream and run out of the room, while both sides of your family stand there and watch his body fall forward. The guards are stopped by a gesture of your hand; Daemon merely grins, cleaning his sword with the dead’s clothes. “Let him keep his tongue,” he murmurs, “I’m sure the Stranger will be delighted in hearing his laments.”

Oscar is downright traumatised by the experience. “Do people often die here, during trials?” he asks you for the fifth time, anxiously tapping his foot on the ground. “Not if Daemon isn’t around,” you quietly reply, looking over at your uncle and mother chatting — or, better… discuss animatedly — about what has just happened. The room is filled with the murmurs of your family: Baela and Rhaena are whispering with Rhaenys as Jace and Luke chat quietly. 

Anybody has yet to come to talk to you, too preoccupied with their own matters — not that you care. You’re waiting for everyone to be out of this room to be finally left alone with your mother and have a decent talk. As of now, you’re just sitting in your chair with your arms crossed, brooding. Oscar taps his fingers on the table beside him, and it irks you. “Will you please stop, before I send you out of this room?”

“I shouldn’t even be here!” he counters, shouting-whispering. “This feels like a family reunion!”

“Oh, please,” you roll your eyes, “my grandmother already hates you as only family can do.”

“That’s just because she thinks I’m your prostitute or something,” he mutters, offended. Though it is true that she loathes him– you have brought him with you to Driftmark many times, and every time, her despise for him was basically impossible to hide. 

“Why, you think she doesn’t hate Daemon for the exact same reason?” 

As Oscar stays there with his brows furrowed, gears turning in his head over your last sentence, your patience runs short. “This is madness. I am going to talk to her.” you rise from your seat, every eye but your mother’s and Daemon’s turning to look at you — and everyone knows you well enough to get out of the room before the storm can hit. 

Your mother and her husband are still hissing to each other for the Seven know what reason why, so much that they don’t even notice you. “Are you finished?” you say flatly, raising an eyebrow when their heads turn to look at you, surprised. Luke is the last one to exit the room, and he makes sure to close the door. “I thought you two were adults, but clearly I am in front of children. I would’ve killed Vaemond either way; could you kindly stop arguing now?” 

Rhaenyra’s face warms. “I– sorry, of course.” she still sends a glare to her husband, relenting only because of you. “Could you kindly leave us alone, kepa?” Daemon rolls his eyes, begrudgingly heading towards the door. Before he closes it behind him, he sends a look at Oscar, whispering, “I think you may want to leave now, too, whore-boy.” 

Unfortunately, Oscar only hears a few muffled words and then the door closes. He focuses on trying to make himself as invisible and small as he can, as he hasn’t been excused by either you or your mother, and figures he can’t leave his little sad seat until one of you tells him to. 

Rhaenyra is the first to extend an olive branch. “I wanted to thank you for what you did today,” she says calmly, smiling at you. “With Otto holding the trial, I don’t even want to think about what the outcome could’ve been.”

Your face remains still, not a smile in sight and no emotions to show. “Good. You have seen how to handle such matters. From now on, they will be in your hands.”

Your mother’s eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

“Excuse me?” you mock, “You let me pick up your slack for the last eight years, mother. I’m done.” she’s about to open her mouth again, but you talk over her, “You called me here because you needed my help — and I will help when I can, you know that, but you didn’t even tell me that in the first place this godsforsaken petition was called because my grandfather could be dying as of now.” you shake your head, eyes clouded with memories: of all the swims you and Corlys had taken together, of him and your father teaching you how to navigate — the only thought of them both dead makes you want to throw up. “You think you may lose an asset if he dies, maybe a once good-father– but he is my grandfather. He is much more than just a lord to me. He taught me how to swim, how to survive out in the sea — and he is, besides grandmother, the last thing left of my father.” 

You blink the tears away from your eyes. Blinking, you notice her eyes are watery too. “We have already talked about this, sweetling,” she murmurs. 

You shake your head. “We have, but you never actually listen to me. I am tired, mother.” A tear escapes her eye at seeing you in this state — head bowed, eyes full of tears, lip trembling. She has gotten so used to seeing you act mature that she has almost forgotten that you are only six and ten; at your age, her main concerns were fighting off suitors and assuring that nobody found out that she was sleeping with her ward. Meanwhile you are trying to hold the whole realm intact by yourself while trying to keep the Hightowers as far as they can be from the Throne, handling every lord and lady that complains, and — Rhaenyra as of now doesn’t know you well enough anymore to say it, but she suspects you are having an affair too. Just in case, she glares at Oscar through the tears. 

“I want to stay here, in the castle, with little to no worries until I am to be married off– oh, don’t look at me like that, mother, we both know it’s going to happen soon.” you wave a hand in the air, sniffling, “I want to finally be able to mourn my father. I want to wear all the pretty dresses I’ve bought in the last two years. I want to have handmaidens, I want to fly on Nādrēsy for fun rather than for Kingdom matters, I want to stop worrying about the Hightowers colonizing the Red Keep everytime I’m away. But I can’t do it without you, mother.”

She wipes away her tears with the sleeves of her dress, “I– I thought you enjoyed being the ambassador and having so many duties.”

You laugh bitterly. “I did for the first two years. When you give a child a cup of wine, he doesn’t think of the headache that he will have after drinking it– he only sees his opportunity to finally prove himself as an adult.” you grimace, a tear slipping from your eye, “At first it was fun. Grandsire kept me mostly away from political affairs and sent me around just to make Nādrēsy clean the Kingdom’s prisons; I didn’t have to do anything. But then he started considering me for political missions.” you spare a glance at Oscar, now trying to melt into one with the seat, clearly awkward. It was during one of the missions that you met. “He kept giving me more and more power, and I found it so funny. At ten I sentenced every remaining member of Cregan Stark’s family just because. I could have sent them to the Wall — after all, it wasn’t really clear how much his uncle’s sons had helped their father usurp Cregan, and the Wall is the usual punishment for Lords. But then, as I grew, I started feeling the weight of it. Not every situation was black and white, and sometimes I just wanted to kill both parties and call it a day.”

Your eye ticks. “And I don’t know how long I can hold it until it breaks me. I just need… time. If you pick up from where I left and become Hand, I won’t have to worry about anything until I become Queen or you become Queen and name me Hand. And until that happens, I think I will have learnt how to handle the weight just fine.” 

Your mother doesn’t say anything. She opens her mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. In the end, she just hugs you and goes for the door. As she opens it, she turns towards you, eyes red. “I– I’ll send a… servant. So that you two might be… chaperoned.” 

You raise an eyebrow. You open your heart to her for this? A dry laugh escapes you as she closes the door behind her, “Whatever,” and you move back to your original seat, letting your head fall on Oscar’s shoulder. You sigh. “Do you think she understood?”

He grumbles. “I hope so. I’m not willing to sit like this through another mother-daughter talk like this ever again.” 

Supper is predictably going to be a disaster. 

As your Grandsire enters the dining hall, wheezing and leaning against the maester, you glare at Aemond, who has graciously decided to sit as far away from you as possible — that does not deter you from cursing him to all kinds of pain and suffering in your head, though. 

You told Oscar to dine in his own room, knowing that as soon as any kind of cataclysm starts, he won’t want to be around. Looking at the faces of your relatives, you ask yourself who’s going to strike first — if Aemond, Aegon, Luke or, even worse, Daemon. 

Your grandsire groans loudly as he finally sits in his chair, Alicent on his right and your mother on his left, smiling as the Maester wipes sweat from his forehead. He tries to muster up a smile, but it comes out more like a grimace. “How good it is… to see you all tonight, together.” 

His wife hums. “Prayer before we begin?” as the others move to intertwine their hands, you and Daemon stay still, sending each other amused looks. Neither of you has ever been the greatest believer, not of the Seven at least. There’s a lot of things you believe in — your mother’s right to rule, the legitimacy of your brothers, Aemond’s utter and clear idiocy… 

“May the Mother smile down on this gathering with love. May the smith mend the bonds that have been broken for far too long. And to Vaemond Velaryon, may the gods make him rest.” you roll your eyes at that; you hope they make him burn for the rest of eternity. 

Your grandsire takes the word again. “This is an occasion of celebration. My grandson Luke will marry his cousin Baela, strengthening the bonds between our houses.” he turns to your mother, giving her the biggest smile you’ve seen him make in a while. “And my firstborn Rhaenyra has asked me permission to stay here in preparation for her role as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, making her the first Lady Hand to be named in history.” 

You perk up, surprised. Looking over at Otto, you find him staring blankly at the King, no hand pin on his chest. You instead find it on your mother’s dress, pinned right above her breast. You look up at her to find her already smiling tenderly at you, eyes full of affection. “She also requested that her daughter be lifted from her duties until she is to be married, so that she may enjoy the last years as a girl that she has left. I think her reasoning is right, and with her by my side, I know my granddaughter will be able to step aside and spend freely the next few years.” he takes his goblet of wine, barely managing to raise it in the air. “So, a toast to the young prince, his betrothed and the princesses!” 

You all clank your goblets and dive into your food, as silent as ever. Aegon nudges your side, “You’ve planned this well, haven’t you?” he whispers. The smirk on his face tells you that he couldn’t care less if his grandfather has just lost his position as Hand. “We should go visit the Free Cities together now that you have no more obligations, niece. Ever heard of Tyrosh’s pear brandy?”

You roll your eyes, holding in a smile. “Always thinking about drinking, aren’t you, uncle? I’m surprised you’re still so awake this late in the evening with all the cups you down usually.” 

He huffs. “Mother kept me from drinking today because of the trial.” he shrugs, grabbing his goblet and motioning for a servant to fill it up again. “Guess I’ll have to make up for it now.”

The chit-chatting goes on for a while; mostly everyone keeps to either themselves or the ones beside them, keeping their eyes on the plate and eating as fast as they could to get out of here soon. Your grandsire coughs, making everyone raise their eyes to look at him wheezing. “It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table. The faces most dear to me in the world… yet grown so distant from each other in the years past.” he shakes his head, making both you and Aegon grimace while looking at Aemond, who is nodding like he’s not the one who has mostly caused all of this.

“Let us no longer hold ill feelings into our hearts. The Crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided. But set aside all your grievances — if not for the sake of the Crown, then for the sake of this old man, who loves you all dearly.” 

Either he doesn’t see the whole situation clearly or he keeps being a hopeless romantic, because you doubt anyone in this room will ever set their grievances aside. Even if you were to forgive Aemond for what he had done to you, your brothers would still hate him, and Baela and Rhaena would continue to resent him for stealing their mother’s dragon. Otto made your last six years a living hell, as you continuously tried to keep your grandsire from being poisoned by his stupid maesters and pages, and Alicent did the same to your mother, terrorizing her in her own home, making her walk right after giving birth to Joff and such. 

You’re about to open your mouth and protest on your family’s behalf when your mother herself rises from her seat, goblet high. “I wish to raise my cup to Her Grace, the Queen. I love my father, but I must admit that no one has stood more loyally by his side than his good wife.” The look Aegon sends you says loyally?, and you have to look straight ahead to the windows to not burst out laughing. 

“She has tended to him with… unfailing devotion, love, and honour. And for that, she has my whole gratitude — and… my apology.”

The Queen presses her lips into a thin line, getting up and raising her cup. “Your graciousness moves me deeply, Princess. We are both mothers, and we love our children. We have more in common than we sometimes allow. I raise my cup to you… and to your house. You will make a fine queen.”

You and Aegon share a doubtful glance. “Are we the problem?” He asks you quietly, concerned about why everyone’s accepting this so quickly. You shake your head. “I have no idea, uncle. Maybe we are crazy.”

Jace clears his throat, raising too. At this point, you think you might actually be the problem. Is it possible you’re the only one who’s spiteful in this room? “To Prince Aegon and… Prince Aemond. We have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth. And as men, I hope we may yet be friends and allies. To you and your family's good health, dear uncles.” He sits back down, friendly punching Aegon’s shoulder. Your uncle coughs, “To you as well.”

Baela boldly gets up, and you’re starting to wonder for how long the toasting will go on. “I would like to toast to Rhaena and Princess Helaena. They'll be married soon, and even if I do not wish to marry, I am sure they’ll find good husbands in Prince Jacaerys and Prince Lucerys.”

The rest of the night goes fairly well, with bards starting the music and Mushroom fooling around, raising everyone’s spirits. Without him, you think, the family wouldn’t stand half as strong as it did. Once, Alicent tried to ban him from court, saying he was too obscene- as if your grandsire would’ve ever allowed that, with the way the fool made both you and your mother laugh. 

At some point during the evening, your grandsire leaves for his chambers, not feeling well; and as soon as he leaves the room, your fears become reality. 

Aemond gets up from his seat, cup raised, malice in his eyes. He has waited for grandsire to retire to speak– he knows the King would not have appreciated what he has to say. “Final tribute. To the health of my nephews: Jace, Luke, and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise… and strong.”

Jace flinches. Alicent grimaces, reprimanding, “Aemond.”

He doesn’t listen. “Come — let us drain our cups to these three… Strong boys.”

You and Jace both get up. “I dare you to say that again.”

“Why?” He laughs, “'Twas only a compliment. Do you not think yourself Strong?” 

Jacaerys strikes first, attacking Aemond with a punch on his face. Your mother is horrified, “Jace!”  Aegon whistles, laughing until you push his face into his food. “Not now, you dumb fuck!” She turns to you, eyes lost, “Not you, too!”

“S’fine,” Aegon chokes, face covered in sauce and peas and a piece of a roasted potato up his mouth. “She usually does worse.” 

Luke is on his feet the moment Jace’s knuckles touche Aemond’s face, but the guards stop him– they don’t come for Aemond quick enough to stop him from sending Jace tumbling to the ground, though, and your brother falls down only to rise up again, even more enraged– and that’s where the guards decide to step in. 

“That is enough!” Alicent yells, getting up and going to her son as your brothers struggle in the guard’s hold. She takes her son aside, raging, “Why would you say such a thing before these people?”

Aemond only snickers. “I was merely expressing how proud I am of my family, Mother.” he then turns to your brothers, still fighting the guards’ hold, “Though it seems my nephews aren't quite as proud of theirs.” 

Your mother hushers your brothers and cousins out of the room, “Go to your quarters. All of you go, now.”

Daemon goes to stand in between your uncle and your brothers, hands joined and sword on his hip. His gaze is clear: if you have something to say, say it to me. Aemond opts for the better option — the one that will allow him to keep his head steady on his shoulders — and decides to just flee the scene, exiting the chamber.

You sigh, looking at your mother. “Well,” you mumble, “I’m departing for Driftmark early in the morn to see my grandfather,” you tell her, patting her shoulder. “Good luck with everything else though. It’s rare around here that supper doesn’t end in a fight.”

if my calculations are right, the slow burn will start burning next chap

[zephyrrr101]

Take me away

Pairing: Robert Baratheon x Named Targ OC

TW: Abusive words, Harrasment, Talk of murder, Robert Baratheon being an angry chihuahua, all the ASOIAF world warning.

Part Two

Cries echoed in the silent halls of Red Keep. Ned Stark frowned at the new sound that had tore through the almost deafening quietness. He turned to look at his companions in the throne room.

His friend, now King Robert Baratheon sat at the Iron Throne.

The same throne that sat many Targaryen kings on it. The same Targaryens that the now King had swore upon killing. Each and everyone.

He did not agree with his friend on this.

Rhaegar Targaryen had taken his sister.

Aeyrs Targaryen had killed his father and brother.

He had felt the fire of vengeance run through him until they were alive but it was quelled the moment he met his dying sister.

And then he had felt disappointed and regretful.

Thousand people lost. Innocents put to sword.

The only good thing he thought came out of it was the end of the Mad King, albeit he didn't like the way he was killed by the Lannister White Knight, but still was a relief.

Another cry shook him out of his thoughts, now much louder, and he then turned to Jon Arryn, his mentor and now the Hand of the King. "What is this? Who is it?"

Jon Arryn did not answer. Even he wasn't sure what was happening. It was clear from the confused look on his face.

His eyes then found that of the new Commander of Kingsguard, Ser Barristan. He looked terrified at the best. He could not think of what could leave the man such as him so struck with fear.

The door of the Throne Room opened.

Now he understood Ser Barristan's horror.

Stannis Baratheon, King Robert's younger brother, marched in. His arms wrapped around silver tresses, he much more of dragged the woman he had come to know as Princess Alyssanne, cries leaving her mouth along with words of pleads to let her go.

What in the name of Gods' was happening?

Stannis came closer to the steps of the throne and pushed the silver haired princess to the floor, left of mercy of all the men in the room.

"What is the meaning of this?" Ned asked and he quickly moved over to the princess.

Her hair dishevelled, her dress dirty and almost seemed to falling off her shoulders. He did the quick work of pulling his cloak off him and covered the princess. Her eyes raised from the ground to meet his. Purple eyes filled with tears and her cheek wet and red.

"The boy escaped with the new born girl," Stannis started, "the Queen was dead. We only got in time to capture her. Dragonstone is ours."

"And you this needed you to drag a woman in such state?" Ned glared Stannis. He had known him almost as long as he knew Robert. He was like his own brother too. But this man he did not recognise.

Stannis opened his mouth, anger surging in his blood. But before any words could leave him, Robert yelled at the top of lungs. "What do you mean they escaped?! What else did I sent you there for!"

Stannis looked at his brother in shock. How could he even say such thing. "It was not in my hand! Willem Darry looked as if he had it already planned. He quicked the younger ones out. It was fortunate we could capture her!"

"You could have gotten there faster! I sent you there to killed them all! Not to bring the bitch back!" He glared at his brother for a moment before his anger took it's turn to Alyssanne. "Where did they go? Where did those runts run off to!"

Alyssanne flinched seeing him stand. Robert was always a tall man with broad shoulders. It intimidated anyone who didn't know him dearly. And not know him, the princess did. She whispered out some words in terror, her hold on the grey cloak of Stark was deathly. And Robert roared his question again, making her crawl a little back.

"I don't know! Please! Robert, we are kin!" She cried out, her voice broken from screaming some moments before.

"Kin? Kin! You are no kin of mine!" Robert sneered, "I'll find each and every one of your filthy white haired bastard and kill them just like I killed that son of whore of your brother! Just like I'll kill you!"

"No! Please! Robert!" Ned had never quite seen any woman in such a distress. He didn't even know what he was to do. "They are but children! Please just... Let them be. Let me go. I will find them and make sure we never return to Westros. I swear it! Please!"

"Let you go!" Robert looked disgusted at the thought, he started treading down the stairs, "You want me to—"

Ned stepped in Robert's way just when he was about a few steps away from Alyssanne and he caught Ser Barristan beside him. The princess had started fo move behind, draging herself back, trying to make distance between the enraged man.

"You grace, despite your anger she is your kin. An honourable man and king does not harm their kin or a woman," Ser Barristan said, trying to stop the enraged man to get his hands on the princess.

"Robert, she is a woman, a lady," Ned glared at his friend and Robert for a moment calmed.

For a moment they were not in the Throne Room of Red Keep but in Vale, fighting boys who tried to pick a fight with them.

Jon Arryn mean while had too moved. He approached the princess as one would a frighted and injured predator, who was actually contemplating the last moments of their life. He helped the princess get up, he eyes moving warily around, it didn't take anyone to be too wise to see the distance she tried to keep from Stannis and his men.

"Let us talk about this after tempers have cooled." Jon said. And he could say everyone agreed, even the Baratheon's, reluctantly, but they did.

Alyssanne had not slept for even a second in the following night. And it was not an understatement.

She had been far too worried about what was happening. From what she could tell, there was a storm forming across the Blackwater Bay which was streched all over the Narrow sea she could see from her room.

Yes, her room.

Jon Arryn had done her the courtesy of letting her be in her room. Something about finding calmness in familiarity.

She could bet whatever she had that she would never find calmness ever again.

She could not get her mind off anything. Her worry for her little brother and sister who had sailed just a day before. A storm on their flight would not do them good, specially the baby Daenerys, what her mother had named the babe with her dying breath.

Alyssanne had promised her mother to protect Viserys and Daenerys. How was she supposed to keep them safe, protect them when she was locked in the highest floor of the Maegor's Holdfast. Curse her father for giving her this room. What the hell was that mad man thinking! What was Rhaegar thinking? What was anyone thinking?

Another reason for sleep fleeing her was fear for her own life. She trusted Ser Barristan posted outside her room. The man had been their when she was born and had seen her grow up. Seven Hells, he was the one who had sent for her mother when she had her first moon blood. But even after all that, she could not sleep. Ser Barristan may have been another father figure in her life after Rhaegar, he was still a man who followed his King's command. And unfortunately, her cousin who was hell bent on having all of her family annihilated, including herself. Her father's Kingsguard had drawn the sword through his chest. Her father may be been the most horrible man to breath but she would not trust anyone now. Specially now.

"Princess," She flinched at the slight graze at her hand shuffling away on the opposite side on her bed. Alyssanne blinked, her wide eyes found a terrified woman standing across her.

"Princess... I—we are here to bathe you," The maid said. Yes, a maid, it was only a maid, Alyssanne sighed and looked around the room, there were three more women, all of them older than her, two bringing hot water in one putting a dress on the dressing screen and the last one was the one who had scared her.

"Yes, yes," she nodded and got off the bed hesitantly. None of the women seemed familiar. She was sure they didn't work here.

The maid who had scared her made a quick work of taking off her dress, if there was much left of it. There had not much left of her clothes in her room when she had tried to look in her dressers.

She wasn't even sure what happened in King's Landing. All her mother had told her was that her father, good sister, niece and nephew were dead and had then crowned Viserys King in Dragonstone. Now she was starting to wonder if asking for details may have been a good idea.

Why do good ideas never come at the right time?

Alyssanne couldn't help but let out a sigh of relief as she put her leg in the hot water. She could thank whoever had to the maids to have the water almost boiling hot. Her skin tingled as warmth started to seep in her body. It almost felt like she was back in time when nothing was wrong. That her mother would be bringing Viserys in her room to spend time with, Elia following her with little Rhaenys and Aegon.

Alyssanne sighed, biting her lip as she let the maids wash her. She had to control herself. Her eyes cautiously moved around her. Even when the maids were just doing their jobs. She couldn't let her guard down.

She sent a prayer to whatever Gods would listen her. Please keep my little brother and sister safe. She whispered. Keep them out of Robert's reach, please.