#tyroshi | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

optimizche · 2 years

Text

Missing (Part 2) [Aemond Targaryen x Reader]

Author's note: This is a long one, almost 3k words! Your encouragement really put me into the writing rhythm 😁 Please do let me know how you liked this chapter!

"Princess Rhaenyra, Prince Daemon, I don't think it is wise for me to accompany your party to King's Landing."

It has been six years since the now husband and wife had taken you in as their ward at Dragonstone, the day after the incident with the Velaryon boys, Prince Daemon's daughters and Prince Aemond. You had received the news of your own father's unfortunate passing a year after you had left the service of King Viserys. The new family you had found yourself with at Dragonstone helped you grieve and find peace and for that, you would forever be indebted to them.

In the years that had passed, you had grown into a comely young woman. With a lithe form and slender, elegant limbs from training in combat, your soft curves and delicate features made you one of the most beautiful women at Dragonstone.

"Why not?" Prince Daemon asked, a frown on his brow, yet concern for your well-being ever present in his eyes. "We shall introduce you by a different name, ensuring that no one at court shall recognise you."

"We need you there, little one," Princess Rhaenyra spoke, gently yet firmly. You knew she was worried about the petitions regarding the succession of Driftmark and the challenges that were going to be posed to Prince Lucerys' claim. "You know what those vipers did the last time we were facing them," she said, running a finger over the ghost of the scar left behind by the dagger Queen Alicent had wielded that night.

You nodded, considering the fact that being left to your own devices at Dragonstone would leave you quite lonely. Especially considering how close you now were with Jacaerys, Lucerys, Rhaena and Baela. Little Joffrey followed you around like a shadow as you spent most of your days training in combat with Jace and Luke, while your evenings were spent studying with Rhaena and Baela in the extensive library of Dragonstone with Maester Gerardys.

You had grown very attached to little Aegon and Viserys as well, looking after their needs along with their parents.

"Shall I darken my hair with some Tyroshi wash, Princess?" you asked, nervously, eliciting a smile from the Princess, taking your answer as a yes.

Prince Daemon chuckled heartily. "Believe me, little one. In the six years you've spent here, you've blossomed into an unrecognisable woman. The men at King's Landing will be all too preoccupied with admiring your beauty instead of determining your true identity," he reassured.

You bowed your head, hoping that his words would ring true.

----------

It felt nauseating, the stench within the King's bedchambers, disguised by the smoke of the incense burning in the corner.

You felt your heart catch in your throat, looking upon the King's face, half of it seeming to have rotten away, his eye lost to his infection, covered by bandages. He had grown so frail, you thought, seeing the gaping, weeping wounds running all across his exposed skin, right up under his silken tunic.

Jacaerys immediately sensed your guilt, seeing your face fall upon witnessing the worsened condition of the King, the man you were once responsible for healing. Now, the illness had spread far beyond the scope of your healing abilities and his days were numbered. You hid your tears against Jace's shoulder, shuddering quietly even as he wrapped a solacing arm around you.

The King had to be given the Milk of the Poppy every half hour to numb his pain, keeping his mind clouded. When it had been you around Viserys, he was at the prime of his health.

Had the Hightowers truly allowed his condition to become so bad as they warmed his throne for him?

Speaking of them, Alicent and Otto Hightower showed absolutely no sign of recognising you, given that earlier you had been a close companion of the Queen's children.

A quick wink from Prince Daemon bolstered your confidence that perhaps no one would detect your true identity.

If you could get away with a false identity before the King, Queen and the Hand...

"Come on," Jace said, tugging at your hand. "Let's see the rest of the Keep."

---------

It appalled you, the changes in the palace, the removal of traditional Targaryen heraldry, all to be replaced by the Seven Pointed Star, a symbol of the Faith of the Seven. No doubt the Hightowers were behind this.

"You don't need to be nervous, Luke," you said, brushing your arm with his hand comfortingly as you walked beside him, flanked by Jace on your other side as you entered the Red Keep courtyard.

"It is smaller than I remember," Lucerys commented on the size of the training ground that was flooded with members of the nobility watching a fight take place in the middle of the yard.

"It looks exactly the same," Jace commented, nonchalantly, perfectly content with ignoring the stares of the nobles around you three. Luke looked perturbed and you opened your mouth to encourage him only to be distracted by the sounds of swordfighting in the yard.

You turned to see Ser Criston Cole, battling against a tall, lithe figure, holding up a shield, his snowy hair reaching down his shoulders.

Perhaps it is Aegon, you dismissed the thought that had suddenly caused your throat to go dry. That hair color only belongs to a Targaryen-

With the swiftness of a leopard, the agile male, dressed entirely in black leather, disarmed Cole with ease.

Cole grinned and remarked, "Well done, my Prince. You'll be winning tourneys in no time."

"I don't give a shit about tourneys," the Prince said, sheathing his sword and the sound of his voice sent your blood running cold.

He turned and your palms suddenly began to feel clammy.

The patch on his eye only confirmed your worst suspicion. This wasn't Aegon after all...

"Nephews, have you come to train?" he asked Jace and Luke with the same arrogance you had known for as long as you had lived.

When the dark haired princes beside you remained silent, his one eye fell to you.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, seeing his eye run across your form until it met your own gaze.

Despite half of his face being maimed, he had grown into a rather handsome man. His long, silver hair, high cheekbones and thin mouth set into a severe line gave him the god-like appearance Targaryens were famous for. He wore his scars with ease, the slight jut of his chin and elegance of his posture exuding regality.

Aemond Targaryen.

Turning on your heel, you immediately made haste, rushing back into the walls of the palace, your heart hammering against your ribs so hard, you felt like it might burst out of you.

You ran until you were safely ensconced in a secluded corridor, shutting your eyes as you took deep, fortifying breaths to steady yourself.

"Gods, aren't you a beauty," a voice remarked, making your eyes shoot open to see a couple walking before you.

With the same silvery hair as Aemond, you knew this could only be Prince Aegon and his sister-wife Princess Helaena. Their twin children walked in tow, their maid accompanying them.

Aegon gave you a lecherous stare as he passed, while Helaena's expression was one of frank curiosity. You turned away immediately, feeling bitterness rise in your heart at the remembrance of Aemond's confession.

He loved Helaena.

Not you. Never you.

-------------

The welcoming feast that night was excruciating. After witnessing the death of Vaemond Velaryon in court you had almost wanted to feign an illness to excuse yourself from the affair, but Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon would have none of it. They wanted their ward to attend and that was that.

Getting dressed in your black Lyseni silk gown, you allowed your handmaiden to braid your hair into an intricate style away from your face. As much as you craved the comfort of the safety blanket of your long hair to hide behind, the hairstyle afforded none of it.

It was at this moment you were most envious of little toddler Joffrey and babies Aegon and Viserys, slumbering peacefully in their beds and cots. Not being old enough to attend this dinner.

Seated at the vast table beside Prince Daemon, you felt extremely jittery, picking at the foods on your plate. Just looking at the array of meats, cheeses, breads and cakes before you made you feel sick to your stomach.

The cause of your growing unease was Prince Aemond, seated right across from you, his one eye seemingly fixated upon your face, finger drumming against the table as toasts were being made left, right and centre. Even after the King had been carried away by his servants, the toasts continued.

To health, to goodwill, to graciousness, to peace...

You drank to each of them, the rich Dornish red and the sweet, light Arbor gold wines giving you a pleasant sense of tranquility as you consumed them on an almost empty stomach.

Until Aegon stood to his feet. Well in his cups, he raised a shaky goblet in your direction.

"I'd like to raise a toast to the ward of Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon. My Lady, you are one of the most exquisite beauties I've ever had the pleasure of laying my eyes on," Aegon spoke, his lascivious gaze fixed on you. "Gods, if I weren't already married I'd certainly ask for your hand-"

His toast was interrupted by his mother, Queen Alicent, clearing her throat loudly, signalling him to sit down with her baleful eyes.

You turned away in disgust, to converse with Luke who was sitting beside you, a smile warming your lips as you saw Jace rise to his feet and quietly approach Princess Helaena for a dance. She gratefully accepted, taking his hand in her own.

That'll show Aegon how to treat a lady, you grinned, laughing merrily with Luke and Rhaena, sipping at your wine.

Until an outstretched hand was in your own line of sight. You looked up at the owner of the proffered hand, clearly asking you for a dance and were met with the face of the one person you were hoping to avoid all evening at any cost.

"May I have this dance, My Lady?" Aemond asked, sending ice through your veins.

With reluctance, you accepted, knowing it would be incredibly impolite to refuse the King's son a dance in his own home.

As you went to the open floor where Jace and Helaena were already dancing happily, you allowed Aemond to draw you into his arms.

The two of you swayed and moved in time to the music, your mind almost marveling at the sinew of his arms beneath your hands, hardened from years of training and dragon riding. This was not the scrawny boy you once knew, who wielded wooden practice swords.

Yet, it was the scent of him that tugged at your heartstrings, the spiced musk that reminded you of your childhood. Of the boy you had once so foolishly given your heart to.

Of the boy who had who had chosen a dragon over you, crushing your innocence with his greed for power.

You glanced at Jacaerys who was looking at you with concern, giving him a reassuring smile when Aemond suddenly leaned in and whispered in your ear.

"I may be half blinded, but I can still see, My Lady."

Blood running cold, you made to release yourself from his embrace, but he remained unyielding, the smirk on his face unnerving you.

"Don't..." you breathed, hating how your voice broke.

"Do you realise I spent years looking for you?" he asked. "I implored Father to send envoys to all of the seven realms in search of you."

You scoffed. "You chose Helaena. You chose Vhagar. There was no need for me in your life any more."

His eye widened with hurt, something akin to anguish etching into his features. "Is that what you think?"

"It is something that I know," you said, finally releasing yourself from his grip as your words had stunned him into silence. "You have Helaena and her children bear a striking resemblance to their uncle, don't think I haven't noticed. You have Vhagar, the most powerful dragon in the seven realms. You never needed me the way I needed you. And I refuse to accept being your second choice."

And with that, having said your piece, you walked away from him, yet again. Tears blurring your vision, you were hurrying to reach the comfort of your bedchambers before the onslaught of old and distant memories consumed your nights as it had done countless times before.

----------

It had been only moments since you had changed from the black silken dress to linen smallclothes and were hoping to climb into bed for a restful night's sleep that you hear a knock on the door of your chambers.

"Who is it?" you ask, fearing the worst.

"My Lady, I bring some lavender tea," came the timid voice of a serving girl.

Sighing in relief, you walked to open the door, letting the girl in despite knowing full well that you had asked for no drinks to be served to you at this late hour.

Once she bowed and departed, you lifted the tea carafe in order to pour yourself a cup, only to find a note hidden underneath it.

Meet me in the godswood. Please. You owe our friendship this courtesy.

- A.T.

Even without the initials undersigning the note, you would have recognised that elegant penmanship anywhere.

You owe our friendship this courtesy. One of the last ever words you had spoken to Aemond before your abrupt departure, six years ago. You were surprised that he even remembered.

There was a reason why he had called you to the godswood, despite it being well past midnight. The wood had been an almost sacred part of your friendship, the two of you having spent most of your time there together, savouring each other's company.

Mulling over the decision to actually make the trip to the great weirwood tree, you made your way to the great glass window that gave you a direct view to the woods from your designated chambers.

In the moonlight, you caught a glimpse of shining silver hair in the darkness, Aemond's figure almost unmistakable as he sat near the roots of the weirwood tree.

Waiting for you.

You almost felt bad for him, seeing the way he sat, staring down at his own interlaced fingers.

Perhaps he wanted to say his piece too.

But hadn't he already said more than enough on that night at Driftmark? Did you honestly need any more pain and humiliation embittering your heart?

Closing your eyes and letting out a tired breath, you reached for your dressing robes, fastening them around yourself as you walked out of your chambers.

------------

Aemond heard your approaching footsteps long before he saw you. It was a sound all too familiar to his ears that once brought him immense peace.

But now, he was filled with trepidation as you stood before him. Beautiful as ever, with your hair undone around your shoulders, dressed in a simple cream robe.

Your full mouth was set into a severe line, eyebrows raised as you remained quiet, waiting for him to speak.

The silence stretched out for what felt like an eternity before he spoke.

"You left me."

A derisive laugh left your lips. "You chose Helaena, you chose the power of a dragon right when I was about to-"

"About to what?" he challenged, stepping closer.

"About to tell you that I loved you!" you cried out, the dam you had built around your feelings for him bursting open without warning.

Aemond's eye grew wide at your confession and he moved to touch your arm but you smacked it away angrily.

"For all those years, I loved you Aemond Targaryen. And you loved someone else," you said, voice catching in your throat as angry tears flooded in your eyes. "The children, the twins. Jaehaerys and Jaehaera. You've fathered them, have you not?"

"I could have you imprisoned in the dungeons for your accusation-" he began indignantly.

"Are they your children?" you asked sharply, having none of his empty threats.

"You could have stayed with me! You could have healed me! I wouldn't have been half blind if you had only been there with me!"

"Are. They. Your. Children?"

"Gods be good, yes!" he almost shouted, giving in to your stubborn line of questioning.

You stepped back, almost reeling from the shock of a truth you had already suspected for quite some time.

"Yes, they're my-"

Without a hint, your hand swung at him, landing a resounding slap across his face. So hard that you could see his skin reddening when you withdrew your hand.

Aemond, a seasoned warrior, almost flinched from the suddenness of the blow, an incredible anguish cutting through his heart as he took a step back.

"This conversation is at an end. You've made your choices. As did I," you said, your tone ringing with a finality that impressed you, considering how utterly broken you felt on the inside. "Being anyone's option is not enough for me."

And with that, you turned and swiftly walked away, ignoring his pleading calls of your name, muffling your own sobs by covering your mouth with a shaky hand.

Just as you were making your way back to your chambers, you ran into a dark haired figure, almost collapsing in his arms before you caught yourself.

"What happened?" Jace asked, worry about your state shining in his dark eyes. "Did he hurt you?"

You shook your head, unable to speak another word, letting out only a sniffle, your puffy and red eyes staring at the floor.

"I'm going to kill him," Jace said, stiffening, hands clenching into fists.

"No, please, Jace," you said instead, throwing your own arms around the young prince. A hug was all that you needed at the moment.

"Its alright, sweet one," he replied, returning your embrace just as desperately. "Come, you must tell me everything."

You nodded against his chest, before letting him take you by the hand and lead you into your chambers, unaware of the silver haired, one-eyed Targaryen prince watching the two of you through the shadows of the firelit corridor.

Part 3

#angst #hotd #house of the dragon #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #ewan mitchell #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond x helaena #prince aemond #aemond targaryen x helaena targaryen #aemond x oc #aemond fanfiction #aemond imagine #hotd aemond #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen x reader

1K notes · View notes

sansas-amythest-hairnet · 7 months

Text

Tyroshi Hairstyles

The tyroshi are very flamboyant, dying their hair vivid colors and wearing large hats. Hair is kept off the shoulders and neck due to heat, wigs are very popular for those who can’t grow long hair.

requested by @visenyaspellbook

#game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #asoif fanart #asoif/got #asoiaf fanart #Tyrosh #fantasy hair #hairstyle #headpiece #hats

106 notes · View notes

diamondperfumes · 9 months

Text

Culture is a central aspect of Dany's arc. As such, it is a central feature of interpretations of her character, whether such interpretations are positive or negative.

The majority of ASOIAF fans dislike Dany's relationship with culture. What I find interesting, however, is that ASOIAF fans end up rejecting Dany's place in every culture she's part of.

Dany was born on Dragonstone, and immediately fled to Braavos when Rhaella died. When Viserys and Daenerys were forced to leave the Sealord's Manse, they traveled through the Free Cities: Lys, Myr, Tyrosh. Dany speaks Valyrian with a Tyroshi accent/dialect. Six months before the events of AGOT, Viserys and Daenerys land up in Illyrio's manse in Pentos.

Dany unequivocally adopts Dothraki culture as her own. She worships the Dothraki Horse God, speaks Dothraki fluently, wears the hrakkar when she wants to be comfortable, prefers her Dothraki riding leathers, painted vest, and medallion belt to the Meereenese tokar (and wears such an outfit when she wants to project strength), wears bells in her hair, considers Dothraki funeral rites for her own eventual death, loves horse riding, and sees herself as part of the Dothraki land. She is a Khaleesi of her own Khalasar, and also foreshadowed to be the Stallion who Mounts the World.

Dany spends time in Qarth, recovering from the perils of the Red Waste, figuring her leadership style out as a beggar queen, before she is kicked out of the city. There she meets Quaithe, who recurs as an ambiguous guide and mentor in her arc. She also receives various prophecies from the Undying, before they try to devour her. Xaro becomes an ally, and then enemy, and she learns important lessons from him. She gets her three-headed dragon crown, wrought in jade, ivory, and onyx, from the Pureborn of Qarth.

Dany conquers Slaver's Bay, moving from Astapor, to Yunkai, to Meereen, before ruling Meereen as Queen. She tries to free slaves and abolish slavery in each city. She wears the Meereenese tokar, speaks Ghiscari in court, marries Hizdahr zo Loraq in the Meereenese fashion, re-opens the fighting pits, trains her child hostages as cupbearers, and tries to be the "queen of rabbits." The bulk of the exploration of her leadership style and ideology is in Slaver's Bay.

Dany wants to reconquer Westeros on behalf of the Targaryen dynasty, and idealizes Westeros as a beautiful land. She names the habitat Drogon carves out for himself as Dragonstone.

Dany longs for the house with the red door and lemon tree. The two places she admits to being happiest in are Braavos (the house with the red door) and the Dothraki Sea. She once wanted to be a sailor. She has dreams of living a simple life with Daario. She also wants to be queen.

Dany speaks Ghiscari, High Valyrian, Tyroshi Valyrian (and likely other Valyrian dialects, like Pentoshi Valyrian), the Common Tongue, and Dothraki. She worships both the Faith of the Seven and the Dothraki Horse God. She has a connection to R'hllorism. She's lived in various Free Cities, the Dothraki Sea, Qarth, and Meereen. She's been through the Red Waste, Vaes Dothrak, Astapor, and Yunkai.

ASOIAF fans reject every one of Dany's relationships to these locations and cultures.

She is considered entitled, and imperialistic, for wanting to reconquer Westeros. Most theories of her dying center around the futility of conquest, the violence of House Targaryen, the selfishness of holding on to its name, the fact of her exile, and even that she is "foreign" to the land and culture. Many point out that she doesn't know "anything" about Westeros, that her father was Aerys II, that her family are "oppressive conquerors," and that her family lost the throne. Some will come up with convoluted reasons to claim that Jon Snow or Young Griff are ahead of her in the line of succession (so the throne belongs to a Targaryen, just not her). She won't "respect" Northern independence, Dornish independence, Ironborn independence, etc.

She is considered violent, tyrannical, and a threat to Westeros because of her connection to the Dothraki. She is accused of being an enabler of slavery and rape for being Drogo's wife, and then a she-Khal. The stallion who mounts the world prophecy is used as "proof" that she will go mad, or that she will burn Westeros to the ground in her conquest. She is accused of romanticizing Dothraki culture. She's blamed for what happens to the women of the Lhazarene village, particularly Mirri. Phrases such as "she is a white woman whose arc is propped up by the suffering of women of color/characters of color" are usually located here.

Dany is accused of not really caring about slavery because "she didn't do anything about it in Qarth," and stayed in Xaro's manse as a guest.

At the same time, Dany is seen as a white/Westerosi character "imposing her foreign/Western values" upon Essos. She is accused of "trying to civilize" Dothraki culture and "appropriating/mimicking" it. The phrase "white man's burden" is usually thrown around here. She's accused of raping Irri, her arc being built on Irri and Jhiqui's suffering, and the Dothraki being painted as "savage" for her own trauma. She is mocked as naive and ignorant for not appreciating the beauty of Qarth and wanting to return to Westeros in spite of being there, accused of being unfair toward Xaro in expecting an alliance from him, accused of being a cultural imperialist for burning down the House of the Undying.

Her time in Slaver's Bay receives the lion's share of the critique. She ruins its political economy. She destroys the region. She profits from slavery while claiming to be antislavery. She causes the freedmen to face poverty, violence, murder, rape, and suffering. She doesn't do enough against rapists and looters. She chooses fire and blood over the Meereenese peace, which is seen as a negative. She colonizes Slaver's Bay. She is like the US in Afghanistan or Iraq––invading for selfish reasons and then leaving, causing a rightwing insurgency to grow. She commits war crimes by torturing the wineseller's daughters and crucifying 163 Great Masters of Meereen, leaders of the city.

Yet the irony of this is captured in how people criticize her presence in Meereen: she is accused of ruining the city as an imperialist and is then criticized for wanting to sail away to conquer Westeros. So essentially, she has no place in Meereen, but she is also a bad person for wanting to leave it for Westeros.

As a Targaryen, and a Valyrian in general, her presence is seen as oppressive to both Westeros and Essos. Westeros because of the Targaryen conquest, Essos because of the legacy of the Valyrian Freehold. She's criticized for being "allies" with Illyrio Mopatis, a slaveowner, and people theorize that Braavos will hate her for being a Valyrian with dragons. Yet she is also criticized for not resettling in the house with the red door (presumably in Braavos, no?) and instead wanting to conquer Westeros. She is "too stupid" to appreciate how "beautiful and advanced" Essos is, and too focused on idealizing Westeros, but she is also too Westerosi/white/foreign to Essos.

In other words, for ASOIAF fans, Dany does not deserve to belong to any culture. Seeking a place in Westeros means that she is entitled, selfish, privileged, and oppressive. Being a Dothraki Khaleesi means that she simultaneously romanticizes slavery and is trying to civilize brown people. Conquering Slaver's Bay is an act of imperialism from a Western tyrant seeking resources, but leaving Slaver's Bay is an act of imperialism from a Western tyrant fleeing a war they started. Staying in Qarth means that she romanticizes slavery, but not fitting in there and idealizing Westeros means she is like an American tourist in the Global South, who cannot appreciate the real value of where she is in favor of a backwater Global North (Westeros). Being Valyrian means she is inherently responsible for slavery, and thus does not belong in Braavos or Westeros, but if she lives in Qarth, the Free Cities, or conquers Slaver's Bay to abolish slavery, she is trying to make Old Valyria rise again. She ruined Meereen and will burn Volantis, but she will also burn King's Landing and maybe even Sunspear.

If I ask ASOIAF fans what culture she belongs to, or which continent she should be part of, doubtless I will get multiple answers. But those answers will end up contradicting themselves. The reality is that these are not scattered rejections––the people rejecting Dany's place in each culture will, at different times, reject all the places Dany occupies in said cultures. Someone who on one day says Dany is a backwater white person who can't appreciate the beauty of Qarth will on the next day claim that she is reviving the violence of the Targaryen dynasty upon Dorne and the North by planning to invade Westeros. Someone who will wax lyrical about how she is a white woman whose arc is built on the suffering of women of color, and thus that she is a Nazi, or white supremacist, will on another day call her a rape enabling slave profiteer for being Drogo's wife and a Khaleesi.

Perhaps this is the natural conclusion of a character who is intentionally written as stateless and homeless. A nomad, an exile, a diasporic teenage girl, who longs for various "homes" and has different ideas of "home" in her head. But what does it say about ASOIAF fans that they reject her relationship with every culture? They don't want her in Essos or Westeros. We don't know what's west of Westeros, as we never hear the outcome of Elissa Farman's voyage. Doubtless the same fears people have of Dany living and thriving in Essos or Westeros would apply to any lands west of Westeros too. So where do they want her? There is an answer to this, which only a few ASOIAF fans are honest enough to admit: that Dany should have died in childbirth, or on the journey to Braavos, or on the Dothraki Sea, as Illyrio intended. Sadly, most ASOIAF fans are not brave enough to admit that their rejection of Dany's various cultural "places" is actually just a disguise for their dissatisfaction at her existence in the narrative.

(Whether or not that dissatisfaction is merited, whether or not it is motivated by genuine, "progressive" literary reasons, is another conversation. ASOIAF fans are indeed free to be upset about her presence as a character, or to theorize that she will be a villain because of her cultural statelessness. Right now, though, this post focuses on the question of "what culture could Dany be a part of without being a threat." The answer, for most ASOIAF fans, seems to be that Dany, child of storm, was born a threat to the entire world of ice and fire).

#daenerys targaryen #asoiaf #my discourse #rape tw

199 notes · View notes

ewanmitchellcrumbs · 1 year

Text

Perzys se Rūkla (Fire and Flowers) - Chapter Three

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x original female character (Melessa Tyrell) Warnings: Smut, loss of virginity. Word count: ~6.1k

Chapter summary: Daemon leaves King's Landing as quickly as he has arrived. A wedding takes place. Series summary here.

Endless thanks and all the love to my absolute ride or die @em-writes-stuff-sometimes for cheerleading, beta'ing and just generally being the bestest fandom boo a gal could have.

Header by the insanely talented @em-writes-stuff-sometimes

Daemon surveys the spread of tarts, lemon cakes and tea with a sneer.

“I hadn’t realised your wife would be joining us,” Daemon says stiffly, seating himself across from Moryn in the solar.

“She won’t be, Your Grace,” Moryn replies, his eyebrows pinching together in confusion.

Daemon’s eyes widen slightly. He finds the setting oddly feminine. Had the old fool gotten him confused with Laenor? Fuck, this is going to be awful.

“Just call me Daemon. I’m not as jumped up my own arse as the rest of my family.”

The older man shifts uncomfortably in his seat and clears his throat, obviously not used to such vulgarity.

“Tea?” Moryn offers, the serving girl rounding the table to fill his cup in complement to his words.

“No.” Daemon snatches up the jug of wine from the middle of the table, pouring himself a cup.

Shortly after he had left Melessa in the gardens earlier that morning, he had sent word requesting to speak with her father. He’d been surprised to receive an invitation to the solar less than an hour later. Now he sits opposite the portly Lord of Highgarden, not bothering to mask his disgust at the unsightly residue left behind in his moustache as he takes a large bite from a Tyroshi honey finger.

“So,” Moryn begins around a mouthful of pastry, raising his teacup to his lips. “What was it you wanted to see me about?”

Daemon fixes Moryn with a steady gaze. “Your daughter. I’m going to marry her.”

Moryn splutters around his tea, sending the cup clattering back into its saucer. “Melessa?” The colour in his cheeks has blanched.

“Unless you’ve another stashed away somewhere?” Daemon reclines back in his chair with a smirk.

“She is betrothed to your nephew! That cannot simply be undone.”

“It can and it will.” Daemon leans forward, his hand curling around his wine cup. All trace of humour leaves his face. “When my brother dies, my niece will become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. She will make me her Hand. That is a powerful ally for Highgarden to have, I think you’ll agree.”

“But Prince Aegon is-”

“A drunken, useless cunt,” Daemon spits, cutting Moryn off. “My brother named Rhaenyra as his heir. That has not changed.”

The older man fidgets in his seat. The irritating nervous throat clearing has returned, although he is no longer eating any of the food upon the table. Daemon thinks it would be agreeable for him to be kept in a perpetual state of fear, a means to stop his overeating. He chuckles drily to himself, not caring to share the joke.

Moryn sighs. “Lord Hightower is the King’s Hand. He says that His Highness is in no fit state to be making decisions regarding succession. Prince Aemond is a good match for Melessa - he is well-educated and he rides the largest dragon in all of Westeros.”

Daemon’s eyes narrow, his tone becoming icy. “That treasonous prick Otto will find himself fed to my dragon once Rhaenyra is crowned. As will you if you do not strongly reconsider.”

Blinking rapidly, Moryn appears to concede. “What would you have me do?”

“The day after tomorrow is when the original betrothal announcement was to be made, yes? That is when we will have the wedding.”

The elderly man balks at the suggestion, his mouth hanging agape for a moment before he speaks. “That is too soon! Aemond and Melessa were to have a year-long courtship.”

“A year-long courtship that your daughter does not want,” Daemon states bluntly. “She has expressed a desire to marry me. I see no reason to wait.”

Moryn bows his head, clearly beaten. “As you wish. Let us make the necessary arrangements.”

As Daemon strides from the solar, a smug sense of satisfaction emanates from every pore of his body. For once, he has been granted something he wants. He is so pleased by this that he is prepared to ignore the voice in the back of his head telling him that he is rushing this simply so he doesn’t have time to change his mind.

Daemon confines himself to his chambers for the rest of the day. Tempted as he is to seek out his new wife-to-be and share in their happy news, he knows that Moryn is likely having a conversation with Otto that he would do well to keep out of. Being seen with her would serve only to exacerbate tensions. He longs to put the King’s Hand in his place, but that is a side of him that Melessa has yet to see. He has no desire to frighten her away before they’ve even exchanged vows.

He cannot scare her off before they get to the wedding night. His thoughts drift to how it will finally feel to touch her as he longs to, to kiss her as he wants to, to fuck her as he pleases. The idea of being the first man to undress her, to be inside of her, to spill within her cunny… It’s enough to push him to the brink of spending in his breeches like a green boy. If nothing else, that alone makes all of this worth it. Political alliances be damned - he will pluck his rose so no one else may have her, defile those soft little petals so that they are only his.

He finds himself fisting his cock to the thought of her once again. Gods, this is becoming pathetic. At least there is comfort to be found in the fact that he will not have long to wait until she becomes the vessel for his carnal appetite.

Just as Daemon suspected, he does not have long to wait to lock horns with the King's Hand. Otto seeks out Daemon the next day as he is preparing to head to the gardens, hoping for a chance to see Melessa again. He has thought of nothing but her since parting ways with her oaf of a father yesterday.

“Are you really so pig-headed that you’d break off your own nephew’s betrothal to sate your lust?” Otto demands, not bothering with pleasantries. Daemon grins at the informality of it.

“Good morning to you, too,” Daemon states with airy indifference.

“This is treason, Daemon! I will not allow it!” Otto retorts coolly, though the anger that bubbles beneath the surface is more than apparent.

“You think that because my brother lays rotting at your mercy that you have the right to decide anything? Your plans to get Highgarden on side are as flimsy and obvious as your attempts to usurp Rhaenyra’s claim to the throne. You will do well to remember who will be named Hand once Viserys passes.”

“Viserys is in no fit state-”

“You will not speak of my brother to me,” Daemon interrupts with enormous irritation. “You have not earned the right. Lord Tyrell has agreed to wed his daughter to me. You will find another match for Aemond easily enough. I’m sure you must be positively overwhelmed by the number of high born ladies all desperate to marry a one-eyed prince.”

Otto clenches his jaw, exhaling heavily through his nose. “You will live to regret your rashness.”

“And you will live to regret your insolence, unless you walk away. Now,” Daemon says darkly, his hand coming to rest upon the pommel of Dark Sister.

With a withering sigh, Otto turns back towards the Red Keep. He halts after a few steps, calling back over his shoulder. “Marry her if you must. However, I’d suggest you seek out an alternative location - the Queen will not allow for your nuptials to take place in the capital.”

You mean you will not allow it, you cunt. Daemon glares at Otto’s retreating form before continuing on towards the gardens.

His strides are more purposeful, his face hardened by anger. He longs to go after Otto, to run him through with Dark Sister. In his youth, perhaps he would have. However, he is aware that there are larger things at stake than his wounded pride.

He feels his heart rate slow and his mood grow lighter as he thinks of Melessa’s clear blue eyes, the scent of almond oil and rosewater, the grin that is just for him. He knows that seeing her will calm him, so he is at first disappointed when he arrives at the gardens to find her usual bench unoccupied. This quickly escalates to anger.

Emitting a growl of frustration, he settles himself upon the bench, bowing his head and rubbing his temples. It is his first time at ‘home’ in fifteen years and the last few days have been more stressful than all of his time away combined. He is sick of needless politicking, tired of family quarrels, disgusted by the Hightower influence that now permeates every crevice of the Red Keep.

He has made a promise to marry Melessa tomorrow and now faces the humiliation of having to disappoint her. Perhaps it is for the best. She is too delicate for the likes of him. Dragons trample flowers underfoot - they do not nurture them.

“I believe congratulations are in order, Uncle.”

Daemon lifts his gaze to the welcome sight of Rhaenyra, his shoulders relaxing as she approaches and seats herself next to him.

“Not if your father’s Hand has anything to do with it,” Daemon mutters, looking out across the gardens.

Rhaenyra shoots him an amused sideways glance. “You couldn’t possibly expect to take Aemond’s betrothed for yourself and marry her here in the city?”

Daemon says nothing. Truthfully, he hadn’t given much thought to anything beyond having Melessa to himself, and the more he considers his oversight of the finer details the more embarrassed he feels. It is not a feeling that sits right with him.

She scoffs. “That is so typical of you: storming in, causing a scene and not thinking about how it affects anyone besides yourself.”

“I get the distinct impression you’re no longer talking about just Melessa.” He raises his eyebrows, turning to her.

Hurt flashes across Rhaenyra’s face, her voice rising an octave. “Why her?”

“You mean why not you?”

“Does it matter?”

“Rhaenyra, you were a child,” Daemon says gently. “I spared you.”

She laughs bitterly. “Yes, because the life I’ve led since you left has been just wonderful.”

“And you think mine is any better?”

“I know little of it!”

Daemon takes Rhaenyra’s hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You have three wonderful sons. Does their father not make you happy?”

The implication goes unspoken, though it is clear he is referring to Harwin Strong and not Laenor Velaryon.

“He does,” she admits with a soft smile.

“Then don’t begrudge me for wanting what you have.”

Rhaenyra sighs, regarding Daemon carefully before she speaks.

“If it is her that you truly want, Uncle, then return with her to Dragonstone and marry her there. It will take a day by boat for Melessa and her family. If they were to leave within the hour, then they’d make it in time for you to marry her tomorrow, just as you wanted.”

Daemon considers this for a moment, his eyes lighting up. This is perfect. A final ‘fuck you’ to that Hightower imbecile, his whore of a daughter and her idiotic children.

“Can I count on my niece’s presence?” he asks with a wry smile.

“On dragonback, Laenor, the children and I can be on Dragonstone in less than half a day,” she says softly. “I am reluctant to leave Father, but I suppose you will need someone there for your wedding.”

“Thank you, Rhaenyra. You have no idea what that means to me.”

They remain seated together, hand in hand, for a few moments longer. Daemon has never felt more grateful for his niece than he does at this moment. As much as he hates to admit it, this is not the first time she has saved him from his own folly. It is unlikely it will be the last.

Rhaenyra and Daemon part ways in the garden. Rhaenyra in agreement that she will ready Laenor and her boys to set off for Dragonstone and aid in wedding preparations. Daemon needs to ensure that Melessa and the rest of the Tyrells currently residing within the Red Keep are ready to leave by boat within the hour. Laenor’s seafaring history means he will be able to aid with securing a boat within the Blackwater Rush to provide safe passage. Finally, the pillow biter has a useful purpose.

Daemon knocks at Melessa’s chamber door. It is answered by a flustered handmaiden, and the room is abuzz with activity. Melessa stands in the middle of the room atop a small stool, a gaggle of women crowd around her pinning, sewing and layering white lace fabric.

“You aren’t supposed to be here!” the handmaiden says exasperatedly. Not quite the welcome he’d hoped for, but he has more pressing matters to attend to than this lowly woman’s over-inflated sense of self worth.

“I need to speak with my betrothed,” he says simply.

At the sound of his voice, Melessa turns her head, earning a tut from a fraught looking older woman attempting to pin together a shoulder of the gown.

“Daemon!” she gasps. “You mustn’t see me before I’m ready!”

His eyes travel appreciatively over the cut of the half-finished gown. It is form-fitting and backless, typical of the style in Highgarden, and far more revealing than the modest and rather frumpy dress sense of the ladies of the capital. His excitement at seeing the finished result is almost as great as his excitement to see her out of it entirely. Almost.

“Forgive me, petal,” he says apologetically, though not actually sorry at all. “There has been a change in plans.”

He explains to her the urgency of the situation and what needs to happen next. She listens wide-eyed with excitement and offers no protest, sweet little thing that she is. He leaves her with a soft kiss to her hairline and the promise that they will be reunited soon. For now, he must speak to her father.

Moryn will be harder to persuade. However, the greater problem, Daemon fears, will be getting the bulk of his weight from the Red Keep to the boat in time for when it departs.

Predictably, he is resistant at first - but when Daemon points out that the Tyrells have likely worn out their welcome in the capital, having broken off Melessa’s betrothal to Aemond, Moryn is much more agreeable.

Having made the final preparations, Daemon finds himself readying to leave King’s Landing once more. It has only been a few days, yet he feels he has had more than his fill of this wretched place. He mounts the great, red beast that is Caraxes, preparing for the half-day’s flight back to the place that actually feels like home: Dragonstone.

The wind whips around him as Caraxes glides in to land on the jagged rocks that make up the island. Daemon is taken aback by how much colder it is here than back in the capital. He wonders how Melessa will fare living here. Highgarden and King’s Landing proffer much balmier climes - there is every chance his delicate rose will wilt in the winds that batter the jagged cliff faces here.

His doubts begin to grow as he sets about making preparations for the wedding that is to take place tomorrow. It is too short notice for the castle’s kitchen to order in supplies for the feast - they will simply have to make do with what is already on hand, though with the meagre attendance that this celebration is to have that certainly won’t pose a problem. He cannot shake the feeling that he is not giving Melessa the wedding that she deserves, nor the husband.

Daemon’s mind settles with the arrival of Rhaenyra and Laenor along with their children and respective dragons. Harwin, not being a dragonrider, is notably absent. It is odd, though not unpleasant, for Dragonstone to suddenly have so much noise and life within it.

With the aid of his niece and her husband, the castle is bustling with activity as servants work to prepare the sleeping quarters for the arrival of the Tyrells, while the kitchen staff work in earnest to ensure enough food is cooked. He pushes his doubts away, allowing himself a moment of optimism. He will have his pretty bride, and she will have a Targaryen prince. There has never been a fairer exchange than this one.

Melessa, along with her father and mother, arrive by boat the following morning. She looks sea-sick. It strikes Daemon that this was potentially her first time ever travelling on a boat, and for her maiden voyage she’d sailed non-stop through the night. The poor thing must feel wretched. Lucky for her, she need never sail anywhere again after this, not now she is his.

He looks softly down upon her, taking her hands into his as she disembarks. Her queasy expression is enough to make him laugh, but he bites it back for her sake.

“I trust you had a safe journey, petal?” he asks, ignoring the admonishing look from Moryn at his choice of pet name for his daughter.

“Mm...yes,” Melessa responds, her voice weak.

He gives her hands a soft squeeze, before ushering her forward. “Come, let us get you settled. The hours pass swiftly and there is much to do before we are husband and wife.”

Daemon does not see Melessa again for the rest of the day. She is swept off towards her chambers to be readied for the ceremony, while he returns to his to do the same.

It strikes him as he looks upon the bed that in a few short hours will have Melessa atop it. The thought excites him. It has been a long time since he has indulged in untouched flesh. He can almost picture the pained expression on her sweet little face the first time he pushes inside. The hours may pass swiftly, but not fucking swiftly enough.

It is early evening as Daemon and Melessa stand in front of the Septon in the Hall of Dragonstone. Daemon has always imagined a traditional Valyrian rite with dragon glass and exchanges of blood if he were to ever remarry after his first wife Rhea. He resents having to go through another ceremony under the Seven. However, Melessa is not of Valyrian descent and he has had to agree to this to even get her here in the first place.

The turnout is poor. Servants outnumber actual wedding guests, though Rhaenyra, Laenor, Jacaerys, Lucerys and Joffrey stand to the right and Melessa’s parents to the left. Daemon is almost too ashamed to look at any of them. She absolutely deserves better than this, yet she is looking at him as though she has never been happier. All traces of seasickness are gone and her blue eyes have recovered their beautiful shine.

She looks radiant, a vision of beauty in form fitting white lace, decorated with elegant hand-sewn roses. He can tell from the gooseflesh that prickles across her bare arms and shoulders that she is chilled to the bone. Dragonstone is absolutely going to be an adjustment for her.

Sad as he is to cover such a lovely ensemble, he is also glad to drape the cloak around her shoulders as they chant “I am yours and you are mine.” At least now she has something to keep her warm until he is able to heat her skin with his own later.

The hours may pass swiftly, but not fucking swiftly enough.

When they kiss it is as though he has forgotten how to breathe. He’d known her lips were soft - a quick glance at those rosy red lips was enough to see that - but it could never have prepared him for how they actually feel. They are tender and plump against his own, yet unyielding. It feels like it has ended no sooner than it began. For the sake of propriety they are forced to keep things chaste.

Finally, she is his.

“Husband,” she whispers up at him as they leave the Hall hand in hand. Her look of pure adoration is enough to make him feel as though his cock will slice clean through his breeches from the speed in which it rises to attention.

“Wife,” he murmurs back, fingertips grazing her delicate jaw.

Mercifully, they are spared the indignity of a wedding dance, though the meal that follows is tense and awkward. With only six adults and three children to occupy the table, it is a far cosier affair than Daemon would have liked and conversation does not flow freely. Rhaenyra and Laenor, to their credit, do more than their fair share of the talking, though it is clear that having to marry his only daughter to the Rogue Prince is still very much a bone of contention for Moryn. His wife is far more gracious, commenting on how much of a privilege it is to sup with the heir to the Iron Throne. Daemon sends a silent thanks to the gods that it’s her mother that Melessa takes after.

He is enamoured with her. Her eyes do not seem to move from him at all. She gazes up at him like he has hung the very stars in the sky for her and it makes his chest swell with pride. Feeding her morsels from his own fork, he is captivated by the way her lips move against the prongs. A flash of her wet pink tongue has him stifling a groan. She has kept the wedding cloak wrapped firmly around her. Despite the fireplace having been lit, it does little to keep the chill from the room, especially when it is so sparsely populated.

Daemon longs to retire to their marital chambers, to unravel her from her layers like a gift. After having felt the softness of her lips against his, he is aching to find out if she feels that way everywhere, to feel the heat of his flesh pressed against hers.

The hours may pass swiftly, but not fucking swiftly enough.

At last, the wedding feast draws to a close and Daemon finds himself alone with Melessa, fighting the urge to leap upon her and stake his claim like a wild animal. He must show restraint, be gentle with her, convince her this is something she wants to do over and over again.

Unlike at the dining table, Melessa’s eyes seem to want to look anywhere but at him. The poor thing is nervous, he can see that from how she shakes.

“You are trembling, petal,” he says softly, taking her hands in his. He steps closer, carefully, a predator stalking its prey. “Are you frightened of me?”

“No,” he murmurs. “Not-not of you, but… of what you are going to - do to me. Will it - will it hurt?”

Daemon chuckles, releasing her hand to gently grip her jaw between his thumb and forefinger.

“Sweet flower. It is not what I am going to do to you; it is what we are going to do together. You will feel pleasure if you allow me to do as I please. Will you allow me?”

“Yes.”

“Good girl.”

He kisses her then. It is not the chaste kiss shared at the altar. His mouth moves against hers, claiming her lips as his own and she lets him. She gasps as his tongue sweeps against her own and he tangles his fingers into her silky hair, holding her in place as he feels her body relax into his. Finally, she is succumbing.

He pulls away, drawing in a steadying breath as he takes in her kiss-swollen lips and dilated pupils. She is perfect. His stones ache at the very sight of her.

“Has anyone ever kissed you like that before, petal?”

“I have never been kissed at all,” she whispers.

Gods, she is going to be the death of him. He inhales sharply through his nose, pushing the cloak from her shoulders and letting it pool to the floor.

“Undress.” His lust filled state gives his voice an edge, and the command is delivered with more sharpness than he intended. He caresses her cheek as her skin flushes with fear and embarrassment. “Trust me, little flower, I will take good care of you.”

“I-I will need you to help me.” Her voice trembles and her cheeks are almost scarlet.

She turns, brushing her long flaxen hair off of her back and over her shoulder to reveal the open back of the dress. It is held together by two fastenings at the back of her neck and lacing at the waist band of the skirt. The open back leaves her creamy white flesh totally exposed and Daemon cannot stop himself from reaching out and trailing his fingertips down the curve of her spine. She shivers beneath his touch and he cannot help the smirk that tugs at the corners of his mouth.

If she shakes at the mere touch of her back, imagine how she will react when I touch between her legs.

He carefully unclasps and unlaces her gown. As it falls away from her body, he turns, allowing her to step out of it as he begins to remove his doublet and undershirt.

The sensation that shoots straight to the tip of his cock as he returns his gaze to her leaves him sure he has just spilled his seed in his breeches. She is completely naked. He feels like he has forgotten to breathe as he drinks in the sight of her. She is small and slight; her breasts are petite, barely a handful with peaks that are the same ruddy shade as her lips. His eyes follow the natural curve of her waist and hips, lingering upon the delicate thatch of blonde curls that sits upon her mound.

“Where are your smallclothes, petal?” he asks, struggling to hold himself back as he battles to regulate his breathing. He is utterly bewildered and delighted in equal measure.

“I...uh… the cut of my wedding gown did not allow for small clothes. I was going to have them specially tailored, but there wasn’t time.”

The flush of her shame has now spread to her chest, a light dusting of pink blooming beneath her collarbones. Daemon now has another reason to be glad of the haste of their nuptials. A most fortunate turn of events indeed. He notices that her eyes linger on the marred flesh of his bare torso, a parting gift from a flaming arrow that punctured his neck during the battle of the Stepstones.

He cocks his head, watching her carefully as she takes him in. “Do my scars bother you?”

His words appear to snap her out of her reverie. She gives him an apologetic look, shaking her head fervently. “N-no… I just… may I touch them? Your scars, I mean.”

Daemon is taken aback by her request. He had expected her to be repulsed. His little flower is full of surprises.

“You may.”

Her small, delicate hand reaches forward with trepidation. He cannot help but smile at the care with which she touches him as her fingertips trace gently over the ruined flesh.

“I am sorry that that happened to you,” she says softly.

He is touched by her sentiment, capturing her hand in his and pressing a kiss to the knuckles.

“Lay on the bed for me,” he says huskily, not wishing to dwell on the past any longer than he has to.

He lets go of her hand and she turns, climbing onto the bedspread before laying back on the pillows. He crawls on after her, bestowing another searing kiss upon her lips. She responds in kind, matching his passion. She is a fast learner.

She eyes him curiously as they part. “Will you keep your trousers on?”

“Eager to see my cock, little flower?” he smirks down at her.

“N-no! I mean… yes… but - I am naked and you are not...”

“Yes, you are naked,” he muses, trailing a hand down her side. “I need to prepare you, and that is easier for me to accomplish if I keep these on - for now.”

Daemon knows the moment his erection is free he will not be able to resist the urge to bury it inside of her, to make her irrevocably his. It is better to keep the barrier between them, to allow her what she needs to be ready for him. It is going to hurt her, there is no escaping that, but he will do all he can to ensure it doesn’t hurt as much as it could.

“I was right,” he muses, his hand giving her breast a gentle squeeze before his thumb rubs against her hardened peak. “You are soft everywhere. A proper little Highgarden rose that is ready for plucking.”

She gasps as he bows his head, laving the flat of his tongue over her breast and sucking on it. Her back arches, and the dulcet sounds that spill from her mouth indicate that she is enjoying this every bit as much as he is. He releases her with a wet pop, shifting his attention to the other. She is mewling by this point, writhing beneath him like a common whore. He wonders if she could peak from this alone, but he is too eager to taste her cunt to find out.

He shifts down the bed, stopping once his face is level with where her thighs meet. He grips her knees, spreading her legs. She is every bit the perfect little bud he’d envisioned; soft, neat and utterly untouched. The sight of the wetness that has gathered between her velvety folds causes him to groan and he runs his tongue through the length of it.

Melessa lets out a shocked yelp, attempting to push him away. “You cannot do that, it is dirty!”

He smirks, his eyes flitting up to meet hers. “Oh little flower, you have yet to learn what dirty truly is.”

He probes and prods with the tip of his tongue until he finds the pearl that is situated at the apex of her sex. She squeals as he circles it slowly and he has to hold her down by her hips to get her to keep still. She cants desperately against his face, greedy little thing that she is, and he indulges her, sucking messily at her. The noises that fill the room are obscene.

His index finger rests against her entrance. He is to be the first to ever breach her and he longs to savour the moment, but with the way his cock presses painfully against the mattress he knows he will spend before he’s even gotten to fuck her if he does not hurry things along. He pushes inside up to the knuckle, lips parting at how warm and tight she feels around his digit. He fears he may split her in two if he dares to add a second.

Melessa claws desperately at the bedsheets, eyes screwed shut as he crooks his finger, locating the spongy spot deep within her and dragging against it as he allows his tongue to focus its attention on her swollen bud. As her inner walls clench and more wetness seeps from her, he takes the opportunity for his middle finger to join his pointer inside of her. It is a snug fit and he scissors both fingers, an attempt to loosen her for what is to come.

Daemon knows he needs to get her to peak at least once if she is to be relaxed enough to take his cock for the first time. Using both fingers to bully at her, he laps at her cunny with renewed vigour. Melessa wails piteously.

“I-I’m going to piss myself!”sShe cries out.

He balks at the sudden vulgarity. Has she never peaked before?

He raises his head, taking in her panicked expression. “Have you ever touched yourself as I am touching you right now, petal?”

She shakes her head against the pillows. “Never. It is a sin.”

He laughs softly. “You aren’t going to piss yourself. You’re going to come, and you’ll like how it feels.”

He continues to work at her with his mouth and fingers until the clenching of her walls turns to fluttering contractions. The desperate cry that Melessa lets out is like music to Daemon’s ears. He laps greedily at the viscosity that floods out of her until she jerks away, too sensitive to take any more.

He moves back up the bed, chin still coated with her slick and kisses her deeply. If she is shocked by the taste of herself, she does not show it. The poor thing looks utterly dazed, as though he has fucked every coherent thought from her mind with his tongue and fingers.

“I think you are ready now,” he coos to her, working open the lacings of his trousers and pushing them down.

He takes his cock in his hand. Looking at her, he sees fear in her eyes.

“That’s never going to fit,” she whispers.

“It won’t at first,” he admits. “But I’ll make it fit.”

Daemon knows he has to act swiftly, when she is still pliable from the aftermath of her climax. If he allows time for fear to set in, she will tense up and it will be unpleasant for both of them.

He presses the head against her opening, pushing forward. Tears pool at the corners of her eyes and she whimpers in pain. Despite how he has worked to prepare her, she still feels like a vice around him and he’s not even halfway in.

He runs a soothing hand down her side, looking down at her pained expression with sympathy. “You aren’t going to like this, petal, but it will hurt less than if I go slowly.”

Thrusting forward with full force, he sheaths himself fully inside of her. She cries out in agony, hot tears rolling down her cheeks as she sobs from the pain of the intrusion and the tearing of her maidenhead. Daemon shushes her with soft kisses to her hairline, gently wiping away her tears with his thumbs.

“It is done now, little flower. The worst part is over.”

She is his. He has done it. She is finally his. He is the first to have her, and will be the only one to have her.

The grip she has on him is so tight he can feel her nails digging crescent moon shapes into his skin. Once she has calmed and her tears turned to sniffles, Daemon allows himself to move. She is so hot, so tight around him that he doesn’t realise he has been holding his breath until he needs to suck in a lungful of air to steady himself. The familiar scent of almond oil and rosewater fills his nostrils as he breathes her in.

His thrusts are slow to start with, dragging his shaft in and out of her at a laggard pace to allow her to adjust to the sensation. Once he feels her grip loosen on him, he senses she is relaxed enough for him to increase the pace.

The movements of his hips speed up and the noises Melessa makes begin to sound less pained and more like she is allowing herself to enjoy the experience. She is enough to drive him to total ruin as she lays beneath him - golden hair spread out across the pillows, eyes wet with tears, cheeks ruddy, and soft, pillowy lips parted in the sounds of pleasure she makes.

“Gods… you are perfect, molded to my cock, mine,” he utters through gritted teeth.

He will not last long. He would have liked to have brought her to peak once more, but he is past the point of no return. She stares up at him with the look of adoration from earlier, the one that places him at the very centre of her world, and he is done for.

“Fuck!” he growls, throwing his head back.

White hot pleasure licks at her lower back, his stones tighten and he falls over the precipice, spilling inside of her as his hips still. His attention lingers on the mixture of blood and his seed that leaks from her as he pulls out with a hiss and collapses next to her.

Eagerly, she seeks him out, laying her head on his chest, doe-eyed and soft. He wraps an arm around her.

“I love you.”

His eyes snap to hers. She means it. Shit.

What the fuck has he just done?

334 notes · View notes

asoiafreadthru · 4 months

Text

A Game of Thrones, Eddard II

“What is the source for this information?”

“Do you remember Ser Jorah Mormont?”

“Would that I might forget him,” Ned said bluntly.

The Mormonts of Bear Island were an old house, proud and honorable, but their lands were cold and distant and poor.

Ser Jorah had tried to swell the family coffers by selling some poachers to a Tyroshi slaver.

As the Mormonts were bannermen to the Starks, his crime had dishonored the north.

Ned had made the long journey west to Bear Island, only to find when he arrived that Jorah had taken ship beyond the reach of Ice and the king’s justice.

Five years had passed since then.

5 notes · View notes

warp-speed · 2 years

Text

Rohanne of Tyrosh wife of Daemon Blackfyre.

I couldn't help making her hair bright and colorful, like henna. She's a very fashionable Tyroshi.

#rohanne of Tyrosh #daemon blackfyre #hair dye #art #drawing #artwork #illustration #characterdesign #my art #asoiaf #asoiaf art #asoiaf fanart #valyrianscrolls #tyroshi #Tyrosh #the free cities

57 notes · View notes

humanpurposes · 8 months

Text

Karma is a God

Chapter 13: The Riverlands

The Dance of the Dragons begins on a lie, and Aemond owes a debt, one Lucerra will see repaid in Fire and Blood // Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond x Lucerra Velaryon (fem!Lucerys)

Warnings for this chapter: spoilers for F&B and future seasons of HotD, canon divergence, descriptions of violence

Words: 7700

A/n: Also available to read on AO3.

The skies over Blackwater Bay and Crackclaw Point are clear. There are no clouds to hide in and Grey Ghost makes quick work of the distance from Dragonstone to Maidenpool.

The Queen had ordered that she fly straight back to King’s Landing after accompanying Baela and Rhaena to Dragonstone, but as much as she fears her mother’s wroth, she fears what might happen if she sits idly.

To the south, Borros Baratheon has summoned his banners to Storm’s End. To the west, the Lannisters clash with the Iron Fleet. The Tyrells have taken a neutral stance, but the Hightower army is rebuilding in the Reach, rallying behind Prince Daeron and Criston Cole.

As for the Riverlands… the reports they receive are harrowing.

For almost two moons, Aemond has terrorised the Riverlands, unleashing dragonfire and death upon all those he deems to be traitors. Everything in his path turns to ash; towns, cities, castles, crops, and too many lives to count.

They fly high enough that the world spreads out below them like a map. As they approach the southern shore of the Bay of Crabs, she can see where the green fields turn to black. Smoke rises from the ground, trees reach against a grey sky, charred and bare. No life remains where Vhagar flies.

Could he hear the screams as he did it? Was he blind to the suffering, or did he bathe himself in it?

She had heard the cries of dying men as she burnt the Tyroshi war ships by Driftmark, but they were distant, a noise lingering in the back of her mind. All she remembers of that night is the smell of smoke, flashes of golden flames blurred through her tears, emptiness and rage. Thousands of lives ended, for the sake of avenging two already lost.

It is not the same, she tells herself.

They were soldiers. Any one of them could have been the man who released the quarrel that killed Jace, or manned the ship that sunk the Gay Abandon and young Viserys with it.

Aemond kills because he is cruel.

And I…

Death could not save the people who died at Hightide and Spicetown, it could not bring back her brothers, or any other lives lost at The Gullet. That thought has lingered in her mind ever since, a parasite draining the warmth from her body, the life from her soul.

But this is war. Either she will die a martyr, like Jace, like Rhaenys, or survival will chip away at the person she once was.

Maidenpool is nothing compared to the grandeur of Dragonstone or the high walls and towers of The Red Keep. Its keep and battlements are grey and cobbled, covered in moss and ivy so it blends in seamlessly with the surrounding greenery and the backdrop of the sea.

The castle is not the first thing she spots though, rather the blood red dragon that lies before the outer walls. Caraxes is curled in on himself, in a rare moment of peace as he sleeps. But he stirs as they land, rearing his head and glaring at them through wide, golden eyes.

Grey Ghost is uneasy, and not without cause. The Bloodwyrm is monstrously large, bloodthirsty and chaotic.

She remembers the first time she saw Caraxes, as their families gathered on Driftmark for the funeral of Laena Velaryon. Jace had flown on Vermax, while she, too small to ride Arrax, rode in a carriage with her mother and father. They reached Hightide and suddenly she heard a thunderous roar and a whistling, rippling shriek. What a sight they were, Caraxes and Vhagar, soaring from the East with the sunrise. They terrified her in different ways. Vhagar was colossal, and though Caraxes was smaller, he was swift, with piercing eyes, sharp teeth and a serpentine neck that she couldn’t help but follow as it swayed and slithered.

The gates open before she has dismounted. Daemon leads an escort of guards to meet her, dressed in his riding leathers rather than his armour. He knows not to come too close to Grey Ghost.

Her dragon is steadfastly steady as she dismounts, his head fixed on the men who have dared to approach his rider.

Strangers, hisses the voice in her head. Danger.

“Princess Lucerra,” Daemon says, resting his hands on the hilt of Dark Sister which hangs from his hip. “What a pleasant surprise.” His voice is calm but in a way that makes her nervous.

“Your Grace,” she says, keeping a gloved hand against Grey Ghost’s hide, stroking along his scales to calm him.

Daemon observes this with a small smile, and a turn of his head towards the guards, who relax their stances. “You should know better than to announce on dragonback unannounced.”

“And yet you were able to determine I was not an enemy,” Luke says. “I came from Dragonstone.”

His amusement fades into something more concerned. “Baela and Rhaena?”

Rhaenyra needed a dragon to protect the island and patrol the sea, if necessary. It couldn’t be Tylesys, Sheepstealer was still weak from the encounter with Tessarion, and she wanted Seasmoke, Vermithor and Silverwing to stay in King’s Landing. By the slight frown in Daemon’s face, he has some trepidation about Baela being the one to take on such a burden. But she is brave enough for it, and besides, Dragonstone is defended by water and the Velaryon Fleet. So long as Daeron and Tessarion remain in the Reach, the girls will be safe.

“Your daughters are safely delivered,” she says.

Daemon looks between her and her dragon. “Does your mother approve of you being here?” he asks.

Her breath catches effortlessly in her throat. “She does not know.”

He smiles again. “I have to admit, I did anticipate you might find your way here.”

The small council met the very day they received the first letter from Riverrun.

Prince Aemond has declared a one man war on the Riverlands, intent on burning all those who align themselves to Queen Rhaenyra.

The sight before her eyes was dull and gloomy. She winced at flashes of lighting and rumbles of thunder that were not there to be seen or heard. She saw only him, the scar she had left him, the sapphire set within the socket. His voice drifted through her, just out of earshot but there nonetheless.

“I want you to put out your eye, as payment for mine.”

“Do this, dōna ilībōños, and I will consider your debt fulfilled.”

“My nephew must not be left unchecked,” Daemon’s voice said.

Suddenly the other faces in the room materialised into view. Rhaenyra’s eyes were down, fixed on the golden ball placed before her. Lord Corlys’ brow was twisted in contemplation and concern. The other men of the Small Council were watching Daemon, who in turn had his eyes on her.

He watched her for the entirety of their gathering, and she knew what he was looking for. She gave him nothing, not the smallest movement in her face or a hint of an expression. She had become rather well practised at this.

But the moment she was back in her chambers, the moment she was alone, she gave into the fury and fear simmering inside of her. She only managed to seat herself on the edge of her bed before the tears began to stream down her face. She caught them in her palms as she wept.

Aemond was rarely cruel as a child, if he was it was because he had been pushed too far, by Aegon, by Jace, and by her own doing. She had expected him to hate her when she returned to the Red Keep, and she had been right in her assumption. A debt was owed, one he had wanted her to pay with her life.

Whose fault could it be but hers that Aemond had grown into he had become?

A weight hung heavy in her chest. She hadn’t been the one to mount Vhagar or utter the command that scorched the Riverlands, but she knew she had a part in this, in some twisting of fate, in the overlaps and knots in the threads of life.

Two moons passed and hardly anything came from Daemon’s hunt. News would come of a castle or town left in ashes, farms and fields obliterated, whole herds of livestock lost to the dragon’s jaws, but Daemon could not fly fast enough. By the time word reached him of an attack, there would no traceable signs of Aemond and Vhagar but the devastation they left behind.

The night before she left to escort Baela and Rhaena to Dragonstone, she took supper with Lord Corlys and her siblings, which included Alyn and Addam. Moments like this were the closest she came to feeling she had a home in the Red Keep, despite the notable absences. She forced herself to smile as Joffrey tried to imitate everything about Lord Corlys, the way he held his cutlery, the way he leaned back in his chair and kept his cup close to his lips. Her brother was to be the future Lord of the Tides afterall.

Rhaena kept her little pink dragon, Morning, on her shoulder. She and Addam fed her scraps of beef and praised her when she cooed.

Baela sat beside Alyn, with perfect posture and a tight smile on her lips at everything he said. But her resolve was slipping. With every joke Alyn whispered in her ear, she leaned a little further into him and laughed a little louder.

At first the sight made Luke’s stomach churn, as if she could still see the distant battle at The Gullet, like she could still smell the smoke as the Tyroshi ships were bathed in Grey Ghost’s fire. Until she wondered if Jace had ever told Baela of his time at Winterfell, why he had a scar on his palm and why, if she travelled north to see for herself, Cregan Stark would have one to match.

Alyn was charming, Luke supposed, gracious, with a smile that sparked excitement.

What did it matter where Baela chose to seek happiness? Surely it was better that she did not dwell on memories and live her life with the burden of the past. What would that bring but grief and regret?

After seeing young Aegon to bed and allowing Joffrey one game of Cyvasse, Luke visited her mother. Rhaenyra could be found where she usually was, in her father’s chambers sitting by a dying hearth and gazing over the model of Old Valyria, coated with dust and cobwebs after so many years of neglect. Luke sat by her side, tracing her fingertips over her hands and the cuts along her skin. Some were red and fresh, some were older and clotted, others had faded into thin scars.

“They are meaningless,” her mother whispered without turning her eyes to her daughter. “A consequence of our ancestor choosing to forge his throne from the swords of his enemies. My father suffered the same.”

Watching her mother was like watching a warm and golden autumn fade into a desolate winter. She could not endure it for long.

Her back fell against the door as she returned to her bedchamber, frozen in place by what she saw. Another envelope, sealed with a winged insect stamped into amber wax, left on the floor by her bed, exactly where she had found the last one.

She held her breath for a moment, waiting for any kind of sound, a footstep, a voice, a scuttling of a rodent, but whoever had delivered it must have been long gone.

Once again, she reached for the knife by her bedside, slicing through the envelope to save the seal.

There was just one line, and no signature.

Search for him and he will find you.

She knew what had to be done. She could not sit idly, not while her mother’s allies burned and she had a debt of her own to claim.

Daemon steps towards her. “You want to be the one to do it,” he says.

She often has this feeling, like she’s drowning in her own skin. Like the world around her is cold and dark and she cannot breathe. She sees only one way to save herself from it.

“I have to be.”

The castle is quiet, filled with servants who scurry through the halls with their heads down, and knights and Lords who offer no looks of warmth to their Prince and Princess. It is unusual that Daemon does not reprimand them for it.

He sees that she is brought to a chamber that overlooks the sea and is given supper. It is no great feast– many of the crops and livestock of the Riverlands have been lost to Vhagar’s fire, but she is given a plate of shucked oysters and another with white fish and potatoes. Daemon does not eat with her, or visit her once she is finished.

The sounds of the waves roar in her ears as she lies in the bed and pulls the sheets around her. Each time she starts to fall asleep she feels weightless, and suddenly she is slipping from Arrax’s saddle and hurtling through to storm into the waves of Shipbreaker Bay–

But she wakes before her body meets the water.

A maid comes to her early in the morning just after sunrise. She bathes and dresses in her riding leathers, firmly fixing her sword to her hip, letting her fingertips linger on the golden seahorse hilt.

“He should be taken as a prisoner,” was Lord Corlys’ counter to Daemon’s pledge to find Aemond. “If he is dead, the Greens will make a King of Daeron and rally behind him.”

Rhaenyra at last looked up when he said it. “My brother forsook any chance of mercy when he tried to claim the life of my daughter,” she said.

Grey Ghost and Caraxes wait for them beyond the castle walls, restless the way dragons always are before they take flight.

“I have word from Sabitha Frey,” Daemon says before they mount their dragons. “She has recaptured Harrenhal along with the Blackwoods.”

“I can’t imagine it was difficult,” Luke says. “It was left completely undefended.”

Daemon chuckles as he hauls himself into Caraxes’ saddle, a much steeper climb than it is for her to mount Grey Ghost. Aemond would have further to climb than either of them, a thought which she tries to dismiss.

“We have our hold in the Riverlands once more,” he calls to her as Caraxes starts to move. The dragon whistles like a dolphin and bellows a screeching roar as he lurches forward, bounding off the ground and swiftly ascending into the air with powerful beats of his wings that shake the trees. Daemon steers him west, over the burned landscape.

Danger, whispers the voice in her head.

She drives Grey Ghost forward nonetheless.

As they fly, the air around them is hazy and thick. Luke keeps her sleeve over her nose and mouth. She is used to wind and rain rushing against her face, but smoke is a different beast altogether. It stings in her eyes, burns in her throat, seeps into her lungs and her bloodstream.

Heat lingers even after the fires have died and eaten everything away to ash. She feels it through her leathers.

Harrenhal is not out of place among this scorched wasteland. She sees the lake first, as vast as an ocean, black water glimmering under the sun’s early rays, splashes of white foam with the waves. In the centre is an island, so thick with trees she cannot see the ground underneath.

She feels unsettled, as though she is being watched. This must be the famed God’s Eye.

Standing over the water, shrouded in smoke and mist, is Harrenhal. She can see the path of Balerion’s fire through the five towers, where the stone is melted, twisted, and crumbled to ruins.

Harwin Strong once told her of the curse of Harrenhal, that every family who dared to hold it was doomed to meet a terrible end, and now her mother’s banners hang over the front gates.

Caraxes lands on the lakeshore where Daemon waits for her to dismount. This is a place familiar to him. This is where he was when news came of Arrax’s demise above Shipbreaker Bay. This is where he gave the order to seek justice for the deaths of his daughters. He remained here while Rhaenys burned at Rook’s Rest, as the Triarchy sank the ship that carried his son, as the Velaryon Fleet held The Gullet, as Jace and Vermax were lost to quarrels and treacherous waters.

Now is not the time to unleash her anger, but Daemon has always had a way of seeing right through her.

He leads her up the slight slope to the gatehouse, into the castle itself. The soldiers they pass bear the sigils of the Freys and the Blackwoods, proud and powerful houses of the Riverlands. Unlike those they passed at Maidenpool, the men and women here look upon their Prince with reverence. Daemon, with Dark Sister by his side, his short, silver hair braided away from his face, looks nothing less than a force of nature, a warrior, a would-be-King, the kind of man to inspire fear from both his enemies and his allies.

And when the fearful eyes come to her, they become curious. It is a question that has haunted her all her life; what do they see when they look at her? A Velaryon, a Targaryen or a Strong? A Princess, an heir, or an outlier, an insult to custom and duty? Perhaps now they see what she has become.

She follows Daemon through quiet hallways, through archways and holes in the walls where there should be doors, until they come to a cavernous hall. The light hardly reaches through the glassless windows on the far side of the room, but she makes out arches and buttresses hundreds of feet high, hearths untouched for decades. On the walls there are carvings of the sigil of House Hoare, images of the sea, krakens and sea monsters, men bathing– or drowning, under the dim light of the braziers, the last remnants of the Iron Islanders who once made this their home.

In the centre of the hall, still quite a distance away, is a table, around which a man and two women are gathered. Candlelight flickers against their faces as she and Daemon approach.

A woman stands at the head of the table, studying a map of the Riverlands and the Crownlands. Her chestplate bears two sigils, one of a black toad, one of two, blue towers. Her hair is pulled tightly from her face. Despite the soft, round edges of her cheeks and jaw, there is a stern look about her, a sharpness in her eyes and the thin line of her mouth.

The man is young, dressed in armour, marked by the sigil of a weirwood surrounded by ravens. He has a head of curly black hair, to match the second woman, only hers reaches below her waist. She is breathtakingly beautiful, tall and broad, dressed in white and black with a red cloak hanging from her shoulders.

“Princess Lucerra,” Daemon says, ushering Luke to stand at the other end of the table, overlooking the Kingswood and the Rose Road past Tumbleton and Bitterbridge. “Lady Sabitha Frey, Lord Benjicot Blackwood of Raventree Hall, and Lady Alysanne Blackwood.”

Only now do they look at her, with the same curiosity that she is used to.

“What an honour it is to be acquainted with you, Princess,” Lady Sabitha says, stiffly.

The two Blackwoods bow their heads, and Lady Alysanne offers her a small smile.

“We are glad to have you join us, Prince Daemon,” says Lord Benjicot.

Daemon hums in acknowledgement as he sets Dark Sister down on the table. “It seems a far more convenient base than Maidenpool,” he says, darkly.

A gust of wind howls in the distance. It is quiet, but with the echo through the hall it sounds monstrous and unnatural.

Lady Sabitha seems to have command of this gathering. Luke has heard rumours of Lady Frey’s character, most of them from Daemon. He says she is merciless and efficient. She finds she agrees with this assessment, but rather admires her for it. She has lost her husband in this war, and now her seat. The Twins, along with her son, have been taken by the Lannisters, who now block the road south.

“The Riverlands are loyal to you, Your Grace,” she says to Daemon, “but we have little chance of mustering more men than we have here.”

“What of the Tullys?” Luke asks.

Lady Alysanne sighs. “They cannot be relied upon. Elmo Tully would pledge their banners to the true Queen, but he will not act against Lord Grover’s wishes.”

“The Lord of Riverrun is as decisive as he is young and spritely,” Daemon says. “We cannot afford to wait for the old man to die while the Hightowers recover their strength.”

“But with Jason Lannister at the Twins, the Starks will have to fight through an army to reach us,” Alysanne says.

They fall into quiet, studying the map and the figures upon it, the hightower in the Reach, the stag at the edge of the Stormlands, the lion and the wolf to the north.

“And then there is the more pressing issue,” Lord Benjicot says darkly.

Luke counts the dragons upon the map. Tessarion in the Reach; Moondancer at Dragonstone; Syrax, Vermithor, Silverwing, Seasmoke, Tyraxes and Dreamfyre at King’s Landing. Lady Sabitha moves Caraxes and Grey Ghost to Harrenhal. Two figures remain, a golden dragon for Sunfyre, kept at the edge of the map, and Vhagar, hovering over Pinkmaiden, seat of House Piper.

“He was last seen here?” Luke asks quietly, reaching out a finger, but stopping herself before she touches Vhagar’s figure.

“Not three days ago,” Benjicot says. He places the tip of his finger over Riverrun first. “He began his assaults here, after Harrenhal was abandoned. He won’t directly attack the Tullys, but he targeted the lands that surround them.” Then he traces east, over the towns along the River Road, marking Aemond’s warpath.

“I went to Darry,” Daemon says, “by the time I got there, Vhagar was feasting on whole farms of sheep at the border of the Vale.”

“We think he might be seeking shelter here–” Lord Benjicot points to the mountain range that marks the border of the Westerlands. “Out of Prince Daemon’s reach, close enough to continue his attacks.”

“And he was not seen after Pink Maiden?” Luke says.

“He attacked at nightfall. Even with Vhagar’s size, it was impossible to tell where they went.”

Her eyes follow as he moves Vhagar’s figure to the mountains, and a heavy hand lands on her shoulder. The weight strains her neck.

“Perhaps I could ride out on Grey Ghost and search the mountains?” she says.

Daemon does not give the others a moment to consider. “I will not allow you to use yourself as bait.”

What is the difference? He would be happy for her to meet him in open battle, but not to seek him out as she had done with Daeron?

She knows better than to test the patience of Daemon Targaryen, but her own has been wearing thin for far too long.

“And how else do you intend to find him?” she asks. “You have searched for Aemond for moons and to no avail. Do you expect him to come to us willingly?”

“He is proud enough to do so,” Daemon mutters.

“Then where is he? Why has he not sought you out?”

“Enough.” He does not need to shout. His anger is apparent enough for her to bow her head and listen in to the rest of the gathering in silence.

There is nothing for her in Harrenhal but death.

She takes an abandoned servant’s quarters as a bedchamber, by the kitchens in Widow’s Tower, until Daemon tells her of the horror found in the crypt underneath.

Their bodies were left in the cellar, slaughtered within a cell, some simply run through, others slashed to shreds. There was no sense to it, no reason for Aemond to kill his prisoners or bring such a bloody end to House Strong– well, almost.

She wonders why he did it and how he can live with himself in the aftermath. He had not even spared the children. She pictures them cowering, helpless to watch as their family were picked off, one by one, before Aemond at last set his one, violet eye to them.

But Aemond kills because he is cruel, and soon that cruelty will be ended.

She cannot stay in the tower knowing what lies underneath. So she takes her sword and climbs the staircases, past empty chambers and passageways. She doesn’t know what she is expecting. Whatever was left of Ser Harwin or his belongings would have been removed years ago, and while Harrenhal may belong to his family, he always said he never felt at home here. She sees why for herself.

Her legs burn as she climbs higher, where the tower becomes decrepit. The stairways are treacherous now, she wonders if they might crumble under her boots and yet she carries on, passing rubble never cleared and gaps in the tower where the walls were lost to the Black Dread’s fire.

She comes to a bridge, high above the courtyard leading into the castle’s tallest tower, the Kingspyre. There are at least some signs of life in this part of the castle, servants, lit torches and hearths.

She passes a chamber with a great oak door, adorned with carvings of sea creatures with grotesque faces, waves and ships, the three rivers of the Trident and, when she looks closely, pairs of eyes hidden amongst the images.

She expects it to be locked, but tries the handle, only for it to open, seamlessly and silently.

It is a grand chamber, to be sure, perhaps intended for the Lord of the castle. There are no belongings in the room, no sign of ownership, and yet it is well kept. The sheets are clean, the logs of the hearth set and ready to be set alight It smells stale and stagnant, but not like the lingering smell of smoke found in the rest of Harrenhal.

She hesitates, then smooths her palm over the bedsheets to find they are cold. This chamber must have been in use recently, but not recently enough to warrant immediate attention.

She wanders to the window, overlooking the courtyard, the gatehouse and the God’s Eye beyond the walls. The figures in the courtyard are distant but still distinct. Daemon’s silver hair is obvious as he stands with a woman. At first she mistakes her for Lady Alysanne; she is seemingly tall and slender with dark hair, but something about her posture is different, the way she tilts her head as she leans closer to Daemon.

The wind wails beyond the walls of the tower and for a moment it sounds soft, like a breath.

The woman turns her gaze up, to the very window Luke stands behind. She can make out the colour of her eyes– green, brighter and paler than Lady Alysanne’s. They must be truly striking at a ground level, because from here they are piercing.

A sick feeling floods Luke’s stomach. She should not be here, not in this room, perhaps not even at Harrenhal, but she cannot find the courage to leave.

When she makes her way down the stairs of the tower and into the courtyard, Daemon and the woman are gone. Instead she finds the castle’s Godwood, following the small stream that runs through it, to the heart tree.

The faces in the bark are nothing like those in King’s Landing. These faces are full of anguish, twisted, mouths open as if they are screaming, in pain or fury.

A chill slips down her spine and she knows she is being watched– not by the eyes in the tree. A footstep treads softly in the grass behind her. She turns her head over her shoulder, just enough for them to know she has heard them.

The footsteps are less careful now, unabashed in their approach.

She sees a flash of dark hair, at first believing it to be Lady Alysanne, only to find herself disappointed, and then a little on edge.

It is the woman from the courtyard, the woman with unnaturally bright eyes.

“Do you often find yourself seeking the comfort of a weirwood, Princess?” she asks. Her voice is surprisingly low, rich and seductive.

She never used to, but she seems to have noticed them more since they took King’s Landing. She passes the weirwood in the gardens of the keep, sees the image of one above her bed, finds her mind wandering to memories of afternoons she spent under the shelter of red leaves and her uncle’s arm as he read from a history book.

“What business of it is yours?” Luke says sharply.

The woman hums a low laugh and lets it fade to silence.

Night is beginning to creep in. Beyond the walls of the castle, the sight of the sunset over the lake will be beautiful, a red sky over the water. She hears the waves and the wind as if she is standing on the shore.

“It is a terrible thing to lose one’s family,” the woman says, bringing her hands before her. Her dress is made of simple black fabric, with no patterns or distinctive embroidery, but the sleeves are long, draped over her hands and lined with green satin.

Luke catches a piece of flesh between her teeth. “You have lost family in this war too?” she says, uncaring at her shortness.

The woman tilts her head. Luke watches her as she takes a step towards the tree, placing her palm against the white bark, beside one of the faces. “The family I have lost was never mine to begin with. In truth, I do not feel it,” she says.

A hollow feeling lodges itself in Luke’s chest and twists like a knife in an already fatal wound. She wishes she could say the same.

The woman drops her hand from the tree, and turns to her. “Do you feel your losses, Lucerra?”

The absence of her brothers becomes a little more subdued each day, but she still carries them with her, the memories, the pain of knowing that their deaths were anything but peaceful, and the burden Jace has left her with.

She was so fearless as a child, she realises. She was secure, the daughter of a Princess, the granddaughter of the King, with Aegon, Helaena, Aemond and Jace to guide her, protect her. But all of that is gone now, the life she used to enjoy, and she fears the things she used to love.

Tears prickle in her eyes, heavy and close to falling.

How much can the woman read from a single look from her eyes?

She steps forward to take Luke’s hands in hers. Her skin is rough and dry. She opens Luke’s palms, running a slender finger along the lines in her skin. “A powerful combination of blood flows through your veins,” she utters. “The blood of the dragon, and of the First Men.”

Daemon has taken heads for such an insinuation.

Luke raises her brow. “Do you question my legitimacy?”

The woman scoffs. “ Laws are made by men, but we are made of flesh and blood alone. Legitimacy has no meaning in the natural order.”

“And yet without it, my position will never be secure,” Luke says.

The woman stares at her, amused or mocking, it is difficult to tell.

“It was not by right of birth that Aegon the Conqueror claimed rule of the Seven Kingdoms.”

She thinks of all the history lessons she used to sit through, never taking in a word. All the hours she would make Aemond read to her– did he hate her back then? Would he have refused her if he felt he had the choice? “No. But he won it, and had the strength to hold it.”

The woman hums. She runs her hand further up, to the thin, blue veins running along Luke’s wrist. She presses her thumb against her skin, letting the colour fade and run again.

Her harsh green eyes come to Luke’s. “Blood is unambiguous,” she whispers.

Why must it all come back to blood?

The woman seems to note some kind of change in Luke’s face, squinting her eyes and furrowing her brow just a little. What does she think she might find in the frightened and furious mind of hers?

“Helaena said something to me,” Luke utters before she can stop herself.

“She spoke of blood,” the woman says, assuredly.

There is a trail of blood. It flows to you. It ends with you.

Luke breathes slowly. She has tried to decipher Helaena’s words for weeks, moons even.

Her aunt used to mutter strange musings often, always to Aegon’s insistence that she was stupid and freakish. Jace’s stance was that he would not burden himself with things that did not make sense to him, and so she did the same.

Blood– blood she shares with her mother and the line of Kings that have come before them. Blood she shares with her brothers, with her father. Blood she shares with Helaena and her uncles. Blood spilled, lives ended or left in ruins. This war has seen too much of it already.

“What did she tell you, Princess?”

She whispers the words that have haunted her since she heard them, but where Helaena’s voice was gentle and wistful, she feels a tremble in her own throat. “There is a trail of blood. It flows to you. It ends with you.”

The woman frowns, keeping her gaze on Luke’s eyes as though the answer lies within her very soul. The longer she looks, the duller her eyes seem to become.

“What do you believe this means?” the woman asks.

Daemon says killing Aemond will end the war, or at least determine the outcome. Corlys says it will weaken their enemies, but give them cause to regather their strength. Her mother would say it is justice.

Kill Aemond and the threat of Vhagar will be removed. What remains of the Riverlands will be spared, Daeron and Tessarion will stand alone. Then they need only wait for Cregan Stark to march south to secure their victory.

It should all be so simple.

So why does she feel the wind running through her? Why does she feel so restless and furious that her body trembles and her nails press into her palms? Why does she hear the crashing of waves morphing into distance screams? Why does she feel so wrong?

The woman’s voice is perhaps the one thing that sounds true, clear and low. “Mercy is a weakness.”

She knows she has no reason to trust this woman, but the rage inside her tells her she is right. She may never know the number of men she has killed from atop her dragon, so what is one more? One more life lost, a fair exchange for what he has taken from her.

But it will be different to know the name of the man whose life she will claim, to know his face and his voice. To share his memories and his blood.

Mercy is a weakness– it sounds like something Daemon might say.

“What are you doing here?” The command in his voice as he approaches startles them both. Luke tears her eyes away from the woman, to the head of silver hair gleaming in twilight.

She begins to panic. Was she supposed to stay in the castle? The hour is getting late, perhaps he was concerned… but he doesn’t so much as look at Luke. His gaze is clearly on the woman.

“I was beginning to worry you might be dead,” he says.

The woman’s lips curl into a half smile. “I was spared by his Grace, the Prince Regent.”

Daemon scoffs, utterly unamused. Only then does he turn to Luke. “What poison are you inflicting on the poor girl?”

“Poison?” she echoes with a sly expression.

“That is your way, is it not, witch?”

This does not seem to phase the woman.

Daemon hums a short laugh, but his expression remains dark. “You were supposed to deliver my nephew to me…”

She hates this, not knowing the whole truth of what is happening around her, the secret devices and plots. The familiarity between Daemon and the woman is beginning to infuriate her, until her chest feels heavy with the weight of the breaths she takes to calm herself.

“...But by the sounds of it, it seems all you’ve succeeded in doing is keeping his cock wet.”

Suddenly her chest and stomach twist into a tight knot.

It is not an image she wants in her head, but it appears nonetheless. The woman standing before her is a beautiful one, and Aemond is a Prince, a warrior, hot-blooded and demanding when he wants to be.

Her imagination is vivid and visceral. She has felt his lips against hers, his breath on her skin, his hand tracing down the front of her gown and slipping beneath her skirts. She had almost expected him to take her fully that night, in the hidden corner of the Red Keep while their families failed to make amends. She often wonders if she should have let him.

Does he ever think about that night? What he did to her— what they did together, or was it all forgotten the moment he saw the pair of eyes bearing into her soul this very moment?

“He will come,” the woman says.

Daemon chuckles to himself. “For his paramour?”

Her piercing gaze falls once more to Luke. Her eyes are dark now and almost bloodthirsty. “He will come for what he believes he is owed.”

And so they wait.

Thirteen days pass. Daemon marks each one with a slash of Dark Sister in the trunk of the heart tree in the Godswood. Each strike bleeds red sap.

She tries to make use of each day, but there are only so many arrows she can shoot into targets and tree trunks, only so many times she can sharpen her sword before she will damage the blade.

All the while there is no word of Aemond and no sightings of Vhagar. Whenever she gathers in the great hall with Daemon, Sabitha Frey and the Blackwoods, she scours the map as if she will somehow know where to find him.

Daemon refuses to let her ride Grey Ghost, not even to circle the lake. He says the risk is too great, but since when did he ever burden himself with risks?

This castle was built on blood and is haunted by the Stranger. In another life Harrenhal might have been her home, but she fears she may not be able to stay here much longer. Her sanity cannot bear it.

She tries to find a new chamber to sleep in each night, but rest never comes easily. When she wakes she recalls dreams of the lake. In these dreams, she does not walk along the shore or try to find her way back to the castle. She lies against the pebbled beach, her head cradled in scaly limbs, a longing for blood in her belly and an ominous feeling that keeps her grounded.

Search for him and he will find you.

Luke rises with the sun. From the battlements, she can see Daemon in the godswood, carving his fourteenth strike into the weirwood tree. To the lakeshore she makes out the shape of her slumbering dragon. Grey Ghost blends in almost perfectly with the morning mist, until she spots one of his yellow eyes, wide and bright enough to spot from the castle.

She retreats to her little bedchamber in the Tower of Dread, tucks herself under the bedsheet, rough and scratchy with age, and shuts her eyes.

She stares back at the castle, and knows she will be safe within its walls— for now at least.

Her body is not her own, but she settles in it. This is not a brief moment of madness as with Tessarion. This feels like an extension of her dreams, something natural and familiar. Her movements are deliberate as she rises and spreads her wings.

She leaves Harrenhal behind, darting up towards the sky with all the speed she can gather, until the lake and the lands around Harrenhal are set out before her.

Aemond has not followed a particular path, so it stands to reason his hiding place may not be where she expects it to be. He could be in the mountains southwest of Pinkmaiden, or he could be somewhere else entirely.

If he has not been seen since then, perhaps he is somewhere more isolated.

By the time the sun has reached its peak in the sky, she has flown over most of the western Riverlands, over Raventree Hall, Acorn Hall, Pinkmaiden and Stone Mill. She can see she is approaching Riverrun, the seat of the Tullys. They do not fly any banners, and yet their men are gathered and preparing for war.

Where to then? Along the Red Fork to the Trident, to the mountains that border The Vale? Or over Whispering Wood, where the mountains meet the sea along Ironman’s Bay?

Intinstic drives her north with a swift beating of her wings.

A swirl of storm clouds looms over the Iron Islands, but the rain has yet to reach the mainland. A fearsome wind threatens to blow her off course and below her the waves beat against the base of the cliffs, crashing and roaring against the rock with flurries of white foam. Grey Ghost does not fear the sea and for now, neither does she.

She flies high, sweeping her eyes along the slivers of shoreline that have not been claimed by the tide, searching for any sign of another dragon, a nest, a charred carcass of an animal. That’s when she hears a growl, like a rumble of thunder, echoing through the air as if the very sky seeks to unleash its fury.

Vhagar rises from her hiding place, half-buried in damp sand and the rest of her hide blending in with the rock. She feels the heat coursing through her blood when the dragons meet each other’s eyes, the fire rising in her gut, the urge to sink her teeth and talons into flesh.

But she looks up to the clifface, to the figure standing on an overhang. His sapphire eye gleams through the dull daylight, the ends of his silver hair drift with the wind and the beating of her wings.

Aemond.

He knows what Grey Ghost’s presence means, she can see it in his face, the awe and the anger. She would be a fool to think he would feel anything else.

He will come for what he believes he is owed.

And what of the debt he owes her now?

When does it end?

When she opens her eyes her skin is drenched in sweat. She tosses the sheet off her body and hurries to dress herself in her riding leathers. Grey Ghost will fly swifter than Vhagar, but she needs every second she can claim. With her boots pulled over her feet and her sword on her hip, she yanks the door open, sprinting through the halls and the courtyard. She doesn’t stop when some of the soldiers stare at her in confusion, or when Lady Alysanne tries to stop her and ask what’s wrong. She couldn’t answer them if she tried.

She feels her heart beating at all her pulse points, the wind slicing over her skin, the howling of the wind coming off the lake.

Daemon is in the Godswood, under the heart tree, resting his hands on the hilt of Dark Sister. He turns to face her as she approaches.

She is breathless, but her voice has never sounded clearer. “He’s coming.”

“How?”

How did he know to come? How do you know?

“I saw it,” she says.

Daemon frowns. In fairness, she herself would not trust such a vague answer.

She follows him back to the courtyard. The castle is in a panic now; the men are restless. Daemon fetches something from the armoury, a bow and a quiver of arrows. They are slim, not enough to pierce the hide of the dragon, but enough to shoot through the flesh of a man.

“Remember everything he has taken from you,” he says before he hands them to her. “Aemond may share your blood, but he is not one of us.”

She nods, and fastens them over her back.

Grey Ghost flies over the castle as the sun begins to set.

Luke and Daemon both know what they must do. She joins her dragon, hiding amongst a line of trees on the eastern shore of the lake, while Daemon waits in the open, and calls for Caraxes.

From the shadows of the trees, she watches the sky turn from blue, to gold, to red.

A shape flies before the sun and for a moment the world goes black.

She has never forgotten the fear she felt when she heard Vhagar’s call at Storm’s End, as she saw her shape through the clouds and stared into her open jaws. That same fear ripples through her body and makes her blood run cold, but she does not shy from it.

A thousand voices cry out in her head. Screams of the men she condemned to burn. Cries of anguish and mourning. Raised voices, calls for justice and retribution.

Mercy is a weakness. She finds herself wishing the world had more mercy.

But one voice appears clearer than the rest.

Blood– her heart in her chest.

Blood– the sky through the branches, illuminating the lake.

Blood. Blood she shares with Kings, Princes and dragons.

She has seen Aemond’s blood before and felt it against her skin. She is sure she will see it and feel it again before the night has reached its end.

Tags (comment to be added to either)

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya @dreamsofoldvalyria

Series taglist: @boundlessfantasy @toodlesxcuddles @starwarsslut @skikikikiikhhjuuh @arcielee

#aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond x oc #aemond x ofc #aemond x fem!lucerys #hotd #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #aemond x original female character #aemond x reader #fem!lucerys #lucemond #my fics #karma is a god

74 notes · View notes

chromiumagellanic06 · 1 month

Text

The Silver Knight: Warrior, Princess, Wife

Daemon Targaryen/Original Fem [Targaryen] Character

Chapter 29: Complete

MASTERLIST

Summary: Aemond's desires come to truth as Daemon and Naera wed in the way of old Valyria.

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: NSFW Content! It's not THAT explicit, only vague kissing and fondling, heavy implications, suggestive themes, breeding kink, etc.

Aemond knocked tentatively on the ebony door, feet shuffling as he turned to his back, then each side, not at all calmed by the endless echoing corridors of the Keep. In his hand he held an ornate box that lay carved with ancient Valyrian runes—the result of his escapades in the King’s Stores, that he had taken it upon himself to deliver to his uncle and half-sister as a marital gift.

And then some. He had a question to ask, assistance to seek from the person he had grown to trust may understand. His half-sister was as selfish as he felt, he knew, and his uncle her husband even graver in his deeds. They were the perfect match, in a way—blood and fire, the epitome of what it meant to be Targaryen. The world would know no peace.

“Come!” He heard Naera scream from within, and he turned the heavy door on its hinges, silent. And entered the solar. It was strewn adrift with papers and letters, books and fresh parchment. Pots of ink sat beside collections of quills, ornate and rough-spun huddled alike, beside bottles of Dornish Red and some strange concoctions in twinkling glass bottles that ranged from the looks of curdled milk to liquid jade. He could smell ginger, at his first step, lemon at his second, and ash and embers when he sat.

Naera sat on her chair, eyes trained on a letter. She read it, expression bearing a soft frown that he realised was the natural way her lips fell, until she smiled, crumpled the pages in her hands and tossed it into the fireplace.

“Good morrow, Aemond.” Aemond turned to the window, one good eye watching the sun make its descent into the waters.

“It is to be evening soon, sister.” Naera followed his gaze to the window, to the haze that would soon be ushered with twilight. Her face glowed differently, he saw. Much had changed since they last met, even if only a moon had turned. As for him.

He’d made his moves carefully, spent stollen moments with the object of his every desire. He’d plucked her flowers she had never held before, told her tales of truth and sometimes even of valour, stollen kisses under the cover of shadowy night, and held to his stealth for protection. It wasn’t enough.

“Ah.” She turned to the door to her chambers, and said, aloud, “The sun sets soon, make some haste, dear groom.” He saw that she still wore a gown of black silk, not the garments of their tradition. He heard laughter from the other side, slurred words in their mother tongue that Aemond couldn’t quite decipher, but he recognised that Naera sat blushing and silent afterwards.

Blushing, for all her warrior-like ways. It was rather different from his sweet true sister’s blushes. Naera seemed scandalised, mischievous, a light flush of red on her cheeks, an embarrassed smile on her lips, but Helaena, Helaena blushed so red he feared he’d have to fetch a maester, turned so high and brilliant, eyes sparkling, lips chapped together that he--right.

He set the box down on the table, “A gift to commemorate your union.”

Naera smiled, inching the box closer to herself for a look. “Thank you—” but the door opened with a shudder.

Aemond’s uncle walked in, scuttered, rather—his steps were hasty. He was dressed in traditional garbs—red and cream, his silver-white hair left free to hang an inch above his shoulders, Dark Sister in her scabbard in his hand.

“No,” Naera covered her eyes, “A Tyroshi priestess once told me that gazing upon your betrothed on your day of marriage is considered ill-luck.” A burst of laughter left her lips.

“And a Valyrian book once told me that I may gaze at my wife as often as I wish.” Daemon left his sword on the table, snatched his wife’s hands away from her face and kissed her lips, with lust and haste, then kissed her forehead, and ran out the door. Aemond watched his back as he left, baffled as to when he had retaken the sword.

“I closed my eyes!” Naera screamed after him. Still laughing, she turned back to Aemond, “What can I do for you, brother?” Brother. He smiled back at her, unable to stop himself.

“Tell me, sister,” he breathed, licked his lips, hesitant. That is why he’d come, he knew. Sure, pay respects to his favourite family members after Helaena, congratulate them on their union, but there was always the other cause. “How can I take her?” Her, her, her; his Helaena, splendid, ethereal beauty wrapped in a promise of treason.

Naera sighed, and he was glad that she’d understood without him having to spend more words.

Naera poured him a cup of wine, water the colour of blood settling into a silver cask, like rubies spilling from a dark slate. Naera froze as she filled it, eyes distant, lost. Then, she asked, voice betraying her dreamy loss of the moment, “Does the Trident have Green Waters?”

“What?”

“Nothing.” She shook her head, handed him the cup and returned to her chair.

Aemond swallowed the wine in a breath, eye not leaving his sister’s face. She had paled, that sickly palour returning to her face. She blinked frantically, sipped a cup of water.

“You cannot take her, Aemond,” Take what you want, she had told him some moons ago—and he realised his folly. It was akin to a jerk to wake him from a long sleep.

Gods, what had he been thinking? He couldn’t take her, how could he? Where would they go? What would they do when men came seeking them? Had he been so blinded by his love, that he’d forgone all practicality? He’d hoped that she’d have an answer but—“You can maybe ask her.” He furrowed his eyebrows, a ghostly pain returning from under his eyepatch.

Naera sighed, “A maiden’s word must be your shield if you intend to have her.” Rapers went to the Wall at best, to the headsman at worst. Disgraceful.

“I do not mean to defile her,” Aemond defended, “I wish to wed her—to—” to see her wear the garbs Naera would at dusk, to drink her blood and hold her hand and vow to protect her for all their lives. That was what he wanted.

Naera refilled his cup, “I know, and she knows. The world does not.”

“You could—”

“What?” His sister’s eyes grew cold and cruel, her voice tuned to injure, to pick at his folly and tear him a regretful wound, “Tell the world that you love her? It isn’t so simple.” Aemond looked down, unable to meet those crystal eyes. Every word she spoke was true, and that hurt. Leave the world, he thought, Mother is the one we need convince.

“You can only love for so long without being loved, brother,” Naera sighed, chin dropping to her palm, elbow banging against the table, “You can only run if she wishes it also.” Run with me, Helaena. We’ll wed in the faith of the Seven or that of the Valyrians. We’d be one heart, one soul—just say the word.

“She wants me, I am certain of it.” She hates Aegon, and knows well that their days near quickly. If only mother saw through her schemes.

“It is only mother, even the King—”

Naera shook her head, “Fuck the King,” he smiled at her brashness, “fuck your mother and your cock of a grandsire,” he felt a pang of shame after the moment passed. He hadn’t defended them, he realised. He agreed with his sister. His mother, fuck Alicent, who wouldn’t see past the grey shroud of duty to gaze at the world in all its colour. Love, was the colour he wished to see, he reminded himself. He had caught a glimpse, now he wanted a full look. “Aemond,” she summoned his wits back to her, “Ask her, confide in her, and run, together.”

Dusk hung heavy in the isle of Dragonstone, a curtain of fog descending on the shores as fires were lit and the Blood of the Dragon gathered near the volcanic crypts. It was a cacophony of red and black, the colours of their heritage—silver hair and purple eyes, fire in their veins, all gathered in respect or obligation.

The priest fanned the coal and flames, ornate chalices and candles gathered by Rhaenyra arranged on a block of rock marbled with red and yellow—it was slab of frozen fire mined from the haunted crypts of the Dragons.

Daemon could hear them murmuring through the fog from where he stood on the sandy beach. He could make out the Hightower cunt’s voice, could see her black gown flapping in the breeze even through the fog, and it only irritated him. The Blood of the Dragon had gathered, so why, pray why had the stupid lanterns joined in? His robes were scratchy and cold, the calm breezes did nothing to allay his urgency. The sun was falling into the sea, a streak of gold and saffron following it, and the mists grew pink and red as though the sky itself bled. It was time

The waves rustled the sands calmly as she took his side. Wrapped in a robe nearly identical to his—cream and ruby, adorned with gold, an ornate headdress laid between her braided silver locks. Beautiful. The curve of her nose, the pink flesh of her lips, her eyes—crystals clearer than diamonds painted blue and red, gods.

His ire vapourized, that familiar panging of his heart returning, thud, thud, his heart now beat only for her, it seemed.

He took her hand wordlessly, her chilled touch sending shivers through him, and in his mind, he spoke a prayer.

Let me hold this hand forever.

The rocky shores bristled against her bare feet, reminding Naera of the time she had scaled the ports of Asshai from the rocky ends. It hurt, but it was worth it. Daemon’s hand was warm in hers, his grasp tight and binding, as they crossed the threshold to where their family waited.

The fires flared when they made it to the clearing, the sky reddened like a maiden’s blush—if the Gods could betray more of their intentions, she did not know how. With the cold of the fog, and the warmth of his hand, the serene calmness of this event came a gradual understanding that this was right. She was meant for this—to be his, to hold his hand, to wield her sword for them, to sleep and wake and live beside him. Her uncle who had never cared for her, but now he cared not what the world said as long as he could have her.

Her family stood around the flames; the two branches of the house split over the priest. Viserys stumbled close, wilting hair and face, though he had a guilty smile on. He’d done this in some hope of companionship, but it had grown into a sickly sort of love, he knew.

He took her hand, clasped it in his cold damp one, and pressed a shuddering kiss to her forehead. Naera smiled at him, watched him return to Rhaenyra’s side—Rhaenyra, who smiled in a way most disillusioned, who stood with her husband, her sworn guards, her children, her court, choosing war even in that moment. Across the priest was Alicent, face contorted in distaste for such old ways, her children at her side, all in red and black, a treaty of peace. Aemond gave her a curt nod when she met his eye, a tingling smile on her lips.

The priest—one of the old Keepers of the Dragonpit who still followed those old doomed gods—began his droning, hymns sung to Meleys, the goddess of love and fertility, to Teraxes, to Balerion—to nearly every god, but Naera cared not. This had been the scene, she knew—Daemon shrouded in fog, silent and still, calmness in his eyes.

The priest handed him a blade of obsidian, a shard of glass as black as night that glowed in its shadowy beauty. He ran it down her lower lip, skin splitting instantly, blood pooling. He dabbed his thumb on that red, red, red beauty, and smeared a straight line on her forehead.

I name you woman, fire in your veins, it meant.

She took the blade, and did the same for him, his blood warm against her thumb as she drew three bent lines on his forehead.

I name you man, blood in your nature.

He traced the dagger over his palm, striking a wound deep and true to stand out amongst all thousands scars that he brandished. A line of red dripped down his skin. Naera traced the same wound on her own palm—Of my own will, I thus give you myself, and their hands joined in a flash of pain and flame.

The priest began, “Hen lantoti ānograr va syndroti vāedroma,” Blood of two joined as one, lifeblood dripping to mingle and mix, tethering them to each other.

The priest wrapped a ribbon the colour of night and light over their held hands, blood dripping down through the binds.

“Mēro perzot gīhoti elēdroma iārza sīr,” Ghostly flame and song of shadows.

He handed Naera a chalice of stone and glass, as dark as night, and she tilted the vessel till salt and iron flooded her tongue. Our blood to bind.

“Izulī ampā perzī prumī lanti sēteski,” Two hearts as embers forged in fourteen fires.

Daemon mirrored her acts, his face twisting as their blood laced his tongue. He swallowed it bravely, and watched Naera’s eyes. Close, so close.

“Hen jeny māzilarion, qēlossa ozūndesi,” A future promised in glass, the stars stand witness.

Naera breathed, breaking into a delicate smile again, “I shall be your side forever.”

He took her other hand, eyes never leaving—lilac and lilac, crystal clear and shallow pools of glass. “I shall hold your hand forever.”

“Synroro ōñō jēdo ry kīvia mazvestraksi.” The vow spoken through time of Darkness and Light.

She inhaled, cold, wet air flooding her nose in a rush, and she gazed, gazed, gazed at him, his eyes that refused to leave hers, the wealth of his wisdom yet to be cultivated, the gift of his existence forever claimed by her. She said, “I will defend you.” Against the night, against the light, against whatever was to come. Against every wish to exile, every spat with the greens, every ill word with the King, she will stand by him, she will protect his honour as though it was her own.

He smiled, though both love and mischief twinkled in his eye, “I will warm you.” When the night was dark and full of terrors, when the end came and her will faltered, he shall be with her, he shall give her fire and light. He will warm her bed and hers alone, warm her body when the cold came, warm her spirits over every loss and share her joy over every victory.

Naera said, “I will give it all up for you.” Dorne, Volantis, Pentos, the Dothraki Seas, Asshai, and her dreams—Yi Ti, the Jade Sea, whatever lays east of the Shadow, the very wonders of the world could be laid abandon. She loved too easily, but even the gods had proclaimed this union as perfection.

“I will never hurt you.” Not as he once had, no, never. He will never disappoint her, never let her down, never leave her behind, never let her think that he could survive without her.

“I will love you.” Daemon’s heart lost a weight he did not know he bore, a delightful, fiery blaze in his chest, a joy uncontainable. His, his, his. She was his, every flicker on her eyes belonged to him, every mocking word his, every act of bravery, every witted word. He loved already, but he could love better, now that she loved him also.

His hand flew to her face, thumb smearing the blood at her lip, red, red, red, and to show that he cared, that he loved, that he was willing to understand, he said, “For the night is dark and full of terrors.”

She leaned on her toes and kissed his lips.

His laughter would be her lifeblood, she realised as his heaving breaths reverberated through her chest, made her feel warm, made her feel him, his spirit and not just his body.

“D’you know what they’ll all say,” he spoke into her neck, his nose breathing cool air over the red mark of his bite, “When you grow round and great with my child, again and again?”

She laughed, a fleeting giggle morphing into a ridiculed laugh, “What?” He pulled her into a different corridor, away from their chambers.

“The Princess must really love her uncle’s cock,” the vulgarity made her roll her eyes.

“Maybe they’ll think that the prince has no control over himself,” Naera challenged, “Keeps getting his sweet niece with child, the poor woman.” He pushed her against a wall, cold stone of the corridors of the Keep making her flush and hum, and his hands roamed her flesh like a man starved.

Their lips met, tongues melding, breaths fading until the newly wedded couple panted for breath.

“Poor woman?” His eyes twinkled with the sort of courage that came with deeds best not committed.

“They needn’t know,” she kissed his cheek, arms winding around his neck. “They needn’t know that the idea of bearing her uncle’s seed fills the niece with a selfish joy that she cannot account for.” With a deft flick of his hand, her robes parted, rough linen tearing aloud.

“Oh, but the uncle knows,” he descended on her neck again, “He knows very well how much his niece loves having his spend in her womb.” He hoisted her legs up, lips falling to her breasts.

“Yes, oh, yes he does,” she moaned, wits departing her, fingers tugging at his hair, leading him to the other breast. He complied greedily, nipping, licking, kissing the flesh, leaving red and purple marks on every patch of free skin.

Her garbs were torn and ruined; her headdress abandoned in the hands of Laenor before they had scurried to the corridors in some mad bout of lust. Gods, lust was only one word for what she felt. She felt charged, as though lightning had struck her very soul. She felt fiery, as she often did when he stood beside her.

One kiss to his lips and the sentiment had caught on as a candle-flame blazes into an arsonist’s dream.

Now her swelling flesh was in his hands. She had lapped away the drying blood of his lip, sucked at the tear in his skin till the wound was raw, and now, she was at his mercy once again.

“Daemon,” she called, making him stare into her eyes with his own, lilac flowers and bloody amethysts. Beautiful. His hair was tousled, red streaking his forehead, but his eyes, those eyes that were over a decade older than her own yet were livelier than she had been just moons ago.

“Naera,” he called back, as had become their ritual, and she recalled the sweet bliss of hearing her name from his lips again. Completion, he made her sound complete, made her believe that she could conquer this new land that was marriage and slay this new demon that was mistrust.

Footsteps.

And the moment broke, but he was smiling as he leaned his face close to hers, covering her form from view.

“Fuck off,” he chastised behind himself, swaying his wife slowly. “Can’t you see—” but Naera put a finger to his lips, her eyes trained over his shoulder. Daemon turned tentatively, half-expecting his brother or the Hightower cunt or the cunt lord of hands but no.

He hugged his sweet wife tighter as she gave a subtle nod to Aemond, her half-brother—his sister Helaena’s hand in his, her face caught blushing a bright red, as they rushed through corridors and passageways, hastened and cautious. When their footsteps echoed away, Naera laughed.

“The Hightowers fall on our wedding after all.”

To be, or not to be…

…continued

MASTERLIST

23 notes · View notes