#under the dornish moon

[lady-phasma]

In the fading light

Daemon Targaryen x fem Dornish!reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, but I was going for soft!Daemon so I don't think there are that many warnings this time.

Summary: Daemon comes to visit you at Godsgrace, the seat of House Allyrion, in Dorne. Kind of an AU in the sense that Rhaenyra isn't the object of his love, nor his motivation for "ending his marriage" to Rhea. 2.6k words

From the request here - romantic Daemon inspired by the song "kalam eineh" (Words of his eyes) by Sherine. I was able to work in a few lyrics as well ("the one whose eyes the moon envied" and "get lost in his beauty").

a/n: Dorne is a very big place and all of the houses are as different as the Northern houses. So as I write more Dornish!reader fics I start to see them uniquely in my headcanon. Godgrace is on a river from what my research tells me, so I think it worked out perfectly that Sherine is Egyptian. I've dropped some Egyptian elements into Godsgrace and that's how it is in my head now. (If there was a face claim for a location think Thebes/Luxor landscape.)

A warm breeze wafted onto the balcony where you and Daemon sat. The sun sank low against the horizon. The river in the distance shone with golds and pinks. A falcon screeched nearby. You turned from the gorgeous view of the Godsgrace river oasis to look at your Prince. He sat, reclined, opposite you. You slid your toes up the inside of his leg, teasing him. He stroked the top of your foot, your ankle, up your shin. Your smooth skin reflected the light of the setting sun much as the river did. Daemon slipped his fingertips under the hem of your thin skirt. The contrast of his pale hand under the bronze fabric was delightful to you. This Northern prince, so accustomed to clouds and darkness. Such a dreary land he came from.

You watched him as he looked out over the Greenblood river. It would be so easy to get lost in his beauty. His hair, his eyes, his mouth, everything about him was entrancing to you. You glanced back out at the river, the people going about their evening paying no attention to the lords and ladies so high above them. Birds circled above fishing boats as the nets were pulled in. Lights began to flicker in windows across the city. You smelled roasted meat and fresh baked bread on the warm air. You would have to dress for the evening meal, if you didn’t request it in your quarters.

“Did you come only because the fool Prince Martell forbade it?” You were genuinely curious. “Or because of your brother?”

“You know that is not the reason,” he spoke softly and continued to stroke your leg. “Their approval means less to me than you think.”

“You risk much coming to Godsgrace.” You wiggled your toes against his thigh.

“It is a fair price,” Daemon replied.

“Surely you are quite rested now, my love,” you goaded. “It is a long journey up the Greenblood, but not so tiring that you would ignore me.” You flashed your eyes at him. They were nearly the color of burnt umber in the fading light. Soon your maids would light torches and candles in your chambers. You would hear them through the diaphanous curtains that hung in the entry of the balcony. Though they would never dare to disturb you, even if you had your Targaryen on the floor in front of them.

Daemon turned his violet eyes toward you, finally pulled from his thoughts. Gods, you thought, even the moon could envy those eyes! The last pink of the sunset caught on his silver hair as it swung freely about his face, tendrils caught in the breeze.

“Quite rested,” he smirked as he spoke. He slipped his hand behind your knee and, reaching forward, grabbed your other leg and pulled you, bodily, to him. Your chair legs screeched against the stone floor as you threw your head back and laughed. When he had you where he wanted you, he smoothed his palms up the inside of your thighs. You rested your bare feet on the seat of his chair on either side of his legs. He pushed your skirt all the way up to your waist as he stared into your eyes. His thumbs grazed the creases of your thighs and you sighed.

“The journey was too long, but certain hindrances are now resolved,” his voice was low and quiet. “I am no longer married.”

You raised an eyebrow at these words. You trailed your fingertips down one of his forearms.

“I hope that it was painless, my prince,” you both knew the mocking of his title was not malicious. He was not your prince and you enjoyed reminding him of that. “You know, you could have stayed in Godsgrace and I could have sent one of my women to dispatch the issue quickly.” Your grin was knowing, yet seductive. Daemon’s response to Northern morality was curious to you. He didn’t want his wife, but could not bring himself to have another while she lived.

“I did not say I did the deed,” he tried not to smile. “Only that it was resolved.” Oh, he was deliciously vile when it suited him. You chuckled at this.

“Well, I had no trouble with the situation,” you grazed his thigh with one foot. “I needed only your devotion, not your marriage.”

“That you will always have, my lady,” he replied as he sank to his knees in front of you. You moved your foot to his shoulder, the other still in his chair, as you languidly spread your legs to make room for him. He looked up at you again, catching your eyes with his as he kissed your thigh, then your belly. You stroked one hand over his silky head as he lowered it and kissed the dark hair between your legs. You heard him inhale, smelling you, and you became even wetter.

Daemon licked the full length of your slit and paused at your pearl. He circled it with the tip of his tongue and you gripped the arms of your chair. He slid an arm around one thigh to steady you. Then he grazed a finger through your folds, finding your entrance quickly, as if he knew your geography by heart. He teased and didn’t slide inside you yet. He used two fingers to circle your opening, almost matching the rhythm of his tongue on your clit. Your hips rocked. You tried, and failed, to get his fingers inside. He stilled you as much as he could and continued for a moment that felt like an eternity.

When he finally slipped his fingers into your wet heat he sucked on your clit and your hands flew to the back of his head. You moaned and pushed against his mouth. You thought you felt him chuckle. You didn’t care. You ground your hips on his mouth and fingers.

“Daemon,” you whispered, as that was as loud as you could manage. “That’s it, just there. Please.”

He rubbed his fingertips against the spot that drove you wild, fighting against your clenching muscles. His tongue resumed its circling movements, but with a slightly quicker pace. Your breathing was becoming shallow and the sounds you made came deep from your chest. He pumped his fingers harder into you, knowing the pressure you needed to reach your climax. Your toes curled on his shoulder. You let go of his head, gripped the arms of your chair again, and your body curled forward as your climax overwhelmed you. You yelled his name, moaned incoherently, and then laughed. He hadn’t stopped, tongue still lapping causing your thighs to twitch. You playfully pushed at his forehead to give you peace.

You leaned forward and cupped his face in your hands. His expression wasn’t playful, as yours was. The look was full of something akin to admiration. You kissed him, roughly. You licked yourself from his lips, his tongue, and moaned into his mouth. He reached up and tangled his fingers into your hair at the nape of your neck, letting some of it loose from the pins that held it in place. Without much grace, he blindly began to release your hair from its confines.

Daemon broke your kiss and began to stand up. You let your fingers trail down his body as he did. You grazed your fingers over his pants, deliberately avoiding the hardness straining the fabric. He pulled pins and a comb from your hair, tossing them on the floor with abandon. You looked up at him, a playfully displeased look on your face for the carelessness he showed for your jewelry, and shook out your hair. It fell in near-black waves down your shoulders and back.

“I need you,” Daemon breathed. His eyes were dark with lust. Still looking up at him from your chair, you pressed your palm over his erection. His eyes nearly closed. His chest rose and fell, trying to maintain his composure. You pressed just a little harder. He grabbed your wrists. It didn’t hurt but made it evident that he couldn’t be teased this evening. You stood, your wrists still in his hands. You raised to tiptoes and pulled at his bottom lip with your teeth. Your eyes narrowed in defiance against being so restrained.

“That’s enough!” He threw you over his shoulder. You squealed and laughed, kicking your feet and pounding your fists lightly against his back. Your laughter bounced off the stone walls as he carried you through the curtains into your chambers. You pushed against him, raising your head to look at the two startled maids, and laughed harder.

“Let me go!” You giggled and kicked your feet but he only held your ankles as he walked you to the bed. You heard the two girls scamper from the room, giggling and twittering.

Daemon dropped you lightly on the bed. You were breathless from laughing. He smiled down at you, but that look was back. What had changed since he had gone North? Your laughter faded into giggles, which in turn faded into quick breaths as he knelt on the bed and kissed his way up your feet, calves, and thighs. He began to unfasten the ties of your skirt at your waist and you helped him with the small buttons of your delicate top.

He licked and kissed the curves of your exposed belly. He nuzzled his nose between your breasts, then kissed each of your nipples. You played with his silky hair, enjoying watching him worship you. When he reached your neck and jaw you began tugging on his shirt, pulling it toward his shoulders. He straightened long enough pull it over his head, then bent down to your mouth again. You kissed him back, hands gripping his neck, stroking his shoulders, down his biceps.

Daemon moved with you, still kissing, as you began to sit up. You gently pressed his shoulders back and guided him to lay down. You straddled his thighs and began pulling at the laces of his pants. He groaned at the pressure of your fingers. You stroked his freed cock, watching your hands move slowly. You enjoyed making him wait but you couldn’t wait any longer. You released him and begin to remove his breeches. Once you had both struggled with that for a moment, you trying not to giggle during the endeavor, you climbed up him and placed yourself on his belly. You could feel his cock pressing against your buttocks. You leaned forward and kissed him and he cupped both of your breasts in his hands.

You lifted your hips enough to reach between you and guide him into your wetness. He growled and squeezed your breasts a bit harder. Slowly, you took him inside you. You raised up, allowing him to keep his hands on you, and pressed your hands against his stomach as you rocked your hips. You took his cock as deep as you could. Gradually, at first, then setting a gentle pace that brought sweet sounds from Daemon’s lips. You leaned forward slightly, finding the angle you needed. He moved his hands, one to your neck, one to your hip. As you settled on a rhythm, he began to match you, thrusting upward slightly each time you rocked back on his cock.

You let your head fall forward, you hair sweeping forward, framing your face and his. Your fingers curled against his chest. You kept this pace as long as you could before your cunt began to ache with the beginnings of your climax. You slowed and Daemon took over. Gripping both of your hips, he fucked up into you, harder than you had been able to manage. His grunts made you squeeze around his cock. They were wonderful sounds that only increased your need for him.

You rested your face against his, pressing your cheeks together. Neither of you could stay quiet. Your name fell from his lips as fluidly as the curses he uttered. His fingers dug into your hips as he pulled you down onto each of his upward thrusts. The sound of flesh against flesh, lewd and satisfying. Your bodies glistened with sweat in the torch light. You wanted to open your eyes and look at him but the pleasure was too great.

“Yes, please, Daemon,” you whined in his ear. Your lips drug across his cheek as you searched for his mouth. You tried to kiss him. Instead you panted and moaned against his mouth. As your climax began the wave that would drown you, you heard his voice, much calmer than yours could have been in that moment.

“Look at me.” You did. He didn’t stop fucking you, but he held your gaze with those perfect eyes. “I love you. I would kill for you. I would kill anyone who kept us apart.”

Something in his eyes, not just his words, was your undoing. Your climax spread over you at the same time as it curled up inside you. You squeezed your thighs against his hips, almost stopping his movements entirely. You bent to him and kissed him, moaning and sighing, as you came.

Suddenly Daemon’s large arms encircled you and in your delirium you could hardly notice that he was moving you. You clung to his shoulders as he somehow, and gracefully, managed to lay you on your back. He had not pulled out. You wrapped your legs around his hips and ran your hands into his hair.

Daemon fucked you without restraint. You were coming down from your climax but your cunt gripped him tight and he grunted with each deep thrust. He shifted his weight to one hand and deftly scooped one of your legs into the crook of his arm. You bit your lower lip and looked up at him. He was watching you.

“Touch yourself,” he panted. “Come on my cock again.” His smile was enough to convince you, if his words hadn’t been.

So you did. You rubbed your fingers quickly, and in time with his strokes. When you were close again, you arched under him, head thrown back, Daemon’s mouth on your exposed neck. Then he pressed his hips against you as hard as he could. His cock buried completely inside you as he came. Your cunt spasmed around him and you both felt his seed fill you as your climax peaked. He cursed and tried to gently lower your leg. Your body shook and you were unable to help him. He chuckled and kissed your forehead.

As he slowly pulled out and away from you, you mewled and groaned, closing your thighs and squeezing them together. Daemon lowered himself down next to you, on his side. He rested his head on your chest. You smoothed his hair away from his forehead in a long stroke down to his back and sighed. You let your hand rest on his shoulder. He held you close to him.

The cool night breeze wicked the sweat off your skin. The torches guttered slightly. You wrapped one leg over Daemon’s. You wanted every part of your body touching his. You breathed in his smell mixed with your own and the dusty sweetness of Godsgrace coming in through the curtains.

“No one will come between us,” Daemon whispered against you.

“I know, my love, my dragon” you replied, lips brushing against the top of his head.

The sun had set and, perhaps, the dark was what he needed. In the light of day The Rogue Prince was rakish and disreputable. But at night, with you, he could shed that facade.

Masterlist

Tags: @black-dread

[averagewriter-inthedark]

Salt & Sea ⛵| HOTD Headcanon

Content warnings: slight canon divergence, (Gwayne Hightower pairing) | GOT/HOTD Masterlist

Being the olderst daughter/middle child of Rhaenys and Corlys Velaryon would look like:

Like your siblings Laenor and Laena, you're born on Driftmark, the ancestral seat of House Velaryon amidst salt & sea. And given your mother is the Princess Rhaenys Targaryen herself, a dragon egg was placed in your cradle, hatching not long after and bonding the two of you for life. Naming the winged beauty, Zarraxes. And when she grew, you found yourself claiming the skies when not sailing the seas. 

The middle child of the Lord of the Tides, you had great expectations despite not being the heir. That belonged to Laenor, which you could not complain about since it granted you a tad bit more freedom than your brother. You got to bond more with dragon, learn the ways of the seas, watch tourneys with your sister and cousin, Rhaenyra. Corlys even encouraged you to pick up a sword. Something he'd learn to regret once you managed to knock Laenor down a few times and challenge other young Lords. That's when Rhaenys stepped in to have you focus more on Septa lessons. 

You were close to your siblings growing up. Spending most days learning high Valyrian and enjoying the beauty Driftmark had to offer. Sneaking away from the Septas to play on the beach. Zarraxes and SeaSmoke shared a sibling-type bond, flying around the island when you and Laenor stayed on the ground. Laena followed you like a shadow as children, enjoying the moments you read to her of your family's history and the dragons that conquered Westeros. Her fascination with Vhagar had you predict early on she'd be the one to claim the mighty beast as her mount. And when she did many years later, you were bouncing off the walls in celebration. "I knew you could do it, sister! This is an amazing!" 

Instead of Velaryon blue and white--which you only wore on special occasions, you often preferred red and silver in tribute to your dragon and your mothers, Meleys. The Red Queen sharing a small bond with you after Rhaenys took you flying when you were only a few moons old. The red also contributing to the colors Rhaenys birth house of Targaryen. Corlys at first was upset by your preference of attire but settled when you promised to wear sea-blue and white for you wedding and events your family was to be present for. 

As expected of a daughter to a member of the Royal House of Targaryen, you were raised to be a respected, well-mannered Lady of the court. Once of age, your parents brought you to King's Landing in hopes to find you a suitable husband. Your line of suitors was quite impressive, from sons of Starks, to Lannisters, and even a Dornish knight pinning to win your hand. In the end, despite your parents' initial reluctance, you were betrothed to Ser Gwayne Hightower. At your age of eight and ten, he was only a few years older than you and already garnered himself as a respected knight of the Seven Kingdoms. Your union was pleasant, and despite his arrogance at times, you two found friendship that eventually grew to genuine love. 

"Darling girl, to be granted your favor will ensure my victory in this tourney. Will you bless me, and I shall reward you with the crown of love and beauty?" "After a promise such as the one you've bestowed, Ser Gwayne, it would do the Gods injustice to reject you."

When Gwayne is a spectator at tourneys instead of a competitor, you two sit in the royal box and visibly judge whispering gossip under your breath. A small trait you took from your parents, having watched them interact over the years. When walking in the gardens or attending banquets, you two will send looks to each other whenever someone says or does something deserving of a side eye. 

Your time is broken up between Driftmark and Oldtown. Gwayne maintains his post at his family's home, while you take flight when homesickness becomes too much. The few times you return to the Red Keep after your wedding was to attend Viserys' to Gwayne's sister, Alicent (an occasion which prompted numerous side eyes from the both of you when no one was looking), Rhaenyra's to your brother Laenor (concerned side eyes as you know your brothers preference of companionship), and finally the wedding of your sister Laena to Daemon Targaryen (concerned side eyes considering Daemon's reputation).  

"My dearest, you appear in distress on such a happy occasion." "This family is going to run us to an early visit with the Stranger, Gwayne."

As children are born to your family, you witness the pride and joy in your parents' eyes. Laenor's sons, Laena's daughters, and your children are the future of House Velaryon. The future of the skies and seas. You're a dotting aunt, sending ravens and name-day gifts when unable to attend in person. Your children pretty much learn to sail a ship, wield a sword, and ride a dragon before the ages of eight. 

Because although you may now light the way, you and your line will forever be tied with the salt and sea. 

[goodqueenaly]

what do you think is the reason for baelor breakspear, the literal crown prince, marrying jena dondarrion, a lady from a very minor house in the dornish marches who presumably didnt like the dornish very much? could it have been daeron ii arranging this marriage to curry favour with dorne's enemies by marrying his very dornish son to a marcher lord's daughter and thus in a way simulating peace between the marchers and the dornish in the eyes of the realm? or could it have been a way to keep the blackfyre supporters in line assuming baelor married after the first rebellion, since one of the reasons for the uprising was anti-dornish sentiment?

Number one, I don’t think we can call the Dondarrions “a very minor House”. Indeed, Yandel himself counts the Dondarrions (alongside the Swanns, Selmys, and Carons) as one of “[t]he greatest of the Marcher lords” and refers to the Dondarrion seat of Blackhaven as “[a]mong the sternest of the Marcher seats … with its forbidding black basalt walls and bottomless dry moat”. Lord Harmon Dondarrion seems to have been of equal rank to Lord Tarly and Lady Caron, as all served as commanders during the campaign in Aenys I’s reign against the Vulture King, and Lord Dondarrion served as one of the three Marcher representatives at the wedding of Queen Alyssa and Rogar Baratheon. Queen Alysanne clearly considered the Dondarrions important enough to include on the royal couple’s tour of the Dornish Marches in 54 AC, and later a Dondarrion was one of the “dozen fresh young maidens chosen from amongst a hundred who coveted the distinction of serving as a companion to the queen [i.e. Alysanne]" - proof, I think, of the rank of the Dondarrions even relative to other Westerosi aristocrats. Notably as well in the main novels, Sansa thinks that while Jeyne Poole - herself an aristocrat, albeit an actually low-ranking and probably landless one - mooned after Lord Beric, the Lord of Blackhaven “would never look at someone so far beneath him”. 

Number two, it seems almost certain that Baelor and Jena were married prior to the First Blackfyre Rebellion. Valarr, their elder son, was not only old enough to joust as a knight at Ashford in 209 AC, suggesting that Valarr was at least 16 or so at that time, but was also big and tall enough for his nearly 40-year-old warrior father to plausibly borrow and wear his armor during the trial of seven, suggesting that Valarr was old enough to have reached his adult build and height. Personally, I think Baelor and Jena were married roughly around the mid to late 180s and Valarr was born around the late 180s, but whenever the actual wedding occurred, it’s impossible that Valarr was born in or after 196 AC, and as such his parents had to have been married ahead of the First Blackfyre Rebellion.

All of that said, why do I think Prince Baelor and Jena Dondarrion were married? Put very simply, I think Daeron II correctly recognized the fault lines of political factionalism in his kingdom and wanted to repair, rather than deepen, those divisions. From the beginning of his reign, King Daeron had very publicly advertised his desire to unite Dorne with the Targaryen kingdom. Not only was Daeron himself happily married to Myriah Martell, but as Yandel notes, “one of [Daeron’s] earliest significant acts after assuming the throne was to begin negotiations with his good-brother, Prince Maron, to unify Dorne under Targaryen rule” - negotiations which ended with the homage of Prince Maron and his wedding to the king’s sister, Princess Daenerys. Between the unique “significant rights and privileges” granted to the Dornish lords and the Prince of Dorne in particular in the peace accord, and the Dornishmen who were given places at court and “offices of note” under Daeron II, the king was making very clear that his government was openly and ardently pro-Dorne. 

Yet as Daeron II certainly realized, such courtly and political favoritism toward Dorne generally and House Martell specifically would hardly be received rapturously by the entirety of his realm. From the earliest days of the Targaryen monarchy, the dragonkings had, in the tradition of the Plantagenets and any number of other real-world monarchies, claimed dominion over Dorne, in title if not in fact. Daeron I had come closest, if relatively briefly, to making this paper crown of "King of the Rhoynar" a reality, and Daeron II’s own father Aegon IV had (albeit almost certainly for selfish and petty reasons) attempted to reignite (pun intended) the conquest of Dorne by House Targaryen. Daeron II’s pro-Dorne policies, then, were very much poised to be seen, at least by some of his subjects, as a jarring reversal away from a century and a half of Targaryen posturing and conquest and toward a political reality where the Dornish were, to borrow Yandel’s phrase, “rivals for the king’s attention or largesse”. That suspicion extended to Daeron’s heir: according to Yandel, “many men looked upon Baelor’s dark hair and eyes and muttered that he was more Martell than Targaryen”. This Martell-looking eldest son of a Martell queen, double first cousins with the future of the ruling dynasty of Dorne, may have seemed to suspicious factions to be the living guarantee that Martell, and more generally Dornish, royal favor was going to continue, if not indeed be increased, in the next generation of the Targaryen monarchy. 

The solution, I think, for Daeron II was to marry his eldest son and heir into one of the marcher lord dynasties. These families, founded explicitly according to Yandel to “[protect] the realm of the Storm Kings from the ancient enemies to the west and, especially, the south” and to “create a bulwark against incursions from the Dornish”, would almost certainly have been the most natural opponents of Daeron II’s pro-Dorne policies (and, given their famous pride, perhaps among the most vocal in their opposition). By choosing from among these lords for not just his daughter-in-law but the future (expected) Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and (expected) mother of the next king, Daeron II was making just as public a statement that his was not a client state of Sunspear but a united realm - one in which the proud marchers would have just as much opportunity for courtly favor and advancement as the Martells and other Dornish nobles did. The Dondarrions, and by extension any of their relatives and allies among the marchers, would be directly invested in the dynasty, with a tangible incentive for supporting Daeron II’s government (as opposed to, say, looking to Daemon Blackfyre as a rival for the throne). Too, if I can quote myself, the future (expected) royal children of Baelor and Jena, especially their (expected) eldest son and heir, “would be a microcosm of the peace Daeron sought”, as “Dornish blood and marcher blood, eternally spilled at the other’s expense, would mingle in a single person, a future king of the united state of Westeros”. 

One question I do have - though we’ll probably have to wait until Fire and Blood Volume 2 for an answer - is why Daeron II selected a Dondarrion rather than, say, a Swann or Caron. It could be that there were no daughters of the right age among any of other other prominent marcher families; it could be that Daeron II knew or liked Jena’s family more than he did, say, other marcher families; it could even be that Daeron chose the Dondarrions to temper the local geopolitical ambitions of the Swanns and Carons to each be counted “the oldest of the Marcher houses” and superior over the rest, with the king perhaps quietly reminding the Swanns and Carons that he had the power to humble as well as exalt. 

(Let's just hope that F&B Vol. 2 improves upon its predecessor and has Jena as an active, developed crown princess and would-be queen, rather than a walking womb or - ugh - another victim of death-by-childbirth.)

[kc-writes-sometimes]

Crown and Kin | Chapter One

Ao3 Account | Masterlist

Chapter One: The Bastard with Violet Eyes

Word Count: 2,641

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Female Character

Summary: Daella’s journey takes an unexpected turn when she crosses paths with powerful figures in King’s Landing. As she navigates a world where bastards are often overlooked, Daella begins to unravel mysteries about her origins and the people watching over her.

Themes & Warnings: 18+, Character Death, Rape/Non Con, Future Smut, Canon Typical Violence, Canon Typical Incest, Angst, Dad Daemon Targaryen, Bastards and Brothels, Fluff, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Canon Divergence, Dysfunctional Family, Team Black Centric, Slow Burn, Eventual Romance

Daella of King's Landing

People rarely paid attention to bastards. Snow, Rivers, Stone, Hill, Waters, Pyke, Storm, Flowers, and Sand—all were cut from the same misshapen cloth. They came and went as they pleased, their movements unmonitored, their musings unheard. Whether they lived or died mattered little to those of importance.

A bastard boy might find glory in battle and be granted knighthood. He could gain both brothers and honour at The Wall, or even pursue knowledge within The Citadel. A lack of name or title did little to hinder a boy from charting his own course and seizing his freedom.

But for bastard girls, the world offered fewer paths. The highest honour they could achieve was to be sold to one of the more reputable establishments on the Street of Silk in King’s Landing. Most, however, ended up working and dying in the brothels of Flea Bottom, just as Daella’s mother had.

Daella didn’t remember her mother well. Was she truly a beauty? Did they share the same pale skin, dark waves, and violet eyes? Truthfully, she wasn’t sure if she remembered her at all. The memory of her had faded, worn down by the passage of each moon since her death. Daella recalled the somberness of the women when her mother died, how they cooed at her as though she were a lost lamb on the cusp of slaughter. Her mother’s name was still spoken sometimes, but always in hushed tones behind silk curtains and makeshift wooden doors.

From what Daella had been told, her mother was a rare prize in King’s Landing, where few had the privilege of keeping company with the Dornish, let alone bedding one. She was loved by guests and whores alike, giving everything and keeping nothing. She even spared a few Silver Stags for the City Watch to ensure the safety of the other girls, which was how Daella ended up where she was.

Her life had been a far cry from that of the ladies of the Red Keep, yet the women of the brothel had always provided for her as best they could. They’d kept her safe, warm, and fed, even subjecting themselves to the ire of men who noticed her skulking around the brothel’s dark corners. It was a strange thing, to be raised in such an establishment without the expectation or encouragement to join the trade. But the women had promised her mother they would care for her as their own, and they had.

As Daella pulled herself from her makeshift bed and set her feet on the cold ground, she could already hear the giggles and moans of the women upstairs. Some were just starting their day; others had yet to finish. She couldn't risk lighting one of the torches scattered around the room, so she fumbled under her bed for the shoes carefully stored there. Her hand brushed the rough black material, and with a small, victorious smile, she silently slipped them on. Peeking her head out of the room, she glanced down the dimly lit hallway to ensure no one had noticed her presence. The side door to the brothel, typically used by the City Watch when they didn’t wish to be seen leaving in the early hours, had often been her means of escape. Slipping through the doorway, Daella made her way onto the moonlit streets.

“Daella,” a gruff voice called from behind her. She turned sheepishly toward the sound, feeling her heart race in her chest. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness just enough to make out the figure stepping toward her.

“Ser Harwin,” she muttered, feigning innocence and stepping backward, just out of his reach. This wasn't the first time Ser Breakbones had caught her sneaking out. Their dance had become almost routine. She’d get caught, he’d chastise her, she’d run, and he’d chase her. But at only six years old, Daella could never make it far before he scooped her up and dragged her home.

“You know you’re not supposed to be out here by yourself,” he sighed, taking a few steps closer and sinking to one knee to look her in the eye. Even on one knee, Ser Harwin was a large man. The women in the brothel often remarked how broad and handsome he was.

“I only needed some air. I wasn’t going to go far,” Daella whispered, attempting to defend herself as she stared at the ground. “I promise.”

“Come, Daella, let’s get you home before you get yourself into trouble,” he said, standing to his full height. His pretty brown eyes watched her intently as he turned to lead her back. The moment he turned his back, she scurried into a nearby alleyway and ran, paying little mind to the shouting behind her. Ser Breakbones really should have known better by now.

The acrid stench of alcohol and unwashed bodies filled the air, causing her nose to wrinkle as she slipped through the throngs of people out enjoying the night’s revelry. Ser Harwin’s voice faded into the background, drowned out by the lively chatter of those pressed against walls or sitting on the floor, taking pride of place in front of the stone square where entertainers performed for coin. Her small stature proved useful as she weaved through the crowds just in time to see a plume of orange flame escape the mouth of the man before her.

Rosalie, her mother’s best friend, often said that as a baby, the only way Daella would quiet down enough to sleep was if the fire burned high and hot. The heat never bothered her, unlike the women in the brothel, who regularly complained that it was already too warm. Daella was almost certain the budget for firewood increased tremendously after she was born.

Another plume of flame pulled her from her thoughts as it ascended into the night sky. As Daella watched the flames recede, she scanned the faces of those surrounding the square. Her gaze froze when she noticed a towering figure across from her, dressed in black with both hands resting on a sword at his hip. The faces around him were a mix of shock, surprise, and wonder as they watched the fire dancers, but this man’s gaze, though shielded by a heavy hood, seemed squarely fixed on her.

“There you are,” came the deep, steady voice of Ser Harwin as he placed a gloved hand on Daella’s shoulder and spun her around to face him. “I’ve told you before, Daella, you can’t outrun a man of the City Watch. Although, you did make it further than normal this time,” he added, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. If Daella didn’t know any better, she might have thought he was proud that she managed to evade him for as long as she had.

“You only caught me because I was distracted,” Daella huffed, pouting as she crossed her arms. Her eyelids grew heavier as her gaze darted between the fire dancers and the swirling crowd. A yawn crept up on her, softening her pout as she fought to keep her eyes open.

As the crowd began to thin and the moon dipped lower in the sky, Ser Harwin grinned and said, “Come now, my little flame, let’s get you home before Rose has both our hides.” He swept Daella off the ground and tucked her against his side. His dark armour was as cold and unyielding as ever, except for the soft gold cloak draped over his left shoulder. Daella noticed his helmet was missing, likely lost during their game of chase, letting his brown curls fall into place at his jaw. No doubt he’d endure another one of the Commander’s long-winded lectures on the proper care and maintenance of City Watch equipment. The men often grumbled about those tirades when deep in their cups, though they wouldn’t usually dare speak ill of their Commander—unless encouraged by wine during their trips to the brothel.

Ser Harwin always whistled while he walked. He couldn't carry much of a tune, nor had Daella ever asked what he was whistling, but she found it soothing nonetheless, especially when she was on the cusp of sleep. As they turned into one of the alleyways leading home, Daella noticed a dark figure leaning against the wall along their path. As they drew closer, the man’s stature and presence became clearer. He held himself much like the figure she had seen earlier at the square.

“I didn’t take you for a man of depravity, Ser Strong,” the man said, eyeing Daella in Ser Harwin’s arms as he pushed off the wall. His tone was threatening, yet a hint of amusement coloured his words. “I would have thought this one was a bit young for you.”

As the man removed his hood, Ser Harwin inhaled sharply, tightening his hold on Daella. Raising her head from Ser Harwin’s shoulder, she tried to get a better look at their intruder. All she managed to notice was his long silver hair, which the moonlight caressed like it did the waters of Blackwater Bay during high tide. She had to stifle the urge to reach out and run her fingers through those strands.

“My Prince,” Ser Harwin said, bowing his head in supplication. “We were not aware you had returned to King’s Landing.”

“That would be because I did not send word. It seems the City Watch has grown careless in my absence.” The previous amusement in the prince’s voice was now gone, replaced by a steely edge. “If a man like me can infiltrate King’s Landing simply by walking through the main gate, I’d say you Gold Cloaks have quite the problem on your hands.” His mouth was drawn into a thin line, and Daella could feel the displeasure and frustration radiating from him. “I wonder, how many of you would even bother to look up if I flew Caraxes over the Dragonpit and across Flea Bottom?”

Daella’s eyes widened, and she gasped as the name slipped from his lips. The fierce conquest of the Stepstones by the rogue prince and Caraxes was a favoured tale among the smallfolk in King’s Landing. Yet, with so many versions of the story swirling around, she was never sure what was fact and what was mere embellishment. Some of the women even said the prince had finally gotten what he wanted—a crown of his own.

“I will be sure to bring your concerns to the Commander at first light, my prince,” Ser Harwin replied with a nod, attempting to move past the prince.

“You never did give me an answer, Lord Strong,” the prince said, his gaze settling on Daella. “But no matter, the answer is irrelevant. I’ve known of your preference for those of us with silver hair for quite some time.”

Ser Harwin’s mouth tightened into a thin line, but as the two men spoke, Daella felt his muscles gradually relax, his grip on her loosening. Before she could stifle it, a soft yawn escaped her throat, causing both men to turn their attention to her with faint smiles.

“Are we boring you, little one?” the prince asked, his lips curling into a smile as he stepped closer, his voice tinged with amusement.

Daella nodded, her eyes now able to take in his features as he approached. His jawline was strong, much like Ser Harwin’s, though the prince’s was clean-shaven. Where Ser Harwin’s nose was crooked from many breaks, the prince’s was perfectly straight. Her gaze wandered over his face until it met his eyes—eyes that were anything but ordinary. Instead of the usual blue or brown, she found herself staring into a pair of striking purple irises. While her own eyes were a pale violet, his were a deep indigo, so dark they reminded her of the midnight sky.

“Is she yours?” the prince asked, his gaze flicking back to Ser Harwin, a smirk playing on his lips.

“No, my prince,” Ser Harwin replied quickly, shaking his head. “She’s the daughter of one of the women who worked at the brothel. I promised her mother I’d look after her.”

The prince’s expression softened slightly, though a hint of mischief remained in his eyes. “A knight playing nursemaid. Now that is something I did not expect to see.”

“I made a promise,” Ser Harwin said, his tone firm but respectful. “And I intend to keep it.”

The prince studied him for a moment, then turned his attention back to Daella. “What’s your name, little one?”

“Daella,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Daella,” the prince repeated, his voice gentle as he tested the name on his tongue. “A name as beautiful as the girl who bears it.”

A flush crept up Daella’s cheeks at the compliment, and she looked away, feeling suddenly shy under his intense gaze.

“Take care of her, Ser Harwin,” the prince said, his tone suddenly serious. “The streets of King’s Landing are no place for a child, especially not one as precious as this.”

“I will, my prince,” Ser Harwin replied, bowing his head once more.

The prince gave Daella one last lingering look before turning on his heel and disappearing into the shadows, his long silver hair the last thing she saw before he melted into the night.

Ser Harwin let out a breath he seemed to have been holding, his shoulders relaxing as the prince’s presence faded. “Let’s get you home, Daella,” he said, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. He adjusted his hold on her and began walking again, his pace quickening slightly as if eager to put distance between them and the prince.

“Who was that?” Daella asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

“That was Prince Daemon Targaryen,” Ser Harwin replied, his voice laced with a mixture of respect and caution. “He’s a dangerous man, Daella. Stay away from him if you can.”

Daella nodded, though her thoughts were still fixed on the prince’s piercing purple eyes and the way he seemed to see right through her. Something about him stirred a strange mix of fear and fascination within her, a feeling she couldn’t quite place or understand.

As they approached the brothel, the familiar warmth and muffled sounds of the women’s laughter greeted them. Ser Harwin set her down gently just outside the door, his expression softening as he crouched to meet her gaze.

“You gave me quite the chase tonight, little flame,” he said with a tired smile. “But you need to be careful, alright? This city is full of people who would do you harm without a second thought.”

“I know,” Daella replied, feeling a pang of guilt for worrying him. “I just wanted to see the fire dancers.”

“And you did,” he said, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “But next time, let’s watch them together, alright? No more running off on your own.”

Daella nodded, the weariness of the night finally catching up to her. “I promise.”

“Good girl,” he said, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head before rising to his full height. “Now, off to bed with you. Rosalie will be waiting.”

Daella gave him a small smile before slipping inside, the familiar warmth of the brothel wrapping around her like a comforting blanket. As she made her way to her little corner, she couldn’t shake the image of the prince from her mind. Something told her that tonight was only the beginning, that her path and Prince Daemon’s would cross again. And when they did, she wasn’t sure if she would be ready for what it would bring.

But for now, she was just a little girl, a bastard with violet eyes, hidden away in the shadows of King’s Landing, where no one of importance would think to look.

[domainedewinter]

The Price of Fire 1/4

The fire that shines under the moon

Summary: Aemond meets a mysterious silver-haired girl on the beach while facing Vhagar. Solving mysteries is an intellectual game he loves to play and what a magnificent mystery he now has in his hands.. Unbowed, unbent, unbroken, hm?

Warnings: DUBCON, TYPICAL TARGARYEN INCEST, profanity, innuendo, he/him pronouns, you pronoun, fingering, oral m receiving, oral f receiving, misogyny, toxic behaviour, Dom!Aemond, begging, underage HOTD style, nsfw.. (coming soon, I will indicate the chapters containing smut with a 🔥) 

Rating: 18+, MDNI

English is not my first language

If your life has always been beautiful, bathed in opulence and pleasure, your birth remains a mystery nonetheless. As you look at yourself this evening in the tall mirror of the room where you are staying during this journey, this thought crosses your mind once again.

You were still just a baby, a newborn, the day a man you know nothing about except that he was unpleasant to look at and had difficulty walking, offered you to your father with a lot of gold to leave the continent in the greatest secrecy. A wealthy and respected Dornishman, a Martell, who raised you as his own daughter, integrating you into his powerful family upon his return to Dorne and taking care to protect you as if the sky might one day open to take you back. When he couldn't sleep, he would look up at that same sky, scanning the horizon for a threat of which you knew nothing. Yet, with every dream of dragons, clouds, and storms that you shared with your father, he became increasingly vigilant.

It took a lot of persuasion to convince him to let you accompany him to the royal city, the same one he had always warned you about. But he had no choice, always preferring to know you were with him or with trusted people, like the family you had arrived at a few days earlier. And it was not without regret that your father had to leave for a week-long trip, leaving you alone here with your uncle and aunt who treated you like a diamond to be hidden from others' eyes. You never went out, and if you had to meet other people, it was always with a scarf to hide your hair, eyes downcast, so as not to reveal the lovely color of your eyes.

But tonight, awakened by yet another dream of growling, fire and the noise of wings flapping, you look at yourself, still sweaty, in the mirror. Your hair is long, slightly wavy, and moon-colored, as much as your eyes are a pale indigo, asking for answer you're craving to discover. You need to get some air, to be alone, far from this golden prison your father left you in. Gathering your courage, you climb out the bedroom window with grace and agility before slipping into the streets, guided only by your instinct and the sound of the waves calling you.

The sun has set for a while, but the night is surprisingly clear, the moon almost illuminating as if it were dawn. The crowded streets turn into alleys, then paths before your bare feet in Dornish-style sandals - like the rest of your outfit; mustard-colored pants slit at the thigh and a burgundy drape revealing your shoulders - touch the sand still warm from the day. You smile, sighing softly with pleasure and relief to be away from everything and everyone, until a strange noise, a purr or rather, a growl, draws you down to the sea. 

It is not a rock, as you first thought, that stands there, but something alive. And enormous. As you approach, hand outstretched, curiosity getting the better of you, a huge eye opens not far from you, making you gasp in surprise. And it is not the only thing that opens; an huge maw with the smell of sulfur parts, an unknown but dangerous light emerging from its depths.

“Vhagar! No!” 

The voice of a man makes you look up, waking you from the stupor that had paralyzed you upon seeing the creature open its maw before you, and not just any creature: a dragon.

“Who are you and why were you trying to attack my dragon? Do you seek death, little girl? Because Vhagar was about to grant your prayers!” says the voice again, a silhouette stepping between the monster and you, drawing your attention. This silhouette is none other than the prince to whom this dragon belongs, and you know this because your father has taught you. You know the princes and princesses of the great houses, the useful names, literature, philosophy, and religion too.

Tilting his head slightly to the side at your silence, the prince before you seems to be losing patience as you search for his name in your memory. You can see it in his one-eyed gaze, fixed on you. Not knowing what to do, and still somewhat shaken, you turn on your heels and start running, but the flight is short-lived for, after hearing footsteps behind you, you feel a grip on your arm, forcing you to stop your run and turn so quickly that you lose balance and fall backward. The sand cushions your fall, a gasp of surprise and pain escaping your lips as you find yourself pinned to the beach by him. You're not afraid and respond with courage, your thin eyebrows furrow and your gaze attempting to be threatening, even though the man questioning you doesn’t seem frightened at all. 

“That is very rude, turning your back on a prince and refusing to obey, hm? Perhaps you are truly suicidal...”

He almost seems angry that you are so reckless, but you only struggle more, apparently unimpress by him.

"I wasn't trying to hurt your dragon, I just raised my hand to touch it, so let me go!" you reply with rage, kicking and wiggling your hips to free yourself, but Aemond holds on and has a clear physical superiority over you; the rigorous training he engaged in daily since the accident had sculpted his body fiercely and effectively. 

However, despite all his hours of training with Cole and all the fighters he now beat, nothing had prepared him for such audacity from a woman, let alone one so young and in a definitely delicate position.

"Prince Aemond..." you murmur, your voice suddenly losing its courage as you recognize the man who has literally fallen on you. 

It is his single eye that helped you regain your senses and memory. Under other circumstances, you would have been quicker to remember, but the sight of a dragon and the confrontation with a man, alone in the middle of nowhere, had made you lose your composure more than you would like to admit.

Out of all the people living in this great city, you had to stumble upon a prince, and not just any prince; one of the king's sons, the one whose dark rumors reached Dorne. Being terribly close to him, you cannot ignore his hair of the same color as yours, and his eye, his only eye, which stared at you with the same violet gleam.

Your father would be terribly furious and scared if he learned about this. It shouldn't happen; you need to leave and disappear as quickly as possible, return to your chamber, and not come out until his return.

Just for a moment, you think you might be scared - not only of Aemond Targaryen, but of the consequences of your encounter. But the thought doesn’t have time to take root before the prince lifts you to better pin you against the ground again, wanting to bring you back to reality.

"You seem to know who I am but refuse to tell me who you are." The prince growls, the coldness of his fine features turning darker. He obviously isn’t used to being refused, let alone by a young girl lost on the beach daring to resist him. "Answer me, it's an order!"

You don’t know what you risk by refusing to obey a prince, but the mere idea of your father’s reaction or being recognized fills you with more fear. Trying to sit up, you growl in frustration. "Get off me! I swear I wasn't going to do anything, so let me go!"

Wanting to tip the odds in your favor and taking advantage of the element of surprise, you quickly lift your knee, managing to hit him, probably not hard enough to hurt but enough to surprise him. If he thinks he could intimidate you, he doesn’t know you because when Aemond’s eye widens in surprise, you quickly turn your head and bite his forearm as hard as you can, tasting the warm metallic flavor of his blood against your lips.

Vhagar growls in concert with his rider, who releases you with a hiss of pain, as if he has just put his hand in molten lava. Astonishment paints the prince's features, and it’s the moment you choose to stand up, finally finding yourself on your feet before him. But Aemond Targaryen is quick and just as swiftly on his feet, his dagger in hand. Both of you face each other, in an attack or defense position, no one could really tell.

The only thing you want is to flee. Run as fast as possible, as far as possible. Do not look back. Forget this evening, the dragon. Forget the prince and the fear.

You have not learned to fight, and now that the moon reflects the prince’s deadly blade, you know the fight is lost from the start. Yet, that’s not the only thing the moon and the fight have uncovered; your scarf is negligently stretched out at your feet, in the sand, revealing your entire hair and leaving no doubt about your astonishing resemblance. 

At this sight, the prince lowers his weapon slightly, fascinated by what he sees; not only by your similar traits but by you, just you. He looks at you as he has never looked at anyone, a new gleam born in his eye. “It seems we started off on the wrong foot. Will you stop struggling or trying to flee? On my side, I promise not to use this,” he says, showing you his dagger, “against you.”

The options are unfortunately limited for you, but curiosity wins over your reflections, abandoning all common sense. The worst is already done; Aemond Targaryen has seen how much you resemble him so, why to refuse? You nod gently and stand up completely, letting your hands hang at your sides as he approaches cautiously, scrutinizing every part of you his lilac eye can land on.

“What is your name?”

“Roxaene.”

"Judging by your clothes, your posture and your intact features, you come from a house with, at least a last name I imagine."

“Martell.” You finally add, a sigh of frustration escaping your lungs at having had to reveal so much to him.

His fine eyebrows furrow for just a moment, creating a line between his two eyes. “The Dornish women have quite different physical characteristics in my last memories; they are known to be magnificent and captivating and although I definitely don't question the beauty of your face - and what else I can see...” he says, letting his eye run along your body, your skin offered on your shoulders, seeing the paleness of your thigh and your bare arms. “..it seems obvious to me that if you live in Dorne, you are not originally from there. Isn’t that right?”

Uncomfortable, you swallow, your gaze unable to fix on anything, uncertain. You bite your lip for a moment and look at him again, not wanting to appear frightened or hesitant. “There are some shadows around my early days of life...”

Aemond murmurs in approval, circling you like a bird with prey, like a dragon before attacking, and it’s when he is behind you that you shiver as his blade appears in front of your eyes, just far enough for both your reflections to appear. “Shadows or not, you cannot deny what you see, can you?”

Feeling him so close to you, almost glued to your back, makes you tense, but you remain stoic. Of course, you see how your resemblance is unsettling, of course, you see the similarities that make you who you are. But your father never wanted to tell you more, so even if you wanted to, you couldn’t reveal more to the prince.

“Yes... but I’m afraid I have nothing else to tell you.” In a last moment of courage, you turn your head towards him, your gaze meeting his. “In fact, I was hoping that by coming to this city, I would be the one to get some answers.”

He remains motionless, staring at you while listening to you and yet, even if your words have reached his mind, the prince cannot help but smell the scent of orange blossom from Dorne's gardens filling his nostrils as he inhales you like a succulent meal to taste, pressing his chest closer to your back to feel the warmth. At that moment, the young prince knows that he will never want to let you go again. Aemond Targaryen loves to plan, think, decode, understand. Solving mysteries is an intellectual game he loves to play and what a magnificent mystery he now has in his hands.

Unbowed, unbent, unbroken. Without a doubt, you respond proudly and courageously to the dogma of your house, but this, instead of curbing the curiosity and desire of Prince Aemond, only increases his desire to unravel your mystery. To make you bow, bend and break for him.

[serenewrote]

Hey darling! I'm the anon who submitted this (https://serenewrote.tumblr.com/post/745794658206105600/i-just-read-your-daemon-x-dornish-daughter-and-im) and I loved what you wrote, but I can get the version with princess Martell fem!reader… And… I had another idea, I hope you don't mind… So reader gets pregnant and despite it being a difficult pregnancy and birth she gives birth to her daughter ( lady Martell), and they are living happily until when the girl is 5 years old, reader gets pregnant again, but this time she can't go to term, she is losing a lot of blood and the baby won't come out (and Daemon won't allows them to open her), then reader and the baby die, not before she says goodbye to her precious girl and Dae and makes him promise to take care of their daughter and try to be happy, they make one last vow of love and she dies . In this part, if it's not too much to ask, could you focus on Dae's relationship with his daughter? like how they deal with grief and how he takes care of her (in my head this happens before he marries Laena, but it's up to you) About two or three years pass and although he still loves and mourns the reader, he marries Laena who is a sweetheart to little Lady Martell and doesn't try to replace reader, and is an excellent maternal figure. In this part, the flow continues normally, Laena has the twins, years pass and they are well and happy, but when Laena gets pregnant again and dies, Lady Martell finds herself in the same situation again (she really feels the death of Laena and the baby while remembering Reader and her other unborn brother) She tries to comfort the girls and Daemon tries to comfort the three. They go to Westeros, the funeral and all that confusion takes place, but in the meantime Daemon receives a letter from Dorne saying that it is time for Lady Martell to return home (Dorne) and be prepared to take over the throne that belonged to her mother. Lady Martell is scared at first and goes to Daemon, they have a frank conversation and he says he will support whatever decision she makes (whether to accept it or not) but he encourages her to take on what is rightfully hers. She goes to Dorne and learns her duties quickly and efficiently. A year later, her coronation takes place Dae (who is beyond proud of his eldest daughter) and the rest of the family is there to celebrate. She is a good ruler and Dorne prospers under her leadership, but when the dance breaks out Rhae asks her to support the blacks, but Lady, or rather Princess Martell, says she will not take sides on any side (Dorne will not fight in a war which is not theirs) Rhaenyra, despite being disappointed, respects her decision, something the greens didn't do… please? (Sorry if I got carried away, but the original idea is so interesting that I couldn't help myself…but feel free to ignore this idea and do what you think is best, but if you happen to follow this idea, it will be Can you detail Lady Martell's relationships with Reader, Daemon, Laena, the twins and the rest of the family and her years ruling Dorne, please?)

Ok. Yes, I can absolutely whip this up for you! I had a feeling that is what you were leaning towards but I just had the first idea in mind when you had sent that request. So, I'm sorry that it wasn't exactly to your liking, apologies. Also, I'm gonna have to give y/n from that other one shot a name now. Little disclaimer: moons = 12 months aka 1 year. And here you go:

"It was all part of the story, even the scary nights" - Daemon x Fem! Martell! Reader

Prequel to "And nothing hurts anymore, I feel kind of free"

Warning(s): death during childbirth, infantile death

110 AC

The battle at the Stepsons ended swiftly. They crowned Daemon, King of the Narrow Sea. To celebrate his conquest, Daemon set out to indulge in the finest of wines and there was only one place where it could be found, Dorne.

As Caraxas landed on the sands of Dorne, Daemon is greeted by the future Lady Y/n Martell, and her sister, Nymera.

"I heard the battle for the Stepsons was a victory. Congratulations, my prince."

The Rogue Prince smirks at Y/n, "Thank you, Princess. I also thank you for sending your fleet. Dorne isn't too font of Targaryens."

Caraxes cries out and you look to see your sister walking up to him.

"Nymera! Leave the dragon alone! Sorry, my sister's curiosity will get her killed one day."

Daemon chuckles, "We were all a bit curious at her age."

Y/n looks Daemon up and down, "My father speaks of you."

"It seems my reputation proceeds me."

"It's mostly just of what not to do and be as heir, my Prince. Although, I'm sure you are of good character."

Daemon scoffs. The audacity.

"I hope that your father won't turn me away, so that you can see how good my character is."

"Why do you think my sister and I are greeting you instead of him?"

Y/n led Daemon into the great hall where a celebration was taking place. She brought him over to her father, Qoren Martell.

"Father, Prince Daemon has come for a visit. I hope you can welcome him peacefully."

Qoren looks Daemon up and down, "A dragon in our midst can only bring trouble. I have half a mind to send him away."

Y/n rolls her eyes at her father's behavior. Daemon bows his head, "I promise, Lord Martell, to keep a peaceful visit and not disturb you."

"I hope for your sake that you keep that promise, dragon."

"Alright, father. That's enough. Come, Daemon. Let's join the festivities."

Y/n leads Daemon onto floor for a dance, "You do know how to dance, right?"

Daemon scoffs at that implication, "I wouldn't be a proper prince if I didn't."

"But you aren't a proper prince. A proper prince doesn't leave for another city instead of returning to his wife."

Daemon places his hands at you waist, "I assure you, Princess. My lady wife is more than joyous for my absence."

The dance starts out slow then speeds up. At the music's climax, Daemon lifts you up. You look deep into each other eyes.

"How unfortunate for you. To be trapped in a loveless marriage.

Daemon's eyes drops to your mouth. His tongue darts out to lick his lips.

"Yes, how unfortunate."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

112 AC

In Lady Y/n Martell's chambers, she has begun her labors. Her handmaidens crowd around her.

“My lady, is there anything you need?”

The exhausted and straining Princess grits her teeth, “I would love if the Maester wasn’t wasting his time doing gods know what and help me bring my child into the world.”

Two of the handmaidens run out to see what’s keeping the maester and Daemon walks in.

“Where’s the maester, my love?”

“If I knew, he would be here. It seems he has decided to spend his time elsewher-ahhh!”

Lady Y/n tenses up. She grabs Daemon with a fierce grip.

“My dragon, my maester is nowhere to be found and little sand dragon has took it upon itself to push out.”

“Now? Like right now?”

Y/n took a deep breath, “Daemon?”

“My love?”

“You are going to help me, right now!"

"Y/n, I'm not a maester. I've never even seen a woman birth a baby. I don't know what I'm doing."

"Lucky for you, I have. Now, go and sit between my legs. It's nothing you haven't seen before-ahh!! Go now!"

Y/n's skin shines with sweat. She grips onto the chair. Daemon lifts his head from the sheet.

"Now, do I catch it when you push or....?"

Y/n looks at her lover. Surely he is not this stupid.

"Catch? catch?! If my child has even a second of air time before their first dragon ride, I'll cut your cock off and that is a promise. Now I'm going to start pushing so, focus!"

After copious amounts of pushing, Y/n and Daemon's daughter, named Aelyssa after Daemon's mother, decided to grace Westeros with her presence.

"Such powerful cries for a small little one."

"She's a dragon. Her cries are like roars."

"You, Aelyssa Targaryen, are going to be great."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

117 AC- Aelyssa is 5

Aelyssa is conflicted. Her mother is pregnant and she is to have a sibling. She is only 5 moons old, she doesn't know how to be a big sister. She isn't allowed in the birthing room but if her mother's cries are anything to go by it seems like it isn't the place to be right now.

In the birthing room, Lady Martell isn't doing so well. The maesters are concerned with something.

"My lady, it seems as if the baby is breached somehow."

"I just need to push a little more, please!"

Maester Osferth looks at the woman with a solemn look. Daemon notices.

"What is it? Can she not continue pushing?"

"Well, my prince. It would be ill-advised to do so. Perhaps we could try and cut-"

"No, absolutely not! You will not cut her like some animal!"

Y/n looks up at Daemon, "My prince."

"My love."

"I fear the babe and I will not make it."

"Don't say that."

Y/n grips Daemon's hand, hard.

"And Aelyssa will need you more than ever. The rest of the realm will not kind to her. You need to hold her and love her as you do now.

"I swear it."

Lady Y/n's grip on her lover loosens and she takes her last breath

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

118 AC - Aelyssa is 6

It has been one moon since Lady Martell's death and the baby. Once Lady Martell had died, they cut out the baby for burial. It was a boy.

Aelyssa has not gotten over it. She mourns in her room and has her food delivered to her door.

Her father has dragged her out of her chambers to break their fast. She hasn't taken one bite.

"Zaldrītsos, can you please eat something?"

"I am not hungry."

Daemon sighs, "Aelyssaa. You are grieving, so am I, but I do not want you starving yourself. Your mother would not want you to starve yourself."

"I'm just not hungry, father. It has nothing to do with Muña."

Daemon walks over to her and grabs her hand, "Come with me."

They walk out of the dining hall and down to the crypts. Aelyssa marvels at the her ancestral burial place. They stop in front of Y/n's coffin. Daemon gestures her to kneel.

"Hello, my love. It has been one moon since you were taken by the Stranger. We are grieving, but it is hard without you here. Our little sand-dragon is having trouble adjusting, naturally. Maybe this can give her peace of mind."

Aelyssa places her hands on her mother's coffin, "Hello, Muña. I admit that I am not doing well with your passing. I am not eating, but I cannot find the strength to eat. Not when you're not sitting with us. I know that you wouldn't like it, and I would try to cope better. There are also talks of my ascension as Dorne's new lady. Aunt Nymeria rules in my stead until I am ready."

Tears roll down Aelyssa's face. She makes no move to wipe them.

"I have ignored father which I know I should not do as he is the only parent I have, but it is hard. I hope that you are looking down at us from the heavens and shall be proud of the woman I become."

Aelyssa launches into Daemon's arms unable to hold her sobs.

"Oh, my sand-dragon. It's ok. The hole of grief is never filled, but you learn to live with their memory. I am always here. Do not be scared to come to me with anything that dwells in your head. The ones who love us and the ones we love, never truly leave us."

Daemon and Aelyssa spent that night in the crypt, sleeping beside Y/n.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

125 AC - Aelyssa is 12

It has been 3 moons since Former Lady Martell's death. Aelyssa is still having some trouble adjusting.

She and Daemon are sparring in the training yard of Pentos. Instead of putting her all into it as usual, Aelyssa's been lagging and her father can tell.

"Stop."

Aelyssa looks up at her father, confused. "What? Why?"

Daemon takes her sword from her hand and kneels down, leveling with her.

"What troubles you my little sunshine?"

"Nothing. Can we finish, Father?"

Daemon narrows his eyes, "No. We can talk about what's distracting you."

She sighs. Father always knows.

"You have married Lady Laena and she is with child, you will forget about me."

"Why would I ever push you aside? You are my firstborn. Nothing will change that."

"But your children will be legitimate in the eyes of the Seven Kingdoms- well six, Dorne doesn't count. The lords, ladies, and the king, I am naught but a bastard to them. And your children might rule Driftmark, a powerful ally to the King. What am I but a future Lady to a kingdom that will never ally with the rest."

Daemon caressed Aelyssa's face. His eyes soft. He remembers Y/n's last words: The rest of the realm will not be kind to her. You need to hold her and love her.

"You are my daughter. Not a political tool. Legitimate or not, I don't care. My brother can moan and groan about you all he wants. I fell in love with your mother and still hold so much love for her. Every time I look at you, I see her. And that fills me with so much happiness because our love created something so beautiful and precious."

"I am not yet sold on Lady Laena. It will take time."

"I do not intend to rush you. Just understand that I still love you and always will. Nothing will ever change that."

"Love you too."

Aelyssa hugs Daemon. Not too keen on his reassurance but she trusts his word.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

137 AC- Aelyssa is 14 (Rhaenyra and Daemon have married and now this is following the last few episodes of S1)

Aelyssa is dressed in gold yellow with hints of red and black. She is pacing in front of closed throne room doors. Daemon is watching her, amused.

"Have you reached the sand yet?"

Aelyssa glares at her father.

"Not the time. I'm nervous and Mother is not here to advise me. I fear I will dishonor her and my ancestors."

Daemon grabs Aelyssa's shoulders to stop her pacing.

"You will be great. You have not dishonored me, therefore you have not and will not dishonor her. Your mother would want you to rule Dorne however you see fit. Now, are you ready?"

Daemon holds his arm out. Aelyssa latches onto him. The doors open. They walk. The room is quiet and all eyes are on their soon-to-be Lady. They reached the front and Ser Cyrbon led Aelyssa up the steps and she sat on her throne.

"I present to you all, Aelyssa Martell, daughter of Y/n Martell, and your Lady! Hail Lady Aelyssa!"

"Hail Lady Aelyssa!"

It's done. You are now Lady of Dorne. You should address the people.

"To my people of Dorne. I welcome you to the new dawn of our kingdom. I intend to rule as my mother did and more. But know this, Dorne will forever remain: Unbowed, Unbent, and Unbroken!"

The people cheered, the guards looked on in pride. Daemon smiles, and the sun- the sun shines a bit brighter on you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

141 AC - Aelyssa is 18

No body was found. The search was in vain. We burn his clothes in place of his body.

Aelyssa is conflicted. She knows not how to comfort her cousins and her sisters. She walks up to Rhaenyra, careful.

"He will be avenged, I swear it."

They walk into the council room. Making battle plans. Rhaenyra and Aelyssa make eye contact throughout the meeting.

"Cousin, I ask you this because I need it. I could use your help."

"Dorne will not fight in a war which is not theirs."

"I am desperate."

"Lucerys did not die in vain. Justice will come but not from us, I'm afraid."

Aelyssa pulls Rhaenyra into a hug.

"I pray to the gods that you are successful. I can't wait to see you on the throne, Cousin. The Iron Throne.

fin.

And if Aelyssa sent Blood & Cheese instead of Daemon, no one will know.

[spectorcomplex]

golden ↦ aemond targaryen x martell!reader

Unfortunately for him she truly was unbowed and unbent. Aemond thinks it’d be satisfying to walk the path of breaking her.

pairing: aemond targaryen × fem!martell!reader (she/her pronouns)

warnings: nothing really? but probably the existence of such characters in canon are dubious at best so forgive a silly girl like me.

word count: 0.6k words

my masterlist

It has always been a garish color for him. Yellow, the color of sunlight. Prince Aemond has always preferred the moon, with its accompanying dark clouds there he flies Vhagar. The old lady does not seem to mind.

And yet, he cannot seem to look away from the golden silks that grace the floor of the throne room. He bows. Aemond does not recall the last time he has bowed for a woman besides his Queen Mother.

In a rare event, the Martells has agreed to visit King’s Landing. In all of his nineteen years as a royal Aemond has not met or even seen a seat holder of Sunspear. He only wishes he was prepared to invalidate the poetic waxed about their beauty. Much to his dismay, he rather agrees with their words.

“Princess Y/N Martell and Prince Oberyn Martell!”

Peculiar, how the lady was announced first. Later he comes to learn that you were to inherit Dorne as you were born minutes before your male twin.

He then sneers once realization hits him. Of course it was his half sister who invited you to King’s Landing. Female heirs uniting under patriarchal challenges. You’ve barely spoken to one another when Aemond makes up his mind about you. Disdain for Rhaenyra clouding his judgment. If you acquiesced to his half sister’s invitation after centuries of tension between the Iron Throne and Dorne then that means you were on her side. Aemond also decided that he was to avoid you at all costs during your visit. He wanted nothing to do with you.

But he also could do nothing against his mother’s orders. She told Aemond to accompany Helaena as she walked the gardens with you. And his infuriating nephew.

Any other noble lady would’ve scattered at the sight of Prince Aemond’s frown. He’s been told once or twice that his reputation precedes him. Right now he was not sure if the frown was genuine or just for show; to intimidate the Dornish Princess.

Unfortunately she truly was unbowed and unbent. Aemond thinks it’d be satisfying to walk the path of breaking her.

Her spirit, he means. Aemond shakes his head.

“Is there a problem, Uncle?” Jacaerys asks, in a surprising move of making conversation.

Aemond only huffs, eye focused on the caterpillar skittering on his sister’s hand.

“I dislike her too.”

That gets his attention.

“Then why are you here?” Aemond sneers, hating how he wanted to hear his nephew’s answer.

“I do not trust her,” Jacaerys shrugs.

Neither the two of them look at each other as they speak but only look forward at the two princesses.

“Your mother invited her,” Aemond replies.

“Still.”

And that was that. Only the soft whispering of the two ladies echo in the wind with the chirps of birds perched on the trees.

Jacaerys moves and Aemond’s hand instinctively goes to the hilt of his sword. The Velaryon does not see and sits down next to you with a smile.

“Princess Y/N,” Jacaerys starts. “How are you finding the warm weather here in King’s Landing?”

You mirror the smile and Aemond watches in caution. Was his bastard of a nephew lying to him? Pulling a joke like some child?

“It is lovely, Prince Jacaerys,” You answer, voice sweet and high pitched, “I have had hotter temperatures in my ancestral lands.”

The smile on his nephew is familiar. Deceitful.

“Ah yes, Dorne,” Jacaerys says. “Forgive me, Princess, but you do not quite look Dornish.”

You keep smiling, “And you do not look like what books say about Valyrians. My prince.”

Aemond gulps, a smirk itching to show on his face. Maybe you were not so awful. Maybe.

-+-

this will have multiple parts teehee 🤭 i was in the process of writing it and decided that it would be so much better to divide it (yes i did write oberyn no i am not sure if an oberyn martell existed in rhaenyra’s time) also my first time writing a longer fic in aemond’s pov and expect more of that because it’s so fun

reblogs and comments are appreciated <3 messages too i promise i will be reading them giggling and twirling my hair

[skyminsworld]

We are of Fire

Rhaenyra Targaryen x Oc Aelyx Targaryen

Rhaenyra Targaryen and her sister-wife Aelyx Targaryen stood on the windswept cliffs of Dragonstone, the ancestral seat of House Targaryen, where the great Valyrian lords had first settled after the Doom. The sky above was a tapestry of swirling gray clouds, reflecting the ancient magic that still lingered in the air, and the sea below roared its approval as waves crashed against the black stone of the island.

The ceremony was steeped in the traditions of Old Valyria, a tribute to their heritage and a reminder of the dragons’ might. Rhaenyra, with her silver-gold hair cascading down her back and her violet eyes shimmering with resolve, stood proud in a gown of red and white. Beside her, Aelyx, her sister-wife, matched her in a similar gown, their hands entwined in a bond stronger than the most unyielding Valyrian steel.

The ritual began at dusk, under the auspices of the Blood Moon, a celestial event said to bless the union of two souls destined for greatness. The High Valyrian words of the priestess echoed through the stillness, invoking the favor of the gods. "Jal Wun Azantys," she chanted, "by blood and fire."

Their dragons, Syrax and Vermithor, stood sentinel nearby, their eyes glowing like molten gold in the dim light. The presence of the dragons was vital, for they were not only mounts but symbols of the Targaryens' dominion and their unbreakable bond. As the ceremony progressed, the dragons roared in unison, sending chills down the spines of all present, a clear sign that the old gods were watching.

A sacred blade, forged in the fires of Dragonstone itself, was brought forth. Rhaenyra and Aelyx each pricked a finger, letting their blood mingle on the blade. "A binding of blood," the priestess intoned, "as it was in Valyria, so it shall be now." The blood was then mixed with fire, a small pyre lit by the dragonflame, representing the unity of their house and their shared destiny.

The final vows were taken in High Valyrian, their voices strong and unwavering despite the howling winds. "Nyke ēdrutas ao," Rhaenyra pledged, "I am yours." Aelyx responded, "Nyke ēdrutas ao," echoing the eternal promise. As the flames flared brighter, they clasped hands, their fingers stained with each other’s blood, and kissed, sealing their vows not only to each other but to the legacy they would forge together.

The feast that followed was a lavish affair, with roasted meats, exotic fruits, and the finest Dornish wines, a celebration worthy of their union. Songs of Old Valyria were sung, and the air was filled with laughter and the roar of dragons. In the great hall of Dragonstone, banners bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen fluttered, illuminated by the flickering torchlight.

As the night drew on, Rhaenyra and Aelyx slipped away to the heights of Dragonstone, where they could be alone under the stars and moon up the sky. The future was uncertain, filled with both promise and peril, but in that moment, they were together, bound by ancient tradition and their indomitable will.

Thus, under the watchful eyes of their dragons and the ancient gods, Rhaenyra Targaryen and Aelyx Targaryen began their journey as sister-wives, their fates intertwined, their hearts aflame with the promise of the legacy they would create together.They knew what will come ,lots of hardship but they had each other

A promise of life ,once a dragon has it's treasure it will keep it to itself burning anyone who tries to steal what is rightfully theirs.

[winter-soldier-101]

You are not her! Part 4

Word count:1877

(Y/N) flew over many buildings before landing in a forest with cannibal she made a little clearing and started to build a little house as cannibal kept watch after all Bravos was dangerous.

The maester looked at (Y/N) told her she was with child (Y/N) let out a small cry she always wanted to be a mother and now she’ll be one after seeing Rhaenyra have two beautiful boys (Y/N) knew this was her one time to be happy that Daemon didn’t give her moon tea.

Going home

A loud roar can be heard as (Y/N) flew over Kings Landing she was let in and made her way to the Throne Room but not alone her son and daughter are right beside their mother as they finally meet their King and Queen and uncles and aunt and cousins.

Rhaenyra looks over at the one person who would never leave her side as she looks on and she doesn’t recognize the person in front of her.

Daemon sees her (Y/N) has grown very beautifully and Daemon can’t stop staring at her.

“Father these are my children Aragon my son and Aemma my daughter” (Y/N) says looking at her father and seeing him smile as he slowly stood up and hobbled down the steps and hugs (Y/N) tight, afraid to let her go fearing she may leave again.

“I’ve missed you, my little dragon. I'm glad you are home again with children of your own, I’ve missed you (Y/N)” Viserys says with tears falling down his face as he hugs you once more.

Finding a match.

Rhaenyra sits down and listens to men and boys fight for her hand as (Y/N) and Ser Cole stand by her side.

“…. The wall Blackhaven are unscalable vassal stones and the castle is surrounded by a deep dry moat it is well fortified against any Dornish incursions and through my seat maybe lesser in size it is situated most pleasingly…. The view across the Marches is inspiring so said Queen Alysanne herself when she honored my father and I…” Lord Dondarrion was saying.

“Tell me Lord Dondarrion, did you think my great grandmother was as beautiful as they say?” Rhaenyra asks him.

“That was half a century ago Princess” He answered back looking confused at her question.

“Yes it was” Rhaenyra says and (Y/N) lets a little laugh come out and covers her mouth soon after and everyone in court starts to laugh.

“That was unseemly Princess” Lord Boremund tells her.

“The man is older than my father it’s unseemly for him to put himself forward as a contender for my hand” Rhaenyra tells Lord Boremund.

“Next” Lord Boremund yells out.

A young Lord walks up and Rhaenyra looks around shocked.

“And now a child,” Rhaenyra says.

“The Blackwoods are an ancient house with a formidable army in the River lands they once ruled as Kings. The blood of the first men still flows in their veins…. Go on” Lord Boremund tells Rhaenyra then looks at the young lord and nods to him to continue.

“My Princess ours is a bond that has long endured since Lucas Blackwood the grand sire of my grand sire aided the Dragon in his war of conquest” Lord Willem Blackwood starts to say.

“Aye the Blackwoods truly turned the tide on that one” Lord Jerrel Bracken says while everyone chuckles.

“Coursed with the blood of the first men our history is deeply rooted in this land which your house has made its home if chosen as your match Princess your days shall be easy and nights safe under my protection” Willem Blackwood finishes saying.

“Protection? The Princess has a dragon you dumb cunt” Jerrel Bracken says making everyone laugh at the Lord.

“Bracken” a voice calls out for him.

“I could learn to like that one, let us have the next” Rhaenyra says sighing while Willem stomps off.

“Craven” Jerrel calls out to him.

Willem Blackwood stops and pulls out his sword and so does Jerrel.

Rhaenyra looks at you and Ser Cole then at Lord Boremund “we’re leaving” Rhaenyra says while getting up and pulling you with her.

“Sheathe that steel you twats” Lord Boremund says.

“Send word to the harbor and have Captain Oswin ready the ship” Rhaenyra tells Ser Cole.

“Princess we are due in Bitterbridge in three days' time” Ser Cole says to Rhaenyra.

“I would happily row myself and (Y/N) back to King's Landing if it brought an end to this ridiculous pageant”Rhaenyra says as gasps and cries are heard behind her she and (Y/N) turn around and see the duel has come to an end Willem Blackwood stabs Jerrel Bracken and he falls to the floor and dies.

“Don’t look Princesses” Ser Cole says trying to push you both away from the scene.

The ship ride home was relaxing and smooth for (Y/N) she stayed in her cabin as Rhaenyra walked around the ship, the smooth sailing didn’t last long when the ship swayed violently.

(Y/N) and Rhaenyra race up from the harbor to the carriage as they make their way to the Red Keep.

“Uncle Daemon is back” Rhaenyra tells (Y/N).

“I wonder what father will say to him?” (Y/N) asks Rhaenyra.

The Red Keep

Daemon walks in and everyone is silent as Daemon walks up and is stopped by the KingsGuard.

“Add it to the chair,” Daemon says, throwing a weapon on the floor.

“You wear a crown. Do you also call yourself King?” Viserys asks Daemon.

“Once we smashed the triarchy they named me “King of the Narrow Sea” but I know that there is only one true King You Grace” Daemon says to Viserys and kneels before him.

“My crown and the Stepstones….are yours”Daemon says, taking off his crown and holding out his crown to Viserys.

“Where is Lord Corlys?” Viserys asks Daemon.

“He sailed home to Driftmark” Daemon tells Viserys.

“Who holds the Stepstones?” Viserys asks.

“The tides the crabs and 2,000 dead triarchy corsairs staked to the sand to warn those who might follow” Daemon says to Viserys.

Viserys walks down and takes Daemon's crown and gives it to a guard and looks back at Daemon “Rise” and Viserys gives Daemon a little hug.

“The realm owes you a great debt brother, come” Viserys says, giving Daemon a hug and leading him outside.

Viserys stands by Daemon and Alicent as he tells her stories of their childhood (Y/N) and Rhaenyra walked over to them and smiles at everyone.

“Congratulations on your victory uncle” (Y/N) and Rhaenyra says at the same time to Daemon.

“Thank you Princess’s ” Daemon says looking at you both.

“Perhaps Prince Daemon would care for a tour of the gallery? He hasn’t seen the new tapestries gifted to you by Noruos and Qohor” Alicent says, smiling at Daemon and Viserys.

“Would you like to see the tapestries?” Viserys asks Daemon, laughing.

“He has no interest in such things” Viserys says laughing at Alicent.

“I would like to see them” (Y/N) says looking at Alicent.

“Then you should not deprive yourself” Viserys tells (Y/N).

“Then I shall enjoy them alone” (Y/N) says leaving as Rhaenyra follows her and sits down on a bench as (Y/N) walks into the castle alone like always.

Later that night

(Y/N) walks to her room but hears little Helaena cry’s and (Y/N) walks into the room and sees Alicent holds her and she looks sad and angry and hurt that she can’t get her to stop crying.

“Can I hold her?” (Y/N) asks Alicent.

Alicent gives (Y/N) Helaena and she stops crying as (Y/N) rocks her.

“How did you get her to stop crying?” Alicent asks giving (Y/N) a hug.

“I don’t know I just felt like she needed me so I came and now she’s asleep” (Y/N) says smiling down at Helaena and putting her in her bed and leaving Alicent as she whispers a thank you to (Y/N).

(Y/N) goes to her room and dreams of happy memories not knowing trouble was coming in the morning.

The morning everything changed

Rhaenyra pulls you into her room as you walk out of your and begins to tell you about her night with Ser Cole and how she’s no longer a maiden. As (Y/N) left Rhaenyra’s room (Y/N) could hear Viserys yelling for Daemon so (Y/N) snuck in the hidden passageway and listened to Viserys and Daemon.

“My daughter won’t you even deny it?” Viserys asks Daemon walking around his body as he lay on the floor.

“I need to understand the charge before I can attempt to discredit it” Daemon says looking up at Viserys.

“You defiled her!” Viserys yells out kicking Daemon.

“You still say nothing,” Viserys says, looking down at him.

“What does it matter brother? When we were Rhaenyra’s age we fucked our way through most of the brothels on the street of silk” Daemon tells Viserys.

“We were young men, she is just a girl, your niece,” Viserys says.

“Rhaenyra is a woman grown as is (Y/N). Better her first experience be with me than some whore” Daemon says looking up at Viserys.

“You fucking— you ruined her! What lord will wed her now? In this condition?” Viserys asks while choking Daemon.

“Who gives a fuck what some lord thinks? You are the dragon, your word is truth and law” Daemon says.

“I have spent a lifetime defending you but your heart is even blacker than I thought I should have disinherited her as I already did you and be done with it” Viserys says looking down at Daemon.

“We’d her to me. When I have you my crown you said I could have anything I want Rhaenyra I’ll take her as she is and wed her in the traditions of our house” Daemon says panting.

“You are already wed” Viserys says looking at him.

“That didn’t stop Aegon the conqueror from taking a second wife” Daemon tells Viserys.

Viserys pulls his dagger out and holds it to Daemon's throat “You are no conqueror…… You are a plague…. Sent to destroy me” Viserys says, holding the dagger tighter.

“Give me Rhaenyra to take to wife and we will return the house of the dragon to its proper glory” Daemon tells Viserys.

“Of course it’s not my daughter you list form is it? It’s my throne. Go back to the Vale Daemon to your lawful wife, strive to restore whatever scrap of honor remains in you or don’t matters not to me as long as you are gone from my sight for good” Viserys says leaving Daemon on the floor as he makes his way out of the room.

“As you wish brother” Daemon says slowly getting up from the floor.

(Y/N) walks out and runs to her room and stays there till she hears Alicent call for her and ask her to help with the babies and (Y/N) goes to help and waits for Rhaenyra to come back and tell her what father told her in the meeting they had.

Wait for the sneak peek to part 5 it will get a little crazy I hope you all enjoy.

Taglist: @secretdreamlandmentality @malynn @stargaryenx @urmomsgirlfriend1 @splaterparty0-0 @siriusdumblittlepuppy @devils-blackrose @thefandomimagines @impartinghades @immyowndefender @melissarose234 @lazyotakujen @whitejuliana1204 @elizadj @thanyatargaryen @afro-hispwriter @aegon-andaemondtargaryenslut18 @cleverzonkwombatsludge @hc-geralt-23 @snh96 @animelover18 @danielle-leah1997 @angeliod @lightdragonrayne @talkdiffently6 @yeah-just-a-fan @1950schick @billiesbeans @daemyratwst @impartinghades @nats-whore @dc-marvel-girl96 @noname2246 @targaryenmoony @scarlettqueen190 @slutmeoutsworld @ivanna6026

[chromiumagellanic06]

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

[coastielaceispunk]

A Royal Need

Kinktober22: Public Sex with Oberyn Martell

Oberyn Martell x f!reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: Language, alcohol, public sex, unprotected PinV, creampie, possessive Oberyn, biting, little bit of a lap dance, slight hair pulling, dirty talk, Obie being a dom Prince.

Masterlist | Kinktober Outline | Absurdthirst's Kinktober Prompt List

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The wine is flowing and the food is plentiful around you. The music is loud and jovial, matching the mood of the celebration. Always quite the extravagant affair for a royal Dornish wedding at the beginning of the cold season. This one was for a distant second cousin to your lover. No real knowledge of them but always eager to be gracious guests to a lavish event.

It is now later in the dark hours, the sun set long ago and the banquet finished. The festivities will continue well into tomorrow night, but now is that ripe time where all are living in their drink and dancing. Feeling the warmth of your own indulgence you find your way back to your seat with a sway. The music is starting to have a full body effect on you and you must find Him. There he sits, right where you left him observing the night: Prince Oberyn of House Martell.

As you approach, you smile and start to dance for him, running your hands up and over your layered silk dress and cover robe, the humid air of the day cooling around you. Fingertips lightly caressing the curves of your body knowing soon the path will be taken over by his own hands. Oberyn’s eyes are hungry when you finally reach him and his large warm hands grasp at your waist as you circle them to the sensual music. 

“Having a good time, yes?” Oberyn breathes into your torso as he pulls you closer between his widespread knees, his hands spreading to cover and squeeze your ass, his mouth kissing and nipping just under your belly button. Your hands find the back of his neck to hold him to you as you continue to dance slowly, and now grind into his chest. Oberyn has never been shy to show his lust for you physically and you couldn’t be bothered to care if people saw you or not. 

Oberyn hums deep in his chest as you turn in his grasp to seat yourself in his lap. His hands move up to squeeze your breasts once then caress your neck and shoulders. Steadying yourself with the arms of his wide chair, you begin to grind your ass into the space where his long golden robe spreads apart beneath his belt. The only thing between your core and his growing length are your thin dress layers and his trousers. Both foregoing any undergarments with the knowledge of where tonight would lead. You just hadn’t guessed you would want him right here. In this chair. In the middle of everyone. A moan slipping past your lips at the thought alone. 

Oberyn must read your mind and slowly starts to pull the back of your dress up over the curve of your backside as you continue to circle in his lap. “I must have you now, my moon, I need to be inside of you.”

Your breath hitches as your soaked core feels the cool air, the front of your dress still flowing down to cover your legs and his as he continues to whisper in your ear, “Let me fuck you here, now, no one is paying attention to us, my moon, we can have our pleasure in front of everyone, no one will know. My robe and your dress concealing our lust. Our secret. Tell me, yes, now.”

Oberyn finishes his quiet speech with a bite of your earlobe. You cannot deny him when you need him this bad.

“Yes,” you release with a sigh, “I am yours, mi sol.”

A whimper slides past your lips when you feel him reach between you both to free his cock, his knuckles sliding through your slick folds momentarily.

“Shh, you must be more quiet for your prince,” his lips find your neck when you drop your head to his shoulder, “I’m going to ravish you, fuck you so deep, but you must be quiet. You can scream for your prince later.”

With that promise Oberyn notches the thick head of his cock at your entrance and pushes you all the way onto him with one steady thrust. All you can do is bite your lip and squeeze his strong forearms with all of your might as he splits you open. The burn turned pleasure as you adjust in his lap, speared on his cock in the middle of a banquet. The depravity makes you clench around him.

“So wet,” Oberyn grunts softly behind you, “so tight.”

Then his hands find your hips and he starts to shallowly thrust deep inside you. The drag of his hardened length causing your eyes to flutter closed.

“Look out at the excitement, my moon,” Oberyn orders as one of his hands moves to the back of your head, his fingertips scratching then pulling your hair tight, “all of them drunk and ignorant to our actions.”

More arousal leaks from you at his words and the public environment you find yourself in. Almost one hundred people around you as he fucks you deep. Unknowing. The coil low in your belly almost ready to snap with the sound of Oberyn’s heavy breathing in your ear. His hands claiming your body for all to see. His cock claiming you in secret, finding that spot of ecstasy deep within, over and over.  

“You like this don’t you,” he tugs your hair, his trusts becoming sloppy, “you like me taking you in this busy room, someone may be watching us, watching me make you mine. Show them how beautiful you are when you come for your prince.”

“Obery-!” You shout as you finally snap and come all over his cock, his hand covering your mouth so you don’t break through the celebration's roar of conversation and music. 

He’s holding you so close now, his lap covered in you, as he searches for his own release.

“Mine.” Oberyn growls into your neck, “All. Mine.”

Then with one more heavy thrust inside you, lifting you both up from the chair for a second, he stills and pumps you full of his warmth. Another low moan from you escapes through his fingers still covering your mouth. The feeling is divine and you lick at his palm. His thick cock throbbing inside of you and he quiets himself through his orgasm by biting your shoulder. 

Soon, his hand drops back to your hip as he licks and kisses the sting of his bite away. Another mark from him to admire later. You groan lowly when he pulls his softening cock from your pussy. The feeling of him leaking from you, in a space full of people, exhilarating. 

The music still playing and the event still in full swing, you return to swaying in Oberyn’s lap as he returns your garments to their appropriate places. His palms smoothing your dress down again as his breathing evens out. Like nothing happened, you're looking around and no one is the wiser. 

“My moon,” Oberyn returns your attention to him, “shall we go get more wine together and dance with the others as my come trails down your thighs? With me covered in your essence?”

The smirk he gives you makes you giggle and you take his hand as he stands from the debauched chair.

“We shall, my Prince.”

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A/N: No regular taglist for Kinktober but I will tag my beautiful beta @lowlights and @absurdthirst for the inspo. Thanks for reading loves!

Next: Lingerie/stockings with Maxwell Lord (my This is a Man's World universe)

[westeroslive]

as  the  night  darkens,  set  -  alight  torches  lead  the  way  toward  visenya’s  hill  —  the  great  sept  of  baelor  awaits  the  arrival  of  the  noble  court  under  the  full  moon.  several  guests  have  already  left  the  premises  of  the  red  keep  to  prepare  for  the  blessed  union  -  tension  in  the  air  at  an  all  time  high,  as  the  queen's  presence  commands  an  iron  fist  rule  of  her  people  and  foreign  guests,  even  the  emperor  falls  into  her  step  with  only  slight  hesitation.  the  ceremony  cannot  be  anything  less  than  perfection,  the  smallest  mishap  caused  will  have  grave  consequences,  and  yet,  the  flowing  intoxicating  wines  have  broken  down  barriers  in  impeccable  aristocratic  masks  of  neutrality.

children  had  been  banned  from  the  ceremonies  -  and  it  takes  only  a  glance  at  the  dragon  queen  herself  (  and  the  absence  of  the  former  lord  hand  )  for  all  to  know  just  the  reason  why.  for  how  the  lord  rowan's  words  had  spread  across  the  court  like  wildfire,  beginning  to  tarnish  royal  reputations  long  on  the  edge,  tilting  over  and  gripping  on  for  dear  life.  a  so-called  dragonseed  could  not  be  seen  within  the  crowds,  especially  in  the  presence  of  the  essosi.  for  a  rumor  could  be  overlooked,  pushed  aside  as  nearly  that  -  but  a  living  babe  could  not  be  so  easily  ignored.  

the  heir  to  the  seven  kingdoms  stands  tall  in  baelor’s  sept,  flanked  on  his  side  by  the  ruling  lord  stark,  the  prince  of  summerhall  and  the  heir  of  castamere,  as  the  high  septon  -  great  leader  of  the  faith,  at  the  request  of  her  majesty  -  overlooks  the  masses  in  westeros’  center  of  worship.  even  the  seven  -  faced  god  can  feel  the  thick  atmosphere  of  envy  and  resentment  drenching  the  bones  of  nobility  —  almost  overpowering  the  stench  of  their  exotic  perfumes  covering  the  deceptive  delight  at  the  turn  of  events.  at  the  very  least,  it  should  have  been  one  of  their  own  -  daughters  cast  aside  and  only  used  for  wanton  appetite,  a  disgrace  that  cannot  be  spoken  off,  out  of  fear  for  retribution  but  revenge  will  taste  bittersweet.

time  continues  slowly,  grain  of  dornish  sand  trinkles  down  hourglass,  room  filled  with  gently  -  flowering  moonblooms  that  will  blossom  white  petals  brightly  at  midnight.  guests  grow  more  subdued  as  they  are  made  to  wait,  but  even  statues  of  virtue  crumble.  it  is  only  a  matter  of  time  until  the  westerosi  are  to  notice  that  not  all  pentoshi  royals  are  sitting  in  the  sept,  five  royal  children  -  one  to  be  wed  to  the  crown  prince  -  and  one  missing  from  the  premises,  only  three  are  sitting  near  their  father,  the  emperor.  biting  stares  that  burn  as  bright  as  dragonfire  scorch  their  bones,  the  essosi  delegation  well  aware  of  the  sentiments  their  presence  brings  forth,  they  however  will  not  give  up,  the  success  of  this  wedding  strengthens  the  important  alliance.  as  hostile  nobles  paint  targets  on  their  backs,  the  emperor  and  his  family  swallow  back  any  turmoil  with  their  one  absent  daughter  —  she  knows  better  than  to  be  a  fool.  but  younglings  are  so  naive  with  promises  of  another’s  heart,  the  servants’  tattletales  have  even  reached  their  wing,  aware  of  the  clandestine  affairs  between  their  daughter  and  sister’s  betrothed  -  but  the  amethyst  princess  would  never,  not  in  a  million  years,  he  was  to  be  a  phantom  in  her  life.

piercing  lavender  glares  from  royal  targaryens  embedded  in  the  flesh  of  the  groom,  countenance  dulled  with  no  emotion  as  he  awaits  his  sentence  —  a  lifetime  of  duty  first,  his  commitment  to  the  crown,  that  is  the  prophecy  of  a  royal.  the  moral  support  behind  him  counters  the  exasperation  radiating  from  siblings  and  mother,  even  the  vintage  ambrosia  have  loosened  the  tongues  of  the  ever - composed  imperial  crown,  the  reveal  of  their  secrets  -  the  beginning  of  the  end.  the  silence  in  the  sept  near  deafening,  the  despair  of  any  outbursts,  queensguard  soldiers  strategically  placed  with  hand  on  sword.  there  is  no  room  for  rebellion,  not  from  the  guests  nor  the  betrothed  pair  themselves.  queen  rhaena  counts  down  the  minutes  until  the  ceremony  is  over,  the  princess  cloaked  in  targaryen  black  and  red  into  her  husband’s  protection  with  no  way  to  undo  their  union:  it  cannot  go  wrong,  it  will  not  go  wrong.  

the  blossoming  of  the  moonblooms  at  zenith,  the  musicians  playing  the  first  notes  of  serene  melody  as  the  doors  of  the  great  sept  of  baelor  are  opened  by  the  guards.  oh  how  the  green  -  eyed  beasts  of  king’s  landing  watched  as  the  pentoshi  princess  glided  down  the  great  aisle  to  meet  her  betrothed  —  anger  at  their  lost  chance  brewing  below  the  surface.  for  how  so  many  had  put  their  daughters  forth  into  dragonstone’s  path  only  to  be  cast  aside  when  morning  came  if  they  were  even  so  lucky.  she  is  a  daughter  of  the  maiden  cloaked  in  the  colors  of  the  moon,  hidden  underneath  a  veil  of  myrish  lace,  as  is  pentoshi  tradition.  finally,  the  princess  arrives  at  the  altar  -  joining  her  betrothed  at  the  shrine  of  prayers,  with  the  emperor's  chosen  witnesses  -  noble  daughters  from  braavos, lys  and  myr  at  her  side.

the  ceremony  happens  in  hushed  whispers  -  for  matrimony  is  holy,   reserved  to  celebrate  the  weaving  of  dreams  painting  a  shared  future  -  sacred  for  two  people  alone,  with  the  gods  as  their  witness,  and  their  chosen  entourage  the  testimony  of  chosen  devotion.  with  bated  breath,  court  watches  the  wedding  take  place  -  valyrian  ceremonial  prayers  finally  recited  loud  enough  by  bride  and  groom  “wed  by  fire  and  blood”.  no  blood  is  to  be  drawn,  or  shared,  to  seal  their  fate  -  a  kiss  more  than  enough  to  declare  them  wed,  for  them  to  be  man  and  wife.  gently,  with  committed  dispassion,  rhaeys  unveils  his  soon  to  be  wife  for  his  eyes  only,  euphoria  awakening  in  byzantium  hues  as  his  lips  touch  those  of  the  pentoshi  royal.  through  this  act,  one  of  the  seven  sacrements  is  fulfilled,  in  the  eyes  of  the  faith  -  they  are  bound  for  eternity  -  it  can  not  be  undone. 

her  veil  now  fully  removed,  long  dark  tresses  and  bronzed  skin  visible  to  the  room  filled  with  guests,  one  of  her  witnesses  accepts  the  offer  with  raised  eyebrows  and  parted  lips.  the  wolf  lord  mirrors  the  female  witness  in  expression,  handing  over  the  targaryen  cloak  to  the  prince  to  be  placed  upon  the  new  princess’  her  shoulders.  high  septon  remains  obvious  to  the  situation,  the  queen’s  son  now  married  to  the  emperor’s  daughter,  as  was  demanded  by  the  small  council.  dark  heavy  cloak  with  three  -  headed  dragon  touches  svelte  anatomy,  smaller  hand  in  larger  as  fingers  intertwined  tightly  —  “introducing  the  prince  and  princess  of  dragonstone,”  the  religious  figure  announces  loudly  as  voice  booms  within  baelor’s  sept.  the  newly  wedded  pair  turn  around,  hushed  whispers  in  reaction  with  the  rare  louder  voices  cutting  through  the  aura  —  hundreds  of  eyes  move  toward  her  majesty  the  queen  and  the  emperor,  years  of  training  in  withholding  emotions  reveal  nothing  though  there  is  a  subtle  shift  in  their  eyes,  revealing  books.  oblivious  to  the  commotion,  the  septon  finalizes  the  rituals,  “one  flesh,  one  heart,  one  soul,  now  and  forever.”

as  her  grace  tries  to  take  control  of  the  situation,  struggling  to  regain  her  composure  without  the  leaning  shoulder  of  her  former  lord  hand,  another  princess  of  pentos  enters  the  great  sept.  valyrian  purple  haze  reads  deepfound  hurt  and  betrayal  in  the  eyes  of  the  princess  adhika,  her  prospective  life  stolen  from  her  —  treason  by  one  of  those  nearest  to  her  heart.  in  her  white  gown,  identical  to  the  one  the  newly  titled  princess  catraena  dagareon  of  dragonstone  wears,  the  eldest  daughter  of  the  emperor  realizes  she  was  too  late  -  someone  set  her  up:  wrong  place,  wrong  time.

  OUT  OF  CHARACTER:  MARITAL  RITES

and  with  that,  our  masquerade  event  reaches  it's  conclusion.  from  here,  threads  may  be  continued  -  though  we'd  ask  you  bring  them  to  close  soon.  the  next  stage  will  soon  be  announced,  but  all  new  threads  should  take  place  following  the  events  of  the  wedding  -  whether  immediately  after,  or  within  the  first  couple  of  days  after.

her  majesty  is,  of  course,  very  displeased  with  what  has  occured  -  and  so  be  careful  not  to  ruffle  any  feathers!

#justiceforadhika

[pedrostories]

✨   D - I   ✨    

Here you can find an extensive list of writers for the fandom worth following! If you’re a writer for Pedro characters (or you know about a writer) not on this list, let us know and we’ll update it as soon as possible!

As PPCU fanfics don’t have a universal tag we could track, we would like to ask you to please tag @pedrostories in your post, or if you’re not using taglists anymore, #pedrostories in your tags under your post so the blog members won’t miss any of your updates. 💚

➤ BACK TO NAVIGATION

Due to some tumblr bug we can’t tag every writer in one post, so we divided the list to different posts in alphabetical order.

✦ 0 - C ✦  

✦ D - I ✦  

@daisydaisybilly @damnyoupedro @dancingtotuyo​ @danidrabbles @danniburgh @dark-scape @darthglitterfanfiction @deadhumourist @deardjarin @deakyjoe @deathwife @decembermidnight @devilmademewriteit @devils-dares @di-kut @din-jarhead @din-miller @dindjarindiaries @dins-riduur-anthe @diorstarr @dirty-holy-things @disgruntledspacedad @djarins-cyare @djarinsbeskar @djjarins @dolly-on-the-dotted-line @dornish-queen @dreamsofmandalore @dustydaddyyy​

@eatommo​ @eff4freddie​ @elegantmusicdragon @elvenmother​ @elvinaa​ @emmikmil @endlessthxxghts @eupheme @ezras--moon @ezrasbirdie​ @ezrasversion​

@f0rever15elf @f0rg3t-me-n0t @fettuccin-e @fhatbhabie @ficjoelispunk​ @fleetwoodmactshirt @flightlessangelwings @floralpascal @foli-vora @forever-rogue @frannyzooey @frenchiereading @from-the-clouds @fuckyeahdindjarin 

@gaiuswrites @garbinge @gasolinerainbowpuddles @gemmahale @ghosmooth-operator​ @ghostofaboy @gnpwdrnwhiskey @goodwithcheese​ @gracieheartspedro​ @gracieispunk @grogusmum @guess-my-next-obsession @guiltyasdave​

@haileymorelikestupid @handspunyarns​ @haylzcyon​ @healmydesires​ @hearteyesforjoel​ @heartpascal @heatherbelart @hellowoolf​ @heythere-mel @hier--soir @highsviolets @hnt-escape @holacia3 @holobandit @honestly-shite @honeydjarin @hopeamarsu @hotgirlbedtimescenarios​ @huntingingoodwill​

@iamasaddie @iamskyereads @idolatrybarbie @idungoofed @ilovepedro @imaginesfordifferentfandoms @imtryingmybeskar @inkedells @inklore @inlovewithquestionablecharacters @intheorangebedroom @intoanotherworld23 @insomniamamma @imalrightllama @irb-pascalito-99​ @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa  

✦ J - M ✦   

✦ N - S ✦   

✦ T - Z ✦  

[duxbelisarius]

The Dance of the Dragons: A Military Analysis (Pt. 3)

As I stated in Pt. 2, airpower had a limited effect upon the outcome of the Dance, and this can be attributed to George’s decision to have the Dance mark the end of dragons as a force in Westeros. This meant that most if not all the dragons would need to be dead by the end, and so precluded one side’s dragons from establishing supremacy over the other’s. Moreover, the use of dragons by the Blacks and Greens left much to be desired, and suffered from the same inconsistencies that I laid out in parts 1 and 2 of this series.

The Greens began the Dance with four combat-capable dragons in Vhagar, Sunfyre, Dreamfyre and Tessarion, against the Blacks’ six (Caraxes, Syrax, Meleys, Vermax, Arrax and Tyraxes). Each side lost a dragon before the fighting began, with Arrax and Prince Lucerys dying over Storm’s End and Dreamfyre being left riderless thanks to Helaena’s descent into depression following the death of her son. Rhaenys and Meleys were both killed at Rook’s Rest, while Aegon II and Sunfyre were severely injured there and took no more part in the battles of the Dance. When Joffrey Velaryon and Tyraxes were sent to the Vale to support Lady Jeyne Arryn, the Greens and Blacks were left with two and three combat-capable dragons respectively; this near-parity vanished with the ‘Red Sowing,’ which saw four dragons claimed by dragonriders on Dragonstone, at the behest of Prince Jacaerys. Addam of Hull claimed Seasmoke, Ulf the White claimed Silverwing, Nettles claimed the wild dragon Sheepstealer and Hugh the Hammer claimed Vermithor, the largest dragon after Vhagar. Even with the death of Jacaerys and Vermax at the Gullet, the period from the beginning of 130 AC to the First Battle of Tumbleton saw the Blacks in possession of six dragons to the Greens two (seven with the return of Joffrey Velaryon), a superiority made even greater by the fact that the Greens dragons were in two separate theaters (Vhagar in the Riverlands, Tessarion in the Reach). The betrayal of Ulf and Hugh at First Tumbleton narrowed the deficit to four against five, but both factions rapidly lost their dragons after this.

Before analyzing how dragons were used in the Dance, we first need to asses their flight and what it enabled dragonriders to do in terms of influencing events on the ground and at sea. We’re never told how fast dragons can fly in any of George’s books, but there are some clues that we can use; using Aegon I’s flight to Dragonstone upon reading the Dornish Letter in Fire & Blood, reddit user /u/AdelKonig calculates a 50 mph flight speed for Balerion in getting from King’s Landing to Dragonstone and back in less than a day, with 35 mph also being a reasonable estimate. 

This is useful for establishing timelines of events throughout the Dance; while the Dance officially began with Viserys’ death on 3rd day of the 3rd moon of 129 AC (March 3rd by our calendar), open hostilities did not begin until after the deaths of Prince Lucerys Velaryon and Jaehaerys Targaryen (House of the Dragon claims it was Lucerys’ death only).  Using the estimates of dragon flight speed and distances within Westeros (the latter made possible by Atlas of Ice and Fire’s excellent distance map of Westeros), we arrive at a period of just over a month between Viserys’ death and the outbreak of hostilities. Aegon and Rhaenyra were crowned on the 10th and 11th of the 3rd Moon respectively, while Lucerys departed Dragonstone after his mother’s coronation. Travelling c. 400 miles to Storm’s End at 35 mph would take c. 12 hours, likely longer given Luke’s inexperience, how young Arrax was, and the notorious weather of the Stormlands. Lucerys would have arrived on the 12-13th, and the remains of Arrax were found three days later, while Rhaenyra’s revenge plan only began when Daemon suggested it via raven from Harrenhal (wild ravens can cover 100 miles in a day under exceptional circumstances). Allowing time for the planning of Prince Jaehaerys’ murder, and acknowledging that 15 days passed between the Prince’s murder and the execution of Blood, a month or so after Viserys’ death is a reasonable estimate.

Having established the speed with which dragons were able to operate, we must now analyze how effectively they were used in combat. Outside of Daemon’s seizing of Harrenhal and brief appearance at Stone Hedge, along with Rhaenys’ participating in the blockade of the Gullet, there were only a few cases in which dragons cooperated with the armed forces of either faction. Rook’s Rest; the Battle of the Gullet; Aemond’s campaign in the Riverlands; the Reach campaign from the Honeywine to Second Tumbleton; and Rhaenyra’s capture of King’s Landing. 

The Rook’s Rest campaign is striking in how underutilized the dragons were; despite the objective of the campaign being to force the submission of those Crownlands houses that declared for Rhaenyra, neither Vhagar nor Sunfyre was used to this effect (despite Vhagar having done so during Aegon’s Conquest). Vhagar and Sunfyre’s presence at Rook’s Rest is also significant, as it left King’s Landing without protection from the Blacks own dragons (absent Caraxes, there were still four available); that Aegon and Aemond managed to ambush Rhaenys and Meleys also suggests that despite Daemon and Mysaria’s extensive web of spies in the city, the Blacks were somehow unaware that the largest dragon in the world AND the Green king’s own dragon were missing from the city. 

The Battle of the Gullet shows further sub-optimal use of Dragons, and also raises questions about tactics for combating them. The Triarchy takes the Blacks by surprise despite the amount of ships at Rhaenyra’s disposal, the six dragons under her command including her own, the early warning received from Aegon the Younger, and the fact that security should have been high around Driftmark and Dragonstone given that Jace and Corlys were planning an attack on King’s Landing. That Jace attacks the Triarchy fleet alone at first could be explained by the Blacks being surprised by the attack, though more surprising still is the survival of a third of the Triarchy’s fleet despite the number of dragons opposing them. There are no indications that the Triarchy developed tactics for dealing with dragonriders, despite having fought against Daemon and Caraxes for 5 years in the Stepstones (106-111 AC). We know from the visits of Jace, Jaehaerys and Alysanne to the North that dragons dislike the cold and damp, and rain somewhat dampened the fires of Balerion during Maegor’s battle with the Faith Militant at the Great Fork, thus attacking in inclement weather could mitigate the effectiveness of dragons. This would be risky for the ships involved, as would attacking at night or in low-light conditions in general, though this would hamper the dragons by forcing their riders to fly and fight in the darkness. Firing volleys of missiles en masse would keep the dragons at a safe distance owing to the risk to their riders, and the potential injuries to smaller dragons like Vermax, Seasmoke and Sheepstealer, but only Vermax is lost and likely as a result of a grapnel.  

The Dance from the Gullet to First Tumbleton marks the zenith of the Blacks’ airpower, after Aemond and Criston Cole leave King’s Landing undefended in their march on Harrenhal. The Blacks seize King’s Landing in a coup de main employing all of their dragons (Syrax, Caraxes, Seasmoke, Sheepstealer, Vermithor and Silverwing), assisted by Daemon’s supporters in the city. Great though this victory was, the Blacks missed an opportunity to destroy Aemond and Cole’s army. The forces raised by the Riverlords for Rhaenyra are larger than even George probably realized, while Daemon flies from Harrenhal to King’s Landing undetected; this begs the question as to why the dragonseeds could not have flown to Harrenhal, allowing the Blacks to overwhelm Vhagar with their own dragons, and destroy Cole’s force of 4000. Rhaenyra’s missuse of her dragons continues when she dispatches Daemon and Nettles to hunt down Aemond, while Hugh and Ulf are sent to Tumbleton, as these four riders should have been more than enough to defeat Daeron and Ormund at Tumbleton, dealing with Aemond afterwards. While this choice is justifiable narratively based on Rhaenyra’s questionable leadership, the fact still remains that the Blacks fail miserably to exploit their superiority in dragons to decisive effect.

Aemond’s campaign in the Riverlands is marred by the same sub-optimal use of dragons that plagues the Blacks, made worse by the fact that Vhagar’s size and lethality should have a far-reaching affect on the Dance. When Criston Cole marches on Harrenhal, Vhagar takes no part in the battles fought by his vanguard against the Riverlords, instead covering the main column and arriving at Harrenhal a day after Cole. After the Fall of King’s Landing and the retaking of Harrenhal by the Riverlords, Aemond begins his infamous campaign of destruction against the Riverlands, the effectiveness of which is difficult to judge. Lord Harroway’s Town and Castle Darry are the only major settlements or house seats that Aemond attacked; Lord’s Mill, Blackbuckle, Buckle and Claypool are all mentioned in A Dance with Dragons as being disputed land between the Brackens and Blackwoods, placing them in the western part of the Riverlands near Riverrun; Stonyhead, Sweetwillow and Sallydance are situated near the Mountains of the Moon, the Green Fork and the Red respectively; and another nine settlements or locations are unmentioned in George’s work outside F&B and The Princess and the Queen. This makes it impossible to assess the damage done by Aemond’s attacks, beyond Gyldan’s claim that “half the riverlands seemed ablaze.” 

While many of Aemond’s questionable decisions in the Dance could simply be chalked up to his anger and fiery temperament, the fact that such valuable targets as the bridge at The Twins seem to have been unharmed is telling. Striking the seats of major houses like the Freys would result in heavy casualties and force Daemon or Rhaenyra’s other dragonriders to take action, but this would have interfered with the direction of George’s narrative and so he sacrifices towns we’ve never heard of (and likely never will in the main books) while leaving Rhaenyra’s main supporters untouched. Daemon is likewise poorly served by the narrative, as both he and Nettles struggle to locate the largest known living organism in all of Planetos; that Daemon chose Maidenpool as his base of operations, the easternmost seat in all the Riverlands is even more egregious, when a location closer to the Trident and central Riverlands would have required less flying time. 

This inexplicable decision-making culminates with the Battle over the God’s Eye: here the two dragonriders ascend above the God’s Eye lake, only for Caraxes to dive down from above and strike Vhagar on her neck. As the sun was near setting, we should expect that a look up from Aemond would allow him to see the sky above without the sun blinding him, while Gyldan tells us that the glare of the sun off the lake covered his blind spot (NOT his lone eye). Despite facing an enemy apparently incapable of looking up or remembering he was missing an eye, Daemon elects for a suicide attack wherein Caraxes bites Vhagar’s neck and he leaps from his saddle to stab Aemond. Even though Caraxes could easily burn Aemond from above or just rip him apart, and despite still having family alive that would depend on him, Daemon commits suicide because the plot demands it.

Compared to the ignominious failures of the dragonriders mentioned before, Daeron Targaryen’s involvement in the Reach campaign is nothing short of remarkable. Daeron and Tessarion’s intervention in the Battle of the Honeywine, a fortnight after the Battle of the Gullet, single-handedly saves Ormund Hightower’s army from destruction by the Blacks. Tessarion’s threat is instrumental in the submission of the Oakhearts, Rowans and the Shield Isles, though the latter is difficult to understand given that Tessarion’s flames would not have been a danger to castles due to her age, while missile weapons should have been capable of injuring her due to her youth. Gyldan states that Daeron was invaluable to the Hightower army as a scout, alerting Lord Ormund to enemy movements and positions, while the mere presence of Tessarion lead many Black lords to surrender without a fight. We’re lead to believe that after further victories at Bitterbridge and First Tumbleton, Daeron is killed when Addam Velaryon and the Riverlords attack at 2nd Tumbleton. Even if this is the case, a rider-less Tessarion still manages to hold her own against the older Seasmoke, and was crucial in defeating Vermithor once Hugh the Hammer was dead. Being only 15 when the Dance began and 16 when he died, Daeron the Daring was by far the most accomplished of either faction’s dragonriders.

I apologize in advance for how long and ponderous this write-up is, and commend you for reading this far. Needless to say George’s portrayal of dragons and their use in the Dance suffers from much of the same poor-quality writing that I’ve previously analyzed. We’ll begin looking at the ground war in Pt. 4, and that’s when the train will REALLY begin to fall off the tracks. 

Feedback is more than welcome; thanks again for reading!

[alannybunnue]

For the Blackfyre Rebellion Era:

I picture Demigod!Reader was found just at the end of Aegon IV’s reign, not long enough for him to be able do anything to her but long enough to capture her and imprison her.

She comes under the custody of Daeron II and his family after Aegon has died. But a certain bastard wielding a certain sword, sees the Iron Throne and her, as his birthright…

@vyndiesel, we found them

Gonna join this to the previous ask

->

It was a lonely night in her dear beach, after some years after she dealt with the last family that tried to take her away, the little peace she got was always appreciated.

She layed in the sand as the moon washed her in it's light, with her eyes closed while enjoying the sound of the waves that approach the land.

She soon heard someone approaching and immediately tried to hide, but once she look behind her, she saw a young but tall boy looking back at her, curious, he was at least 12 years old, with dornish features that reminded her of the Martells

"Who are you?" - she asked reluctantly - "My name is Baelor" - the boy answered instantly

That name reminded of the man who went mad for her existence, Baelor the Blessed, but this boy was nothing like him. Something about him made she trust him, and it wasn't his Martell features, for the family also terrorized her for millennials.

She made a small friendship with Baelor, who never seemed to push her, he would even help her look for more sea shells and return home when it was late.

She cherished that, until one day, it wasn't the prince who came, there were guards everywhere, and in middle was a man, large and with those dammed Targaryen features.

"Finally...after all these years."

The voice wasn't too different, so she finally remembered who that man was, Aegon, Baelor's cousin, who many times tried to bed her in the past and take her away from the Blessed. He now wore a crown, which means he was King.

She was once again taken from her home again, once again brought to the Red Keep where she found the rest of the family.

She was prisoned for a long time, Aegon couldn't fulfill his desires with her.

But he made sure to fill someone's head with these desires.

Once Aegon died, his son, Daeron II, would give her more freedom around the palace, even let her be with his son Baelor, making the others jealous (of course) but all she wanted was to return home.

"I can't let you go my Divine princess, it's not safe for you out there." - The words of the King were always the same, while her father would terrorize the lands to get his child back and the Storm God was no better.

But what she truly didn't knew, was the reason why Daeron refused to let her go.

His half brother, the bastard of his father, Daemon Blackfyre, declared that Daeron was the bastard of Queen Naerys and that he wasn't worthy of the Throne nor of the Goddess in the Red Keep.

Many were killing each other to take the girl, as Daeron tried his best to protect her from everyone else.

But she couldn't know, she was stressed enough at this point.

[ladyregentclarice]

Golden Rays, Golden Roses

(Closed starter for @aliandramartell-1)

She hadn’t expected an envoy from Dorne to be in attendance at court, let alone headed by its ruler.

The day was no different in King's Landing, even as the preparations of more arrivals came to be known to Clarice through the whisper of her maid as she ensured her mistress was readied for the day. Over the past few days, if not weeks more and more men and their families had arrived, with those of higher standing and rank staying within the Red Keep and those lower finding lodgings within the nicer sections of the city.

And while Clarice knew that the Targaryens had, apparently, ironed out who will be next to sit upon the iron throne, there was still a flutter of fear in her belly. Wondering if it was a mistake in being here, in bringing Lyonel here. Surely she should’ve had him stay within the safety of the walls of Highgarden, with Jon and Roger remaining there to protect him should anything happen to her. So that only she would be in harms way, should the dragons fight among themselves.

Even as she walked the halls, she feels their ogling gazes of the court.

She would not pretend to entertain the idea that she wasn’t pretty, for she knew her looks were agreeable. But it was not her looks that made them look, but her position as her sons regent. It was the power she possessed, ruling for her infant son over the fertile, powerful, and wealthy (though surely the Lannisters would argue who possessed the wealthiest region) Reach. It almost made her wish for her mourning veils again, to hide from their hungry gazes as she walked past them all, until she caught sight of some Dornish nobility, something she hadn’t expected to see at the court of the dragons given Dornes refusal to join the realm under Targaryen rule.

Princess Aliandra Nymeros Martell, or at least that is who Clarice presumed the elegant young woman whom the Dornish nobility circled like the moon circled the world, was a beautiful young woman. Regal, Clarice would say, with thick, dark hair and equally dark eyes from what Clarice could see. But what she couldn’t see is the why.

Why would they be here? Is Dorne seeking to merge with the rest of the realm? Are they to bend the knee to the Iron Throne? To King Viserys, or to his heir? Or was this their way of seeking out any weaknesses in which to strike against them all and bring chaos and death to the Stormlands and Reach borders?

She had to find out, for her poor nerves would not be able such uncertainty. Not with Lyonel here at court. Seven, she’ll even put him on a dragons back herself- with a dragonrider, maybe Prince Daeron or one of the young ladies who were dragonriders- if it meant keeping him safe.

“What a rare delight this is, to see Dorne represented so elegantly here at court.” If Lorence was alive, he would know the right words to say to this Dornish princess, but Clarice wasn’t him and was still learning the delicate nature of politics. However, she did know her courtesies and so when she approached the Dornish Princess she had smiled, and gave a bow. “An honor to meet you, Princess.”