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raven-dor · 2 months

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you are my moonlight

In which gwayne hightower meets his future wife, and his timing is most unfortunate

PAIRING: gwayne hightower x reader, alicent hightower x PLATONIC!reader, rhaenyra targaryen x PLATONIC!reader

WARNINGS: fluff, young love, friends fighting, creepy viserys, horrible timing

WORD COUNT: 3.5k

AN: this could be read as a prequel to come back to me, but does NOT have to be read to understand any context!!

The tourney was in full swing, Y/N sitting eagerly on Rhaenyra’s left. The first two matches had finished rather similarly, with Sir Criston Cole being the winner. What the trio was actually waiting for was Prince Daemon’s match. It was all Rhaenyra had talked about for days and the fact that he’d gifted her a necklace of Valyrian steel, a rare and precious token that many in the realm could not afford. Of course, Rhaenyra and her family were the exception, as they were one of two of the only remaining High Valyrian houses left.

The knights of the realm lined up before the Prince, the Master of Revels, announced the man himself. “Prince Daemon of House Targaryen, Prince of the City, will now choose his first opponent.” The prince rode down the line, inspecting each knight briefly. He quickly settled on Alicent’s brother, Ser Gwayne. “For his first challenge, Prince Daemon Targaryen chooses Ser Gwayne Hightower of Oldtown, eldest son of the Hand of the King.”

Alicent grew restless, picking at the skin surrounding her fingers. Y/N wished she could comfort the auburn haired girl herself, but Rhaenyra grabbed her friend's hand quickly, stopping her from further injury. The two men lined up on their respective sides, racing towards each other.

Ser Gwayne released the first blow to the shock of the stands. Y/N beamed, though she did not know why. She hardly knew the knight, only hearing of him through Alicent when she recalled her childhood. The second round was quick, and at the last second, Prince Daemon lowered his joust in front of the horse's legs, causing it to topple over, taking Ser Gwayne with it. She gasped, a hand covering her mouth. She mumbled, knowing Rhaenyra would not stand for any untoward talk of her uncle. “By the seven.”

Ser Gwayne did not move, and Alicent grew more anxious by the second. Y/N reached her hand out, grasping Alicent's briefly. “He will be alright, Alicent, I know it.” The squires lifted him from the ground, walking him over to the medicine tent. He would be transported later to the sept, Y/N assumed. She would have to visit him and keep him company while he recovered.

Prince Daemon approached the Royal apartment, and Rhaenyra instantly approached her uncle. “Nicely done, Uncle.” Alicent and Y/N followed suit, still squeamish from the clearly immoral act.

“Thank you, Princess.” Daemon nodded his head. “Lady Y/N.”

“My Prince.”

He turned to Alicent. “Now, I’m fairly certain I can win these games, Lady Alicent. Having your favor would all but assure it.” Alicent walked away, and Daemon smiled once more at the ward of the crown. “Next tourney, my lady, I shall ask you.”

Y/N laughed. “I look forward to that day, my Prince.”

Alicent returned swiftly, placing her favor on the Prince’s joust. “Good luck, my Prince.” The three girls sat down, waving at the crowd. The tourney had turned sour near after, with three fights breaking out, all ending in death. The knights, who had never seen battle, were bloodthirsty from what she could tell.

Y/N grew nauseous quickly, begging Rhaenyra for pardon so that she did not grow sick. Rushing out of the royal apartment, she decided to visit Ser Gwayne while she still had the nerve. The tent was quiet, with the exception of a few masters concocting ointments. Y/N peaked around the corner, coming face to face with Alicent’s brother. She curtsied, bowing her head. “My lord.” He tried to sit up, but she quickly stopped him. “Please, there is no need to further harm yourself.”

He smiled gratefully. “I must ask for your forgiveness, my lady; I do not remember meeting you.”

“I am Y/N of House Hawthorne. A ward of the crown and a friend of your sister’s.”

“A pleasure, my lady.” He tilted his head. “Has she sent you here then?”

“Alicent remains at the tourney. I-” She blushed, realizing how foolish it sounded. “I saw your joust, and I wanted to see that you were well. For Alicent’s sake.”

He nodded, a smirk growing on his lips. “For Alicent, of course. I must say, I have not heard of House Hawthorne.” She smiled, sitting beside him.

“We are located in the Westerlands, my lord, and are sworn to House Lannister.” She looked closer at his wound, wincing. “Your wound looks rather agitated still. Would you mind if I-”

He shook his head quickly. “Please. I would be most appreciative.”

She stood, sneaking a cloth and an herb she knew caused numbing. Wrapping it carefully, she dipped the cloth in water, tapping it lightly on his skin. “This should numb the pain, for now, my lord. I’ve known this herb to speed the healing process along quite nicely.”

He hummed, closing his eyes. “How did you become so well acquainted with such knowledge?”

“My mother was a trained healer, my lord.”

“Please call me Gwayne.” He peeked through his eyelids, giving her a kind smile. “You’ve all but earned it.”

“Very well, my lo- Gwayne.” She nodded. “If I can call you by your name, it is only fair that you call me by mine.”

He scoffed. “Hardly. That would be highly improper.”

She raised an eyebrow, still delicately tapping the cloth. “Opposed to what you have asked of me?”

He nodded, steadfast. “You are a lady. You should be addressed as such.”

Dipping the cloth back in the water, she laughed. “Hardly.”

“Using my own words against me.” He laughed back. “My, you are a wonder.”

“Y/N?”

She froze, turning around quickly. For some reason Y/N felt guilty, caught even. But seeing Alicent stand at the end of her brother’s bed, her face as pale as the winter snow, made the girl forget her worries. Y/N dropped the cloth in the bowl, rushing to Alicent’s side. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“The Queen. She’s-” Alicent leaned closer, whispering in her friend's ear. “She’s dead.” Y/N gasped.

“I-” Y/N turned back to Gwayne, waving quickly. “It was wonderful to make your acquaintance, my lord.” The two girls rushed off, leaving the knight thoroughly confused.

“Call me-” The girl was out of the tent before he could finish his sentence.

The funeral was a somber affair, as to be expected. Alicent and Y/N stood close by to Rhaenyra, staring at the covered bodies. Syrax, the Princess’s dragon, stood at the top of the hill, waiting for its orders. They stood in silence for the better part of an hour before Prince Daemon whispered in Rhaenyra’s ear, no doubt telling her that she would have to be the one to give the order.

A shiver ran down Y/N’s spine as her friend stepped forward, catching a sob. “D-” Rhaenyra took a deep breath, commanding her dragon. “Dracarys.”

The yellow fury let out a great blast, effectively burning her mother and brother’s corpses. Rhaenyra turned away, unable to look at her deceased loved ones. Soon after, the crowd dissipated, leaving Rhaenyra, Y/N, and Alicent still standing by the sight. Y/N stayed back as Alicent approached their grieving friend.

“My lady.”

Y/N turned, smiling lightly at the Hightower. “My lord.”

“I believe last we met, I asked you to call me by my name.” He smirked. “Or am I mistaken?”

She laughed quietly. “I believe the herb I applied made you hallucinate, my lord. You never said anything of the sort.”

He laughed. “I’m sure you would never lie to me, so I shall take your word for it.”

Y/N looked back at her friends, her heart aching.

“She is an unlucky Princess,” Gwayne muttered.

“Yes, indeed. Losing a parent is never easy.”

“I am sorry.” Y/N turned back to the young knight, confusion etched on her face. “It is just- I assumed that with you being a ward of the crown-”

“You would be correct. But it has been so long, I hardly remember what it was like to have parents.”

He frowned. “That is horrible. I lost my own mother just a year ago.” He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, and she tried to ignore the shock that rang through her body. “It is never easy.”

She shook her head, placing a hand delicately over his. “You are, unfortunately, correct.”

A cough broke the pair apart, Y/N practically jumping at the interruption. “I could use some company on Dragonback.” Rhaenyra practically whispered. “Would you join me?”

“Of course.” She turned back to Gwayne, curtsying quickly. “My lord.”

The two girls walked up the hill, arm in arm. Alicent looked curiously at her brother. “What are you doing?”

He whipped around, laughing at his sister. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I only meant to say, you’ve taken a recent fascination in Y/N.”

“Yes.” He nodded. “And your point?”

Alicent smiled, shaking her head. “Merely a statement, brother.”

The palace gardens were in full bloom this time of year, and Y/N always found comfort in the little corner with a quaint fountain and an outlook of the ocean. Rhaenyra and she frequented this spot often in their youth, and Y/N needed respite from the high tensions at court. She’d been stuck on the same page for what seemed like hours when a voice broke through her focus. “We meet again.” Gwayne bowed his head, grinning much too widely. “My lady.”

Y/N made no effort to stand, raising her eyebrows. “I am beginning to think, my lord, that you have been following me.”

“Not that I am…” He started, sitting at the end of the cushioned chair that she occupied. “But if I was, it might have something to do with the fact that you are still not calling me by my name.”

She laughed. “Is it that simple?”

He nodded. “Quite. But do not worry yourself, I’ll wait.” His eyes sparkled. “My lady.”

Y/N welcomed the challenge; she could sit there for hours, reading and ignoring the handsome knight. She glanced down at her book, ignoring his devilishly handsome smile. “You’ve read that page three times already.” She glared over the top, and he held his hands up in surrender, laughing. “Sorry.”

She looked back down, flipping the page to prove a point. He sighed, standing and walking over to the daisies that bordered the fountain. Picking the fullest one he could find, he stopped in front of the girl, holding it out. “May I?”

“I will not wilt at the sight of you because you are a lord.” She stood, closing her book. “I am not a flower like the thing you hold in your hand.”

He nodded. “You are not.” He raised the daisy, tucking it behind her ear. “You are however, as pretty as one.”

Her cheeks turned pink, and she murmured. “You flatter me, my lord.”

“And why shouldn’t I? One should always flatter a beautiful woman when given the chance.” He smiled. “I believe calling me by my name shall suffice as thanks.”

She scoffed, smacking his chest lightly. “You are quite confident, Gwayne.”

“You’ll find-” He stopped, his smile brightening ten fold. “You said my name.”

Y/N nodded, walking away. “I did.”

He followed after, like a lost puppy. “What shall you do with the rest of your day, I wonder?”

She shrugged. “I do not know, but it will most certainly be out of your presence.”

He gasped, holding his chest. “You hurt my heart when you say such things.”

She laughed, stopping and pretending to check him over. “However will you survive?”

“I think it is terminal my lady.”

“And what affliction have you caught, Ser Gwayne?” Y/N forced a giggle back, trying her hardest to behave seriously.

“Lovesickness.” He sighed. “I’m afraid there is no cure.”

She stepped closer, a pink dusting her cheeks. “I shall mourn you then.”

“Well, I’m sure we could-”

“Y/N!”

Gwayne had never hated the Princess Rhaenyra more in his life than that moment. She was a generally tolerable girl, and a good friend to his sister, but in that moment she stood between him and you, and he wanted nothing more than to tell her to leave. He stepped away from you hesitantly, bowing quickly. “Princess.”

The Targaryen made no effort to hide her humor at the situation. “I apoligize for the intrusion. Alicent and I were about to go to the Sept, and I did not want you to think we left you behind.”

Y/N smiled brightly, waving disapointedly to the knight. “Feel better, my lord.”

Alicent tilted her head, yelling back at her brother. “Better? Are you quite well brother?”

Y/N yet again found herself in the gardens, but this time she was here for the soul purpose of seeing Gwayne. She wore her best dress, had her maid’s put her hair up intricately, and even applied some rouge. Not too much, she wouldn’t want people to think the wrong thing. She was a lady, as Gwayne never ceased to remind her. Sitting carefully on the cushioned chair, she positioned herself towards the entrance, waiting for the familiar mop of auburn hair to peek through. She’d begun to think he wouldn’t show when his familiar tenor broke through the tranquil silence.

“My lady, I thought I would find you here.” She lowered the book, her stomach fluttering when his eyes widened slightly. “You look-”

“Gwayne, I-” They both stopped, laughing at their ill timed words. “It seems that we cannot find a moment of peace.”

He nodded, breaking the distance between them. “I have wanted to tell you something for quite some time now. I cannot seem to summon the words to leave me.” He laughed, but his nerves were evident. “It is just…”

“Yes?” Y/N smiled, hating how nauseous she felt.

“I wanted to say that-”

A loud sob rang through the garden, pulling them out of their haze. Gwayne drew his sword, in case the sob resulted in any trouble. Y/N tried to round the corner before him, but he shook his head, leading her carefully through the hedges.

“Rhaenyra?” Y/N quickly left her place behind Gwayne, rushing to her friends side. “Are you alright?”

“She’s betrayed me. I cannot- I can’t-” The princess looked up, glaring at the knight. “Can we go some place else?”

Y/N nodded, her face visibly disappointed. She walked Rhaenyra out of the gardens, sparing Gwayne one last look, mouthing the words ‘I’m sorry.’

The castle had been throw off it’s axis by the sudden shift within it’s walls. Rhaenyra was no longer speaking to Alicent, which meant Y/N was no longer speaking to Alicent, which meant that the once close knit group of friends were no longer a trio.

It had been that way since they were children, almost ten years ago. Y/N not speaking to Alicent meant she could not speak to Gwayne, or so she assumed. She and Rhaenyra had not talked about it much since the day it was announced, always leaving a sour taste in the Princess’s mouth.

Y/N just wished Rhaenyra could forgive her friend for something she had no control over. The Royal Wedding was tonight, and Rhaenyra had insisted that Y/N walk in with the princess, even though she wasn’t family. When Y/N brought this up, her friend scolded her, saying that ‘My father has insisted, I’m afraid. You are his ward, and he has grown to think of you as his own.’

Now, she sat beside Rhaenyra while the ceremony took place, sneaking glances at the brides brother. Rhaenyra had picked out Y/N's dress herself, saying that she needed something worthy of a princess. She was not one to argue and let the Princess do whatever she wanted as long as she was distracted from the day at hand.

Arm in arm with the Princess, she dreaded when they finally reached the hall and had to congratulate the ‘happy’ couple. Poor Alicent, married at fifteen, was not something she wished on her worst enemy. Especially to a man twenty years your senior. The doors opened wide, the crowd quieting at the sight of the princess and her companion. Among that crowd was Gwayne, staring at her with desperate eyes.

Her cheeks turned pink, quickly breaking the contact. Chatter quickly filled the hall once more as Rhaenyra reached the top of the steps, curtsying quickly. “Congratulations, step-mother. Father.”

Y/N shivered. Rhaenyra's tone was as cold as the Wall. She wanted to curse her friend for making her go after that display. She sunk to the floor, bowing her head. “Many happy returns, My Queen, My King.”

Viserys smiled gratefully. “Thank you Y/N. You have been a loyal friend to my daughter and wife. I shall not forget it.”

The young girl nodded, equally disgusted and horrified at what the king had just said. Surely he realized how immoral it was. “Of course Your Grace. I live to serve and provide assistance to my Princess.”

She released a breath she hadn’t known she was holding, sitting down beside Rhaenyra. “Could you at least have tried to be nice?”

“I was.” The princess raised an eyebrow, and Y/N almost laughed, realizing her friend was being serious.

“Of course. A jest, my lady.”

Rhaenyra laughed. “So formal.”

“We are at a wedding, Rhaenyra. It would be inappropriate for me to call you anything other than my lady, by the court's standards.”

“Well I am the princess, and I say you call me Rhaenyra.”

“Very well.” Y/N smiled, taking a large sip of her wine. “This will be an entertaining night.”

Besides the occasional snide comment thrown at the obviously overwhelmed bride, the night had been otherwise peaceful. Y/N tried her best to sway Rhaenyra from attacking the queen outright, and she’d been successful. So far. She’d been in the middle of listening to Rhaenyra’s adventure of gathering the stolen dragon egg from her uncle when a cough interrupted.

“Excuse me, Princess.” The pair turned around to see Gwayne staring at Y/N not Rhaenyra. Odd. He had addressed Rhaenyra, not her. “May I ask the Lady for a dance?”

Y/N widened her eyes, looking in between the two. She was sure Rhaenyra would say no or burst out in flames from having to talk to Alicent’s brother, but she simply nodded her head, going back to her meal. Gwayne extended his hand, leading her to the dancefloor. He whispered as they moved, keeping in mind the intruding ears that surrounded them. “I have missed your company, my lady.”

“I have missed yours as well.”

“I know much has happened since we last spoke, but it has not deterred me. If anything, it has made me realize that I cannot stand to be apart from you.” Her cheeks turned pink for the second time that night.

“You are very kind, Gwayne.”

“Yes, well, it is not hard when you are the one I compliment.” He shook his head. “I am returning to Old Town soon. In two weeks time, after my sister settles into her new life.”

Her heart fell, eyes watering. “I hope your journey is swift.” She gulped, mumbling. “I shall miss you in truth.”

He tilted his head, smiling. If she were not in a public place, she would admonish him for smiling at her pain. “What I mean to say is, I am infatuated with you. And I would like to seek your hand in marriage. From the king of course.”

She gasped, her eyes widening. “I beg your pardon?”

“I would like to marry you.” He spoke softly, now fully grinning. “If you would have me. You do not have to say yes, but I assure you, your affection for me will grow with time.”

“With time? Gwayne, I-” Y/N whispered so quietly she wasn’t even sure she’d spoken. “I have already grown to admire you. Much more than a friend should. That is no concern of mine.”

“Ah.” The knight nodded. “Well, that settles it then.”

“Settles what?”

“We are to be married.”

“Yes, well…” She sighed. “You cannot propose to me at your sister’s wedding. It would be improper.”

“Damn impropriety.” He hissed, twirling you as the dance required. “Praytell, when would be a proper time then?”

“Any other day, my love.”

He stopped in the middle of the dance floor, her face growing red. “Gwayne people are looking.”

He seemingly did not hear her. “My love.”

“If you are going to tease me-”

“You called me, my love.”

“Gwayne…” She whined, gesturing to the prying eyes. “Can we please leave the floor? People will start to wonder…”

“I desperately want to kiss you.”

Thank the Seven the dance ended then. She bowed quickly. “Thank you for the dance, my lord.” Rushing back to her seat, she stared at the table, shock running through her veins.

“Did he propose then?”

Y/N whipped her head over, glaring at her friend. “You knew?”

“Of course I knew. Y/N, I’ve known he was going to propose since I saw him approach you at my mother’s funeral.”

“Rhaenyra, I’m so sorry.”

“Whatever for?”

“I don’t want you to feel betrayed. I had no intention of-”

“Do not apoligize to me.” She placed her hand in Y/N's. “You are my friend. I am happy for you, truly. He is a good man, he will treat you well. I know it.”

“I haven’t said yes, Rhaenyra.”

“Yet.” Her friend laughed. “You haven’t said yes, yet.”

#game of thrones #house of the dragon #team black #team green #alicent hightower #gwayne hightower #gwayne hightower x reader #rhaenyra targaryen #x reader #fanfiction #got #got fanfiction #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd #fluff #hotd fluff #literature

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sansaorgana · 2 months

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— BEDROOM HYMNS

PAIRING — Ser Gwayne Hightower x fem!Reader // Queen Alicent Hightower x fem!Reader

SUMMARY — Your sister-in-law wishes for you to become one of her ladies-in-waiting but you become so much more. Things complicate when your husband comes to visit.

AUTHOR’S NOTE — The title is from Florence + The Machine song. Alicent is a lesbian in this fic but she's also very conflicted about it. Reader is 100% bisexual. I wanted to write this fic for some time now because I have a crush on Alicent ever since Season One so yeah... Here we go... 😩😈

WARNINGS — cheating, homosexuality seen as something *wrong* (by Alicent), mentions of sexual activities (no actual smut – tiiiiny bit in the beginning)

WORD COUNT — 6,240

ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.

BEDROOM HYMNS

You moved away from between her trembling legs after a cry of pleasure muffled by her own hand that she had covered her mouth with. Alicent’s juices were dripping down your chin when you smirked at her and looked up to meet her big brown eyes. Those soft big brown eyes that you adored more than anything. You had always adored them. So full of sadness and softness and you had never wanted anything but to make her feel better.

“Have I pleased you?” You asked while peppering her soft inner thighs with your kisses although you knew the answer already. Her husband had no idea how to please her.

The Queen only nodded and looked away. Poor Alicent – she always felt bad and guilty after the peak had already been reached. The sudden realisation of her sin was soul-crushing but the tension and desire had been too great to ignore them. She deserved the relief and you did not see anything bad about it.

“How many times do we have to do this?” You sighed and lied next to her in her bed. Your fingertips caressed her sides and your lips attached themselves to the crook of her neck, smelling all the scented oils in her hair. She was The Queen of the Realm and she was pampered like no other Lady. “There is no shame in this.”

“There is a sin,” Alicent turned her head around to finally meet your gaze. She raised her hand to nervously play with the seven-pointed star pendant on her sweaty chest.

“Why?” You bit on your lip and caressed her auburn locks out of her face.

“It is betrayal,” she frowned as if she was getting frustrated with your lack of understanding.

“It would have been if you lied with a man,” you explained and kissed her cheek before laying on your back and staring at the ceiling.

“I should find your vague idea of morality perplexing,” Alicent pointed out and you couldn’t help but chuckle at her confession.

“But you do not and thank Gods for that,” you rolled your eyes with a smirk.

A silence occurred as Alicent kept playing nervously with the pendant between her fingers and you were staring at the ceiling and counting all the cracks.

“What kind of husband is my brother?” She asked suddenly and you turned your head around to look at her again.

“A good one,” you admitted, feeling nearly guilty for that because you knew why she was asking – her husband was not good. Not to her and not to her children.

“Why are you doing this then?” Alicent asked.

It was obvious why her brother was on her mind now. He would arrive at King's Landing any day now. You couldn’t wait to see Gwayne again after a few months of being apart and you only wished he had taken your son with him but he could not. Robyn was the eldest son and he was supposed to stay in Oldtown. He had just become a squire and leaving his knight for a few long weeks would not be advised, therefore you had to go on missing your boy. Day after day as if he was a burning hole in your chest. Mothers would always miss their sons, you assumed.

“To kill the time,” you shrugged your arms, not wanting to reveal how much Alicent meant to you and for how long. “And to help you. You are my friend and I love you,” you confessed.

Alicent always loved Princess Rhaenyra more. Your father was a Master of Coin in King Viserys’ Small Council and you were growing up together – three girls running around happily. Or rather – two girls following the Princess like two overjoyed puppies. Rhaenyra was the centre of everything for you and not only because she was the Princess but also because she meant everything to Alicent. No matter how much effort you were putting into making Alicent like you more, you were destined to fail for she always was choosing Rhaenyra over you.

It made you grow bitter towards The Princess but never towards Alicent. You were blaming yourself – you had to become more and try harder perhaps and maybe then you’d earn more than just leftover crumbs of her love and friendship.

You couldn’t understand your feelings back then – why was the attraction so strong, what was making you feel so attached to the young Hightower Lady. You were the same age and yet everything she said was like a command to you. Wherever she went, you followed. Even when you felt like a burden because she so clearly would rather be left alone with Rhaenyra. But Rhaenyra never minded your presence because to her you were only a pawn on the board, an ornament, an addition of no importance. So, you often witnessed the two girls laughing together, whispering, exchanging small gestures of affection. You were only watching. Observing as your heart ached.

During The Heir's Tournament you met Ser Gwayne Hightower, Alicent’s older brother. He was young then, eager to show off his abilities and make his family proud. Perhaps he did not have his sister’s big brown eyes but he had the auburn hair you loved so much about her and he had her softness about him. You were enamoured with him in no time and when he approached the royal box to greet his sister – he caught your eye and you caught his and for that moment when your eyes met, you felt butterflies all over your body.

Ser Gwayne Hightower received your favour on that day and the sparkles of joy in your eyes while you were throwing the wreath at him were very obvious to your father and to his as well. You could not know that then but they exchanged meaningful looks for a short moment.

Even though Gwayne lost the duel with Prince Daemon Targaryen, he did not lose your affection. In fact, witnessing him nearly winning and losing only because Prince Daemon chose to play dirty – it only solidified your feelings. Ser Gwayne was a righteous man, a chivalrous knight and a brave one, too. It took lots of courage to face Prince Daemon Targaryen himself.

Gwayne was carried away with his face covered in blood and dirt while his mind was filled with thoughts of you – of losing your favour and your interest. However, you hurried to his side right after the tournament ended to make sure he was fine. And at the sight of you – he truly was fine again.

You were only ten and five but you knew already that Ser Gwayne was the only man you could see yourself being married off to. Thankfully, your father saw that, too. Two years later you were sent to Oldtown and for the whole time in between you were exchanging letters. When Alicent was married off to King Viserys shortly after his wife’s death, you still felt bitter but not as much as you could because you mostly felt excited about your own upcoming wedding.

However, the sadness and anxiety on Alicent’s face on her wedding day were a sight you would never forget.

Years and years of the happy marriage had passed and you were still in touch with your sister-in-law because of the letters you were exchanging and her son that you and Gwayne were raising in Oldtown – Prince Daeron Targaryen. But other than that, you had your own life now to live, your own duties, your own offspring and Alicent was simply not occupying your mind as much as in your adolescent years.

You were aware of King Viserys’ health getting worse and worse as Alicent was ruling the Kingdom in his name. The burden of responsibility was heavy and her marriage was getting more and more difficult. You couldn’t say the same of your own union – you loved Gwayne and he loved you. Just like every married couple you had your misunderstandings and disagreements but you were grateful for him every day of your life and you knew well that he felt the same towards you.

It was after breakfast on one of those days that seemed to be pretty typical in the morning and then they turned out to be life-changing for a person. Without a warning and without an ominous feeling deep in one’s gut, they just happened and changed lives.

A letter came to you from Queen Alicent and you expected nothing of great importance in it so you put it below the pile of letters you had to respond to this morning. You sat by your desk and dipped the feather in the black ink as you started to perform one of your duties as Lady Hightower, helping your husband to run Oldtown in his father’s name.

Letter after letter, until finally you were left with the last one. You opened it with a small yawn, which turned into a frown after reading Alicent’s plea and request.

“What is it?” Gwayne entered your chambers this very moment but his smile dropped at the sight of your face.

You folded the letter suddenly as if it was a secret or something dirty but it only increased your husband’s curiosity as he approached the table and raised an eyebrow at you.

“What is it?” He repeated the question and you pinched the bridge of your nose, trying to find the right words.

“It is from your sister,” you replied and looked up to meet his confused gaze. He knew about your friendship and for you to react this way at one of Alicent’s letters was simply unusual.

“Is he dead?” Was all Gwayne asked.

“No, Gods, no,” you shook your head and took a deep breath in. “Not yet,” you added.

“What is it then?” Gwayne lifted your chin up gently to make sure your eyes would still be on his. You swallowed a lump in your throat and finally decided to tell him what his sister had requested.

“Queen Alicent wishes for me to become one of her ladies-in-waiting,” you revealed and Gwayne’s confusion only grew. “She feels lonely in King’s Landing, she needs a friend by her side. Somebody she can trust.”

“It is out of the question,” Gwayne took the folded paper from your hands and read the letter himself, still standing above you as you nervously fidgeted with your fingers.

Your own feelings were chaotic at that moment. Something in your heart wanted to run to King’s Landing at this very moment because Alicent needed you and because you wanted to make her life easier and make her happy. You had always wanted nothing but her happiness.

But you had your own duties in Oldtown and you had your husband here and your children. You could not just leave like that, could you? Especially when Oldtown was so far away from King’s Landing.

“It is out of the question,” Gwayne said again and threw the letter on your desk. “Reply to her that your Lord Husband does not agree.”

“She is your sister,” you looked up at him, pleadingly.

“Yes and I have nothing but love for her in my heart but her request is selfish,” he clenched his jaw as he looked you up and down, visibly surprised that you were not agreeing with him on this. “Why does she want to take you away from me? You are my wife.”

“Your wife – not your property,” you reminded him.

“That is debatable,” Gwayne huffed and looked away but before you could scold him, he continued with more. “Living in a different city, different castle, so far away from me… Will you still be my wife?” He turned his head around in an attempt to try to read your emotions.

“I will forever be your wife,” you stood up and took his hand into yours before placing it on your chest where your heart was. “But she needs me, Gwayne. She’s all alone there with no one by her side.”

“Father is with her,” Gwayne interrupted you. “He always favoured Alicent.”

“You do know that being favoured by him is a burden, not a prize,” you reminded. “Please, let me go. For some time at least. Until The King dies. It should not be for long and I’ll take the girls with me,” you tried to convince him as your fingers caressed his hand on your chest. “Please,” you whispered, looking up deep into his eyes.

After a long moment of silence and hesitation, your husband nodded his head reluctantly.

A few months later, you found yourself standing in the courtyard of The Red Keep, awaiting your husband’s arrival. He had a business to deal with in The Crownlands and he wanted to spend a few days with his family, too. You were caressing the creases on your dress with your hands and your teenage daughter Margaery was fixing her younger sister’s hairdo. Little Wyllow had been missing her father the most and she couldn’t wait for his arrival. In fact, she had made you and Margaery wait there since early morning and at this point you were exhausted already but you didn’t complain since you couldn’t wait to see Gwayne again either.

Even though it also felt a little weird and awkward since your mind was being flooded with memories of his sister’s body tangled with yours underneath her royal silk sheets. Her plump lips parted and soft moans escaping them, her beautiful big brown eyes hazy and filled with tears of shame and pleasure…

You were trying to shake those thoughts and images off of your head when you were interrupted by the sound of the horses approaching the gate.

“Father!” Wyllow nearly ran straight under the horse if she was not stopped by Margaery.

Your older daughter gave you a scolding look and she was right to do so because it was your duty to watch over your children, meanwhile you were distracted by the memories of dirty acts instead.

When you watched Gwayne jumping off of the horse, your heart clenched in your chest at the sight of him and you suddenly realised why Alicent was so filled with shame and guilt because now you felt them, too.

His handsome face, his eyes sparkling at the sight of you, his auburn hair reflecting in the sun… He truly was the man you loved. You just couldn’t help the fact you loved his sister, too.

“Father!” Wyllow finally was free to run into his arms and he crouched down to hug her and kiss her forehead.

“I am so happy to see you, little bird,” Gwayne cupped his daughter’s cheeks and she giggled.

He straightened himself but Wyllow clinged to his left hand so he used his right one to caress Margaery’s face lovingly.

“You’re growing fast, my love,” he pointed out.

“I am trying my best, Lord Father,” Margaery nodded her head with a smile and then she took a step back to get out of the way and let him greet you.

“Lord Husband,” you gave him a nervous and soft smile. Gwayne tilted his head a little and your heart skipped a beat. He was a very observant man but there was nothing that would give you away, right? What could it be?

“Lady Wife,” he smiled at you and took two steps ahead to be able to kiss the palm of your hand. Whatever he had noticed, he pretended it was nothing. At least for now.

“You must be exhausted,” you pointed out. “The chambers have been already prepared for you and I’m going to tell the maids to fix you a bath.”

“Does it mean we are not sharing the same chambers during my stay here?” Gwayne raised an eyebrow at you.

Margaery cleared her throat and she took Wyllow by her free hand.

“Shall we go inside now? Let our Lady Mother greet Lord Father properly,” she dragged her protesting sister behind her.

“She is becoming a fine Lady,” you chuckled awkwardly. “I can’t help feeling that the air and water in King’s Landing are making her grow up faster. Perhaps she is spending too much time with women older than her,” you explained, clasping your hands in front of yourself as if you had no idea what to do with them. “Come with me, I am sure you want to greet your father and sister, too.”

“I do,” Gwayne followed you inside while some of the men he had taken with him were taking care of his luggage with the help of The Red Keep’s servants. “You still haven’t answered my question about the chambers,” he pointed out when you were in the staircase together.

“My darling,” you turned around abruptly, making him stop his walk. “Your chambers are close to mine, please do not get cross with me. Those past few months I have learnt to love my solitude,” you explained and Gwayne tilted his head again but he only nodded.

“Let it be then,” he only said.

With each one of your husband’s kisses and each one of his touches, each one of your reached peaks and cries of pleasure, you felt more and more purified of sin as if his body was washing away Alicent’s smell off of you. After months of not laying together, you were lost in each other for hours with caring very little about getting any sleep. You were watching the sun rise behind the window when you were too exhausted to go on as you were laying on Gwayne’s chest, drawing circles there with your fingers and his hand was playing with your hair, gently massaging your scalp.

“Have you been faithful to me?” You asked casually and you could feel his muscles tensing under you.

You had no right to ask that – but he did not know of it.

“I have,” he answered. “Of course I have.”

“And if I say that the whores count, too?” You looked up playfully.

“I have been faithful to my Lady Wife,” Gwayne shook his head and you spotted a slight irritation on his face. He did not like it when his honour was being questioned – he was a knight, after all. “Why do you ask? Have you not been faithful to me?”

A shiver went down your spine at his chilling accusation.

“How can you ask me that?” You gasped.

“You have accused me first.”

“Because you are a man,” you reminded him.

“I am. And I know what men are like,” Gwayne nodded his head. “They must all be following you around – a beautiful Lady far away from her husband is like an invitation,” he finally cracked a smile, revealing that he was only jesting.

“I do not want any man but you,” you assured him as the tension left your body because you did not have to lie about it.

“That is good to know, my love,” Gwayne kissed the top of your head. “You had me worried with your cold greeting and not letting me into your chambers.”

“Are you not in my chambers now, Lord Husband?” You teased him and placed a kiss on his chest where his heart was. “And if my greeting was cold, then I owe you an apology. I spend too much time around your sister and her husband and I keep forgetting that some marriages are happy. That mine is…” You wanted to look up to meet his gaze but you couldn’t as something inside of you was stopping you.

“That is a shame,” Gwayne only said.

“It is, darling, but you are here now to remind me.”

You were sitting in the same chambers as Alicent, embroidering side by side and even though you were using no words, you found each other’s company comforting. Your arms were brushing as you both were focused on creating beautiful patterns on the same piece of fabric to make the work faster. It was supposed to be a beautiful green blanket with embroidered little dragons.

Princess Helaena was sitting nearby and embroidering spiders on her own piece of fabric. Her cousin, Lady Margaery Hightower was sitting next to her and teaching her younger sister the craft. It was peaceful, cosy and quiet – you loved those moments the most because it was nearly as if Alicent was your own Lady Wife and you were just enjoying the time spent together with your family, far away from all those loud and obnoxious men surrounding you everywhere. These chambers were your escape and your own queendom.

When the doors opened, everyone except for Helaena looked up with a slight irritation since the man entering this sanctuary was nothing but an intruder. Even if the man was Ser Gwayne Hightower, who was loved by every person inside the chambers.

He cleared his throat when you gave him a soft smile, your arm still brushing Alicent’s and you were sitting in a way that made sure you were facing each other. You had never thought about it before but it was quite intimate indeed. Your husband’s tilted head made you realise that he had just observed something and after a short while you understood what it was as you moved away slightly.

“Brother,” Alicent greeted him.

“Lord Husband,” you nodded at him.

“Forgive me for interrupting. I would like to take Margaery for a walk around the gardens,” he extended his hand towards his older daughter as Wyllow looked up at him with pleading eyes. “It must be Margaery alone this time but I promise you, little bird, I am going to take you for a walk later, too. Perhaps we’ll walk to the bay and watch the ships,” he assured her and she sighed with relief.

“You can finish without my help now, I believe,” Margaery handed the fabric to her younger sister. “Do try, at least. If you face any challenges, Lady Mother or Helaena shall help you.”

Helaena looked up when her name was mentioned and she gave Wyllow a soft smile that encouraged her little cousin to keep going. When Margaery stood up and left the sofa, Wyllow moved closer to Helaena and The Princess did not seem to mind.

“Can you help me with the ladybug?” She asked and Helaena’s face lit up at that.

“Lord Father,” Margaery took Gwayne by his arm and bowed her head at you and Alicent before walking out of the chambers with her father.

“I am wondering what is the matter my Lord Husband wishes to discuss with Margaery,” you hummed to yourself.

“She is ten and five now,” Queen Alicent pointed out. “What is the only possible matter that fathers wish to discuss with their daughters at that age?”

You furrowed your brows at her words because she was right and you did not like the sound of that. It was a shame that she was right, too, and not only for your own daughter but for every woman in this Realm.

You saw Gwayne again before dinner, on your way to the dining hall. He was walking down the stairs and you rushed to him to walk by his side. He offered you his arm and you took it.

“I have a question for you, Lord Husband,” you started, nearly aggressively and he raised his eyebrows at that fierceness.

“What is it, my love?”

“Are you planning to marry our sweet Margaery off so quickly? I do not wish for her to get wed too soon,” you told him, hoping he would understand your point of view because sadly, in the end, the decision was his to make for women had always been properties of men – once her father’s, then her husband’s.

Sometimes you wished you had become a septa.

“Not soon, no. But she is ten and five. That was the age you were in when we met,” Gwayne reminded you with a smile.

“Yes, indeed, my darling, but it was us both meeting and falling in love. That is different, you must admit,” you pursed your lips.

“I must, indeed. Do not worry, I am not willing to force anything upon our sweet daughter. I have only told her to start looking around for suitable matches… soon,” your husband explained. “I am sure King’s Landing is full of important young men.”

“I do not wish for her to get married here. This place is rotten and so are its people,” you sighed. “My greatest wish is for Margaery to marry a man from The Reach.”

“We all have wishes, my darling wife,” Gwayne’s answer was nearly mocking but he spotted your annoyance so he looked around to make sure you were not being seen before pulling you by your waist and pushing you against the wall to steal a kiss from your lips. “Gods, I missed this,” he whispered and you felt your cheeks heating up.

“Gwayne!” You scolded him playfully. “I missed this, too,” you added and caressed his cheek with your fingers.

But his smile dropped and eyes became serious all of the sudden. You stayed like that in a short moment of silence before he dropped the question that turned your guts inside out:

“What is the nature of your relationship with my sister?”

You were taken aback by his question and you moved your hand away from his face before taking a deep breath in, trying to steady your heartbeat.

“Alicent is my best friend,” you looked deep into his eyes, surprised by your own courage to lie like this…

But was it a lie? She was your friend, after all.

“There is intimacy between you two that I can only wish for between us these days,” Gwayne whispered and you bit on your lower lip.

“She is my main companion for weeks now,” you tried to explain.

“Are you still planning to come back home after The King dies?” Gwayne lowered his voice even more since talking about the monarch’s death could be seen as treason.

“Y-yes, of course,” you nodded nervously.

“Why the tremble of your voice?” Gwayne raised an eyebrow.

“What are you accusing me of?” You suddenly clenched your fists, trying to take another route of getting out of this awkward situation. “Your implications are indecent. You have been accusing me of obscenities ever since you arrived here. You wound me deeply, Lord Husband,” you straightened yourself.

“You have accused me first,” Gwayne reminded you.

“Without any reproach thrown at you. I have asked out of simple curiosity,” you informed him.

“You are right, do forgive me,” he reached for your hand to place a delicate kiss upon the palm of it. You sighed, feeling extremely guilty.

“You are forgiven,” you whispered, nearly inaudibly, because it felt wrong to be the one saying those words.

In fact, at that very moment, you promised yourself to fix everything. You promised yourself to invite Gwayne to your chambers again for the night and let his touch to purify you like on the previous night. And you would go to The Sept and you would pray the sin away, you would beg for forgiveness, you would be a better wife, perhaps you would beg Alicent to let you go back to Oldtown with your husband.

Yes, that was the plan.

In the early morning you couldn’t tell that you were well-rested. Your muscles were sore after the previous two nights and your head was hazy but you still got dressed up quickly when the sun was rising and creeping inside your chambers to shine upon Gwayne’s auburn hair. You leaned in to kiss his forehead and you left him sleeping to visit The Sept and be able to go back to The Red Keep before breakfast.

You had never been a devout but you were not a savage either. You believed in Gods and now more than ever you needed redemption.

You expected to be alone there at such an early hour but no – of course not. Queen Alicent was already there, kneeling by the stone table and lighting the candles. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath in. She was your greatest temptation and it was a cruel joke that the Gods had played on you to put her there at this time when you visited The Sept to pray her very own self away from your life.

Alicent looked up, surprised to see you. Her soft features were as sad as usual but at the sight of you she seemed to be a bit happier – relieved, in a way. Your heart clenched inside your chest. How could you ever want to leave her? You couldn’t. She was too dependent on you. Her happiness was and so was her sanity. Leaving her would be equal to killing her.

“I have not expected you in The Sept at such an early hour,” she commented as you kneeled next to her.

“I have not expected myself here either,” you smirked. “I came here to ask for forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness? Aren’t you always the one telling me that what we do is no sin?” Alicent furrowed her brows.

“I have lied to my husband. That is a sin,” you confessed and Alicent did not say anything to this. “I… I will have to go back to Oldtown, I think… I can’t… I can’t go on like this,” you looked down and Alicent remained silent but you didn’t have to look at her to know her big brown eyes were filled with tears. “I miss my son and I miss Oldtown… King’s Landing is corrupt and I do not wish for my daughters to grow up here. I… I miss Gwayne, too. I love him, I love him, I love him…”

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” Sudden, harsh question made you look up to meet her teary gaze.

“I’ve been loving him ever since I saw him during the tournament. You were there, sitting by my side,” you reminded her.

“You love him because he is my brother but your life has always revolved around me,” Alicent pointed out and you felt your cheeks heating up.

“You… You knew?” You only asked.

“I was blind to choose Rhaenyra because she was never for me to reach. She was The Princess and you were equal to me, so devoted. Blindly, very often. I took you for a fool and only after losing you, I realised. When you were sent to Oldtown, I suddenly understood that my only friend had left my side,” Alicent explained. “My only friend and the only person who has ever… Who has ever loved me – except for my mother.”

“Gwayne loves you, too,” you pointed out.

“Does he? He took you away from me,” Alicent’s jaw clenched and your eyes widened. She was not being rational but you knew why – she was scared of losing you again. In fact, she was determined to make you stay by her side.

“You will not let me leave, will you?” You whispered.

Alicent opened her mouth to say something but then her face softened and she stood up rapidly to walk away.

“I am sorry… I do not wish to… Act like this… I do not recognise myself,” she admitted with her voice full of shame. She raised her hands up to her mouth as she nervously bit on the soft skin around her fingernails.

You didn’t answer because you were too lost in your own thoughts. Was she right again? About you loving Gwayne only because he was her brother? You had never thought about it before. It would mean your whole marriage was a lie, an illusion – or rather a delusion.

“When I’m with him, I don’t imagine you,” you stood up as well when the realisation hit you. “But when I’m with you, he doesn’t exist to me. It’s as if there were two of me.”

“I do not understand,” Alicent shook her head. “To me, there is only you,” she confessed and laid her eyes on you.

You didn’t know what to answer. You swallowed a lump in your throat instead.

“I am flawed, poisoned…” Alicent continued. “I can only feel this way towards other women. I felt this way towards Rhaenyra until a certain moment and then… Then my whole life was about you. I have spent hours inside this Sept, trying to pray this away,” Alicent’s silent tears streamed down her cheeks.

“I do not have such a conflict. I can love both men and women,” you told her. “I can love you and I can love Gwayne…”

“I do not wish to share you!” Alicent interrupted you and then she hid her face in her hand as she sobbed.

“Women are not their own property. I am not the one to decide if I can be shared,” you answered diplomatically.

You felt sorry for her but you also felt sorry for Gwayne that he was being betrayed behind his back by his own wife and sister – two women he loved the most except for his daughters. He would die for you both, he would kill to protect you or to defend your honours – even though none of you had an honour anymore. He was the real victim here.

But one more look at Alicent’s sad eyes was enough to break you again. You approached her to cup her face and kiss her softly. She protested in the beginning since you were inside The Sept but you didn’t give a fuck about it anymore – you would go to Seven Hells anyway.

“I shall not leave you,” you promised her.

When you came back to your chambers, Gwayne was dressing up in front of the mirror. He raised an eyebrow at you entering the room.

“Where have you been?” He asked.

“In The Sept to pray,” you answered truthfully.

“Has my sister turned you into a devout like her already?” He chuckled.

“She has a great influence on me,” you nodded and walked up to him to kiss his cheek.

“You even smell like her,” he said and your heart skipped a beat.

“I am fond of her scented oils and she allows me to use them,” you answered.

“It feels weird when I’m fucking you, I have to admit,” Gwayne chuckled awkwardly and so did you.

“You shall fuck me more then,” you pointed out quietly.

“Even more, Lady Wife?” He shook his head with another chuckle.

“Until her scent is gone,” you explained and looked out of the window.

Gwayne did not say anything to this but his smile disappeared. From the corner of your eye you saw his reflection in the mirror and you realised that he had finally understood what was going on behind his back.

After a while, which felt like forever, he cleared his throat:

“It is a putrid place indeed.”

“You must take me far away from here,” you turned around to grab his arm and your heart broke when you felt him flinch a little. “You must save my soul and take me home,” you pleaded despite the promise you had given to Alicent earlier but that promise had not been given sober. You had been intoxicated with her.

“You must come back home yourself, my love,” Gwayne smiled sadly at you and caressed your hair gently, “for I do not wish to force anything upon you. You are always kind enough to remind me that you are not my property, aren't you? And I agree,” he nodded, “this decision is for you to make.”

And you didn’t know what to say or do because there was no decision that felt right and no decision that didn’t feel wrong either. Gwayne was your duty and your sacrifice and Alicent was a self-indulgent sin but you loved them both so much that you cursed the whole Hightower bloodline for existing because your life would be so much easier without them.

You knew what Gwayne was expecting of you – he expected you to choose your duty because – just like his sister – he was all about honour and decency. But you didn’t want your husband to feel as if you were choosing him only because of your marriage vows – you wanted him to know that you cared for him, too, even though he wouldn’t believe you now.

But there was only one choice for you anyway, wasn’t it? You couldn’t just stay with Alicent and pretend that it was the right thing to do. You couldn’t abandon your family and your duties for her and she had to understand it.

You looked deep into Gwayne’s eyes and your own filled with tears at the sight of all the pain and sadness in his. You dropped your hand down from his arm to intertwine your fingers with his.

“I do not think of myself as flawed or poisoned for feeling the way I feel,” you explained to him. “But I do not wish for my nature to spoil our union. If anybody can save me, it would be you,” you whispered. A plea. A desperate cry for help. “I am a mother, I am a wife, I am Lady Hightower and my home is in Oldtown.”

Your heart, however, would forever be divided; torn and bleeding. The deep, burning hole was forever to stay there for one reason or another.

MASTERLIST

#gwayne hightower x reader #alicent hightower x reader #lilysfiction

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targaryen-dynasty · 11 months

Text

INNATE DESIRES. (1/5)

Maegor Targaryen x niece!Reader

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT — MINORS DNI; canon typical incest/targcest, p in v, profanity, semi public sex, size kink, power imbalance, breeding, choking, female reader (no mentions of looks besides purple eyes)

WORDS: 3.4 K

NOTES: The events of this start somewhere between 41 AC to 44 AC, while the rest takes place around 45 AC. Visenya has not died (yet), but Cersye, Alys and Tyanna have. Aegon and Rhaena are captured at Crakehall, and Viserys is still his squire and hostage.

After the passing of your father, you, your younger siblings and mother had fled from Dragonstone to Driftmark almost immediately. It was a blessing and a curse altogether, because it meant you could keep your life after the arrival and coronation of your uncle Maegor, while you would have loved nothing more than to witness the sight of the Black Dread’s shadow devouring the castle on the eponymous island.

When the Dowager Queen and Vhagar arrived, it was her that urged your mother to come back to join the busy life at court – meaning you and your siblings were to abandon her childhood home Driftmark.

Your mother’s stay in the capital was brief, and you assumed it was because she could not stand to be separated from her children any longer, as Visenya had ordered you four to Dragonstone instead.

Two years after your arrival, it was evident that you had become a prisoner in all but name to Visenya on Dragonstone, barely allowed to leave the castle. When she was not around, her spies and vipers were.

And so it was even more surprising that, when you were summoned to the Throne Room in the midst of your lessons, you came face to face with none other than your uncle. He sat on the throne, his mother lingering not too far away. With him in the room, his big frame concealing most of the impressive seat, it was even more apparent how frail she had become over the years. If you would have to guess, she would not do much longer.

As your purple eyes met his, it was as if a wildfire ignited in your body, coursing through your veins, vividly remembering the night you had caught him speaking to your father about a possible betrothal. But it also angered you, knowing that he had left for Pentos with his second wife not long after, without even saying goodbye.

On the other side of the throne stood none other than your mother, and while both Visenya and Maegor seemed rather smug and pleased, Alyssa had a grim expression on her face.

Like an invisible string luring your body towards his, you came to a stop shortly before the first step to where he sat. “Your Grace.“ You smiled sweetly at him and slightly bowed your head, more out of courtesy than true belief, because your brother Aegon was the rightful heir to the Iron Throne after all.

At least five knights guarded the door to the Throne Room behind you, and when Maegor rose from his seat with the pommel of Blackfyre fidgeting between his thick fingers, you were certain that was the moment your life came to an end.

His steps were heavy as he walked down the steps, coming to a stop just shy of you. His domineering frame was looming over yours, and you had long forgotten the last time you had to crane your neck to look up at someone as tall and big as he was.

“Leave us,“ Maegor’s gruff voice rang out, and when both Dowager Queens opened their mouths to protest, he was quick to shush them with a simple raise of his hand. Even when they walked past you, you did not dare break eye contact with your uncle, and while he usually was a hard and brutal man, there was a hint of softness in his eyes solely reserved for you.

When you two were the only people left in the room, he directed his voice towards you. “You have grown,“ he stated, his eyes traveling up and down your body. With the defiance of a young woman, you jutted out your chin just slightly, nonchalantly looking up at him. “How would you know?“ you asked. “Five years and you have not once come to visit me.“

Your uncle chuckled dryly, one hand coming up to pinch your chin. “You know ‘tis not as easy as you make it seem.“

From how much your father had told you after Maegor’s departure, you knew he probably was right, though you had yet to find out the true reason behind it. With his longing stare making you somewhat uneasy, the pregnant pause between you two grew thicker with tension.

Until your voice cut through it.

“Why are you here, uncle? Do you not have a wife to care for and a realm to rule?“

“I do,“ he said, his tone growing a bit harsher as the memory of the stranger taking his three wives not too many moons ago flashed before his eyes. “I am here for you.“

A small crease formed between your brows at his words. “I am afraid I do not understand.“

“Maybe you will understand this.“ Where his paw had rested on your chin before, it traveled down to your waist, almost taking up its entirety with his fingers splayed out.

He dipped his head towards yours, but you were quick to bring your hand up between your faces, taking a careful step back. “We can not,“ you stated, trying to sound stern, yet you were betrayed by your fluttering nerves, your heart beating in your throat.

With his hand still on your waist, he pulled you back against his firm chest as if you weighed nothing, the sheer display of his strength bringing heat to your cheeks. “The matter is settled already. I shall take you as my wife in a sennight,“ he said. “I have waited long enough for this, and with my brother dead there is no one left to deny me.“

“My mother–“

“Has no other choice than to give me what I want.“ The threat was unspoken but clear.

Every attempt to speak against him was silenced by his lips on yours. The kiss was far from being gentle, and it was evident he claimed your lips with a carnal need. With his hands traveling over the curves of your waist down to your rear, roughly fisting the skirts of your gown, it was obvious that he intended to do the same with your body.

Your heart was racing, pounding against the confines of your ribcage when your lips parted, releasing a shaky breath. “I-I have never–,” you whimpered, trailing off as you looked at him with wide eyes. Every ounce of affection and gentleness Maegor mayhaps held before had vanished with a snap, leaving only a man hungry for your virtue.

But no matter how badly your body ached for his touch, having craved it for so, so long, you pulled away to walk past him, climbing the few steps towards the throne with shaky legs as a heat settled at the apex of them. You had to bring some space between the two of you, mayhaps that allowed your thoughts to clear again.

”My brother Aegon–,“ you started, but were interrupted when you tripped over one of the last steps, causing you to topple forwards. Taking in a sharp breath while bracing yourself on your hands and knees, Maegor was quick to not allow you to get back on your feet. Kneeling down next to you with one hand resting in the place between your shoulders, he applied just enough pressure to keep you down.

“Where is your craven brother now, sweetling?“ he emphasized the nickname with a condescending tone, and it should have you feeling sick to the stomach, not aroused. “Not here. He had the chance to claim the Iron Throne, but he did not take it.“

His hand brushed over the bodice of your dress, trailing deep enough so he could cup your arse. But it merely lingered there for a few seconds, never settling. That touch alone still was enough to reignite the flame within you, and only when your fluttered nerves calmed just a bit, you noticed the proximity between you – and how he looked at you with darkened eyes.

Pressing your lips into a thin line, you tried to gather some courage before speaking, “You are just as much of a coward as he is. Coming to claim what is rightfully his when he is besieged at Crakehall.” Another chuckle came from Maegor, but this time it sounded somewhat amused.

“Oh, I know you do not think so highly of your own kin,” he said, a smug smirk pulling on the corners of his chiseled lips. His other hand came up to cup your cheek gently, the pad of his thumb brushing your lips.

“Enough with the mummer's farce, Y/N. Are you not at least a little happy to see me, mh?” It was evident in his mocking tone that he did not really care much about your feelings. You were meant to marry him regardless of what you wanted.

With pleading eyes, you looked at him, slowly nodding your head and allowing your guard to fall – even if only for a few seconds. “Y-Yes.”

“And do you not want to be a good, obedient wife to me?”

If his question did not already choke the air from your lungs, his hand fisting the skirts of your dress to lift it just enough for his hand to snake underneath certainly did. It was him harshly groping the flesh of your arse that caused you to speak again, forcing you without voicing a command.

“I do.”

As his fingers started to drag over the dampened spot in the center of your smallclothes, he got all the confirmation he needed to proceed with his actions. The ministrations of his fingers grew in determination, dragging around your little bud in circular motions and eliciting soft whimpers to fall past your lips. As the pleasure rippled through your body, your hands grabbed the edge of the step beneath you, knuckles blanching from the force.

Shame filled your veins, and you couldn't bring yourself to look at him, instead focusing on the throne in front of you. “I–,” you wanted to repeat your previous words, but your uncle was quick to cut you off. “Then let me be the first and only. You belong to me.”

Any protest was once again silenced by your own gasp as two of his thick digits pushed the linen of your smallclothes aside, scarcely dragging through your soaked mound. Only when they were generously coated in your arousal, he eventually pushed them inside without a warning.

“Gods,” you whimpered, tears brimming in your eyes as your maiden hole tried to adjust to the girth of his fingers. “P-Please…” You did not know what you were begging for. For him to leave you be or for him to give you more?

Maegor seemed to be at least a bit mindful when it came to your maidenhead, keeping his fingers still until they were buried to the hilt. You clenched around him tightly, which caused him to hiss through gritted teeth as if it was his cock plunging deep inside you and not his fingers, hardly preparing you for what was to come.

“Please,” Maegor mocked you with a chuckle, pushing his lips forwards into a pout that feigned his pity. “You are so pretty when you beg, niece.” The ministrations of his fingers were slow, pulling out almost completely only to push right in again. The sounds of pleasure they forced from your throat were enough to drive the man next to you close to insanity.

His head dipped forward, looking you down with a sharp expression that savored the sight of your face contorting in pleasure all because of him. Your body was torn between feeling hungry for him and being humiliated because of him, the interplay leaving you utterly confused, and longing to be filled by something else of his.

When he withdrew his fingers from your cunt, they were glistening with your arousal. The warmth that slowly spread throughout your stomach had vanished just like that, and the whine that slipped past your lips at the loss of friction was the epitome of being pathetic.

He brought his fingers up to his mouth, engulfing them with his lips and humming as if he enjoyed the finest Arbor red the castle had to offer. You squeezed your thighs to soothe the aching that burned between them at the sight, feeling empty and not at all satisfied. “So, so sweet,” he purred, the tone a stark contrast from the harsh one he had used before. His chest rose and fell with each heavy breath he released in the following, the purple of his eyes almost eclipsed by black.

Magor leaned in to nuzzle his nose along your cheek, taking a deep breath and inhaling the scent he had missed so dearly for the past five years.

The softness of his voice and the close contact had you losing yourself in his dominating presence, completely at his mercy. A kiss was pressed to the crown of your head before his bulky frame disappeared behind you, one leg bent at the knee while the other foot was planted firmly on the ground. Because he was so close, you felt him undoing the laces of his breeches, his hands bumping against your arse each time he pulled the strings loose.

Your impatience got the worst of you, masked as a shiver traveling up your spine. You were not sure if you had to accommodate a girth wider or lesser than his fingers, but at this point you did not care. Your body longed for something you hadn’t felt before, and it needed it. Now.

One of his hands darted to your hip, squeezing it harshly while the other wrapped around his hard member. Feeling the impatience take over your body, you pushed your hips back enough for the tip of him to prod at your hole, causing your teeth to sink into your bottom lip.

As you turned your head to look at him from over your shoulder, your hooded eyes met his, a lazy smirk draped over his features. “That is all it takes to change your mind?” he mocked, stifling a grunt as he forced himself into your tightness, your maiden walls squeezing him. “Pathetic.” All of the sudden, his raspy voice was strained, having to restrain himself from pounding into you before he even filled you to the brim. You could see it in the way he set his jaw, forcing you to avert your eyes in fear.

You released a mixture of a whine and a shaky breath, the burning of the stretch prominent enough to cloud your mind and set your body on full alert. With both his paws on your hips, you could not even intervene or squirm away. Every ridge and vein of his cock dragged along your clenching walls as you accommodated the sheer size of his member, not making the stretch any more pleasurable.

“S-Stop,” you whimpered.

And Maegor actually listened, but only because he had bottomed out completely and needed a few moments to regain his composure, adapting to you squeezing him like a vice. “It will become more pleasant soon,” he grunted, trailing his hands up and down your sides in a comforting manner you did not know he possessed. “Trust me.”

The first snaps of his hips were neither hard nor fast, but deep and determined enough to brush that sweet spot inside of you your own fingers had not reached before. Having his breeches pulled down enough to free his cock and the sac of his stones, they slapped against your sensitive bud each time his hips met yours.

With that pace, the burning slowly but surely turned into the pleasure your body had been asking for.

Looking back at him once again, you were blessed with something you hadn’t seen before. A few strands of his usually neat, silver hair hung in front of his face, every now and then clinging to the few beads of sweat on his forehead before the tremors of his thrusts freed them again.

He felt you adjusting to his size, which prompted him to increase the pace to the point he was pounding you. Each impact forced your head to tip forwards and your knees to scrape across the stone floor, barely diminished by the skirt of your dress.

Something you hadn’t anticipated was him bringing his hand in front of you to clasp around your throat. With the strength he possessed, his grip was tight, choking you regardless of him intending to do so or not.

“I want you to look at the throne,” he commanded through gritted teeth, the choking and gasping sounds you made merely a dull noise in the background. “‘Tis the seat our son will sit in one day.”

His other arm snaked around your waist as he pulled your back flush against his firm chest, securing you and keeping you steady despite the reckless snaps of his hips. Mayhaps it was the possibility and danger of the Dowager Queens barging into the Throne Room or because you finally got what you had craved for more than five years, but your peak built in the pit of your stomach far too quickly for your own liking.

“I am going to fuck you so full of my seed, making sure it will bear fruit.”

Maegor shifted his hips, angling them so he was thrusting upwards into you, which had his cock reaching even deeper than before, causing you to mewl and whine. Even if you wanted to, you could not reply, but with a renewed wave of your arousal dripping down his throbbing member and stones, you did not even have to.

“I-I–,” you stammered, his grip not loosening. It was a surprise you managed to inhale enough air to fill your lungs – mayhaps he was better at assessing his strength than you thought.

“Go on,” he rasped, squeezing your throat in a rhythm that matched his hips, sensing your impending peak.

It was embarrassing how quickly your peak took over at his words, rippling through you with soaring pleasure. Each time his stones hit your little bud, your overstimulated body tried to jerk away from him – but to no avail with his strong arm around your waist.

Maegor watched in awe as your body trembled within his grasp, the tremors growing more apparent with each second he did not pull out. His mouth pressed to the side of your face, tongue licking a flat stripe from your jaw up to your temple.

“You want my seed, niece?” he grunted into your ear, “want me to fuck a child into you? See your body swell with my seed?”

Finally loosening the grip he had on your throat to allow you to speak, you croaked a ‘seven hells, yes!’ into the chilly air of the Throne Room. “Put a babe in me… please,” you all but begged, turning your head to the side to catch a glimpse of him – enough to capture his lips with your own.

The response of your body his and your own words elicited was pitiful, but it was just the truth. You wanted his child, the thought lingering in your mind for the past five years. Your walls trembled around him, choking him so tightly the bull of a man behind you had to take a deep breath to keep his composure. But all effort was fruitless when his pulsing cock spent itself inside of your quivering walls.

Each of his grunts and groans was devoured by your lips on his, drinking them down as if they were the only things keeping you alive. Out of instinct, you started to roll your hips against his, prolonging his own peak as you milked him for every drop of his seed.

Maegor was out of breath by the time his movements came to a stop, staying buried inside of you as if he meant to make sure his efforts bore fruit. And you relished in it, despite the vulnerable position it brought you in.

Tipping his forehead against your temple, he closed his purple eyes, breathing shakily before speaking, “merely pack the bare essentials for the travel. We shall depart for King’s Landing in the morrow… on dragon back."

Bowing your head once, you fixed your undergarments and dress once he had pulled out, sitting back on your haunches. With your back facing him, he did not notice the wide grin on your lips.

Mayhaps then you finally were to witness the sight of Balerion’s shadow devouring Westeros' capital.

Maegor Taglist: @hypocritic-trash-baby @watercolorskyy @xxxkat3xxx @baedebnam @simonedk @heavenhatesme

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arabellasleopardcoat · 23 days

Text

A challenge (Aemond Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: In which you are in a search for identity, and Aemond is in search for a way to prove his superiority to your father. Somehow, you find each other.

Warnings: Fluff. Chaotic family dynamics. Royce! Reader. Angry! Reader. Sword-fighting in dresses. Mature language. Unkind thoughts. Deeply violent thoughts. Eyefucking. Aemond’s toasts ™

A/N: I tried! Feral reader to match Aemond.

THE PETITION FOR Driftmark is none of your concern. Your castle sits in a different region altogether, but you still show up a few days before it is meant to take place.

The years spent trying to turn into bronze have not served you well. Hard metals are also brittle, after all. The fact that all these years have passed, and you still wish to meet your father shows it.

Your ears in King’s Landing are paid handsomely enough to provide you information that allows you to beat him there. It allows you to avoid the riffraff, and settle into the unknown territory before the confrontation.

Not knowing the terrain well enough had killed your mother. You wouldn’t make the same mistake.

Daemon should have raised you. Taught you how to hatch your dragon egg and speak the tongue of your ancestors. But it isn’t like the Rogue Prince to raise daughters. You have heard he has also sent one of the replacement ones to foster at Driftmark. He only raises other men’s sons.

The same could be said for his brother. King Viserys had kept a steady stream of correspondence with you when you had been a child, perhaps feeling guilty for Daemon’s behavior. Not enough to stop it, or bring you justice for your mother’s death, though. It was why you had no qualms about using the flimsy connection to convince the Queen to host you.

The day of your arrival is perfectly sunny. You have always liked the outdoors, a fact that your cousin Tobar attributes to your mother. It is why you decide to explore the grounds instead of supervising your trunks being taken inside.

The Red Keep has grand gardens and a Godswood, but what really catches your eyes is the courtyard. Some knights and squires are training in groups, and it has your blood pumping. After hours copped up in a carriage, your hands itch for the chance to unsheathe Lamentation.

Tobar had gifted you with it when you had turned six and ten, claiming you had become proficient enough to be trusted with it. The same age your father had been knighted, and given Dark Sister. A woman's sword, just as you carried a man’s one. The symmetry amused you.

You stood to the side, arms crossed over your chest. There was a cluster of men in the center, watching a fight. The rhythmic smacking of steel against flesh could be heard, hinting at proficient swordsmen, even if their bodies didn’t allow you to see what was actually going on.

“Smaller than I remember.” Someone shoves you, making you stumble. You turn to glare, and meet the back of a brown haired boy. Another one, smaller, follows him. They are already moving past, without even apologizing.

The courtyard is a big space. It’s only rudeness or hurry that leads them, and you incline towards the first one. With a scowl, you move towards the fight instead.

The crowd parts easily for you. Most of them are knights and squires, and your dress identifies you as a noble lady, with the intricate stitching and heavy velvet. They are practically trained to be polite.

One of the fighters has dark coloring, and wears a Kingsguard’s gambeson. He is handsome, but the one that really catches your attention is the other man. He has long, silver hair, and moves gracefully in the ring. Your traitorous heart gives a lurch.

Daemon. You step closer to the front, and one of the knights places an arm before you, as if to protect you. Your father. He is so slight, and he is deeply-

He is not Daemon. His waist is too trim, his limbs longer. And as he shifts around his opponent, you notice an eye patch on his face. Must be the King’s second son.

Aemond? Daeron? You cannot recall. He prances around with all your father’s arrogance, as if he were certain of his victory. You assess him with a critical eye. His confidence is unwarranted. His footing is slightly askew. He leans too much forward when lunging, trying to overcompensate and add strength he lacks to his blade. He would benefit from focusing on speed rather than brute force.

Despite all the unconventional techniques he employs, he seems to be winning. The crowd makes awed noises when he manages to land a hit, and cheers as the Kingsguard is pushed back.

The duel ends quickly. He disarms the Kingsguard with a quick flick of his wrist, his sword sent flying. You frown, finding it sloppy, but the crowd breaks out into applause.

“Well done, my Prince.” The Kingsguard says, confirming your initial thoughts. This is one of your cousins. “You’ll be winning tourneys in no time.”

“I don’t give a shit about tourneys.” The man says, and you fight a smirk. The profanity is amusing, for someone so tightly wound. You step closer to them, but he spots the rude brown haired boys before he spots you. “Nephews… Have you come to train?”

The boys look like they are about to shit themselves. It makes you smirk.

“They haven’t.” You answer, only realizing the words once you speak them. You had not planned to make a challenge, nor had you intended to part from the crowd. But often, your body reacts before your mind can do so. “But I have.”

Some squires laugh. The younger brown haired boy fights a smile. It doesn’t anger you. You know what you look like to them, in your heavy velvet dress with bronze embroidery. The skirt is full and pleated, covering the sword strapped to your hip in a sea of cloth.

The only ones who do not laugh are the Kingsguard, who is too busy wiping blood from his mouth, and your cousin. Instead, his eye meets yours.

He stalks towards you, every movement calculated to look intimidating. He moves like a predator, all graceful and long lines. It is clear he is used to using his height as a part of the routine, so it amuses you that he can’t quite loom over you.

Because you stand tall. You always do.

“And who are you, who dares defy a Prince so openly?” His voice sounds amused.

You look at him. It is true you have not met him before, but you would expect at least a hint of recognition in his eye. Even if you look more Royce than Targaryen. The runes embroidered on your dress practically scream your identity.

“No one who wishes you harm.” You smile, picking up the hem of your skirts. Most of your dresses have been cleverly designed, to allow you to turn the lower part of them into breeches by tugging on a few ribbons and securing some knots. The sword at your hip is revealed as you do so, and you revel in the attention the dramatic display gathers.

“I welcome all challengers.” Your cousin bows his head to you. “If they dare face me.”

“My prince I do not think…” The Kingsguard advises, wisely. Perhaps he senses the sharpness of your grin doesn’t forebode anything good for his pupil.

“Oh, Cole. Let the lady try.” The Prince answers, dismissively. “And we can go on with our days after I disarm her. It’s not as if I will hurt her.”

You unsheathe your sword. While the thought is gallant, he won’t hurt you because you are the superior swordsman. But it’s sort of cute that he worries.

“Of course, Ser. The prince will not harm me.” You slide into the proper stance, Lamentation held loosely by your side.

Your cousin studies you, in silence. He must know as well as you do that the person to make the first move is always at a disadvantage. He is handsome, you think. His jaw is so sharp, you could cut your hands while trying to hold him.

You are better at the waiting game. You have waited years for a chance to meet your father, you can wait a few minutes for him to become unsettled.

He lunges at you, a smug smile on his face. Hoping to force you into blocking. Instead, you move aside, allowing him to tumble forward. Your assessment of him was right. He put too much force behind his blow, sure it would connect.

Someone snickers, and you turn slightly towards the sound, recognizing it as made by the Strong boy. A sudden smacking sound and a flash of heat against your arm forces you focus on the fight. Your cousin has taken advantage, and managed to hit you with the flat of his sword.

Lamentation remains held by your side, but you tighten your grip on it, feeling the ridges on the pommel dig against your palm.

He lunges again, a frown marring his handsome face. You twist away. Once again, he repeats the same mistake.

“Are you aware…” Your cousin shouts. “That swordplay involves using a sword?”

“Oh, I am.” You grin at him, hoping to goad him into making more mistakes. Your arm still feels warm from his blow. For such a slight man, he sure is strong. You had underestimated him too much. “It’s just… You are such a poor swordsman I thought we were dancing.”

The rest of the knights and squires fall silent after you speak. It allows you to hear the change in his breath, exertion yielding to rage. He can't take a joke, it seems because his next cut is aimed at your neck.

Were you not ready to meet him, he could have killed you. But fortunately, you are done playing with your food. You lift Lamentation and smack the flat side against his wrist, hard enough to make him drop the sword.

Had you not swung flat side first, he would not only be missing an eye. By the look on his face, and the way he stares at his wrist, he knows it too.

His eye lowers to the fallen sword, perplexed. He seems unable to believe how it has betrayed him.

You unmake the knots and lacings of your skirts, releasing them back into their normal state. You fluff them up, just for show.

“Nice match, cousin.”

You prance back inside.

“HOW GOOD IT is… to see you all tonight… together.” You are sitting next to your decaying uncle, the place of honor having been afforded to you thanks to your supposed stream of correspondence. You are deeply regretting that lie, since King Viserys smells strongly of herbs and rotting flesh. It’s putting you off your appetite.

Lately, the Queen confesses, he seems lost in the past. He seems to have a hard time remembering your latter letters, instead having a fixed image of you as his little niece who sent him drawings and questions about Valyrian history. You do not mention further letters do not exist.

Your father sits with his new family, studiously avoiding your eyes. He has chosen a seat on the same side of the table you are in. Your heart aches. You wonder if after all these years, he has given any thought to what he had done.

The day he killed your mother, she was just two moons shy from birthing you. Had he known, you wonder? Did he intend to kill the both of you, or just her? After robbing you from your mother, he had fled the Vale, and married another woman. He had had two girls not even a couple of years later, the ones that now sat with the Strong boys.

They had the Valyrian coloring you lacked. You wondered if he loved them more because of it.

You have zoned out enough that when you come to be, King Viserys has grabbed your hand. His head is lowered, as if about to pray.

You imitate him.

“Don’t worry, niece.” He whispers, kindly. “I didn’t know how to pray before either.”

Queen Alicent grabs your other hand, gently.

“The Gods listen to us regardless.”

Someone snorts. Your other cousin, the uninteresting one. Aegon, you think he is called. As you look around the table, you notice only the Lord Hand and your cousin Aemond have bowed their heads. No one else is a believer here.

You lower your head.

“May the Mother smile down on this gathering with love. May the Smith mend the bonds that have been broken for far too long. And to Vaemond Velaryon, may the gods give him rest.” The Queens says, and you try not to think of how unlikely her words are.

Your bond with your father cannot be fixed. He is a murderer. Your bond with your uncle cannot be fixed either. He has protected the man who killed your mother, and weakly tried to make amends during the first years of your life.

As for your father’s new wife, new sons, new daughters, you look around and all you see is weakness. They are pathetic. Lowly. Baseborn. You despise them all. Had you owned a dragon, you would watch them all burn.

Your teeth make an awful, creaking, sound. You cannot burn them, but oh, how you wish to.

Someone is watching you. You know it instinctively. There is an odd prickling on the back of your head, you cannot sit still. You try not to look up, knowing it is not your father, but soon it feels like the stare is boring a hole through your skull, opening it up. Watching your most secret and inner thoughts leak out.

You shift on your seat. As you look up, Aemond meets your eyes without shame. He gives you a smirk.

“This is an occasion for celebration, it seems. My grandsons, Jace and Luke, will marry their cousins, Baela and Rhaena, further strengthening the bond between our houses. A toast to the young Princes… and their betrothed.” The King toasts. You raise your cup, feigning a smile.

“Hear, hear!”

“Well done, Jace. You’ll finally get to lie with a woman.” Aegon whispers, but not low enough for you not to hear. You have to take a sip from your cup to hide your snort. You look towards your father, but he avoids making eye contact with you, eyes firmly ahead.

“Let us toast as well Prince Lucerys… the future Lord of the Tides.” The King continues, and you return your attention towards the dramatics taking place in front of you. The Strong boy is starting to look offended.

“You do know how the act is done, I assume?” Aegon leans in, a mean little smile on his face. He is a cunt, but an entertaining one. “At least in principle? Where to put your cock and all that.”

“Let it be, cousin.” One of the new daughters interjects. You do not know which one she is, and frankly, you do not care to learn. They are named something ridiculous, like Bela and Rhaela or Rhaenys and Laena, you are not sure. It’s some sort of Valyrian name.

“You can play the jester if you wish, but hold your tongue before my betrothed.” The Strong boy threatens. You fight your smile. While Aegon looks smug, the Strong boy looks ready to fight. His hands are formed into fists, his face red with a mixture of humiliation and rage.

“It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table. The faces most dear to me in all the world… yet grown so distant from each other… in the years past.” The mask the King is wearing falls down, and you wince. His face is a ghastly sight, full of holes left behind by festering wounds. The illness has claimed his eye, leaving an empty eye socket behind.

Your eyes dart towards Aemond. Does he look like that under the eye patch too? Perhaps you should reconsider your thoughts on his attractiveness.

He lifts an eyebrow at you, amused to be the one catching you looking this time. You feel your face heating up, but force yourself to lift an eyebrow back at him.

He smiles, and lifts his cup to you, almost imperceptibly.

“My own face… is no longer a handsome one… if indeed it ever was. But tonight… I wish you to see me… as I am. Not just a king… but your father. Who may not, it seems… walk for much longer among you. Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts. The crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided. But set aside your grievances. If not for the sake of the crown… then for the sake of this old man who loves you all so dearly.”

This time, you roll your eyes. It’s an unavoidable reaction to hearing someone spit such bullshit. The day you died was the day you forgot all the slights committed against you. The only way of erasing them was getting your pound of flesh from each of them.

You cannot believe what you are hearing. Only Aemond and the Lord Hand seem as resentful as you are. Everyone else seems either neutral or taken by the words of the King.

To your astonishment, the most taken are the Queen and Princess Rhaenyra. You grab your goblet, and chug your wine like there is no tomorrow.

“Everything alright, Lady Royce?” The Strong boy asks you, very politely. You want to grab him by his awful chamberpot-shaped haircut and smash his face against the table until his mouth is bloody.

Instead, you banish the violent image from your head and smile, as fake as you can.

“Just thirsty. Pass me the pitcher?”

“I wish to raise my cup to Her Grace, the Queen. I love my father. But I must admit that no one has stood… more loyally by his side than his good wife. She has tended to him with… unfailing devotion, love, and honor. And for that, she has my gratitude… and my apology.”

You sigh. These people are delusional, and it makes you fear for the future of the realm. You have no idea what you were thinking by coming here. The hopes for a confrontation with your father seem absurd now, when he has done his best to hide from you and avoid you during your stay in the Red Keep.

He had never answered your letters, either.

“Your graciousness moves me deeply, Princess. We are both mothers… and we love our children. We have more in common than we sometimes allow. I raise my cup to you… and to your house. You will make a fine queen.”

Aegon leans towards the replacement daughter, whispering in her ear. If someone has drank more than you tonight, it’s him.

“I, um… I regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer. But if you ever wish to know what it is to be well satisfied, all you have to do is ask.”

The Strong boy springs up from his seat as if his pants were on fire. He clears his throat.

“To Prince Aegon and… Prince Aemond. We have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth. And as men, I hope we may yet be friends and allies. To you and your family’s good health, dear uncles. To you as well.”

“Beware… beneath the boards.” You don’t quite catch what Helaena says.

“Well done, my boy.”

“I would like to toast to Baela and Rhaena. They’ll be married soon. It isn’t so bad. Mostly he just ignores you… except sometimes when he’s drunk.” Helaena makes her own little toast, and you frown. She is married to Aegon, if you recall correctly. She also seems… Quite odd.

Some laugh at her. You do not. You cannot wait for this dinner to be over.

“Good. Let us have some music.”

Much to your dismay, the Strong boy asks Helaena to dance. His brother looks at you, and you give him such a murderous glance, he doesn’t dare rise from his seat.

You engage in quiet conversation with your uncle and the Queen. He calls her Aemma several times.

“I have a niece.” Viserys tells you, very softly. “She has hair like you. Dark. One day, she will grow to rule the Vale. We write letters.”

You don’t mean for it to happen, but a sudden wave of pity for the old man hits you. He is lost in memories, thinking Alicent is Aemma, and you are still a young girl. He had seemed so lucid before, even like he was doing well. Happy, with the merriment taking place around him. And then, a switch had been flicked, the conversation had started to become more stilted, and he was winded and lost.

“Guards.” Alicent calls out, and they rush to assist the King, who groans. They take him away as he orders for you to go back to dining.

You do, chewing your food in absolute silence. You can feel eyes on you. The conversation is stilted, the people gathered at the table both uncomfortable with your presence and with each other.

The awkwardness doesn’t deter you. You relish on it. You want them to suffer in your presence. Want the replacement daughters to feel guilty for getting to have a father, the Strong boys to be frightened by you, the whore he has for a wife to wonder if she will die next.

And your father? You want him to die a slow, agonizing death. But you will settle for his wife having a massive row with him tonight.

As the main course is placed on the table, the Strong boys and your male cousins exchange glances. Suddenly, Aemond slams his fist on the table and gets up. His expression is icy.

“Final tribute. To the health of my nephews: Jace… Luke… and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise… hm… strong.”

You snort. The Queen doesn’t seem to think it as amusing as you do.

“Aemond.” She complains.

“Come… let us drain our cups to these three…Strong boys.” Aemond smirks, and you lift your goblet, eyes full of malice. Anything that hurts them seems nice to you.

“I dare you to say that again.” The eldest Strong boy, the one with the awful haircut, jumps up.

“Why? ‘Twas only a compliment.” Aemond goads, emboldened by your attention. “Do you not think yourself Strong?”

The boy lunges and punches Aemond. Rhaenyra screams. Aegon gets up and slams the other Strong boy into the table.

Queen Alicent and Rhaenyra try to separate them. So do the guards.

“Jace!”

“That is enough!”

You want to jump in, want to smash a wine jug on his face. Break a plate, strangle your father. But as you are reaching forward, ready to seize one of them, someone grabs your wrist.

The hand is warm, and holds you gently but firmly. A man’s hand.

Your father’s.

You look at him. His eyes are dark. This man, who you once thought larger than life, who killed your mother, who almost killed you. His eyes are dark, and wide, and so much like yours.

His other hand goes to your jaw. He brushes it, tenderly. For a second, you lose yourself in the thought. You are no longer the angry woman, but the little girl who wanted her father so desperately.

“You have…” His voice breaks your spell. Grown? Your mother’s eyes? Face? Hair? You never got to meet her, thanks to him.

You jerk out of his grip and flee the room.

THE PAIR OF breeches and a shirt feel much more comfortable against your skin than the dress you had worn to dinner. It wasn’t one of your modified styles, and so, had felt suffocating against your body. Too tight on your ribs, too heavy against your legs. You had not noticed it when wearing it, but taking it off had been an immediate relief.

Unfortunately, your anger doesn’t subside as easily. Your shoulders ache from swinging Lamentation over and over again, but you still want to scream. Scream and scream, until you wake the whole Keep.

When the moonlight illuminates a tall figure, you only feel more anger. Aemond’s face now has a bruise, a mark left by Jacaerys’ fist. You hate when other people dare touch what is yours. Much less, when they dare mark it.

He has no claim to him, this Strong boy that can barely lift his sword. Aemond is yours. The audacity astonishes you.

“My lady.” Aemond bows his head to you. He carries his sword on his hand. “Shall we dance?”

“I fear I might have gotten enough disappointments for a day.” You set Lamentation down on a bench. In truth, your arms are too sore, and you fear you might lose if you face him. Aemond is smart. He will not underestimate you a second time, and while you are good, you lose your advantage when exhausted. “Your brother has the smallest cock I've ever seen, and you are a poor swordsman. Are the Strong boys really the best House Targaryen has to offer?”

Aemond’s mouth falls open. He stares at you in disbelief, a hint of anger briefly crossing his features, before barking out a laugh. He sets his own sword aside.

“You wish to goad me again. It won’t work.”

“Goad you into what? Mud wrestling?” You say, gesturing to your lack of a sword.

“Don’t jest.” Aemond rolls his eye. “There is no mud here.”

“Plain wrestling, then?” You arch an eyebrow.

“You are infuriating.”

“I live to please.”

“Have you given marriage any thought?” His voice is casual. Far too casual.

“No.” You say, plainly. “I wish to never marry, and let Tobar’s brats inherit everything.”

“Your abilities with the sword do not correlate to your abilities with deception.”

“You think very highly of yourself, don’t you?” You step closer to him, feeling your amusement ebb into annoyance.

Aemond smirks. He is a bit taller than you, and seems to enjoy that fact greatly.

“I am a good prospect.” He captures your chin in his hand, and makes you tilt your head up.

You despise that you get a bit unfocused by how warm and big his palm feels against your face. It feels so good, you could close your eyes and melt into it. But instead, all that comes out of your mouth is…

“Your blood is unsavory, your manners lacking, and your skill with the sword could use work.”

“My, that almost sounded like a compliment.” Aemond laughs.

“It wasn’t.” You complain because you hate that he is starting to understand you. How when you feel scared about the too big feelings in your chest you lash out, and say things you do not mean.

He grabs your hand, and kisses your knuckles.

“I’ll ask for your hand in the morrow.”

“Do try.”

He does. Much to your dismay, Aemond asks his father for your hand, openly slighting yours. King Viserys finds the whole thing delightful. No one else but you seems to share his joy.

232 notes · View notes

madamabelladonna · 4 days

Text

𝐁𝐚𝐧𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐖𝐡𝐬𝐢𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Young Lady Dayne captivated the feast held by King Viserys in honor of his grandson, her presence and dance stirring much interest among the court. The murmurs of a possible union between the Seven Kingdoms and The Principality of Dorne swirled in the air, though beneath the revelry, rumors threatened to unravel such hopes. 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: Jealousy, Criston 'Rice Krispy' Cole, Rumors, Blood, Fighting, Doubt 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The sun beat down mercilessly on the field, the clang of metal ringing out as one knight after another thundered across the jousting lane, their lances held firm. The air buzzed with the tension of each collision, the cheers of the crowd swelling like a wave each time two mounted warriors clashed.

Dust flew up from the hooves of their horses, and the ground shook with the force of the charges. Splinters of wood burst from the shattered lances, and the crowd roared. Knights that missed their marks wheeled around for another attempt, fresh lances thrust into their hands by eager squires, eyes wide with anticipation.

Most contests were settled swiftly. A single blow often sent one knight tumbling from his steed, his armor clattering loudly as he fell to the earth. The victor paraded triumphantly while the vanquished was left sprawling, sometimes unconscious, sometimes worse—lifeless.

The ground had already claimed several today. Their bodies were dragged away, while the winner would bask in the moment, trotting proudly toward the stands where a lady’s favor awaited.

It was brutal, yet the crowd relished it. Blood, broken shields, and the scent of sweat mingled with the afternoon air, intoxicating the onlookers who howled for more. It was hardly what you imagined as a fitting celebration for a name day. But then, war was never far from sport.

Another knight crumpled to the ground, and his opponent—the victor—didn’t hesitate to prance his horse over the fallen man, barely missing trampling him underfoot. The crowd roared its approval, unconcerned with the fate of the fallen.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat. If a knight survived the fall, the contest turned into a duel on foot, steel against steel until one yielded—or bled out. The tournament showed no mercy.

Ser Criston Cole, in all his egotistical glory, was next. His white armor gleamed beneath the sun, a stark contrast to the blood-soaked dirt beneath him. He faced a knight of House Darklyn, their sigil clear on his tattered shield.

Cole lowered his lance, charging with such ferocity that the impact shattered the Darklyn knight’s shield to splinters, the wood and metal flying into the crowd as gasps erupted from the onlookers.

Without hesitation, Cole turned his horse, readying himself for another pass. This time, there was no contest—the Darklyn knight was dispatched with brutal efficiency, crumpling to the ground as Cole reined in his steed.

He removed his helmet, revealing a self-satisfied smirk as he sauntered toward the Royal Box. “I ask for the favor of the Queen Consort, Alicent Hightower,” he declared, his voice ringing out across the arena. The smirk on his lips was unmistakable, a show of arrogance that made the moment all the more uncomfortable.

Queen Alicent stood gracefully, her cold gaze sweeping over you, Jacaerys, and Lucerys before landing on Criston. The air between her and the Royal Box was frosty, her movements measured as she descended the steps to meet him. Her gown, rich green silk, shimmered as she approached. She slid her favor—a delicate ribbon—down the length of Criston’s lance, her eyes dark and unreadable.

“I wish you luck, Ser Criston,” she said coolly, her voice sharp enough to cut. The look she gave him was clear: win, or else.

She returned to her seat beside King Viserys, leaving an uneasy tension in her wake. You exchanged a glance with Jacaerys, who sat beside you, his brow furrowed. “Did you make a favor?” he asked quietly, his gaze flicking to the small bundle beside you.

You had. A small token woven from purple larkspurs with Isla’s help. Yet, you doubted any knight would ask for it. You were only seven years old, far too young for the attention of knights seeking favor. Courtship, after all, was a part of this tradition, and no knight in his right mind would seek a favor from a child.

“I did,” you admitted, nodding toward the carefully crafted ribbon beside you. “But I doubt anyone would ask for it.” If Merek had participated in the tourney, the favor would have undoubtedly been his. He was your older brother, after all, and there was no knight you trusted or admired more.

You could already picture him astride his white steed, his silver armor gleaming in the sunlight as he charged with the grace and strength that came so naturally to him. Merek was the Sword of the Morning, and though he bore the weight of his title with quiet dignity, his presence commanded respect on the field.

Jacaerys shifted in his seat, glancing at the purple favor. “I’ll take it,” he said, his words abrupt, but his tone sincere. The suddenness of the offer made you blink in surprise.

A laugh escaped you. “You’re not even in the tourney.” But there was warmth in your voice. The idea of Jacaerys taking your favor, even if it served no purpose, made the rejection of it by others sting less.

Jacaerys smiled, his hand brushing yours. “If no one else asks for it, I will,” he promised. You smiled softly, nodding as the next match was announced. Ser Harwin Strong, the Breakbones, was up, facing a third son of House Footly. As the knights prepared, you glanced once more at Jacaerys, feeling a small swell of warmth.

Even if the world overlooked your favor, he wouldn’t.

The roar of the crowd surged as Ser Harwin Strong, known as Breakbones for his unmatched strength, readied himself for the next tilt. His massive frame loomed over his horse, the dark steel of his armor gleaming ominously under the midday sun. His opponent, the Footly Knight, looked small in comparison, the colors of his house pale and fragile against Harwin’s imposing presence.

You leaned forward slightly, your heart quickening as the two knights prepared to charge. The banners of both houses fluttered in the breeze, but the crowd's excitement was palpable—they knew who the favorite was. The Footly knight lowered his lance, the wood trembling in his hands. Across the field, Harwin’s lance was steady, aimed directly at the center of his opponent's chest.

A horn blared, and the knights surged forward. The ground shook beneath the horses’ hooves, a rumbling that vibrated through your feet and up into your chest. The Footly knight made the first move, but his aim faltered.

His lance grazed Harwin’s shield, but before he could recover, Harwin’s strike hit true. The impact was thunderous. Wood splintered as Harwin’s lance shattered against the Footly knight’s armor, sending him sprawling to the ground in a tangled heap of metal and dust.

The crowd erupted into wild cheers, the noise almost deafening as Ser Harwin rode victoriously to the center of the field. His helmet gleamed in the sunlight as he dismounted with ease, casting a glance toward the royal box. There was no hesitation in his step as he walked toward Rhaenyra, his broad shoulders cutting through the sea of spectators.

Your breath caught as the crowd fell silent, watching with bated breath. Harwin removed his helmet, his dark curls tumbling free, a confident grin on his face. His gaze was fixed solely on Rhaenyra as he knelt before her, offering his lance in a gesture that made the meaning of his request clear.

"I ask for the favor of the Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen," Harwin said, his voice booming enough to carry over the arena. Rhaenyra, seated regally beside Laenor, allowed a small smile to play across her lips.

The wind tugged gently at her silvery blonde hair, but her eyes never left Harwin. Slowly, with the grace befitting a princess, she stood, her gown of black and red shifting like molten fire as she descended the steps to meet him. The crowd watched in silence, hanging on her every move.

When she reached him, Rhaenyra carefully tied her favor—a ribbon of deep crimson—around the shaft of Harwin’s lance. The moment felt intimate, even among the throngs of onlookers. Her fingers lingered briefly on the silk, and there was an unmistakable spark in her eyes as she looked down at him.

“I grant you my favor, Ser Harwin,” she said, her voice soft but filled with unmistakable warmth.

The crowd roared again, but this time, there was something different about their cheers. The favor of a princess was not something to be given lightly. You could feel Jacaerys tense beside you, his gaze flickering to Rhaenyra and then back to the field.

He seemed to understand the significance, as did everyone watching. Ser Harwin rose to his feet, a glint of triumph in his eyes as he accepted Rhaenyra’s favor, his lips curling into a knowing smile.

If it were not for King Viserys’s unwavering protection, the whispers would have turned to open accusations. The legitimacy of Jacaerys and his younger brother, Lucerys, was questioned by many. Though Laenor Velaryon claimed them as his sons, they bore none of the striking Targaryen features—the platinum blonde with a metallic sheen hair, the violet eyes.

Instead, they seemed to favor the strong, dark looks of House Strong. The resemblance was too glaring for some, yet no one dared to utter such suspicions aloud. To question their parentage in the presence of the king was to court death. King Viserys made sure of that, and the court had learned to bite their tongues, lest they lose them.

Beside you, Jacaerys turned toward Lucerys, who was blissfully unaware of the tension that hung in the air. His younger brother, still innocent in the ways of court politics, grinned widely, his eyes shining with admiration for the man who had just bested his opponent in the lists.

"Ser Harwin is really the strongest man in the world!" Lucerys sounded, his voice filled with boyish enthusiasm. His words rang out, innocent and pure, as if the truth of Harwin’s strength was all that mattered to him.

Jacaerys, however, remained silent. He had grown up with those whispers—whispers that gnawed at him like a festering wound. Though he never spoke of it, you could see the weight of those rumors in his eyes. He had heard them all his life, questioning who his true father was.

You caught his faint smile, a weak attempt to mask the uncertainty that lingered beneath the surface. When his gaze met yours, you could feel the silent plea for reassurance. Jacaerys had always sought comfort in you, a steady presence amidst the doubts that shadowed his existence.

You clutched Jacaerys’ hand with both of yours, squeezing it gently but firmly. “My prince,” you said softly, your voice steady and sure. Despite being of the Principality of Dorne, your House Dayne sworn to Martell, it made no difference. Jacaerys—whether he looked Targaryen, Velaryon, or even Strong—would always be a prince in your eyes.

His eyes flickered toward yours, searching for reassurance in your face. You gave him a slight shake of his hand, grounding him in the moment, and in your loyalty. In a world where bloodlines and appearances could doom a man before he even spoke, your allegiance was clear. Jacaerys Velaryon was the prince you followed, and no amount of courtly whispers would change that.

A faint, grateful smile tugged at the corner of his lips, though the weight of his unspoken doubts lingered in the air. He nodded, just enough to let you know that your words had reached him. And though he had never voiced his fears aloud, the unspoken truth lay between you, heavier with each passing day.

But no one could question his blood. Not when he had a dragon. The birth of Vermax from his cradle had silenced many of the rumors, at least on the surface. Dragons only hatched for those with the blood of Old Valyria, and Vermax had bonded with Jacaerys from the moment the egg cracked open.

That, at least, was proof enough for many that he carried the blood of House Targaryen. And more than that, he was the heir, destined to follow in his mother’s footsteps, whether the realm accepted it or not.

He was a prince of the realm. And his dragon would be a reminder to those who doubted him that he was, indeed, of the blood of the dragon.

The tournament field as the final match loomed on the horizon. The air was thick with the mingling scents of earth and sweat, each breath heavy with anticipation. The crowd’s roars rumbled like distant thunder, an ominous reminder of the spectacle that was about to unfold. Today’s contest was no mere exhibition—it was a clash of titans, a contest between the sworn shields of the heir and the queen.

Ser Criston Cole, the Queen’s Sworn Shield, stood tall and unyielding in his polished ivory armor. His presence was a beacon of steely determination, his eyes like flint, scanning the field with a single-minded focus. His reputation as a fierce and relentless fighter had preceded him, and his confidence seemed almost to radiate from his very being, burning brightly in the fading light.

Opposite him, Ser Harwin Strong, the Heir’s Sworn Shield, waited with the raw, untamed intensity that had earned him the fearsome title of Breakbones. His armor, dark and imposing, contrasted starkly with Criston’s gleaming ensemble. Harwin’s eyes burned with a fierce resolve, the promise of brutal force evident in every line of his powerful frame.

As the horn blared, signaling the start of the final match, the knights charged with a thunderous roar that shook the very earth beneath them. The ground trembled beneath their steeds, their hooves pounding in a rhythmic fury. Lances were held high, their deadly points aimed with lethal precision.

The collision was monumental. Criston’s lance met Harwin’s with a splintering crash that reverberated through the arena. The impact was so intense it felt like a shockwave, rippling through the ground and the air. The crowd's cheers crescendoed into a fevered roar, a cacophony of excitement and tension that seemed to envelop the entire field. The clash of metal rang out like a grim symphony of war, echoing through the stands.

Criston’s shield shattered under the relentless force of Harwin’s assault, the fragments scattering like broken glass. With a roar of fury, Criston pressed forward, desperate to regain control, but Harwin was relentless. His lance, now bereft of its shield, struck with a decisive blow, unseating Criston from his horse with a resounding crash. The Queen’s Sworn Shield hit the ground hard, the clang of his armor echoing sharply as he struggled to rise, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

The crowd fell into a tense hush as Harwin dismounted with purposeful strides. “Bring me my sword!” he barked to the squire waiting at the side. The boy scrambled to obey, his face a mask of urgency. Criston, rising from the ground with visible effort, reached for his morningstar, which had been retrieved by another squire. The match had shifted, now turning into a fierce duel of skill and willpower.

You, Jacaerys, and Lucerys sat close together, your hands clasped tightly, the unity of your grip a small comfort amidst the escalating tension. You could feel the steady pulse of your heartbeat in your fingers as you held on to them, your gaze unwaveringly fixed on the arena.

Lucerys turned to you, his face a picture of anxious worry. “He’ll win…won’t he?” he asked, his voice barely more than a breath. His eyes were wide, reflecting the weight of the moment, the uncertainty that clung to him as the match transitioned into a grueling contest of arms.

You bit your lip, the anxiety evident in the gesture, as Criston Cole swung his morningstar with a vicious intent that spoke volumes about his desperation. Each swing was a brutal testament to his skill and aggression, the weapon cutting through the air with a deadly grace. The determination in Criston’s eyes was palpable, and each strike was a calculated effort to subdue Harwin.

“I…I don’t know,” you replied, your voice trembling slightly as you squeezed Jacaerys’ hand tighter. You found yourself praying to the Warrior, only hoping that Harwin’s formidable strength and unyielding spirit would see him through to victory.

Criston’s morningstar whirled through the air, its menacing arc aimed to deliver a crushing blow. The sight of the weapon, swinging with such force and precision, made your stomach churn with unease.

With a determined roar, Harwin pushed through Criston's defense. He deflected the morningstar with a powerful swipe of his sword, then, with a forceful thrust, drove Criston back. The Queen’s Sworn Shield stumbled, his armor clanking loudly as he struggled to maintain his footing.

Harwin’s next strike was decisive. With a roar of triumph, he swung his sword in a sweeping arc that caught Criston off balance. The blow landed with a resounding crash, and Criston was sent sprawling to the ground, his morningstar flying from his grasp. The impact was so forceful it seemed to echo through the arena, the crowd erupting in a roar of astonishment and excitement.

Criston hit the ground hard, his armor ringing with a loud clang as he tried to rise. His breath came in ragged gasps, his once-proud figure now battered and humbled. Harwin stood over him, his chest heaving with exertion, the gleam of victory in his eyes.

The crowd watched in breathless silence as Harwin raised his sword high, a gesture of both triumph and challenge. “Yield, Ser Criston!” he bellowed, his voice carrying across the field with a commanding authority.

Criston, his pride bruised but his spirit unbroken, nodded in acknowledgment. “I yield,” he shouted back, his voice strained but clear.

A triumphant cheer erupted from the stands, the roar of the crowd a deafening wave that surged through the arena. Harwin’s supporters hailed him as the victor, their cheers mingling with the clatter of armor and the sound of clanging swords. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over the field as the final moments of the match played out.

You, Jacaerys, and Lucerys sat side by side, your hands still clasped tightly. Lucerys’s eyes were wide with a mixture of relief and awe, his earlier anxiety replaced by a smile of triumph. “He did it!” he exclaimed, his voice full of youthful excitement.

You and Jacaerys exchanged a lighthearted laugh as Lucerys's exuberant cheers filled the air. The excitement was palpable, his shouts blending into the collective roar of the crowd. You leaned closer to Jacaerys, the warmth of his presence a comforting anchor amid the sea of elation.

“He deserves to be called the Strongest in the Realm,” you whispered, your breath warm against his ear. Your words were meant to be reassuring, a quiet acknowledgment of Harwin’s remarkable victory. You glanced towards the victorious knight, who was now basking in the adulation of the crowd.

If any shadows of doubt about Jacaerys’ parentage lingered, if the whispers of Ser Harwin being his father held any truth, then today was a moment to be proud of. Harwin’s prowess was undeniable, a testament to strength and honor that transcended mere rumor.

Jacaerys’ eyes softened, and he leaned his head gently on your shoulder, a gesture of trust and comfort. The weight of the day’s tension seemed to lift as he allowed himself a rare moment of relaxation. “Yeah,” he murmured, his voice carrying a note of relief.

The tournament, with all its intensity and spectacle, was finally drawing to a close, and the satisfaction of Harwin’s triumph seemed to ease the burden of the day. You could feel the warmth of Jacaerys’ breath against your neck, the cheers of the crowd faded into a distant hum as you shared this quiet moment together, the world narrowing to just the two of you and the simple joy of the tournament’s end.

Harwin strode over to the Royal Box, where Rhaenyra sat with the regal poise that had become her signature. The queen’s eyes met his, a glimmer of pride and relief shining through her composure. With a deep bow, Harwin presented her with the lance, its shaft still adorned with the crimson ribbon she had bestowed upon him.

“Your Grace,” he said, his voice ringing clear in the twilight, “I crown you the Queen of Love and Beauty.”

The words hung in the air, a declaration of triumph and honor. Rhaenyra rose from her seat, her gown flowing like a river of flame as she stepped forward. The crowd’s cheers swelled, a roaring tide of approval and adoration.

As she accepted the crown of victory from Harwin, her smile was radiant, the culmination of her victory and the culmination of a day steeped in fierce competition and honor.

As noon arrived, the festivities continued in full swing. The field had quieted after the grand tournament, and now, amidst the lingering echoes of cheers and laughter, you, Jacaerys, and Lucerys found yourselves caught up in a playful game of tag. The warmth of the sun kissed your cheeks, and the gentle breeze rustled through the trees, adding a lively backdrop to your impromptu game.

Jacaerys and Lucerys darted around the garden with youthful exuberance, their laughter ringing out like a merry chime. You, equally spirited, chased after them with determined glee, your dress swirling with each quick step. The game was a joyful reprieve from the grandeur of the tournament, a chance for the young princes to unwind and revel in the simple pleasure of play.

The air was filled with the scent of blooming flowers and the faint aroma of feast preparations. In the distance, the sounds of nobles conversing and glasses clinking hinted at the festivities to come. Tonight’s grand banquet in the Throne Room was anticipated with great excitement—a celebration of Jacaerys’ eighth name day that promised opulence and splendor.

As you played, nobles from across the Realm mingled and drank merrily in anticipation of the evening’s festivities. The garden was abuzz with conversation, their voices a blend of animated chatter and laughter.

Many had brought their young daughters, hoping to catch the young prince’s eye. However, despite their efforts, their attempts seemed to fall flat. Prince Jacaerys, blissfully unaware of their designs, was absorbed in the joyful company of a certain Lady of House Dayne—namely, you.

The nobles’ eyes followed the game with a mixture of curiosity and amusement, but it was clear that the prince’s attention was fully engaged with you. Jacaerys’ infectious laughter and genuine delight were focused entirely on your shared game, his gaze rarely straying from your smiling face.

The nobles’ reactions ranged from curiosity to thinly veiled disapproval. They whispered amongst themselves, casting sidelong glances and speculating on the motives behind House Dayne's presence. Their murmurs hinted at a simmering bitterness, directed not only at you but at the perceived intrusion of a Dornish girl so close in age to the prince.

It seemed as though their animosity extended to their own daughters, who had envisioned themselves as potential princesses. Their aspirations were now thwarted by your presence—an outsider from a land they considered beneath them.

Your hand connected with the back of Lucerys, and he squealed in delight. “You’re it!” you called out, your voice full of playful mischief as you darted away. The younger prince’s face lit up with a competitive grin as he set off in pursuit of Jacaerys.

Lucerys, his small legs pumping with energy, chased after Jacaerys, who was laughing and shouting, “Don’t go after me, go after Wren!” The words came out in a burst of breathless laughter as Jacaerys veered off to the side, making a feint in your direction before doubling back to avoid the eager pursuit.

You ran across the garden, your heart racing with the thrill of the game. The lush greenery and the vibrant flowers blurred past you as you increased your speed, though you could feel the weight of your dress pulling against you.

The fabric, though beautiful and rich, was heavy and cumbersome compared to the lighter dresses you were used to in Dorne. The heat of the sun and the effort of running in such attire left you panting, your breaths coming in short, quick bursts.

Finally, you slowed to a halt near a cluster of blooming lilacs, their fragrance mingling with the earthy smell of freshly cut grass. You bent over, hands on your knees, and gasped for air. The warmth of the sun felt pleasant on your flushed face, but you couldn’t help but think how a lighter dress would have made this chase far easier.

The fabric of your gown clung slightly with sweat, and you could almost hear the distant laughter of Jacaerys and Lucerys, now engaged in their own game of tag. You took a moment to catch your breath, the gentle rustle of the breeze through the trees and the distant clinking of goblets at the banquet setting a serene backdrop to your respite.

"It was insult enough for her son to become heir, but for her to openly display such depravity amongst the public, shame upon her!" The voice was sharp, cutting through the afternoon air like the hiss of a drawn blade.

You froze, the playful smile that had lit your face moments before draining away. Heart pounding, you ducked instinctively into a dense cluster of bushes nearby, the prickly branches tugging at the fabric of your dress as you crouched low. The rich scent of damp earth filled your nose, mingling with the sweet fragrance of the lilacs that bloomed around you. Hidden among the foliage, you strained to listen, your breath shallow, afraid to even let the rustle of leaves give you away.

The voice had been unmistakable—Queen Alicent. Her words were laced with venom, the indignation clear in every syllable. You peeked through a gap in the branches, your heart sinking further when you spotted her in the distance. She stood tall, queenly in her emerald and gold, her face set in an expression of disapproval so stern it looked carved from stone. Walking beside her, his expression a mirror of her displeasure, was Ser Criston Cole.

His hand rested lightly on the pommel of his sword as they moved through the garden, their steps slow and deliberate, as though the weight of their conversation was not meant for anyone else’s ears.

Yet here you were, an unintended witness. "It is unseemly, Your Grace," Ser Criston said, his voice a low rumble of agreement. "To flaunt her... indiscretions so brazenly. The Princess has no shame. And neither do her children."

A chill slid down your spine at his words. You felt a surge of anger rise in your chest, but the fear of being caught held you fast. You bit your lip, blood pounding in your ears as their conversation continued. "Her children," Queen Alicent said bitterly, her voice almost trembling with anger.

"Bastards, every one of them. The realm knows it. I know it. She knows it. Yet, the King... he refuses to see what is right in front of him. Or worse, he sees it and does nothing."

Criston glanced around as if wary of unseen listeners, though neither he nor the queen had yet spotted you. "King Viserys would rather blind himself to the truth than admit it, Your Grace. But the people... they are not so easily deceived. They speak of it in the streets, in taverns. They whisper, louder with each passing day."

"Whispers," Alicent spat.

"What good are whispers when the crown ignores them? It emboldens her, you see? She flaunts her children as if they are the trueborn heirs of House Targaryen, as if Laenor ever fathered them. The insolence, the arrogance..."

Your hands curled into fists, nails digging into your palms as you listened. The tension coiled in your chest like a serpent ready to strike. The Queen's words were filled with poison, dripping with the bitterness she had long harbored. They were not just idle complaints; they were accusations, a deliberate attack on Princess Rhaenyra and her sons—your friends.

Your friends… you thought of Jacaerys and Lucerys, laughing so carelessly only moments before. How could they know the weight of the hatred that simmered so close to the surface, the contempt that their mere existence seemed to inspire in the queen and her sworn shield?

“Then there is that Dayne girl,” Queen Alicent said, her voice laced with an undertone of disdain as she picked at her fingers. Her gaze was distant, as though she were scrutinizing a troublesome stain on her own gown. “I would have taken her under my wing myself, considering how I sympathize with her plight—leaving her home in Dorne and all. Yet, of course, Rhaenyra has already done so.”

Her lips pursed in frustration, and she bit at them, a habit you had noticed in moments of deep irritation. “It’s quite the scandal,” she continued, a bitter edge sharpening her tone. “Talk about a union between her and Jacaerys—an idea I believe was suggested by the King himself, if memory serves.”

Ser Criston Cole, ever the silent sentinel by her side, shifted his weight slightly, his expression unreadable. “Yes, Your Grace,” he replied. “Such a union would indeed bring together significant houses, and the notion of cementing alliances through marriage is not lost on the court.”

Alicent’s fingers drummed lightly on the hilt of her sword, a sound that seemed to echo with her frustration. “It’s not merely a matter of alliances,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, almost as if she feared someone might overhear. “It’s the audacity of it. Here we have a Dornish girl, a mere child from the desert, paraded around as though she were of equal standing to the Targaryens themselves.”

She shook her head, her eyes narrowing with barely concealed animosity. “And to think that Viserys, in his infinite wisdom, would even entertain the notion of binding Jacaerys to her. It’s an insult to the very fabric of our house and the integrity of our bloodline.”

Criston’s eyes flickered with a hint of concern. “Your Grace, the King’s ideas often seem to defy conventional wisdom. Perhaps he sees something we do not.”

Alicent’s gaze turned sharp, her frustration boiling over. “Perhaps,” she conceded, though her tone was far from forgiving. “But let us not forget the power of perception. The court’s eyes are sharp, and the whispers grow louder by the day. If Rhaenyra were to secure such an alliance, it would not only bolster her position but undermine ours.”

You shifted slightly in the bushes, trying to get a better view, but the dry leaves underfoot betrayed you with a sharp crunch. Both Alicent and Criston turned sharply in your direction, their eyes narrowing as they scanned the garden.

Your heart nearly stopped. For a terrifying moment, the piercing gazes of Queen Alicent and Ser Criston Cole swept over the very spot where you crouched, hidden among the shadows of the lilacs. The branches and blossoms rustled faintly, as though whispering their own secrets, and you held your breath, praying to the Old Gods and the New that your concealment was sufficient.

Criston Cole, his armor glinting ominously in the dappled sunlight, stalked closer to the bush you were hiding behind. Panic surged through you as his shadow loomed near, and before you could make a move, a strong hand suddenly clamped down on your shoulder.

You flailed instinctively, a muffled gasp escaping your lips as you were dragged roughly to the side. “Shhh,” a voice whispered urgently, the sound barely more than a breath against your ear.

You looked up in bewilderment, the initial shock fading as you met the gaze of Prince Aemond. His distinctive head of frosty silver hair, streaked with soft blonde undertones, gleamed in the filtered sunlight. The scent of fresh parchment and cedar wood—a blend both subtle and distinctly regal—permeated the air around him.

Aemond’s eyes, sharp and assessing, locked onto yours with a mixture of concern and determination. His grip on your hand was firm but gentle, a contrast to the tension that rippled through the garden. “We need to move,” he said in a low, controlled voice, his gaze flickering back towards the path the Queen and Ser Criston had taken.

Before you could fully process what was happening, he guided you swiftly away from the bush, pulling you into the cover of a nearby alcove shrouded in shadow. The scent of the garden’s blooming flowers mingled with the cedarwood aroma of Aemond’s presence, creating a disorienting blend that heightened your senses.

In the relative safety of the alcove, Aemond’s expression softened slightly, though his eyes remained vigilant. “You should not be here,” he said quietly, his voice a hushed murmur as though speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile cloak of secrecy surrounding you. “It is dangerous, and you have overheard something that could stir trouble.”

Your mind raced as you tried to gather your thoughts, the gravity of the overheard conversation sinking in. “Prince Aemond,” you said, struggling to maintain a steady voice. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I was just—”

Aemond held up a hand, silencing you with a gesture. His eyes, cold and assessing, bore into you with an intensity that belied his calm demeanor. “Now that you know the truth,” he said, his voice a low, deliberate whisper, “are you going to continue befriending Rhaenyra’s sons?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and accusatory. You stared at him, confusion and hurt mixing in your gaze. Was he suggesting that your friendship with Jacaerys and Lucerys was not genuine? Was he implying that the only reason you spent time with them was to advance your position or gain favor?

The warmth of the garden seemed to drain away, leaving behind a stark, uncomfortable chill. The once vibrant colors of the blooming flowers now seemed muted and distant, as though the very essence of the garden had shifted with the weight of Aemond's question.

You hesitated, grappling with the weight of his words. The delicate balance of your position in the court, the playful game you had enjoyed moments ago, and the whispered secrets you had overheard all seemed to converge in this singular, daunting question.

“Of course I am,” placing a hand over your heart, your voice trembling slightly. “They’ve been nothing but kind to me. Jacaerys and Lucerys, they—” You faltered, searching for the right words, “—they see me as a friend.”

Aemond’s expression remained inscrutable, but a flicker of something—perhaps curiosity or concern—passed through his eyes. “And if it were to be known that you are associated with them, do you understand the potential repercussions?” he asked, his tone sharp but not unkind.

You nodded, feeling the weight of his words sink in. “Yes,” you replied, though the full scope of the danger still felt like a distant, abstract concept. “But friendships, especially with them, mean something to me. I’ve come to care for them.”

Aemond studied you for a moment longer, his gaze unwavering. “Be cautious,” he finally said, his voice softening slightly. “The court is a treacherous place, and allegiances are often tested. If you value your safety and your place here, you must tread carefully.”

With that, Aemond stepped back, his presence receding into the shadows once more.

Isla and Sienna worked diligently as you stood before the grand mirror, their skilled hands adjusting your gown with practiced care. The dress, a mesmerizing shade of amethyst, seemed to shimmer with every movement. Layers of delicate tulle cascaded down to your ankles, creating an ethereal effect as if you were cloaked in a sky adorned with twinkling stars. Embedded within the fabric were tiny stones that caught the light, making the gown sparkle like a constellation.

“You’ll be the most beautiful lady at the ball, my lady!” Isla gushed, her eyes sparkling with admiration. Her excitement was contagious, filling the room with a noticeable sense of suspense. The gown, with its delicate shimmer and graceful flow, was indeed a sight to behold.

Sienna, whose gentle smile reflected in the mirror, stood beside Isla, her hands smoothing out the final creases. She was a recent addition to your service, brought to you by Rhaenyra, who had insisted that you should have more than one maid to attend to your needs.

Sienna’s experience was evident in her graceful movements and the ease with which she handled your gown. “However did you find a dress like this?” she asked softly. Her voice was tinged with awe, and it was clear from her tone that such opulence was a novelty to her, given her experience with the more austere fashions of the Red Keep.

Isla glanced over her shoulder at Sienna, her pride evident. “Lord Julius had it commissioned and shipped here just for her ladyship!” she announced, her words imbued with a touch of reverence. “He wanted her to have something truly special for the ball.”

Sienna’s smile widened, her appreciation clear. “It’s magnificent,” she said, her gaze lingering on the gown’s sparkling stones. “I’ve seen many exquisite gowns in my time, but this… this is something entirely different.”

You stood in front of the mirror, the gown’s elegant layers shifting with each breath you took. The combination of the shimmering fabric and the intricate design made you feel as if you were floating in a sea of stars. The light from the flickering candles danced across the gown, casting gentle shadows and highlighting its every delicate detail.

The two maids continued their adjustments with careful attention, ensuring every pleat and seam was perfectly in place. The soft rustle of the fabric and the occasional murmur of their voices filled the room, creating a sense of calm amidst the excitement.

A knock resonated through the room, and Sienna gracefully moved to answer it. She opened the door, revealing Ser Merek standing in the hallway. His attire was a striking reflection of Dornish elegance, though carefully tailored to avoid any undue attention from the more conservative lords and ladies. The deep, rich colors and intricate embroidery of his outfit paid homage to Dornish style while blending seamlessly with the more restrained fashions of the court.

“Ser Merek,” Sienna greeted with a respectful bow, her voice carrying a note of reverence. The soft rustle of her skirts and the faint scent of lavender lingered as she stepped aside to let him in.

Merek stepped into the room, his gaze immediately drawn to you. His eyes softened with a mixture of pride and admiration as he took in your appearance. He adjusted his cuffs with a practiced flick, then turned his full attention to you, a warm smile spreading across his face.

“Don’t you look lovely, sister,” he said, his voice rich and sincere. His compliment was accompanied by a look of genuine pleasure, reflecting his approval of the effort that had gone into your ensemble. The way he spoke conveyed more than mere words—it was a heartfelt acknowledgment of the transformation you had undergone, and a sign of his supportive presence.

You returned his smile, feeling a surge of affection and gratitude. The bond between siblings was evident in his gaze, and his words were a comforting reassurance as you prepared for the evening’s events. The room seemed to brighten with his arrival, and the warmth of his praise added a final, reassuring touch to the preparations.

“Thank you, Merek,” you replied, your voice steady but filled with warmth. “I’m glad you think so.” Merek’s eyes crinkled at the corners with a fond smile.

Sienna and Isla flitted around you, their fingers deftly working through your hair, which had been left loose and free as you had requested. They brushed and arranged it with practiced ease, their delicate touches a contrast to the more intense preparations you had undergone earlier. The final touches involved a collection of silver hairpins, each one set with small, glittering stones that caught the light and added a subtle shimmer to your appearance.

As the two maids carefully pinned your hair, your thoughts wandered back to the unsettling conversation you had overheard between Queen Alicent and Ser Criston Cole. The implications of their words hung heavy in your mind, the weight of their discussion about alliances and marriages casting a shadow over the otherwise festive mood.

You cleared your throat, the question slipping out before you could fully consider it. “Am I set to marry?”

The question hung in the air, and the room fell into a stunned silence. Sienna’s hands paused mid-air, the silver pins she held momentarily forgotten. Isla stopped her brushing, her eyes wide with surprise. Merek, who had been adjusting his own attire, looked as though he had been struck dumb, his mouth slightly open as if he had choked on his words.

Merek’s reaction was the most pronounced. His usually composed demeanor faltered as he struggled to regain his bearings. His eyes widened, and he cleared his throat with a conspicuous cough, his face flushing slightly. “What... what makes you ask that?” he finally managed, his voice tinged with a mixture of confusion and concern.

In the world of highborn families, where alliances were often forged through marriage, the idea of being betrothed wasn’t entirely unexpected. Children your age were frequently betrothed, their futures often decided long before they could voice their own desires.

It was a common practice among the highborn, designed to secure alliances and preserve bloodlines. You imagined that, in all likelihood, you would be wed to another house from Dorne—perhaps one of the Yronwoods or Allyrions. Your mother had been a Manwoody before marrying your father and adopting the Dayne name, so aligning with another prominent Dornish house seemed plausible.

Sienna and Isla exchanged uneasy glances. Their hands had paused mid-motion, the delicate hairpins momentarily forgotten as they awaited your explanation. The festive atmosphere that had once filled the space now felt distant, replaced by the knot of uncertainty that your question had stirred.

You shrugged your shoulders nonchalantly, attempting to downplay the gravity of the situation. “Just curious is all,” you said with a casual air, carefully omitting the specific details of the conversation you’d overheard about the potential marriage between yourself and Jacaerys.

Your gaze met Merek’s in the mirror, and you offered a reassuring smile, though the lingering worry in your eyes belied your outward calm. Merek, his expression softening, nodded with understanding. “Curiosity is natural,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of sympathy. “But any decision regarding marriage would involve you, and your wishes would be taken into account.”

Merek’s eyes locked with yours through the mirror, his gaze a steady anchor amidst the whirlpool of your thoughts. The warmth in his eyes was a comfort, though it was clear he was not entirely at ease with the notion of you contemplating marriage at such a tender age.

“You still have a long ways to go before worrying about such things,” he said, his voice carrying a mix of reassurance and playful exasperation. As he spoke, he reached over and gently pinched your cheek, his touch light but affectionate. “You’ll have to cease eating cakes if you wish for your betroth not to run away,” he teased with a grin that softened the serious edge of his words.

The hint of a smile tugged at the corners of your lips, even as you felt the familiar warmth of a flush creeping up your cheeks. With a playful huff, you slapped his hand away. “Hmph! Says the one who’d try to use me to garner attention from the ladies back home,” you said, rolling your eyes at the memory of his mischievous schemes.

Merek’s laughter, rich and warm, filled the room as he gave a slight bow, his expression a mix of amusement and affection. “Guilty as charged,” he admitted with a grin that spoke of shared secrets and familial bonds. His eyes sparkled with a touch of mischief, reflecting the light of the candles that flickered softly around you.

He extended his hand toward you, the gesture both elegant and inviting. “Shall we go?” he asked, his tone light but filled with genuine warmth. You took his hand, feeling the reassuring firmness of his grip. The touch was steady and grounding, and you walked with Merek toward the ballroom.

“House Dayne of Starfall!” The herald's voice rang out through the great hall, carrying the announcement with a resounding clarity that cut through the low hum of conversation.

You and Merek descended the sweeping marble steps, each step echoing softly on the polished stone. The grandeur of the hall was a feast for the senses: the air was rich with the aroma of roasted meats and spiced wines, and the flicker of countless candles cast dancing shadows upon the walls.

As you approached the King and his family. King Viserys sat at the head of the long, ornately decorated table, his presence commanding and regal. Princess Rhaenyra, elegant in her black and red dress which was adorned with golden embroidery, flanked him with a poised grace. They were the focal point of the room, and the murmurs of the assembled guests fell into an expectant hush as you and Merek presented yourselves.

You executed a deep curtsy, the layers of your amethyst gown swirling around you like a cascade of twilight stars. Merek followed with a respectful bow, his demeanor both polished and genuine. “Thank you for inviting us to such a grand event, Your Grace,” Merek said, his voice carrying the appropriate blend of formality and warmth. “House Dayne wishes good fortune upon Prince Jacaerys.”

King Viserys acknowledged the greeting with a nod, his expression a blend of courtesy and benevolence. Princess Rhaenyra offered a smile, her eyes reflecting a hint of the pride she must have felt for her son. The air around the high table was thick with the scent of rich wines and the subtle perfume of royal guests.

You scanned the hall, noting with a slight frown that Jacaerys was not yet present. The feast, being held in his honor, seemed incomplete without him. Perhaps he would make his appearance once all the guests had arrived and settled.

As your gaze swept across the high table, you caught sight of a familiar figure. Lucerys, sitting at one end of the table, waved enthusiastically in your direction. His smile was bright and genuine, and he mouthed something you could just make out through the distance and the murmurs of the crowd:

“You look very pretty.”

King Viserys's voice carried through the vast, candle-lit hall, his words imbued with the gravitas of his position and the warmth of his intentions. “We are most honored to have House Dayne present on my grandson’s eighth name day,” he declared, his gaze sweeping over the room with a paternal pride.

“It fills me with joy to witness that the relations of the Seven Kingdoms and Dorne are healing after many years of conflict. This bodes well for a new era of peace and unity.” His statement was met with nods of approval from many, the atmosphere charged with a sense of hope and renewal.

The King’s eyes then settled on you with a glimmer of mischief and expectation, as if he were a stage player delivering his lines with deliberate effect. “And perhaps in the future, House Targaryen and House Dayne will develop a closer relation as well.”

The air in the Throne Room grew thick with tension as his words hung in the air. The room fell into a hushed silence, broken only by the faint rustle of fabric and the clinking of glasses. Queen Alicent's posture stiffened noticeably, her face a mask of barely concealed displeasure. Her fingers, clasped around her wine goblet, tightened until her knuckles were white.

You and Merek stood at the center of this charged moment, caught in the spotlight of royal intentions. The weight of the King’s words pressed down upon you, making the room feel both grand and claustrophobic. Merek’s face was a study in surprise and discomfort, his usually composed demeanor momentarily faltering. He glanced at you, a mix of concern and confusion in his eyes, recognizing the gravity of what the King had implied.

Merek had always been aware of your growing friendship with Jacaerys, but he had dismissed any notion of significance, considering it a mere product of youthful camaraderie. The sudden shift in royal discourse, however, made the possibility of a betrothal not just plausible but imminent.

You shifted slightly, trying to process the implications of the King's words amidst the stifling atmosphere. The murmur of the nobles, who had resumed their conversations with a blend of curiosity and speculation, served as a backdrop to your introspection.

To spare you from the growing discomfort, Princess Rhaenyra's voice cut through the silence with the practiced ease of someone well-versed in courtly charm. “What a beautiful dress you’re wearing, Lady Dayne,” she remarked, her words laced with genuine warmth. Her gaze swept over your gown, the amethyst fabric shimmering in the flickering candlelight.

Her smile was gracious, her tone kind, but as her eyes met yours, you detected something just beneath the surface—something that made your heart quicken in unease. It was subtle, the way her lips curved ever so slightly, a hint of amusement or perhaps knowing.

You couldn't quite place it, but an inkling tugged at your thoughts, as if she were privy to something you were not. The murmur of the court continued around you, but in that moment, it felt as though the world had narrowed to just you and Rhaenyra. Her eyes, sharp and watchful, lingered for a heartbeat too long.

Swallowing your sudden apprehension, you placed a hand over your heart, the weight of the dress grounding you in its luxurious folds. “You are far too kind, Princess,” you replied with a humble nod, your voice steady though your mind raced.

For a fleeting moment, you wondered if Rhaenyra knew more than she let on—about the King's earlier words, about your growing friendship with Jacaerys, about... something. But just as quickly as the thought appeared, you brushed it aside. You were overthinking, surely. This was a feast, a celebration, and Rhaenyra’s compliment was nothing more than that—a simple, well-meaning gesture.

You straightened your spine, forcing a smile to your lips, but the air felt heavier now, every glance and word weighed with unspoken meaning. Merek gave a slight nod, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, and guided you toward your seats. You moved gracefully, though the subtle tension in your limbs betrayed your inner unease.

As you settled into your place, the herald continued announcing house after house. The lords and ladies of the Crownlands came first, draped in rich velvets and brocades, their sigils gleaming in the firelight. They made their bows and curtsies to the King, offering blessings to Prince Jacaerys. The Stormlanders followed, their appearance more rugged, though no less proud, each house carrying the weight of their legacy with them.

You watched it all with a detached fascination, though your mind drifted in and out of the ceremony. The colors and crests blurred together—the bold gold of the Westerlands, the deep reds of the Riverlands, the cool grays and blues of the Vale. Their words all echoed the same formality, their faces wearing masks of courtesy and ambition.

Merek leaned toward you slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Sister, feign indifference." His gaze met yours, cautious yet reassuring, a silent warning beneath his words. The ripple caused by King Viserys' statement had drawn too many curious eyes in your direction, some filled with intrigue, others with calculation.

You inhaled deeply, steadying yourself. Merek’s advice was not just a brother's concern; it was a shield, a reminder that in a room full of powerful families, every glance could hold hidden intent. You kept your posture relaxed, offering only polite smiles and nods, though you could feel the weight of those watching, assessing.

The laughter and chatter of the hall seemed distant now, muffled under the heavy awareness that hung in the air. You could sense Queen Alicent's gaze linger longer than most, the sharpness in her eyes unmistakable even across the room. Rhaenyra, too, was watching, though her expression was softer, unreadable.

You turned your head slightly, pretending to admire the tapestries along the walls, letting your indifference show. “I suppose I’ll have to get used to that,” you muttered under your breath, just loud enough for Merek to hear. His hand briefly touched your arm, a silent gesture of support.

“You will,” he said quietly, his tone steady. “But not alone.” The clink of goblets, the murmur of voices, and the soft shuffle of gowns and cloaks filled the silence between you.

The trumpets blared, their sharp notes cutting through the murmur of the hall, and in an instant, every noble rose from their seats, the rustle of silks and velvets filling the space. The drums followed a deep, rhythmic pulse that echoed through the corridors of the Red Keep, reverberating in your chest.

You stood with Merek, your gaze drawn toward the grand entrance where the music seemed to crescendo. Every eye was fixed on the doorway, the anticipation in the room palpable. The air felt charged, thick with expectation. The banners of House Targaryen, crimson and black, fluttered above, their three-headed dragon catching the candlelight.

Whispers surged through the crowd like the distant rumble of a coming storm as the heavy wooden doors groaned open. All eyes turned, the once-muted conversations now reduced to anxious breaths and darting glances. You couldn’t help but fiddle with the hem of your dress, the amethyst fabric slipping between your fingers as the herald stepped forward, clearing his throat with a cough that echoed in the vast hall.

“Announcing!” The herald’s voice rang out, cutting through the tension like a blade through silk. His chest swelled as he prepared to speak, and you could feel the weight of the moment pressing down upon you. The gathering stilled, every noble straining to hear.

“Prince Jacaerys Velaryon of House Targaryen!”

The announcement reverberated across the Throne Room, and for a heartbeat, time seemed to hang suspended. Your gaze, like everyone else’s, was fixed on the grand doorway. The flickering torchlight illuminated the dark hall beyond, casting long shadows as Prince Jacaerys stepped into view.

Jacaerys moved with a grace beyond his years, the poised elegance of a prince who bore the weight of legacy with every step. His cloak billowed behind him, the silver dragon of House Targaryen intertwined with the seahorse of House Velaryon, the sigils catching the light and drawing the eye.

But it wasn’t the familiar black and red of his Targaryen blood, nor the silver and sea green of Velaryon that stirred the crowd.

There were whispers, soft at first, then rising like the hum of bees in the summer air. A few gasps punctuated the silence that followed. Your breath caught in your throat as you noticed it too. His doublet wasn’t the colors of his houses.

It wasn’t black.

It wasn��t red

It wasn’t silver or sea green.

It was…

“Amethyst.”

The same shade as the gown you were wearing.

Your heart skipped a beat as realization struck. This was no coincidence. The entire room seemed to hold its breath, watching you, then him, then back to you. Eyes darted from noble to noble, trying to read into the meaning of it all. Even Merek, standing rigid beside you, couldn’t conceal his confusion. You could feel the weight of a hundred questions without a single word being spoken.

If you and Merek had seemed a coordinated pair, then you and Jacaerys were two gloves of the same hand. The deep amethyst of his doublet mirrored your gown so precisely that it felt intentional—no, it was intentional. The shimmering stones in your skirt caught the light just as the embroidery on his chest did, as if you were meant to stand beside him, not apart.

The whispers grew louder now, like ripples spreading across a still pond, each one carrying more weight than the last. You could feel the eyes of the room shifting between you and Jacaerys, reading into every stitch, every thread of your matching attire. Even the King’s earlier remark about future ties between House Targaryen and House Dayne suddenly felt less like idle conversation and more like an unspoken declaration.

Merek stiffened beside you, his fingers tightening into a fist. He leaned closer, his voice a low murmur. “What game is this, sister?” But you had no answer, only a growing sense that the night had been carefully orchestrated, and you were unwittingly part of its grand design.

King Viserys stood, his commanding presence drawing all eyes to him. The room fell into a heavy silence as he raised a goblet, its ornate surface catching the flickering light of the chandeliers. His voice, though softened by age, carried the weight of authority and warmth.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the court, esteemed guests from every corner of the realm,” Viserys began, his gaze sweeping across the gathered nobility.

Viserys raised his goblet higher, his expression one of pride and hope. “Let us toast to Prince Jacaerys. May he grow in wisdom and strength, and may his future be as bright and illustrious as the stars that grace the night sky.”

At his signal, the herald called out, “To Prince Jacaerys Velaryon!” The guests rose, their voices joining in a chorus of toasts and cheers. The clamor of glasses clinking together rang out like a joyful symphony, mingling with the soft rustling of fabric and the low hum of conversation.

The room’s applause swelled and reverberated like the roar of a distant sea, its waves crashing against the walls and echoing through the hall. You took a delicate sip of your apple cider, its cool sweetness offering a brief respite from the charged atmosphere. The music began, a stately melody drifting through the air like a gentle breeze.

From across the room, you caught Jacaerys’ gaze. Rising gracefully from his seat, he made his way towards you, each step deliberate and assured. His cloak, adorned with the intricate sigils of Targaryen and Velaryon, seemed to flow behind him like a river of dark velvet.

You could feel the weight of the room’s collective gaze upon you, the air thick with expectation. Jacaerys’ approach was like a beacon cutting through the murky sea of guests, drawing all eyes toward the center of the hall where the dance floor awaited.

As he reached you, Jacaerys offered a courteous bow, his hand extended in a gesture both refined and familiar. His smile was warm, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of the tension he carried from the evening’s earlier events. “My Lady,” he said, his voice carrying a note of earnest charm,

“May I have the honor of this dance?”

You placed your hand in his with a nod, feeling the firm yet gentle grasp of his fingers. The touch sent a pleasant shiver through you, a stark contrast to the chill of the cider still lingering on your lips. The music swelled, and Jacaerys guided you onto the dance floor.

As you moved in time with the rhythm, the world around you seemed to blur, leaving just the two of you amidst the swirl of melodies and the gentle rustle of your gowns. The tension of the evening gave way to a moment of shared grace. Jacaerys’s movements were fluid, his steps precise and confident as he led you through the dance.

Every glance and touch felt magnified, the connection between you both seeming to bridge the space between the grandiosity of the feast and the personal intimacy of the dance. The dance floor was bathed in the soft glow of chandeliers, casting a golden hue over the scene. The scent of roses and polished wood mingled in the air, heightening the sensory experience.

As you twirled and swayed, the music swelled to its crescendo, the notes wrapping around you like a cocoon. For a brief, timeless moment, you were no longer a guest at a grand feast, but simply two young souls enjoying the delicate art of the dance.

Jacaerys led you into a graceful turn, his hand steady on your waist as the music lifted and carried you both across the polished floor. The swirl of your gown, with its amethyst hues catching the light, mirrored the soft shimmer of his doublet. It felt as though you were two stars orbiting within the same celestial dance, perfectly in sync.

Around you, the room blurred into a haze of vibrant silks and whispering nobles, but all you could focus on was the rhythm beneath your feet and the steady beat of Jacaerys’s presence. His feet were careful but uncertain, his gaze focused on the floor more than on you, as if he feared stepping on your toes.

You tried to ease the tension by smiling at him, your own movements light and practiced. “You’re doing fine,” you whispered, your voice soft with reassurance.

Jacaerys glanced up at you briefly, a flicker of a smile crossing his face before he looked down again. “I’m trying not to trip,” he admitted, the slightest hint of embarrassment in his tone.

You stifled a small laugh, squeezing his hand gently. “You’re doing much better than the last time we danced. Remember? You stepped on my foot, and we both fell into the fountain.”

A grin tugged at Jacaerys’s lips, his confidence boosted by the memory. “I’m trying to forget that part.”

The music swelled, and you guided him into a simple turn, your movements practiced and sure. Around you, the hall seemed to melt away—draped banners of black, red, and green blurring into the background. The curious eyes of the nobles seated at the tables were far less intimidating when you focused only on the dance.

For a moment, Jacaerys looked up, meeting your gaze properly. His smile was softer now, more genuine, as if he felt a little less burdened by the expectations of the night. “You look really nice,” he blurted out, his face turning a little red as soon as the words left his mouth. “I mean—your dress.”

“Was it your idea to match?” you asked, still perplexed as to why Jacaerys had chosen to wear colors so starkly different from the usual Targaryen black and red or Velaryon silver and sea green. The deep amethyst of his doublet mirrored your gown in an almost uncanny way, as though the two of you had been planned as a pair for the evening.

Jacaerys, cheeks flushed from the dance and the weight of so many eyes on him, shook his head. He glanced subtly toward the high table where his mother sat, watching you both with an approving smile. “It was Mother’s idea,” he admitted quietly, as if sharing a secret.

His hands found yours again, guiding you through another slow turn. “She said it would... 'symbolize unity,'” he added, though his tone suggested he wasn’t fully sure what that meant. “Besides, why do you think Sienna was brought into your service?”

The name caught you off guard, but the memory clicked into place—the handmaid who had been brought to your side by none other than Princess Rhaenyra herself. You hadn’t questioned it at the time, thinking it a gesture of kindness, but now you felt a different kind of unease creeping into your mind.

Your brows furrowed, and you nearly missed a step in the dance. “Her Highness arranged for Sienna?” The realization was unsettling. The Princess had always been kind, treating you with warmth whenever you came to the Red Keep, but there was something unnerving in the way Jacaerys said it now—something that suggested this was more than a mere gesture of friendship.

Jacaerys, noticing your brief stumble, steadied you with a firm hand on your waist. His expression was a mixture of concern and a boyish pride that he could guide you, even in this moment of awkward revelation. “To aid you, of course,” he said. “Mother thinks of you often... more than you might realize.”

You blinked, your mind racing. Was this part of a larger plan? Rhaenyra had always been politically astute, and House Dayne’s ties to Dorne made you valuable. Where you really being played with?

The final notes of the song echoed through the hall as Jacaerys gently led you through the last steps of the dance. His hand, warm against your waist, guided you effortlessly, though both of you were still weighed down by the silent undercurrents of your conversation. You curtsied as the music drew to a close, your heart pounding not from exertion, but from the implications of everything you had just heard.

Jacaerys released your hand with a graceful bow, a fleeting smile playing on his lips, though his eyes still carried that guarded, knowing look. “You danced beautifully,” he said, his voice soft, though his words felt like they were trying to patch over something much larger.

You nodded in return, trying to ignore the way your mind kept circling back to his earlier comment. "As did you, my Prince," you replied, falling into formality as you curtsied again, your gown swaying gently around your legs.

Before you could exchange another word, more children began to gather on the dance floor, their laughter breaking the tension. Lucerys, grinning widely, bounded forward, pulling a reluctant Baela along with him. "Come on!" he called to Jacaerys, eyes sparkling with excitement. “Don’t leave me out here alone!”

The sight of Lucerys, eager and carefree, brought some levity to the moment. Jacaerys chuckled, glancing at you as if to say duty calls, before stepping toward his brother. You followed suit, grateful for the distraction. The herald announced the next song, and soon the hall filled with the sound of flutes and harps, their light, playful melody coaxing more of the noble children from their seats.

Children from the noble houses of Westeros—Baratheons, Lannisters, Masseys, and even a few other minor houses—joined in, their laughter a strong disparity to the silent, watchful eyes of their parents at the tables. You soon found yourself spinning and twirling with other children as the music picked up pace.

The significance of the earlier conversation, the tension at the high table, even the calculating stares from the adults, faded away, replaced by the giddy rush of movement. Your feet slid effortlessly across the smooth stone floor, your gown billowing around you as you spun with one child and then another.

You twirled once more, the world around you spun in a blur of colors—golden candlelight, shimmering silks, and the vibrant tapestries that adorned the walls. Yet, even in the midst of this joyful dance, you couldn’t shake the lingering feeling that something larger was at play. It clung to the edges of the evening like a shadow, always there, just out of sight.

You cast a glance toward the high table where Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra sat, their eyes following the movements of their children—of you.

The music continued, the rhythm shifting to a slower, more deliberate pace, the laughter and chatter of the children softened, replaced by quieter movements and more formal steps. You had just caught your breath when a figure approached from the side, moving with a grace and purpose that immediately drew the attention of everyone around.

Aemond, his champagne blonde with silver frost hair catching the candlelight, stepped forward. His presence commanded silence, the playful energy in the room instantly shifting to something more subdued. He was taller than most boys his age, with an intense gaze that made him seem older than his years.

He stopped in front of you, bowing with an elegance that felt rehearsed, but there was something genuine in the way he extended his hand. “May I have this dance, Lady Dayne?” His voice was soft, smooth, his eyes narrowing at a certain direction behind you.

You hesitated for only a moment, your eyes flicking to where he was looking only to find Jacaerys standing there, his face unreadable, though his jaw clenched slightly as he watched. But there was no reason to refuse—Aemond was a prince after all, and you knew it would be improper to deny his request.

You nodded, placing your hand in his. “Of course, Prince Aemond.”

The music swelled around you, soft and flowing, as Aemond expertly guided you into the steps of the dance. His gaze never wavered, watching you closely as if weighing his next words carefully. “You’ve become quite the centerpiece of tonight’s festivities,” he remarked quietly, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

“The colors you and Jacaerys wore have not gone unnoticed.” His hand rested lightly at your waist as he guided you through the steps, his touch careful, though his posture was rigid, controlled.

You glanced at him, unsure of his intentions. There was a weight to his words, a subtle hint of something more beneath the surface. “It was a surprise to me as well,” you replied cautiously, keeping your tone neutral. “His mother arranged it.”

Aemond nodded, his expression unreadable as he spun you in a graceful turn. “It seems there are many surprises in store tonight. I wonder how many of them were planned without your knowledge.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, sensing that his comment held more meaning than simple small talk. He had always been an observant boy, more reserved than the others, and his words often carried an edge of insight beyond his years.

The two of you danced in silence for a moment, the music filling the space between you, before Aemond spoke again. “It is rare for someone from Dorne to be invited to such a grand feast. I imagine your presence here is... significant.”

You felt a shiver run down your spine, though you weren’t sure why. The Targaryens were a powerful family, but Aemond’s words carried a weight that suggested he was offering more than mere conversation. “I suppose that’s for my older brother to know,” you said carefully, trying to deflect his probing. “I am here only to enjoy the festivities.”

Aemond’s smile tightened slightly, though his eyes never left yours. “And yet, I find myself curious. House Dayne holds great influence in Dorne. Perhaps, in time, your presence could sway more than just the opinions of the court here.”

You blinked, surprised by his candor. Was he truly suggesting what you thought? Aemond’s hand on your waist tightened ever so slightly as he led you into another turn, his voice dropping to a whisper. “There is strength in aligning oneself with the right people, Lady Dayne. The Greens have long valued loyalty, and we reward those who stand with us.”

The implication hung heavy in the air, and you struggled to keep your expression neutral. Aemond was not just offering friendship—he was subtly suggesting something far deeper. The Greens, led by Queen Alicent, were vying for influence against Princess Rhaenyra and her supporters, the Blacks. His offer, veiled as it was, spoke volumes.

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his words settle over you like a cloak. “You speak of alliances,” you said quietly, meeting his gaze. “And yet, I am but a girl from Dorne.”

Aemond tilted his head, a small smirk playing on his lips. “A girl from Dorne, yes. But a girl who is clever, who understands more than she lets on.” His tone softened slightly, almost... earnest. “Perhaps we could be friends, Lady Dayne. I would value that greatly.”

Before you could respond, the dance came to an end, the music fading as the other children returned to the floor. Aemond released your hand with a formal bow, but his eyes lingered on yours for a moment longer, his meaning clear even if unspoken.

You opened your mouth to reply, but before you could say anything, Jacaerys was at your side, his expression darkening as he stepped between you and Aemond. “I believe this is where we part ways, Uncle,” Jacaerys said, his voice cool, though there was an undercurrent of tension that was hard to miss.

Aemond regarded his nephew with a quiet smirk, unruffled by the interruption. “Of course, my Prince,” he said smoothly, inclining his head. “I wouldn’t dream of keeping Lady Dayne all to myself.”

Without another word, Aemond turned and walked away, his figure disappearing into the crowd of dancers. You could still feel the lingering weight of his words, and Jacaerys’ sudden presence beside you only heightened the tension.

“Are you alright?” Jacaerys asked, his voice softer now, though there was a flicker of jealousy in his eyes. His hands, still warm from the previous dance, hovered protectively near your own, as if to remind you of where your loyalties should lie.

You nodded, though your thoughts were far from settled. “Yes,” you replied, offering a smile to reassure him. “Just a dance.” But even as you said it, you knew that Aemond’s words would stay with you long after the music ended.

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novaursa · 19 days

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The Dragon's Right (5)

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

- Paring: male!targ/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Note: For all previous chapters, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top. The Faith of the Seven works a little differently here, and they never fully accepted brother-sister marriages. Trust the process.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 8 000+

- Previous part: 4

- Next part: 6

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The morning light filtered through the tall windows of the Red Keep, as Rhaenyra walked the familiar corridors, her steps light and purposeful. The castle was already bustling with the day’s activities, courtiers and servants moving through the halls, each engaged in their own tasks. But despite the steady hum of the Keep, Rhaenyra felt a sense of calm as she made her way toward the Great Hall, her newly appointed protector, Ser Criston Cole, trailing a few steps behind her.

Ser Criston’s presence was still new, but it was a welcome one. There was a quiet confidence about him, a sense of reliability that Rhaenyra appreciated. She had chosen him herself, after all, and she felt a certain pride in that decision. The Kingsguard had always been composed of men of noble birth, but Ser Criston was different—he was a man who had proven himself in battle, a man who understood the realities of war and loyalty.

As they walked, Rhaenyra was lost in thought, her mind occupied with the matters she was expected to attend to that day. But her thoughts were interrupted when she caught sight of a familiar figure coming down the hall toward her, his presence instantly commanding attention. It was you, her brother, and the sight of you brought an immediate smile to her face.

"Brother!" Rhaenyra called out, her voice bright with warmth as she quickened her pace to meet you.

You smiled as you approached, your demeanor relaxed but with that ever-present air of responsibility that seemed to follow you everywhere. You were on your way to the training yard, where your presence was often required, but the sight of your sister brought a welcome distraction.

"Rhaenyra," you greeted her warmly, stopping in your tracks as she came to stand before you. "I see you’re off to attend to courtly matters. Hopefully nothing too tedious?"

Rhaenyra chuckled softly, shaking her head. "I hope not, though you know how these things can be. What about you? Off to the training yard to beat sense into some poor squire?"

"Something like that," you replied with a grin. "But I couldn’t pass by without saying hello."

As you exchanged pleasantries, your gaze shifted to the man standing just behind your sister. Ser Criston Cole stood at attention, his armor polished and gleaming, the white cloak of the Kingsguard draped over his shoulders. Your expression brightened with recognition.

"Ser Criston," you greeted, nodding in acknowledgment. "I see you’ve traded your old armor for the white cloak of the Kingsguard. It suits you."

Ser Criston inclined his head respectfully. "Your Grace," he said, his voice steady. "Thank you. It is an honor to serve."

You nodded, clearly pleased. "You served well under my command, Ser Criston. I haven’t forgotten the skirmish we had on the border near Yronwood. You fought with courage that day, held the line when others might have faltered."

A flicker of surprise crossed Ser Criston’s face, quickly replaced by a look of quiet pride. "Thank you, Your Grace. I’m honored that you remember."

With a final nod, you turned your attention back to your sister, your smile warm and genuine. "Take care, Rhaenyra. I’ll see you at the council later?"

Rhaenyra nodded, her smile lingering. "Of course, Brother. I’ll be there."

With that, you continued down the hall, your guards falling in step behind you. Rhaenyra watched you go, a small smile still playing on her lips. There was something comforting about your presence, a sense of stability that she had always relied on.

As you disappeared around the corner, Ser Criston spoke, his tone thoughtful. "I must admit, Princess, I’m surprised the prince remembered me at all. I was just a foot soldier in that battle, after all."

Rhaenyra turned to face him, her expression soft with understanding. "My brother remembers everyone who served under him, Ser Criston. Whether they’re lords or common soldiers, it doesn’t matter. He values loyalty and bravery above all else."

Ser Criston nodded, though his expression remained contemplative. "It’s just that… it’s one thing to remember the sons of important lords or famous commanders. But for him to recall a mere foot soldier like myself… it means a great deal."

Rhaenyra smiled, her admiration for you evident in her eyes. "That’s who my brother is, Ser Criston. He doesn’t see people as just titles or ranks. To him, every man who fights for his family and his realm is worthy of respect."

Ser Criston’s gaze shifted downward, his thoughts clearly turning inward. He had seen many lords and commanders throughout his years of service, but few had ever treated him with the kind of respect and recognition that you had just shown. It was a humbling experience, and it only solidified his resolve to serve the Targaryen family with all the honor he could muster.

Rhaenyra noticed the introspective look on Ser Criston’s face and decided to lighten the mood. "Come now, Ser Criston," she said, her tone playful. "Let’s not dwell on the past too much. We have matters to attend to, and I’m sure there will be plenty of time for reflection later."

Ser Criston looked up, a faint smile crossing his lips. "Of course, Princess. Lead the way."

The training yard of the Red Keep was alive with the sounds of clashing swords and the grunts of exertion as new recruits tested their mettle against seasoned trainers. You stood at the edge of the yard, your arms crossed over your chest as you observed the proceedings with a critical eye. The morning sun was climbing higher in the sky, but you were focused on the work at hand.

The recruits were a mix of eager young men and more experienced soldiers looking to hone their skills further. As the prince, you had taken it upon yourself to oversee their training whenever you could, ensuring that the men who served your house were of the highest caliber. You had been through enough battles to know that preparation was everything, and you took your responsibility seriously.

You watched as one of the trainers—a burly man with a weathered face and a scar running down his cheek—barked orders at a pair of recruits who were sparring with wooden swords. The younger of the two was struggling to keep up, his movements clumsy and unsure. You frowned slightly, making a mental note to spend some time with him later, to help him refine his technique.

As you continued to observe, your thoughts briefly drifted to the conversation you’d had with Daemon the night before. His words about taking control of your own fate had resonated with you, and though you had pushed them to the back of your mind to focus on the day’s duties, they lingered like a shadow, waiting to be addressed.

Meanwhile, not far from the training yard, Alicent Hightower walked alongside her brother Gwayne, the two of them making their way toward the gates of the Red Keep. Gwayne was set to return to Oldtown, and Alicent had insisted on seeing him off, a quiet farewell before he departed.

As they walked, Alicent’s eyes kept drifting to the side, stealing quick glances at you as you oversaw the training. The distance between you and her was enough that you likely didn’t notice, but Gwayne certainly did. He had always been protective of his sister, and he was keenly aware of the pressure their father placed on her to secure the favor of the Targaryen prince.

Gwayne’s gaze flicked between his sister and you, his expression growing thoughtful. After a moment, he cleared his throat, drawing Alicent’s attention back to him. "Alicent," he began, his tone carefully neutral, "is this something Father wants… or something you want?"

Alicent felt a flush of warmth rise to her cheeks, the question catching her off guard. She had known Gwayne would notice, but she hadn’t expected him to be so direct. She hesitated, searching for the right words, but the truth was more complicated than she wanted to admit.

"It’s… both," she finally admitted, her voice soft. "Father has his plans, and I understand what’s expected of me. But it’s also something I feel I have to do. For our family."

Gwayne sighed, his expression tightening with concern. "Alicent, you know how these things can go. Court life is dangerous, and playing with the affections of a prince—especially one like Y/N—is no small matter. You need to be careful."

Alicent looked down, her hands clasped in front of her as they walked. "I know, Gwayne. But what choice do I have? Father has made it clear what he expects, and if I don’t at least try…"

Gwayne stopped, turning to face her fully. "You’re more than just a pawn in Father’s game, Alicent. Don’t lose sight of that. The prince may be noble, but he’s also burdened by his own duties and expectations. If you get too close… if things don’t go as Father hopes…"

Alicent met her brother’s gaze, her eyes filled with uncertainty. "I understand the risks, Gwayne. But I have to do what I can for our family. It’s what’s expected of me."

Gwayne’s expression softened, and he reached out to gently squeeze her shoulder. "Just promise me you’ll be careful, Alicent. Don’t let Father’s ambitions blind you to your own happiness."

Alicent nodded, offering him a small, strained smile. "I promise."

With that, they continued their walk to the gates, Gwayne’s concern lingering in the air between them. Alicent’s thoughts were a jumble of uncertainty and duty as she glanced back toward the training yard one last time before they reached the gates. You were still there, focused on your responsibilities, seemingly unaware of the silent turmoil playing out in the hearts of those around you.

As Gwayne mounted his horse and prepared to depart, he looked down at his sister with a final, reassuring smile. "Take care of yourself, Alicent. I’ll see you soon."

Alicent nodded, watching as he rode away, the weight of his words and the pressure of her father’s expectations heavy on her shoulders.

The air in your chambers was stifling, despite the late afternoon breeze drifting in through the open window. You had been pacing for what felt like hours, your mind restless and unsettled. The allure of flight was strong, and the thought of taking to the skies on Silverwing, leaving behind the heavy stone walls of the Red Keep, was becoming harder to resist. You longed for the freedom that only a dragon’s wings could bring, the vast expanse of the sky where no courtly intrigue or whispered plots could reach you.

As you stood by the window, your gaze drifting out toward the horizon, the quiet knock on the door pulled you from your thoughts. A moment later, Ser Harrold’s voice came through the heavy wooden door.

"Your Grace, Lady Alicent Hightower seeks an audience with you."

You turned, surprised by the announcement. Alicent had rarely sought you out on her own, and while you had nothing against her, you couldn’t shake the suspicion that her presence here was likely on her father’s orders rather than of her own accord.

"Let her in," you said, your voice calm but tinged with curiosity.

The door opened, and Alicent entered the room, her steps measured and graceful as always. She was dressed impeccably, as befitted a lady of her station, her hands clasped in front of her as she approached. Her expression was polite, though there was a flicker of something uncertain in her eyes as she met your gaze.

"Your Grace," she greeted you with a slight curtsy. "I hope I am not disturbing you."

You shook your head, though the truth was you had been yearning for solitude. Still, you motioned for her to come further into the room. "No disturbance at all, Lady Alicent," you replied, keeping your tone neutral. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

Alicent hesitated for a moment, as if choosing her words carefully. "I’ve come to relay a message on behalf of my father, the Hand of the King." Her voice was steady, though you detected the underlying sense of duty that drove her. "He wished to discuss the upcoming negotiations with the Free Cities and thought it would be prudent if you were present at the council. He believes your insight would be invaluable."

You nodded, unsurprised. Otto Hightower had always been a man of strategy, constantly maneuvering the pieces of the court to his advantage. It made sense that he would want you involved in such discussions, especially with the growing tensions beyond the Narrow Sea. But still, the thought of another meeting in the council chambers filled you with a sense of unease. The court had never felt like your place, not the way it did for your father or for men like Otto.

"I’ll attend," you said simply, your voice betraying little emotion. "Tell your father he needn’t worry."

Alicent inclined her head in acknowledgment, though she lingered for a moment longer, her eyes scanning your face before settling on your expression. You felt her gaze, and after a brief pause, she spoke again, this time more softly.

"You look… tired, Your Grace."

The comment caught you off guard, and for a moment, you weren’t sure how to respond. You studied her, trying to gauge her intentions. There was nothing malicious in her words, no hidden barbs. If anything, she seemed genuinely concerned.

You exhaled softly, the weight of the Red Keep’s walls pressing in on you once more. "The Red Keep has that effect on me," you admitted, your voice quieter now. "I’ve never been one for court life. My father thrives in it, but I… I feel trapped here. Agitated. Like I’m not meant for this."

Alicent listened intently, her hands still folded in front of her as she took a step closer. "I don’t think you give yourself enough credit, Your Grace," she said gently. "The courtiers speak highly of you. They respect you, and many admire the way you carry yourself."

You smiled faintly, though there was a touch of weariness in the gesture. "Perhaps. But I feel more at ease with a sword in my hand than I ever do in the council chambers. Politics, alliances, all of it—it’s like fighting a battle without ever knowing who the real enemy is."

Alicent seemed to ponder your words for a moment before speaking again, her tone still measured. "That’s exactly why your presence is so important, Your Grace. You bring a sense of stability, a strength that many in the court lack. Your uncle Daemon, as skilled as he is, doesn’t have the same restraint. Your father relies on you more than you may realize."

You considered her words, but even as she spoke, you could feel the gulf between the two of you. Alicent was polite, always diplomatic in her conversations, but there was something distant about it. Her attempts to engage you, to compliment you, felt more like duty than genuine interest, much like this visit itself.

You nodded, acknowledging her point. "I understand the necessity of my role, Lady Alicent. But that doesn’t mean I enjoy it."

The conversation drifted into a more comfortable silence, though Alicent still seemed to linger, her eyes searching your face as if trying to find some way to connect. But despite her efforts, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this was all part of her father’s plan, that she was here not because she wanted to be, but because it was expected of her.

Finally, sensing that her attempts were making little headway, Alicent straightened her posture slightly, preparing to take her leave. "Well, I won’t keep you any longer, Your Grace," she said, her tone still courteous but tinged with a hint of disappointment. "Thank you for your time."

You offered her a polite nod. "Thank you for relaying your father’s message, Lady Alicent. And for your… kind words."

Alicent gave you one last curtsy before turning to leave, her expression unreadable as she made her way toward the door. As she stepped out of the chamber, you found yourself alone once more, the brief interaction already fading from your mind.

For a moment, you stood there, gazing out of the window once again. The Red Keep felt more suffocating than ever, its walls closing in around you. The thought of escaping to the skies on Silverwing grew stronger, the urge to leave the court behind for a time nearly overwhelming.

You sighed, shaking your head slightly. Alicent had been polite, even complimentary, but there was no spark of connection, no real interest that went beyond the surface of courtly duty. She, like so many others, was part of the world that you struggled to navigate—a world where words were often more dangerous than swords, and where alliances were forged not in battle, but in whispered conversations behind closed doors.

As the door closed behind her, you felt a sense of relief but also a lingering sense of frustration. Whatever her intentions had been, the conversation had left you feeling more disconnected than before, a reminder that the court was not a place where you could truly be yourself.

The decision to leave for the Dragonpit was made the moment you closed the door behind Alicent. The walls of the Red Keep felt too close, the weight of your duty pressing down on your shoulders. The pull of Silverwing, the freedom of the skies, was irresistible. You were halfway to the door, ready to escape the stifling atmosphere of your chambers, when the sound of the door opening again stopped you in your tracks.

Rhaenyra entered, her eyes immediately locking onto you. She seemed amused, a mischievous smile playing on her lips as she observed your state of readiness to flee.

"Planning a great escape, brother?" she asked, arching an eyebrow as she sauntered into the room and took a seat with casual grace.

You chuckled, leaning back against the edge of the table. "Maybe," you teased. "The Red Keep is starting to feel more like a cage with every passing day. I was just thinking about flying—Silverwing and I, far away from all this."

Rhaenyra smirked. "Always running off to your dragon. What would Father say?"

You shrugged, a grin tugging at your lips. "Father would say what he always does—something about duty, responsibility, and how I should learn to enjoy the trappings of court life."

Rhaenyra laughed softly but then noticed the contemplative look in your eyes. She leaned forward, curious. "What’s really bothering you? It’s not just court."

You hesitated for a moment before deciding to mention it. "Your friend Alicent was here, a few moments ago."

At that, Rhaenyra’s amusement vanished. Her head snapped up, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Alicent? What did she want?"

You raised an eyebrow at her sudden change in demeanor. "She came to deliver a message from her father, about a matter in the council. Something to do with the Free Cities."

Rhaenyra’s annoyance deepened, and she crossed her arms, clearly irritated. Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Of course she did. She’s always doing her father’s bidding," she muttered, more to herself than to you. She shifted in her seat, a flicker of frustration crossing her features. "I’ll need to speak to her about this later."

You sensed that her frustration with Alicent ran deeper than just the message. It was something about the way she had reacted—how quickly her mood had soured at the mention of Alicent’s name. Still, you decided to change the subject.

"Speaking of Father," you began, leaning back slightly, "he’s been pushing me lately. Urging me to find a wife."

Rhaenyra’s expression changed in an instant. Where there had been annoyance moments ago, now there was something much sharper, more intense. Her lips parted slightly, and a flicker of unexpected anger flashed in her violet eyes.

"Father’s pressuring you to marry?" she asked, her voice low, almost as if the idea itself was a threat.

You noticed the shift in her tone, and you sighed inwardly, knowing this conversation was heading into dangerous waters. "Yes, he thinks it’s time I consider it. He’s worried about securing alliances through marriage, the usual concerns of the crown."

Rhaenyra stood up abruptly, her annoyance boiling over into outright protest. "But you can’t marry just anyone!" she exclaimed, her voice tinged with something deeper than frustration.

You raised your hands in a placating gesture. "I know, Rhaenyra. But it’s not just me. Father is also feeling the pressure himself to remarry, and…" You paused, watching her closely. "He’s also being pushed to marry you off as well."

Her expression darkened further, and she took a step toward you, her fists clenched at her sides. "I don’t want to marry, Y/N. I have no desire to be some tool in a game of alliances. I belong to myself, not to some lord looking to secure power."

You could see the fire in her eyes, the fierce independence that had always defined her. But you also knew that your father’s worries weren’t so easily dismissed. "Rhaenyra, I understand. Believe me, I do. But Father fears what might happen if we don’t secure ourselves soon. The council’s already pressuring him, and he’s dreading having this conversation with you."

Her eyes flashed with defiance as she stepped closer, her voice rising slightly. "Then I’ll tell him myself. I don’t want to marry anyone, and I refuse to be forced into it."

You sighed, running a hand through your hair, knowing this would not be an easy conversation. "Rhaenyra, I’m not calm about this either. But we both have duties—"

"How can you be so calm about it?" she interrupted, her voice sharp as she moved even closer, her face now only inches from yours. "I know you, Y/N. I know this isn’t what you want. But you’re letting them control you, push you toward something neither of us wants."

You hesitated, unsure how to respond, when her eyes locked onto yours, and her expression shifted. There was something there—something intense and unspoken, lingering between you both since that day in front of the Dragonpit. Rhaenyra’s voice lowered, becoming more intimate, more insistent.

"I know you felt something too, that day," she whispered, her breath warm against your skin. "After our flight, when we nearly…"

She trailed off, but the memory was crystal clear in both your minds. The closeness, the shared moment when the lines between you had blurred. Her words sent a jolt of emotion through you, something you had been trying to suppress for days.

"Rhaenyra," you said softly, trying to steer the conversation away from dangerous territory, "it’s complicated."

But she didn’t relent. Her eyes never left yours as she pressed closer, her voice low and determined. "No, it isn’t. You felt it, just like I did."

Before you could respond, she leaned in, her lips brushing against yours with a boldness that sent your heart racing. You felt her hesitation, but also the certainty behind her actions. When the kiss deepened, you didn’t pull away. The moment lingered, the connection between you undeniable, until finally, you both pulled back, breathless.

Rhaenyra’s eyes were filled with a mixture of relief and longing, and she spoke with quiet conviction. "You can tell Father to wed me to you. In the traditions of our house. It’s what we both want, isn’t it?"

You stared at her, torn between what you felt and what you knew was expected of you. "Rhaenyra," you began, your voice heavy with the weight of duty, "it’s not that simple."

She shook her head, determined. "It is simple. King Jaehaerys married his sister Alysanne, didn’t he? It’s in our blood, in our history."

You sighed again, stepping back slightly to clear your head. "Jaehaerys and Alysanne married in secret, and even then, it was a different time. The Faith might approve now, but Father—and the court—they’ll want to use us for alliances to strengthen the crown."

Rhaenyra’s expression hardened, her defiance unbroken. "Then let them think what they will. I don’t care what they want. I care about what we want."

You could feel the pull of her words, the temptation of a future free from the court’s manipulations, but you knew that your path, and hers, was far more complicated than either of you could admit in that moment.

For now, the decision hung in the air between you, unresolved, as the reality of your positions slowly settled back in.

Rhaenyra sat in her brother's chambers long after he had left for his flight on Silverwing. The tension between them still lingered in the air, and her heart raced in her chest as her mind replayed the kiss over and over. It had been so brief, so unexpected, yet it had ignited something deep inside her—a yearning that felt both familiar and foreign. She had always loved her brother, Y/N, admired him, and looked up to him as a strong, dependable force in her life. He had been her protector, her confidant, the one person she could always trust.

But now, something had shifted. The love she felt for him, once innocent and pure, had taken on a new, more dangerous form. She couldn't deny the physical attraction that had bloomed between them, the pull she felt whenever they were close. It scared her, and yet she couldn't resist it. The kiss they had shared wasn't just a fleeting moment of weakness—it had been something inevitable, something that had been building between them for years.

Rhaenyra stood from her seat, pacing the room as her thoughts tumbled over one another. She could still feel the warmth of his lips on hers, the way his breath had mingled with her own. She had always known she was possessive of him, but now, that possessiveness had taken on a sharper edge. The idea of him marrying anyone else filled her with a jealousy so fierce it was almost painful.

And then there was Alicent.

Rhaenyra's jaw tightened as her thoughts shifted to her so-called friend. Alicent had come to her brother’s chambers—of course, under the guise of delivering her father’s message, but Rhaenyra had seen through it immediately. Alicent had been trying to get close to him, no doubt hoping to secure his attention for herself. The thought made Rhaenyra’s blood boil. How dare Alicent, who had always claimed to be her friend, make such a blatant move behind her back? And her brother, so polite, so unaware of what was happening, had entertained her.

Rhaenyra couldn’t sit still any longer. She needed to confront Alicent, to make her understand that whatever she thought she was doing, it had to stop. Without another thought, she swept out of her brother’s chambers and made her way through the winding halls of the Red Keep, her anger simmering just beneath the surface.

As she walked, her thoughts returned to Y/N. She had felt the way his body had tensed when she kissed him, the hesitation in his response, but he hadn’t pulled away. He had kissed her back, and that gave her all the reason to believe that he felt the same—whether or not he was willing to admit it. They were Targaryens, after all. Their blood was different, their traditions different. She had heard the stories of their ancestors—Jaehaerys and Alysanne, the greatest king and queen Westeros had ever known—who had married each other in secret and ruled side by side. Why couldn’t she and her brother do the same?

But the idea of anyone else—anyone else—trying to steal him away from her was unbearable. And she knew that Alicent, for all her demure politeness, was playing her own game. Rhaenyra would not stand by and let it happen.

She found Alicent in the gardens, sitting quietly beneath a tree, her hands folded neatly in her lap. There was a peacefulness to the scene, but Rhaenyra was anything but calm. Her anger boiled over as she strode toward Alicent, her footsteps loud enough to announce her approach.

Alicent looked up, startled by the sudden appearance of her friend, and immediately sensed the storm brewing in Rhaenyra’s eyes.

"Rhaenyra," Alicent greeted cautiously, standing to meet her. "Is everything all right?"

Rhaenyra didn’t bother with pleasantries as she stormed forward, her eyes blazing with barely contained fury. “Don’t act as if you don’t know,” she snapped, her voice low but laced with venom.

Alicent blinked, genuinely taken aback by the sudden hostility. “I… I don’t understand. What’s wrong?”

Rhaenyra narrowed her eyes, closing the distance between them, her voice dropping to a sharp whisper. “You went to my brother’s chambers.”

Alicent’s face paled slightly, but she tried to hold her ground. “Yes, to deliver my father’s message,” she said, though her tone wavered with uncertainty.

Rhaenyra scoffed, her anger flaring. “Your father’s message?” she echoed mockingly. “That’s what you’re calling it?”

Alicent’s hands tightened in front of her, her composure faltering under the weight of Rhaenyra’s accusations. “I… I was only doing what my father asked of me. I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean to what? Go behind my back? Try to gain my brother’s favor?” Rhaenyra’s voice rose as she stepped closer, her emotions swirling in a chaotic mix of betrayal and possessiveness. “I thought you were my friend, Alicent. But friends don’t do what you did.”

Alicent’s eyes widened, and she took a step back, her voice faltering. “I am your friend, Rhaenyra. You know that. I would never do anything to hurt you.”

Rhaenyra’s fists clenched at her sides as she fought to keep control of the emotions surging within her. The kiss with her brother was still fresh in her mind, but she couldn’t say it, couldn’t let the truth slip out—not yet. “A friend wouldn’t try to worm her way into my brother’s life like this,” Rhaenyra hissed, her anger spilling over. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed what you’ve been doing. The way you look at him. The way you linger when you speak to him.”

Alicent’s expression hardened slightly as she realized where this was coming from. “And what if I do look at him?” she countered, her voice steadying. “He’s a prince, Rhaenyra. You know as well as I do that if he doesn’t choose me, he will choose someone else. He’s the heir to the Iron Throne. It’s his duty to marry, to strengthen his house.”

Rhaenyra felt a flash of unexpected jealousy burn through her chest. She stepped even closer, her voice a dangerous whisper. “I know his duty,” she spat. “I know better than anyone.”

Alicent met her gaze, searching her face for answers, for some understanding of why Rhaenyra was so deeply affected by this. “Then why are you so angry?” Alicent asked, her voice tinged with frustration. “There’s nothing wrong in what I’ve done. Your brother has a responsibility to marry, to secure alliances for the crown. You can’t stop that.”

Rhaenyra’s chest tightened at Alicent’s words, and she nearly let slip the secret she had been holding onto—the kiss, the feelings that had stirred between her and her brother. But she stopped herself just in time, swallowing the confession before it could escape her lips. “You don’t understand,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Alicent’s brow furrowed in confusion, her tone softening. “Then help me understand, Rhaenyra. Why are you so angry? Is it because of me?”

Rhaenyra’s hands trembled at her sides, her emotions spiraling out of control. She couldn’t explain what she was feeling without revealing too much—without revealing the truth about her and her brother. But the thought of Alicent trying to take him from her, trying to gain his favor, made her sick with jealousy.

“You have no idea,” Rhaenyra whispered, her voice breaking slightly. “You don’t know him like I do.”

Alicent, still perplexed, tried to reach out to her friend. “Rhaenyra, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just doing what’s expected of me, the same as you. Your brother is—”

Rhaenyra cut her off, her voice hard again. “My brother will make his own choices. And I’ll make sure he knows what you’ve been doing.”

Alicent’s eyes widened in shock at the veiled threat, her voice trembling. “I’m not trying to steal him from you, Rhaenyra. I—”

Rhaenyra shook her head, her voice cold and final. “Just stay away from him.”

With that, Rhaenyra turned sharply on her heel and stormed away, her heart racing and her mind spinning with a tangle of emotions she couldn’t quite control. The kiss, her jealousy, her anger at Alicent—it was all too much. But what hurt the most was the uncertainty of it all. Her brother hadn’t rejected her kiss, but he hadn’t embraced it fully either. And the thought of him being forced to marry someone else—whether it be Alicent or another noble lady—made her stomach churn.

As she walked through the gardens, her thoughts returned to the moment in front of the Dragonpit, when she and Y/N had been so close to crossing a line that neither of them could come back from. That kiss had awakened something in her—something she had been trying to ignore for so long. She loved him, she had always loved him, but now it was different. Now it was a love that burned with a dangerous intensity, a love that she wasn’t sure she could keep hidden for much longer.

One thing was certain—she would not let anyone, not even Alicent, come between her and her brother.

The sky stretched endlessly above you as Silverwing’s wings beat in steady rhythm, carrying you high above the Red Keep. The wind rushed past, cool against your skin, and the sound of it drowned out everything—every voice, every demand, every burden you carried. Up here, there was no court, no intrigue, no weight of duty pressing down on your shoulders. It was just you and Silverwing, soaring over the vast expanse of Westeros, far from the tangled mess of emotions and expectations below.

But no matter how far you flew, no matter how high you soared, your thoughts couldn’t escape the turmoil inside you.

Rhaenyra.

Her name alone was enough to stir something deep within you, something you had been trying to suppress ever since the moment you left her chambers. The kiss you had shared had ignited a fire between you, one that you had feared for some time. In that fleeting moment, it was as if all the walls you had built, all the careful distance you had maintained, had come crashing down. You had always loved your sister, always admired her strength and spirit, but over the years, that love had grown into something else, something dangerous.

And now… now you couldn’t deny it any longer.

Your grip tightened on the reins as Silverwing dipped lower, gliding gracefully over the hills that stretched beyond King’s Landing. The dragon’s power beneath you was a comforting presence, but it did little to calm the storm of emotions swirling in your chest. The memory of Rhaenyra’s lips against yours haunted you, the way her body had pressed close, her words a whisper between you: "You can wed me. We are Targaryens."

She had said it so easily, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And perhaps for her, it was. You had grown up hearing the stories of Jaehaerys and Alysanne, the dragon-riding king and queen who had been siblings and lovers, ruling together in harmony. But that had been a different time, and even their union had sparked controversy. The Faith had never fully accepted the Targaryen tradition of sibling marriage, and the realm was no longer the same as it had been under Jaehaerys’s rule.

Could you truly wed Rhaenyra? The thought was daunting, and not just because of the moral or political implications. She was your sister, your blood. Yet, when you looked at her, it wasn’t just as a brother looks at his sister. In those three years you had been gone, she had grown into a woman—beautiful, fierce, and full of life. Her presence had always been a comfort to you, but now, it stirred something far more complicated. Something you feared you couldn’t control.

You exhaled sharply, trying to clear your mind as Silverwing carried you higher, the city of King’s Landing growing smaller beneath you. Your father, Viserys, would never approve. That much was certain. Even if the Faith were to tolerate a union between you and Rhaenyra, the realm would demand alliances. Viserys had always been a king who sought peace, and he would never risk alienating the great houses or the Faith for such a marriage. The political consequences could be dire. The Targaryens were powerful, but they could not afford to make enemies of the Faith, not now.

And then there was the court, always whispering, always plotting. Otto Hightower, your father’s Hand, was no fool. He would see through any plans you and Rhaenyra might try to make. Otto’s mind was sharp, always calculating the next move for House Hightower, and you knew he had ambitions of his own. The idea of him maneuvering behind your back only made your head ache more.

You grimaced, your thoughts turning to the meeting you would have with Otto soon—another matter that weighed heavily on your mind. The council was preparing for trade negotiations with the Free Cities, and Otto had insisted you be part of the discussions. It wasn’t something you particularly relished; your strengths lay on the battlefield, not in politics. But duty was duty, and as the heir to the Iron Throne, you had no choice but to be involved. The coming talks would be critical for the realm’s economy, and your presence was expected, even if the court’s intrigues made your skin crawl.

Still, it was the matter with Rhaenyra that gnawed at you the most. How could you face the council, the court, even your own father, with this secret between you and your sister? The kiss had opened floodgates you feared you couldn’t close again. Rhaenyra had made her feelings clear, but you… you were torn between what you wanted and what your duty demanded of you.

Silverwing let out a low rumble beneath you, sensing your unease. You patted the dragon’s neck absentmindedly, grateful for the connection you shared. Up here, with Silverwing, there were no expectations, no demands. But you couldn’t stay in the sky forever. Eventually, you would have to return to the Red Keep, to face the reality waiting for you below.

As you flew further, your thoughts kept returning to Rhaenyra’s suggestion that you wed her. The logic behind it wasn’t without merit. You were both Targaryens, and such marriages had been part of your family’s legacy for generations. Rhaenyra had even pointed out that King Jaehaerys had wed his sister Alysanne, and they had been beloved rulers. But it wasn’t that simple anymore. The court, the Faith, the realm—all of them would expect you to marry for alliances, not love. Certainly not for a bond that many would see as an abomination.

You felt a knot of frustration tightening in your chest. Rhaenyra was right about one thing: you did feel something for her. That kiss had stirred something primal, something you had tried to bury, but it was undeniable now. But no matter how much you desired her, how much you wanted to throw caution to the wind and claim her as yours, the responsibilities that came with your title loomed larger than your desires.

If you were to marry Rhaenyra, the realm would demand answers. Otto Hightower, in particular, would be the first to protest. He had his own designs for Rhaenyra, no doubt aiming to secure her hand for a lord that could strengthen House Hightower’s position. And then there was the matter of the Faith—if you wed your sister, you risked reigniting old tensions with the Faith of the Seven, tensions that could spill into conflict. The crown couldn’t afford another war, especially not one fought over such a personal matter.

The irony of it all stung. For all the power and privilege you held as a prince, you were just as bound by duty and expectation as anyone else. The thought of being used as a political pawn infuriated you, but that was the price of being the heir. Your desires were secondary to the needs of the realm.

And yet… what if you could make it work? What if there was a way to marry Rhaenyra and still keep the peace? The idea seemed impossible, but you couldn’t shake it. You were a Targaryen, after all. The rules had always bent for your family before. Perhaps, if handled delicately enough, you could find a way to navigate the court’s demands and still claim the one person you truly wanted by your side.

But as you flew over the sea, the waves crashing against the cliffs below, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of the decision that loomed before you. The kiss had changed everything, and now you were faced with choices that could shape not just your future, but the future of the realm.

Silverwing let out another low rumble, and you took a deep breath, trying to steady your thoughts. For now, you would enjoy the freedom of the skies, the cool wind against your skin. But soon enough, you would have to return to the Red Keep, to face Rhaenyra, your father, and the court that watched your every move.

The small council meeting had drawn to a close, with the lords and advisors filing out of the chamber one by one, their voices still murmuring about the matters of trade, security, and the upcoming negotiations with Essos. You remained seated at the table, your thoughts drifting far from the council’s discussions, far from the politics that had dominated the room. Though you had offered your insight where needed, your mind had frequently wandered—to the skies, to Silverwing, and, most of all, to your sister, Rhaenyra.

As the last of the council members left, Otto Hightower lingered. He rose slowly from his seat, his sharp gaze fixed on you, watching as the room emptied. There was always something calculating about Otto, a keen intelligence behind his measured words, and you could feel his eyes on you even before he spoke.

"Your Grace," Otto began, his voice smooth and polite, "if I might ask for a moment of your time. There are a few matters I wish to discuss privately."

You nodded, already suspecting where this conversation might lead. The chamber doors closed softly, leaving just the two of you, the dim light of the candles casting long shadows on the stone walls. You leaned back in your chair, your fingers drumming lightly on the wooden table, waiting for Otto to make his move.

Otto took his time, folding his hands behind his back as he approached. "I must say," he began carefully, "the court feels more… grounded with your return, Your Grace. The king has been much more content now that his heir is safely home. Your presence has brought a sense of stability to the capital that was sorely missed."

You inclined your head slightly in acknowledgment. "I’m glad to hear it, Lord Hand. It is my duty to be here for the realm and for my father. Though I admit, I sometimes find the weight of court affairs to be a heavy burden."

Otto’s lips curved into a slight, knowing smile. "A burden, yes, but one that you carry with admirable grace. It is no small thing to be the heir to the Iron Throne. Your father, the king, relies on you more than you may realize."

You knew where this was going, the subtle flattery, the careful words meant to soften what was coming next. Otto Hightower never spoke without intention, and you could feel the shift in the conversation as he guided it toward more personal matters.

"I imagine," Otto continued, his tone still polite, "that your time in Dorne was… challenging. A different kind of duty, certainly, but one that suited your skills well. But now, being back at court, you must find it… refreshing to be surrounded by family again."

You nodded, though your mind was already elsewhere. "It is good to be home. My family means a great deal to me."

"Indeed," Otto said, his voice taking on a slightly more casual tone. "And speaking of family… I believe my daughter, Alicent, had the pleasure of delivering a message to you today. I trust she was able to assist you adequately?"

There it was. The real reason for this conversation. You could see the way Otto’s gaze flicked over your face, gauging your reaction, trying to read you. He was probing, testing the waters, to see if his daughter’s attempts to gain your attention had borne any fruit.

You kept your expression carefully neutral, offering a polite but noncommittal smile. "Lady Alicent was very kind. She delivered her father’s message with grace and professionalism. I appreciate her assistance."

Otto’s smile widened slightly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was a man used to maneuvering through the intricacies of court politics, and he wasn’t easily dissuaded. "I am glad to hear that, Your Grace. Alicent speaks highly of you, as does the rest of the court. It is clear that your presence here brings a sense of calm and strength, particularly to those close to the king."

His words were deliberate, carefully chosen to steer the conversation toward Alicent without being too direct. But you could see through it easily enough. Otto was testing your interest, trying to discern whether you saw his daughter as anything more than a messenger or a polite face in court.

You nodded again, keeping your tone courteous but distant. "Lady Alicent is a fine lady, and I value her friendship with my sister."

Otto tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing just a fraction, but he didn’t press. "Yes, she and Princess Rhaenyra have grown quite close over the years. It is a friendship that has been a great comfort to my daughter, and I believe it has been mutually beneficial for both of them. Strong friendships are important, especially in court, wouldn’t you agree?"

You could feel the shift in Otto’s approach, the way he was trying to guide the conversation toward more personal matters. It was a delicate dance, one you had seen countless times in court. You knew what he wanted—you knew he was hoping to plant the seed of a potential match between you and Alicent. But your thoughts were far from the Hand’s daughter. Every time he mentioned her, your mind drifted back to Rhaenyra. Her kiss, her words, the fire that had sparked between you both.

"I agree," you said after a pause, choosing your words carefully. "Court can be a lonely place without strong bonds."

Otto’s gaze sharpened, his tone growing just a touch more pointed. "And bonds of marriage, of course, are among the strongest of all. They unite houses, strengthen alliances, and secure the future of the realm."

You nodded, though your thoughts remained distant, swirling around Rhaenyra and the tangled mess of emotions she stirred in you. Otto continued to speak, but his words began to fade into the background as your mind wandered to the possibility that Rhaenyra had raised. Marriage. It wasn’t just a political tool for you anymore—it was something personal, something tied to the fierce and complicated love you felt for your sister.

"Of course," Otto was saying, "there will come a time when certain decisions must be made about the future of the realm—decisions about alliances, about securing the throne through marriage. It is a delicate matter, but one that I trust you will handle with wisdom and care."

You blinked, refocusing on the conversation at hand, though you had heard enough to understand his meaning. "I am aware of the responsibility I bear, Lord Hand," you replied, your tone still courteous but distant. "But some matters require careful thought, not haste."

Otto studied you for a moment, his expression thoughtful. He could tell that you weren’t fully engaged in the conversation, but he chose not to push further. Instead, he inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. "Of course, Your Grace. There is always time to consider these matters carefully. But know that you have the support of those who wish to see you succeed—myself included."

You nodded, offering a polite smile. "Thank you, Lord Hightower. I appreciate your counsel."

With that, Otto seemed to understand that there was little more to be gained from this conversation. He bowed his head respectfully. "If there is anything else you require, Your Grace, you know where to find me."

As Otto took his leave, you let out a quiet breath, the tension of the conversation still lingering in the air. You had played your part well, keeping your responses polite but noncommittal, careful not to give Otto any more insight than was necessary. But beneath the surface, your thoughts continued to churn.

It wasn’t that you didn’t understand the importance of what Otto had said—alliances, marriage, duty. These were all things that had been drilled into you since you were a child. But every time you considered the prospect of marriage, it wasn’t Alicent, or any other noble lady, who came to mind.

It was Rhaenyra.

Her kiss still haunted you, the memory of it sharp and electric. You had always admired her, always loved her, but now… now that love had grown into something you weren’t sure you could control. And the thought of her being married off to someone else, of her being taken from you, was enough to make your chest tighten.

You sighed, pushing yourself up from your chair and walking toward the window. The view of King’s Landing stretched out before you, but your gaze drifted to the horizon, where the sea met the sky. Somewhere out there, Silverwing was always waiting, the promise of freedom calling to you. But freedom wasn’t something you could easily claim—not with the weight of the realm on your shoulders.

And not with the tangled mess of emotions that now bound you to your sister.

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

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