#westerosi court

[horizon-verizon]

This is about the show only:

Viserys, as the King, is the patriarchy, and Rhaenyra is only able to get away with rebelling against it because Viserys lets her. Viserys expects Alicent to be a dutiful childbearing wife but let’s Rhaenyra do basically whatever she wants because he feels guilt for what he did to Aemma. And Rhaenyra is okay with that. She doesn’t care about other women suffering. She only wants to bend the rules for herself.

Instead of being angry at Viserys for marrying Alicent she is angry at Alicent, who had no choice. Alicent has been maritally raped by Viserys for years. She dutifully bore him three sons and daughter. They even all have the Targaryen look and ride dragons. She did her duty, and he still doesn’t give a shit about his kids with her and clearly favors Rhaenyra. Still, Alicent took care of Viserys for years when she could have just let him rot. She may not love him romantically but she clearly cares about him, despite what he did to her.

Alicent has been a saint, because if I were her I would have poisoned both Daemon and Rhaenyra and also Viserys to protect my children. Alicent, as a victim of Viserys has every right to advocate for her children and put them first. She has every right to want Aegon to be king, not because she’s some woman hater like y’all think, but because she’s simply a mother who wants to protect her children and frankly deserves to have her bloodline on the throne after everything she went through.

She doesn’t even want Rhaenyra dead, she still cares for her despite everything. Alicent isn’t perfect but neither is Rhaenyra. You can support and root for Rhaenyra while acknowledging that Alicent does have a point and that the story is not black and white. I understand why Rhaenyra wants the throne but I also understand why Alicent thinks crowning Aegon is necessary.

Special Note: Since the show's world is the same as the ASoIaF canon's, the cultural, legal, and political laws and situations and contexts I will bring up are all valid. Plus, I've made several posts as to how this show is garbage in terms of writing and characterizations & basic consistency. This post will put that aside (for the most part) to be Watsonian.

*EDITED POST* (4/7/24)

Can you do something for me, anon? Point out to me a single scene or family that is actively preparing to usurp Rhaenyra before any of the greens did. We see Borros shout at Lucerys, but did you actually see him with troops and supplies stored places in preparation to usurp Rhaenyra BEFORE Aemond arrived?

Alicent's kids were always safe. You, like her, took Otto's words for granted, and for why?

I explain how Otto and Alicent were wrong about the lords rebelling (w/o green interference) all in my points below.

A)

Let's take a breath. Imagine what having a female Queen Regnant--not just a Queen Consort, Queen Dowager, or Queen Mother--would do for any other woman seeking power in a male-dominated society that frequently abuses its own women from noblemen to common blacksmiths (Megelle).

There is now a precedent (since people shout "what about precedent?!") of a female leader. Such that would socially justify and legitimize further other female claimants of noble seats across the realm.

Jeyne Arryn is an example of a woman who would have benefitted even more from Rhaenyra ruling, even w/o Rhaenyra being Aemma's daughter and thus Jeyne's cousin. Her rule of the Fingers, Vales, etc. would have had much more confidence and power than if Rhaenyra hadn't had an unencumbered reign as a woman in her own right.

("The Blacks and the Greens") -- the greens looking over list of those who could support them:

("A Son for a Son") -- Jeyne's reasoning for supporting Rhaenyra:

But because Rhaenyra not ruling, what happens? For years, women/girls like Arianne Martell, Sansa and Seren Stark, and Jeyne Poole (Arya Stark, if she hadn't gotten out) are even more abused--physically and emotionally--by power-seeking/misogynist men.

You bleat about how Alicent is abused. Well, by her participation and actions in usurping Rhaenyra, she made life worse for all women in Westeros. Because the idea that women should not be leaders and that men should always have power over them became stronger (posts and reblogs by brideoffires).

If Rhaenyra had been allowed to rule, would any of what happened (during the Dance) to the common-born or any noble person in and out of King's Landing have happened? NO!

B)

Rhaenyra had been heir for at least 12-13 years in the show and Lord Caswell was killed for trying to escape and alert her. I'll bring up the book once here just so my point is supported: those oaths that Viserys had the lords make for Rhaenyra? Most followed through and supported her throughout the actual war...that the greens started. Many of them enthusiastically did so. (Frey, Blackwood, the Arynns/Jeyne Arryn). Even a Stark, Cregan, kept fighting for her.

And a quick note: Also, do you know another person who plunged Westeros into war based on their anger at a handful of people for merely personal AND unjustified reasons (I will explain how Alicent is unjustified to be against Rhaenyra way below)? Aegon IV against Naerys and Aemon for their possible affair and Naerys birthing Aemon's child. It was said that Aegon believed Daeron, his official son, to be the bastard son of his siblings Aemon and Naerys.

In this case, Aegon IV was the type to prefer everyone suffering if he had no control, instead of doing as Viserys I did (if it was true or not, that part really doesn't matter politically) and kept hypothetical non-bio-son as his protected heir. I say "protected" because by naming all his bastards legitimate on his deathbed, Aegon IV endangered Daeron II's body and claim.

Yet this show will have us think that Alicent thinks always or mostly in the favor of "the realm" and unselfishly. And a huge reason why I that Alicent presents as "unselfish" more than hypocritical by the show's wriitng rather than her own hypocrisy is because Rhaenys--the resident supposed "wise" woman--has named Alicent as "wise" depsite immediately following that up with Alicent only making "windows" in the "prison" their patriarchal system shoves her into.

Another way is the effect of the Nymeria page she sends to Rhaenyra to try to dissuade her from war and just accept Aegon's rule...reminder, this page is of a woman nonDornish Westerosi would think a woman abnormal for her being a ruler onto herself AND Nymeria was a woman who while had to flee her past home and war with many lords for her people to survive....like Rhaenyra in this situation, aso had to fight wars (even when they were of conquest) to ensure her people's survival. She changed Dorne not for any noble reason, but for necessary self-oriented reasons of survival. And she's remembered as one of the most influential, important figures of Westerosi history, having created an entire different and lasting society in Dorne. Nymeria being framed as abnormal or cautionary--like Rhaenyra & Alicent have been in the in-world document of Fire & Blood--is par for the course and if Alicent was trying to be cautionary to Rhaenyra through the cautionary example of Nymeria, it would make sense for Alicent to do that. But it doesn't, really for Rhaenyra to fully & sincerely accept that line of persuasion. In other words, we shouldn't be validating--if what I said abt Alicent trying to use Nymeria as a cautionary note to Rhaenyra and not something like "remember when we used to be friends?!" way--and saying her reasons AND her way of ending a war are justifed or good...because she's still stealing something, one of the only things Rhaenyra has had that a man is allowed in this world.

MOST of the Westersi lords were in support of her and her "bastard" son Jacaerys. There were no real, substantive pushback or material war preparations against her for a real rebellion. Helaena was safe to marry Jaecaerys and become Queen herself, but Alicent refused why exactly? Because Jaecaerys was, to her, a bastard unworthy of her daughter...

C)

AND because she was still angry with Rhaenyra for...what exactly? Because Rhaenyra lied about "losing her virginity"?

Why does this matter to Alicent, when it is the fault of her father for making this public news? Why couldn't this be kept secret, as all the other times a noble girl/woman has had affairs and bastard children? (I get into real-life scenarios of kings actually allowing their wives to birth bastards and have lovers way below). Hint: Otto wants Rhaenyra to be replaced above him doing his "duty" to Viserys and actually being a good Hand. To pretend otherwise is a delusion.

Let's review the context of Rhaenyra's lying to Alicent (scroll down to "The Context of Rhaenyra’s Lie in Episode 4").

D)

You: "Viserys, as the King, is the patriarchy, and Rhaenyra is only able to get away with rebelling against it because Viserys lets her."

1.

Did you witness episode 6, where Alicent nearly lead most of the council meeting while Viserys sat close to her?

We are meant to understand that over the years, Viserys lets Alicent do more and more. He also allows her to demand Rhaenyra's children be brought before her every time they were birthed or not long afterward, knowing that Alicent wants him to call them bastards and declare them as such.

Customarily, Queen Consorts don't sit in councils unless their husbands allow it. Otherwise, they aren't included. Alysanne was involved because Jaehaerys allowed it.

But do you hear of any Queen Consorts joining the council After the Dance? Was Naerys involved when Aegon IV ruled? What about Daenaera and Aegon III? Shaera and Jaehaerys II? What about Rhaella and Aerys II? Cersei and Robert?

No, again, it is after the Dance that women are customarily excluded from substantive politics even as a Queen Consort. (Queen Dowagers or Mothers do not count because the king is usually their son/stepson who is either too weak to rule independently or officially too young like Alyssa Velaryon was for Jaehaerys).

You need to remember that Alicent is trying to force Viserys' hand and reveal the boys' parentage to everyone so her own sons get support, knowing he did not want this, knowing that he is king.

Like Rhaenyra pointed out about Otto tailing her, questioning the heir/princess about their business and especially the parentage of their kids is treasonous (without concrete proof, and honestly she has none because one can never prove another's parentage at this point in history AND they had room to claim that the boys could very well have inherited darker features from their Baratheon kin).

In this light, we can say Alicent acts "treasonously". Yet Viserys lets her get away with it instead of putting his foot down. Doesn't really matter that he was ill and rotting, he was able to muster the strength later when he was sicker so that anyone who questioned Rhaenyra would not be left alone to live. Why couldn't he do this earlier, when he was healthier and stronger?

Yes, Viserys ignored her about the Velaryon boys...what did you expect him to do, renounce and abandon his daughter just because she birthed kids, not Laenor's? And make Corlys' ire worse? The guy who WANTS Luke to inherit Driftmark? Not only that, ruin his daughter and the house's images more than if he did as he did and allowed them to be legitimate? Then wouldn't Viserys be a worse father? Alicent was suggesting trash "advice" on that, both politically and personally.

So really, it seems you want him to be evil to Rhaenyra alone, rather than actual fairness.

2.

I don't think you watched episode 4 well.

I agree that HotD!Young Rhaenyra is freer than Jaehaerys I's daughters of the book. But what Viserys gives Rhaenyra is actually not much choice or room at all. unlike Jaehaerys' daughters, who have both parents one of whose problems were that there were too many children,

Rhaenyra's mother's death by Viserys mission to get a son AND her immediately being named his heir gave her new unique anxieties and burdens.

Her distance and rebuttals are all results of Viserys taking her friend as a wife and breaking one of those few bonds left to her. Because you can't be your stepmother's/Queen Consort best friend when she will birth other competitors (at this point, show!Rhaenyra was in deep doubt).

In that episode, we see how much choice he actually gives Rhaenyra:

Not letting her speak, not working with her to shut down Otto

dismissing her concerns about Otto until she gave him an ultimatum, which only seemed to work because he already suspected or disliked Otto

Not considering how it would rather benefit her claim to marry her uncle, as was the point of all those incestuous marriages between cousins and siblings and uncle-niece/aunt-nephew both in Valyria and Andal/FM Westeros.

*not in the episode, but still a part of this* marries her only friend, knowing that she is literally her only friend, all so he can avoid marrying another younger girl and have his cake/eat it too--attracted...knowing that they would never be the same again

He wanted obedience, anon. "You are my political headache!" Meanwhile he doesn't see how it would be politically better for her to marry Daemon.

3.

Laenor is gay. We already know that he and Rhaenyra tried but nothing came of it. There were never going to be any kids from that union.

What did you expect Rhaenyra to do exactly? Rape Laenor? Get a Lysene sex slave to impregnate her? You'd be the first to call her terrible for either of these.

Not have kids? That is even worse than not birthing her husband's children. For someone like her, the heir to the throne, to be called "barren" and unable to produce heirs herself. A thing Otto can use against her and promote Aegon the Elder as heir, which would give Otto more power over Rhaenyra.

Find another Valyrian-descent-male noble or blonde guy? And what guarantee do we have that he wouldn't try to take advantage of Rhaenyra though his blood link to any children he would sire and endanger her--plus those kids'--lives and reputations and positions?! We see how men in Westeros and beyond reach for power through even those children they do love...Rhaenyra was with Harwin bc he didn't demand anything of her nor looed for advancement through their kids. He was there just for her.

Do you want that, maybe because you already have a deep hatred for Rhaenyra that is irrational?

4.

Viserys got Rhaenyra into the mess that she was in with Laenor for his own ends and by his own cowardly need to have Alicent/someone that he thinks he chose as freely.

He is not only responsible for Alicent's misery but Rhaenyra and Laenor's as well. He also was responsible for Rhaenyra having to have kids whose parentage would always be doubted since it was an open secret that Laenor was gay.

Again, what do you think Rhaenyra was supposed to do? Demand an annulment and risk insulting the already ruffled Corlys? We already saw how Viserys was determined to have her marry Laenor to ensure a Velaryon alliance and smooth over his rejection of Laena. Do you really think that she could have done much there, when she already depends on Viserys for the said inheritance for the throne, as you have stated WHILE battling her other feelings of grief, anger, etc.?

So no, Viserys doesn't give her much choice or many allowances.

5.

In real-life medieval, Tudor, and early modern history, kings, lords, etc, there are many examples of husbands and fathers (latter less occurring) actively encouraging or allowing their wives, daughters, etc to have their own lovers or even children with said lover that the husband then names as his own.

Whether because:

the lover is an accomplished politician who takes the burden of rule off of him

wanted to stay married to said wife because of her dowry, other inheritances, or political connections

because the husband is infertile

because the husband is gay and unable to impregnate his wife

or because they already have kids and the king/lord/husband/etc do not want to jeopardize or draw suspicion of their kid's legitimacy -- better to claim all than to risk some

Sometimes it is even the court and territory's nobles and courtiers who want the queen/lady/wife to have lovers and children outside of her legal marriage just for the heirs, to avoid the madness of said king/husband, or to obtain a more competent politician/commander. The open secret if you will.

This means that Viserys sees many benefits in Rhaenyra having any sort of kids, which explains how he was willing to claim her sons as legitimate. I also have to remind you that Corlys also accepted these boys because he also wanted an heir.

Yes, Viserys loved his daughter in some capacity and wanted to protect her, but we can't ignore the political benefits that come with her having children within the cover of a legal marriage to a gay man.

In this way, Rhaenyra is further trapped in marriage, popping out sons and kids that while she comes to love, are also there to be heirs for another man. Does this sound familiar?

You should take read of Eleanor Harman's Sex with the Queen to learn more. Here's an excerpt:

With regard to royal children, the only consideration more important than their kingly blood was the monarch’s self-interest.  Many kings acknowledged children they knew had been fathered by someone else. Often, kings did not want to cast doubt on the paternity of older children they knew to be their own. In the case where the king could not father children, sometimes court factions heartily desired the queen to bear bastards in order to stabilize the throne and cement their own interests.

Fortunately, the queen’s complete and utter disillusionment with her husband usually set in after the birth of the heir.  And so it was not deemed worthwhile to lose international prestige, throw the nation into tumult, and question the paternity of all royal children, simply to deny the one cuckoo in the robin’s nest. In the early nineteenth century, the last son of King John VI and Queen Carlota Joaquina of Portugal was extremely good-looking and slender - unlike either of his parents - and happened to be the spitting image of the handsome gardener at the queen’s country retreat. Other than a few snickers behind painted fans, no one said a word.

E)

You: "Viserys expects Alicent to be a dutiful childbearing wife but let’s Rhaenyra do basically whatever she wants because he feels guilt for what he did to Aemma. And Rhaenyra is okay with that. She doesn’t care about other women suffering. She only wants to bend the rules for herself."

Already explained the little-to-no choice for Rhaenyra aspect.

Yes, Viserys does expect Alicent to do this, because, unlike Rhaenyra, Alicent is not facing 10% of usurpation or pushback that Rhaenyra--as heir--would/could.

She is Queen Consort, not soon-to-be-present Queen Regnant. Alicent is not his heir. She is his wife and the person who bears him other children, his "spares". Unfortunately, that is the way of feudal, monarchial patriarchy. Of which Alicent wants to use it for herself and uses it to judge/make Rhaenyra seem unfit...the very system and principles that oppress her, Alicent.

This does not mean Alicent had no right to pursue power for herself by principle, even though I want Rhaenyra. Show!Alicent, however, lives to give up power for conformity's sake in comparison.

And Viserys should be held accountable for sleeping with a teen girl who clearly didn't approach him with full willingness. And if not Alicent, it would have been any other girl or woman. Because girls are socially eligible to become wives as soon as they get their periods in Westeros, even if the practice is that parents and guardians usually wait until the girl is in her later teens (16-19). That's a societal problem that both he and Otto can and did take advantage of.

But again, anon, what exactly did you expect Rhaenyra to do? The girl was also 15, like Alicent!!!!

You seem to give the mantle of responsibility if Alicent's suffering to her. I said this already in another post, but Rhaenyra just lost her mother a few months earlier (something Alicent has experienced) and she has taken to her duties as heir. Alicent is the one who was more available for her than she was to Alicent. Can Rhaenyra read minds, now? Why didn't Alicent let Rhaenyra at least know that Otto was forcing her to do this? That, at least, was within Alicent's power.

What is Rhaenyra supposed to have done when Viserys and Alicent both explicitly told each other (episode 2) they'd keep their meetings secret from Rhaenyra, thus keeping Rhaenyra totally out and in the dark whilst she was mentally preoccupied?

NOTE: I want to clarify that I don't think Rhaenyra would necessarily become Alicent's savior and stop Viserys from choosing her and use chess moves against Otto, or that Alicent should have thought Rhaenyra would 100% deliver her from this situation. Rhaenyra may or may not have been at least able to bring them together to think of how they could Viserys to know of Otto's plans, but that is not the point I make when I compare Alicent and Rhaenyra during this time. Alicent seems to have lived her entire life pressured into suppressing her desires for the sake of obeying her overbearing father, and it would be terribly hard to overcome that and see through those teachings instilled in you. But just by these statements alone, Rhaenyra proves to not be her actual enemy nor the cause of her suffering.

I could flip it around: If we say they were truly friends, why not say something--if we presume that they always talked about Otto's suffocating expectations of Alicent and their supposed many years of close friendship? The show--by not letting us see how they actually related their relationship with their families to each other (the jump cuts and lack of any flashbacks)--refused to allow us to better qualify the character of their communication habits. (I already answered this in the paragraph above). How close were they really? We only get their relationship through the lens of Rhaenyra's family's succession crisis. Before the events of episode 1, did these two girls tell each other a lot of things that they wouldn't tell others, and I mean the most private things--or do they hold those back and why? Would Alicent tell Rhaenyra about her father sometimes drunkenly bemoan her mother's passing if Otto did that? Would Rhaenyra tell Alicent any of her crushes? Would she tell her what she thought about the Faith, and if so, where did she stop if ever? Either way, with what is presented on-screen, the onus of their relationship did not/does not rest fully on Rhaenyra, esp when she didn't even know and could not spare time or thought to Alicent while going through shit herself.

So it doesn't look like Alicent gave Rhaenyra much of a choice either, to even attempt to help her out or give room to process information and respond, choosing to keep it close to her chest. Maybe to not lose her friendship sooner than she liked, it being due to obedience to her father and Viserys keeping it secret, or afraid of Rhaenyra not believing that she wasn't being overly ambitious and disrespectful towards Aemma's memory, etc. Once again, the point is that Rhaenyra had less ability to anticipate all this happening, so there needed to be just one person who told her all this. And in friendships & any relationship, one has to know when the ball is in their court, and in this instance, it was Alicent and Viserys. But both chose to keep Rhaenyra out of the loop completely until the last minute bc neither wanted to deal with what they both knew would be very hurt & angry feelings from her.

Meanwhile, before Viserys announced his marriage, Rhaenyra was actually being very helpful and "obedient", performing her tasks/duties. If you think ignoring Otto and choosing a capable fighter, specifically saying that "my father needs a worthy fighter with experience" and choosing Criston is her not following the rules or thinking of Viserys, you'd be dead wrong. This also goes for her suggesting they use dragonriders to join Corlys in the Stepstones, to which, once again, Viserys refuses and makes her look dumb, all because it was an interruption in "adult", manly matters. (Yes he allows her on the council later, but first events matter and he allowed a bad image to be made that day of her. Stupid of him.)

Finally, Rhaenyra is ranked lower than Viserys, THE KING, despite being his daughter. It appears you want some grand gesture or a big power play from Rhaenyra to protect Alicent from soemthing she doesn't even know is happening. What would you want her to do? To repeat myself, demand an annulment or a cancellation after it's already been announced? Again, if she had known prior, maybe something could be done and she could persuade him otherwise, but we'll never know, will we? And risk insulting Corlys? Again?!

So really, you should be angry at Otto and Viserys more than anyone. They are the ones with the power to put Alicent into the position that she is in. That's the patriarchy talking. That's not Rhaenyra's doing.

As for Rhaenyra's anger:

mother just died

Alicent's silence/keeping such secrets from her

Viserys' public dismissals

feeling some self-hate and disappointment for not having a male's value in her society

If you are going to advocate for Alicent finding fault in Rhaenyra's ability to find holes in the patriarchal mold made for her, we should keep in mind that Rhaenyra was deliberately kept out of even knowing what would happen to her and what she'd be up against later on in the first place. Would this not sting at least? Especially after she's told Alicent, presumably, about her fears for Aemma, her disappointment in Viserys' disregard for her before Aemma died, and her fears of being discarded once a male child arrives? All those years of friendship and thinking Alicent would tell her such important information? If we can forgive Alicent for thinking Rhaenyra would literally kill her kids or endanger them bc she fears her father and believes everything from him, why can't we "forgive" or cut Rhaenyra some slack for being angry that her best friend didn't tell her anything that could determine her future?!

When you've been doubted and sidelined all your life, it would take a lot of ability to compartmentalize (certainly more than anyone in this show has) to see past the nail in the coffin before it came down, which is not necessarily a good thing bc you risk repressing too much of your own emotions and thus debilitate yourself from making more rational decisions or debilitate your own ability to process information and get to conclusions as fast as you could.

Honestly, both girls are beleaguered and have much in common in terms of suffering from patriarchal authorities. Both are forced to have children for the sake of politics, one sexually abused and denied sexual exploration alrogwthwr before she hit 18, and the other totally shut down in any participation in politics as well as trapped in a position more vulnerable to others machinations if she hadn't had kids.

Their fathers both are the ones truly trifling.

F)

You: "Alicent has been maritally raped by Viserys for years. She dutifully bore him three sons and daughter. They even all have the Targaryen look and ride dragons. She did her duty, and he still doesn’t give a shit about his kids with her and clearly favors Rhaenyra. Still, Alicent took care of Viserys for years when she could have just let him rot. She may not love him romantically but she clearly cares about him, despite what he did to her."

1.

I wrote a post about feudalism, Queen Consorts, spares, etc for Alicent and Viserys, and the claim that just because she birthed him, children, doesn't mean he customarily owes her anything, much less making her kids heirs. Because this show's world still has the same sexist circumstances, same as what I said there for the show.

Anon, it's misogynist to go "Alicent did her duty by bearing four 'obvious' Targ children" when Rhaenyra's kids also ride dragons while not looking "typically" Targaryen.

You're saying that Alicent's kids are "worth" more than Rhaenyra's because she was a good girl and birthed heirs. You also fell for the court idea of "trueness" being "obvious" in appearance--blood purity.

Finally, are Alicent and Rhaenyra only worth their wombs, now? Is that what you want from your (assumed) fav, to just be a pawn spawning out "true" heirs for her father to take advantage of? Whose fault is it that Alicent is put into her position? Viserys is obviously partially at fault for choosing her at all, but who put her there? Otto. For purely selfish reasons. Why are you so devoted to hating a girl for mourning and being busy, whilst the true perpetrator of Alicent's suffering is Otto?

Why do you think that suffering for doing your "job" of being a baby factory and enduring marital rape = having "good morals"?

2.

*Disclaimer*: I do recognize how show!Alicent was sexually abused, as she was obviously unwilling.

My point is that why does sexual abuse have to be or is a requisite for respect and a tool of exchange for power? Why is it characterized as a thing that Alicent "let" happen to her, instead of just socially forced onto her? You do this when you argue that she "did her duty" and consented to give Viserys children without it being a problem about how Otto put her there in the first place, a place where she had little to no options. You don't mention this.

Children trump wives/husbands/spouses/SOs, as you argued that Alicent's love for her kids trumps whatever she feels towards any hypothetical husband/Viserys.

Why are we asking him to emotionally abandon Rhaenyra altogether for Alicent's kids? Romantic love is a nonfactor. Romance doesn't get top priority when we're talking politics, nor is it always or should be the final authority on who gets more favor. I mean, if we're talking about the characters only, Rhaenyra is Viserys' daughter. You're revealing that you'd prefer if Viserys gave his political favor to his wife over his daughter, which is pretty crazy considering that Rhaenyra is his heir and his eldest child, the child he's known and emotionally engaged with far longer than he's known Alicent. And this is coming from a person who agrees wholeheartedly that he was a terrible dad to any/all of his kids in different ways but was worse towards the green kids with his comparative neglect.

While it's fair to say Viserys should pay more attention to his other kids, I don't think that's all you want. I think that you want him to just name Aegon heir, that he can only express true love for his other kids by giving the heir title to Aegon and removing Rhaenyra. Because you think that the throne is Aegon's birthright. And you think it is his birthright just because he has a penis and Andal male-preferred primogeniture exists. Meanwhile, if you go through Westerosi history and read carefully, you will see that while girls are not as preferred to boys, you will see examples of girls leading houses even with male relatives available. Jeyne Arryn is one, who had male cousins and uncles by no brothers after they and her father died. You may counterargue and say either Jeyne had to take power to have it and/or that in Westerosi tradition the girl can only inherit if she has no nuclear-male relatives, and you would be correct.

Problem there is that you would be defending a patriarchal setback for women, and are therefore misogynist because you do not want women to have real autonomy. Autonomy is the power of self (it's in the word). Power that comes from and is practiced from the self, exists by itself and is generated from the self. It is the ability to make decisions for one's self, by oneself, as far from others' always-biased-and-never-fully-understanding-of-you's perspectives or abilities. More substantial power is not when a woman/girl only gets power when all other male options are unavailable, is that actual autonomous power or a pure autonomous claim the same as a man's? No.

So if you, anon, are upset with the idea that a woman seeks power for herself or ways to shape her life how she wants it without a man or man-lead/filled/prioritized institution making decisions against her, then you yourself prove to be misogynist and hateful of women seeking autonomy.

3.

What about when she grows older? Do you suggest that Alicent remains powerless then? Again, what I pointed out about Viserys letting her have a lot of power for years from episode 6. You should be troubled by how it's told how the Queen consort's only true job is to be a fertile womb, not congratulating her fertility under this context. Why is passive "power" the only power you want to afford a woman?

Once again, Alicent is Queen Consort. Not a Queen Regnant as Rhaenyra would have been.

After Viserys gives her that power and she gains much more in episode 8 in his illness, she is the next in the show's hierarchy/authority, as we saw by her giving orders to the Kingsguard. At least next to the King's Hand. She is also in charge of the running of the castle in that she dismisses servants and makes sure that whoever is in charge of collecting and organizing accounts of food, supplies, etc. (usually a castellan or a steward). Servants including those who dress and take the king's piss/poop out. Those who are literally close to Viserys. We see it in episode 3, where Alicent sends the servants away and cleans Viserys herself.

She has more influence or power than she or some fans think bc she is closest to the King. Not official policy-making, law-making, war-waging power, but a lot of social court power. Power that does not come from Otto.

In Westeros, it appears the heir officially outranks the Queen Consort because we haven't seen a Consort boss around the heir on their rank alone [a parent can do do with a child, but what about if the Consort isn't the parent of that child?] but in the show, they try to reverse that in episode 6. This doesn't track at all unless the writers do what they should have done and show accumulations of moments where Alicent gains more unofficial power as Viserys deteriorates and lets her go off to the races OR/AND she more and more gets him to feel that he needs to give her such power. Queen Consorts don't sit at council with the King, once more, it's a privilege granted to them and is actually an anomaly. Therefore, it would have been that much more meaningful to show how Alicent got where she got in at least 3 episodes preceding what we get in episode 6, even though it still wouldn't b match what happens in the original story. This is an example of the writers creating a new lore point but not sticking to their own invention or being logically consistent abt it.

Yes, her main and defining "job" -- by those patriarchal more she herself is trying to enforce -- is to give Viserys children and be the model of female chastity that Andal tradition dictates to her (alms, faith to the Faith, only having sex with Viserys). Plus run/oversee the royal inner household (its resources [ex. food] & the royal offspring), and possibly arrange marriages. She is even expected to bear with her husband's bullshit because he is her husband and she is a woman. (You'd be surprised at what Queen Consorts had to put up with in real-life history.) But she is not completely helpless & she doesn't have 0 agency. She just doesn't have any imagination and is resentful of Rhaenyra instead of the real perpetrators. Mostly because her imagination or independent thinking has been stifled by her social role as a female noble.

No, she could not have let Viserys rot with no (at the very least) supervision because that would put a social mark against her and her public image as a merciful Queen--the customary standard for a Queen--and be seen as her neglecting her husband. And Alicent had no intention of inviting that sort of censure. I recognize that she grew to have some sort of care for Viserys enough to be upset at his suffering and death, but that is something that is unequally expected of her as a wife and Queen Consort. the pressure is more on her to fulfill her duties to her husband than it is on Viserys to his wife, and he does not have the same duties as her, thus less pressure. He can take a mistress all he wants if he's adamant or sexually seeking enough. This is a world that is harsher and more expectant on the wife than the husband, even placing conditions of legal treachery into the mix. What do you expect as a "reward"? You don't get power or respect by complying or submitting to already oppressive systems/individuals' oppressive actions. Do you think that if you are a "good girl", you get to be happy and safe and compensated? That's not how hierarchies work. As a commentator below states. No, you get crumbs that you are taught to "enjoy" or have no other choice but to swallow.

So, it is not black-and-white "pure" & "free" devotion that she just wanted to take care of Viserys. She's also motivated by what she thinks she has to do to be a good woman/Queen/wife, which is all patriarchal bullshit. She thinks she has to be so accommodating towards Viserys because she knows that is her feudalist role as a Queen/woman/wife and that that will somehow give her peace. She thinks being perfectly chaste and caring will bring her some sort of satisfaction with how her life turned out, but suppresses her anger and probable feelings of shame that she seems to ignore.

Shame for having been spent to Viserys at all while having been above reproach before then (there should have been court gossip, but that's another thing).

Shame or guilt for not letting Rhaenyra know.

Shame for replacing her friend's mother when she listened to her speak about her family drama AND lost her mother herself.

All works as a paradox for living as a Queen Consort.

4.

It is by Andal tradition (not Valyrian) that the husband has nearly full power over his wife's life and that a wife obeys her husband. Rhaenyra is Viserys' eldest and Alicent gave birth to Viserys' "spares", which by the Widow's Law, we very well can make a strong case for how these kids do not go before Rhaenyra in the line of succession:

To rectify these ills, in 52 AC King Jaehaerys implemented the Widow’s Law, reaffirming the right of the eldest son (or daughter, where there was no son) to inherit, but requiring said heirs to maintain surviving widows in the same conditions they enjoyed before their husband’s death. A lord’s widow, be she a second, third or fourth wife, could no longer be driven from his castle, nor deprived of her servants, clothing, and income. The same law also forbade a man to disinherit the children by a first wife in order to bestow their lands, seat or property on a later wife or her children.

Rhaenyra can use this law to argue -- not that she should be put on trial, she's made heir by her father and since it was his will/word that's the definite LAW -- and strengthen her monarch-given right to ascend.

Your wife/Queen Consort can be good to you all she is. If you, the king, say that the heir is a specific person, they are that person regardless of who his wife is or how dutiful she is. State matters can and have been influenced through marriages and interpersonal care, but it can just as well not be because it all depends on the king's/monarch's disposition and the political context. That was the risk Otto took and used his own daughter to try and manipulate. Not Rhaenyra's fault at all.

That Alicent failed to see that until the 9th episode (the show itself, for all its flaws, is telling you this, anon!) shows how intelligent/narrow-minded/unrighteous Alicent has been from the time she set herself against Rhaenyra in their conversation of episode 4. And even before, when she never told Rhaenyra Otto's instructions to her and for years pushed that burden of responsibility on Rhaenyra..

When she's yelling about "having one child like that", she's referring to children born out of wedlock to a girl who doesn't act within her patriarchal sexual restrictions. Said restrictions are that women/girls should expect to only sleep with the man/boy their authority figure designates for them while their husband sleeps around and fathers bastards indiscriminately.

So, yeah, Alicent is a misogynist towards Rhaenyra.

G)

You: "She doesn’t even want Rhaenyra dead, she still cares for her despite everything. Alicent isn’t perfect but neither is Rhaenyra."

1.

Anon, you really don't get human psychology. A parent's love and care for their kids is such a visceral thing.

How is it in any way feasible that 8th episode-Alicent's behavior is realistic or consistent with how real people behave toward what they think is a threat to their kids? It doesn't make any sense how Alicent changed her tune after Rhaenyra apologized in episode 8. By:

calling Rhaenyra's sons bastards, endangering them all (whether by social shaming/ostracism [which can and has caused mental deterioration in human history], exile, or actual execution)

humiliating Rhaenyra by demanding that Joffrey be brought to her right after Rhaenyra birthed him to show the entire court that she doubts his parentage

by dismissing all her concerns and demands to deal with the Stepstones problem in a much more substantive way than just leaving it up to Daemon to stave off the Triarchy

There was no coming back from the years Alicent spent antagonizing Rhaenyra. She herself broke that connection based on false notions. Alicent has shown malice before episode 8. HERE is my past post about how Show! or Book!Alicent was never going to be a woman I rooted for when a possible Queen Regnant was available.

2.

Rhaenyra is the rightful heir and has always been so. Therefore, what Alicent was doing was usurping her.

...Usurping means killing people 80% of the time (an arbitrary number, but you should get it). And of the two sides, the greens were the group who'd be more willing to carry out unprovoked assassinations (Aegon after Jaehaerys' death [book, who knows if the show will include this], Aemond killing Lucerys, all the ploys Otto made behind Viserys' back, Aemond firing on the riverlands and killing all the Strongs, etc.)

To quote a lot of green stans and flip it: looking back in real history, people killed for thrones and power more often than they did in imprisonment, and even with imprisonment, it's usually not long before the person mysteriously dies in prison. Know your history and upgrade your understanding of human behavior and motivation. If any person who seeks to usurp someone else truly-duly thinks they can do so without killing them or having one of their supporters kill them (unprovoked), they are delusional. Or at least if you use this argument for why Alicent should act as she did, why isn't this the same for Rhaenyra/the blacks' end?!!

As I've said, Rhaenyra had several supporters who even fought for her after she died.

Watching episode 9, how could you think that Alicent actually had any influence and power over Otto and the councilors, who plotted behind her back to kill Rhaenyra? That she had to give her feet up for Larys to masturbate to in order to just get verbal info? (This is all after Viserys dies, so do not try to use me saying she had power under Viserys above when she loses much power after he dies, which is my point and which HotD exaggerates).

She couldn't use her brain to figure out Otto was behind her suffering all along? Until episode 9?

Show!Alicent never claimed power, so she was in a worse state than book!Alicent was. Your fave is an eroticized doormat for the male gaze (xenonwitch's reblog), not a powerful, self-driven woman.

3.

Their friendship never made sense anyway. From a Doylist standpoint. And show!Alicent herself is a terribly constructed character; Rhaenicent doesn't make sense (article in Polygon).

4.

Sure, Viserys supposedly treats Rhaenyra well and lets her get away with a lot of behavior that these other fathers of ASoIaF would never, BUT he also doesn't:

[book & show] give her enough political training, or equal to that of an male heir--though he does makes her his cupbearer and allows her to sit in council to hear said council (passive learning), he does seem to properly engage, quiz, test, etc. her in decision-making for economic, political, etc. stuff; he does not seem to ever ask for her opinions of certain laws or policies, existing or currently considered; he does not let her make many decisions without lecturing her or ignoring her in front of others (episode 3 with her suggestion about taking dragons to meet Daemon); NOR does he get some sort of tutor through some sort of training, military-wise--likely strategy, not actual combat training (a tutor even from Essos, there would have been many businesspeople and wealthy business families available and eager to work for the royal Targaryens)--that Dany in the main series had to herself must learn and continue from her earlier exilic education on the go. Rhaenyra herself must learn most of what she knows by herself when she heads to Dragonstone! If you can give your heir/child the material to help advance their understanding of certain things even in ordinary education, why are you holding back for this specific instance when the stakes are higher?!

[book & show] he does not firmly, properly, and publicly denounce Alicent's harassment and accusations

[book & show] make one or more of her sons his cupbearer/transition him into being a part of the council as well

[book & show] he does not try to prevent other's talk of Rhaenyra's sons until much later when it is way too late

[show] he doesn't question Alicent's asking for baby Joff at all or pursue why Rhaenyra was even there and bleeding apart from how she shouldn't be there--he quickly moves on, too

[show] In the book, he does send her on a "meet-and-greet" tour or "progress" of the realm to: put a face to the woman in her oath-bound lords/houses' minds -> amplify her "Realm's Delight" image, and reinforce her attractiveness/desirability/sexual purity -> make her more real and appealing. Show!Viserys sends her out on a point-blank marriage-tour where she hears marriage suits after her. The book version explicitly has Viserys/his council at least make Rhaenyra meet her subjects and hear their desires, concerns, and what they think of her. There is less of the kind of formality and distance than what the sho made in changing it into a straight-up marriage tour, so the ladies and lords seeing Rhaenyra for the first time only get to see her under the more stressful (for them as well as for her) and less emotionally engaging context of a mere business exchange. Also, Laenor was always both show!andbook!Viserys' final choice for Rhaenyra. Book!Viserys is just a little bit smarter and more careful than show!Viserys.

Viserys is better than most Westerosi men in how he treats Rhaenyra--book and show--, at least those fathers we get to hear about or get to know. Better, but not still not enough to meet the demands of his daughter's actual needs.

(8/21/23):

THIS is a great post by mononijikayu about medieval queens, female rulers, the history of how women in leadership positions were made and seen as threats to the very structure of social “order”, and contextualizing Rhaenyra thru Empress Matilda. I didn’t even know about Matilda’s husband being comparable to Rhaneyra’s Daemon! PLZ READ!!!!

Excerpt:

just as much, along with these fictitious portrayals, more lies are depicted. these women are considered vixens that cause havoc to men by shifting them into desires and danger. through the written word, we see how women are cast in roles of villains in men’s lives. it is because by their conclusive thoughts, women are the only creatures that are able to turn ‘good honorable men’ into despicable creatures who do shameful, deplorable acts for the sake of women’s pleasures. […]  it is within this narrative that ancient chroniclers declare that women were in fact the doom of men. if they were not able to control the dangers posed by the wiles of women, then the foundations of the mighty society they had built would be up in flames.  [...] as i mentioned, these factors of community are written down and preserved. and with that, the example of the ancients were the foundations by which medieval society built itself. the same concepts continued to cause the same issue within society and that was the exclusion of women from participating in the bigger picture of community and state, much so with governing states in their own right—without judgment or disapproval. 

[alicentes]

Genuine question for the hotd fandom in general - what could Alicent have done differently when it came to Dyana’s rape? What would have been a better but realistic outcome for Dyana?

[cassatine]

Rhaenyra getting more shit for staying on Dragonstone instead of in King's Landing to play the political game or whatever than Viserys gets for recalling Otto as Hand, thus pretty much handing power to the faction he knows to be his heir's political opponents and metaphorically shooting Rhaenyra in the political kneecaps, is one of the most Takes in a fandom full of Takes

[b-rainlet]

how do you think Alicent, Otto and Criston would react to the mess that is helaegond? imo, Otto would support it, Criston would internally cringe but otherwise pretend it doesn’t exist and Alicent would be kept in the dark bc Criston would pull every string to hide it from her. I have this theory that Alicent is actually against incest despite her insistence on marrying her daughter to her son. She did it because strategically speaking, it was the best option (to keep Helaena safe and keep the dragons within the family) but it disgusted her in a moral sense. Criston knows this so, as her most devout protector, he shields her from this knowledge the best he can.

I feel like if Helaegond would be happening in the show with the character's acting as close to canon as possible, nobody would support it.

I think both Criston and Alicent would see it as morally wrong because not only is it Incest (which they may overlook because Targaryens are Targaryens and what kinda hypocrisy would it be to tell one brother to love his sister but the other that it's wrong) but it would also make Helaena a cheater and as we all know, a man may be allowed to sleep out of wedlock but a woman? Not a chance.

Like, even if it was crystal clear that Aegon is in the know and encourages the relationship between Aemond and Helaena/is a participant, it would still somehow be read as a moral failing on Helaena's part.

Also all her children would be seen as potential bastards and unlike Rhaenyra, she doesn't have a father who would care about her well-being and who would cover for her.

Additionally, Aemond and Aegon having a relationship? In Grrm's world? Where gay people cannot exist? Since they can't produce heirs, they can't marry, if they aren't married, it's still infidelity, even worse because it's queer.

Like, even if you put a woman inbetween, I don't think queer relationships are that well perceived within Westeros. Probably not even within the Targaryen dynasty and they do the nasty with their siblings.

If Aegon were King, maybe he could bend the law to take Aemond as a second wife but even then, Aemond and Helaena would both still have to be dutiful to their husband, so no sex between the two of them.

So in my opinion, the three of them would be playing a very dangerous game and nobody could ever know (so of course somebody like Larys knows and goats it over the Queen's head simply because he can, while Alicent tries her best not to see what's right in front of her).

I don't know what Otto would think of it personally, but it's a good way to ensure Aemond does everything necessary to keep his family safe - especially if some of Helaegon's kids are his.

[sapphiremusings]

when i’m down on my knees, {aemond targaryen}

summary: with their wedding only a few days away, aemond eases his betrotheds fear of him.

WARNINGS: explicit smut, oral sex (f receiving), teasing, baratheon!reader, no use of y/n

this is the first in a 2 part series! let me know if you want to be tagged in the next part :)

The rumors concerning Lady Baratheon’s betrothed are not lost on her. No, she is well educated on Prince Aemond ‘One-Eye’ Targaryen’s unsavory reputation, just as much as every other lord and lady in Westeros.

Before she was shipped off to King’s Landing in preparation for her royal wedding, her sisters had made it their duty to tease her. They made sure that she was well aware of her prince’s cruel attitude, and the monstrous look of him, with a sharp scar down the left side of his face. By the time she had arrived to the Red Keep, she was teeming with fear as her sisters’ words echoed through her mind.

Prince Aemond is known to be a cruel yet dutiful man. He is said to be a skilled swordsman, besting his mother’s sworn knight, Ser Criston Cole, on many occasions. He rides the largest— and oldest— dragon, the same one that the conquerors sister-wife, Visenya, had rode into battle many times. He had claimed the she-dragon at a young age, losing his eye in the process to his young nephew. His missing left eye is another topic often whispered about in court. Some say that he had cut out another man’s eyeball, and placed it into his empty socket. Others say he has a large jewel in its place, something so peculiar and off-putting that he is forced to cover it up with a leather eyepatch.

All of this is to say that any sane lady would be terrified of their betrothal to Aemond Targaryen. Of course, Lady Baratheon is well aware that most Westerosi marriages are born out of duty, not love. If anything, she should feel blessed by the gods that she is betrothed to a young prince, and not some measly lord old enough to be her grandsire. Yet, she cannot help her feelings of terror at the thought of her upcoming wedding, and even more so, her soon-to-be husband.

From a young age, her septa had installed in her what was to be expected of her when she became of age. Being a dutiful wife was the only thing she was to worry about, and then being a dutiful mother to her husband’s heirs. She would often have nightmares about an old lord running his eager hands down her gaudy wedding gown, pushing her onto the marital bed where she would be forced to lay under his big gut as he ruts into her, witnesses to the dreaded bedding ceremony snickering behind the sheer curtains. Her ladies-in-waiting would comfort her after these night terrors, smoothing down her hair and promising that no harm would come to her. Even with their sweet words, she knew the truth; she would be forced to marry a stranger, and endure all the hardships that came with having no freedom of her own.

Now, with her wedding only a few days away, she can barely sit still. Her mind incessantly spins around various scenarios that can take place on that special day, and she worries over her impending future. She has taken to walking along the Keep’s gardens, and throughout the various twisting halls; anything to keep her moving. Her father always scolded her for this habit, as to him it was the equivalent of running away from your problems. Still, she can’t help it as the big day draws forward, her anxiety swollen inside her.

It isn’t that she doesn’t want to become a wife. It is merely her irrational fear of her husband-to-be. Even now, as he walks behind her, quiet in his sure steps, his gaze burns through all her layers, settling deep within her core. She feels as if she is on fire, and the longer he stares, calculating and as if she is a foreign creature, the more this inferno swells. Every move she makes is with caution, in fear that he will strike her down and show off that unforgiving nature that he is known for. So far, he hasn’t, but she believes this is merely a false front. Surely, he is waiting for when they are finally married to show his true colors, knowing that she will be his and unable to do anything about it.

She begs to the Seven to release her from this torment, her spine rigid as they continue their walk through the Keep’s halls. She had wanted to be alone, as she often has been since arriving in Kings Landing, artfully dodging any attempt at courting that Prince Aemond tried to enact. Truthfully, it has been his queen-mother, Alicent, who has pushed her son towards his betrothed, and to Lady Baratheon, he hasn’t seemed that worried over the fact that she has been avoiding him. No, he merely stares, violet eye darting over her face and figure as if she is a puzzle he is trying to solve.

Really, she doesn’t understand why he is still walking behind her, steps steady and calculated. They haven’t spoken a single word to each other since their initial greeting that morning, when he had been waiting outside her chamber doors, ready to escort her on her walk. Even then, it had merely been a “good morn” recited, both tense in their separate ways. Aemond couldn’t look more annoyed even if he tried, seemingly uninterested in anything she could potentially offer him. Not that she was offering anything.

Growing bored of wandering aimlessly around the Keep, Lady Baratheon pauses with a sigh. Tersely, she turns to the side, not daring to look at her betrothed, who has halted behind her. “I’d like to retire to my cha-“

“I want to show you something, my lady.”

Her heart nearly stops beating at his words, sudden and surprising as he takes a step towards her. She wishes to flee, but her feet stay planted on the floor, and she watches from the corner of her eyes as he brings a hand up to grab ahold of her elbow. Though the fabric of her dress sleeves acts as a barrier between flesh, she still feels as if she was scalded. She flinches, almost imperceptibly, but Aemond seems to notice as he lets out a hum.

She knows she mustn’t deny him. No, her septa had taught her well. So, she meekly nods her head, cheeks flushed in apprehension.

They walk back through the halls, towards a place she has never dared to step foot near, a dark alcove lit only by torches and candles. She lets out a gasp at the sight before her; the giant skull of the largest dragon known to Westeros. If she wanted to, she could walk straight into its jaws and past the many rows of sharp teeth. Her breath catches in her throat.

Aemond’s voice comes out in a whisper, right next to her ear. “This is the skull of Aegon the Conqueror’s dragon, the largest who’s ever lived. His name was-“

“Balerion. The Black Dread,” she interrupts him, immediately regretting so afterwards.

Instead of scolding her like she expected him to do, he merely breathes out a small laugh. Still, she feels the need to apologize, even as she stutters over her words.

“I apologize, my prince. At Storm’s End, we had a few tomes about the Conquest, and they interested me greatly.”

He hums. “Do not apologize. I like to know what you are thinking.”

She doesn’t know how to reply to this, heart pounding against her chest as she feels him step closer behind her, pressing into her back. He towers over her frame, hard and lean against her. His head bends, lips coming close to her ear.

“Are you afraid of me, my dear betrothed?”

“N-no,” she stutters out, the lie tasting bitter on her tongue. Her eyes focus on the dragon skull before them, willing her heart to calm down. “No, my prince.”

He seems amused by her answer. “Liar.”

Another gasp escapes her mouth as his lips flutter over the shell of her ear, trailing down to the crook of her neck. He smells of smoke and steel, leather and something else she can’t put her finger on— but it’s intoxicating as it enters her nose, and she feels like nuzzling against him. Her fear won’t let her, nor will it let her move from his grasp, even as she shakes like a leaf under his hands, now resting atop her forearms.

“You avoid me. You can’t even look me in my eye,” he muses, lips still pressed against her skin. “You are shaking… am I so fearsome, Lady Baratheon?”

She whimpers, shaking her head, eyes growing wide as his grip tightens. “I’m sorry…”

His hand suddenly grabs ahold of her jaw, making her flinch, in which he lets out a disappointed tsk. Slowly, he turns her face towards his, fingers gentle against her rosy cheeks. She trembles as she meets his dark gaze, his lilac iris now a small ring, overtaken by his widened pupil. His eyebrows are furrowed, and his stare travels across her face, stopping on her lips.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers, blinking. “No… quite the opposite. Will you let me show you?”

Deep within her stomach, something sharp twists, turning her blood hot as it pools within her veins. She is afraid, but another feeling unknown to her is slowly creeping up her spine, turning her brain into mush as she continues staring up at her betrothed. Her fingers reach up to grasp on his arm that’s wrapped around her, tightening around the leather of his sleeve. His gaze doesn’t move away, nor does he. Instead, he seems to draw closer, pressed against her back as his lips near hers. She can’t help but flutter her eyes closed, and before she can fully think about what she is agreeing to, she dips her chin down into a small nod.

Aemond’s lips immediately find hers, warm and plush, eager in his exploration. She has never been kissed before, and the feeling is foreign, but her pulse begins to thrum within her, and she opens her mouth to take more of it. He seems pleased by her reciprocation, groaning softly as he brushes his tongue against her teeth, his hand that still cups her jaw growing harsher. Their tongues slip against each other, a jolt of lightning hitting her every time they touch, her skin pebbled with goosebumps.

Growing restless, she spins around in his arms, hungry for something she doesn’t yet have a word for. Her arms wrap around his neck, and she has to push herself up onto her toes as she meets his lips once more, a clashing of teeth and spit. Between her legs, it grows hot, pulse thumping at her very core. She wants to climb on top of him and devour him, her fear of her mysterious prince melting away with every flick of his tongue. Is it supposed to feel like this?, she thinks, whimpering as she pulls him down closer by his neck.

When he pulls away, panting, she whines, her own chest heaving as she tries to breathe, but the throbbing between her thighs is so strong, she merely steps into his arms once more. He chuckles at this, looking down at his eager betrothed, flushed and nearly ravaged.

“I haven’t even shown you yet, and you’re already begging for more,” he muses, clicking his tongue mockingly. “What happened to my fearful little betrothed, hm?”

This sobers her up, her already flushed face turning a deeper shade of scarlet, and she staggers back on her feet. Aemond doesn’t let her go far, though, immediately grabbing ahold of her waist and pulling her back in. His hand brushes her hair back from her face, forcing her to look up at him once more, fingers firm in their hold. He smirks at the dazed look in her doe eyes, glassy as his words work through her mind on a loop. Though he should feel bad, he can’t help but relish her embarrassment. Hadn’t she been embarrassing him since her arrival, every time she would dart away from him and cower in fear just from his gaze?

“Please,” she whispers, swallowing a lump within her throat. His eyes seem to sparkle at her pleading.

He softly laughs. “Do you want me to touch you?” When she nods, eyebrows furrowed, “Use your words.”

Shame pools within her chest, squeezing around her heart as she continues to look up at him. Something inside her is begging to be released, pounding against her skull until every bone in her body rattles under its force. She doesn’t know what it is, or how to stop it, but her body draws itself closer to Aemond like he is the cure. Even now, as she gazes at his handsome face, all harsh lines and pouted lips, silver hair long and pulled back behind his head, eye a deep shade of violet, this thing within her only grows stronger in its fight to leave its prison. He is her betrothed, and a Prince of the realm, so who is she to deny him?

“Yes,” the word tastes like the sweetest poison on her tongue, and when he still makes no move to touch her, she continues. “Please, Aemond… touch me.”

She nearly cries when he smiles, leaning down to catch her lips, but her elation plummets when he doesn’t meet her embrace. Instead, his lips attach themselves to her jaw, tender as he licks and nips at the skin, traveling down her neck. Though she wants nothing more than his lips on hers, she still keens at the strange feeling, fingers tangling themselves into his long hair. His hands squeeze her hips, running up and down her sides, brushing against the bottom of her breasts. She arches into his touch, soft pants leaving her lips as he groans against her flesh.

Her feet start to step backwards as he pushes her, until she hits the stone wall behind her. His lips move to her heaving bosom, where the tops of her breasts sit within her dress, while his hand moves under her skirts, trailing along the bare skin of her thighs. They tremble beneath his touch, shutting close and trapping him there. He merely brings his leg between them, prying them back open so his hand can continue its journey to her weeping core. She shakes beneath him, sweat gathering at her brow, eyes pleading.

Aemond shushes her, bringing his lips back to hers, sighing as she pulls him closer and slips her tongue between them. When his hand slips under her undergarments, fingers nestling among her damp curls, she almost sobs, hips bucking up in shock. His other hand grabs onto her waist, stilling her movement as his fingers glide through her wetness, gathering the pool of arousal that sits along her hole. Her chest heaves, head dizzy with the new feeling, and she feels as if a bolt of lightning, white hot and blinding, has struck her. Hands grasp onto his shoulders for purchase, nails digging into the dark leather of his tunic, frantic as she looks for something to steady her racing heart.

“Seven hells, you’re soaked,” he gasps, fingers pressing against the apex of her, rubbing tight circles. “And here I thought you were afraid of me…”

She can barely comprehend his words, feeling as if her head is stuck in a cloud of smoke, heady and all-consuming. Her hands run down his shoulders and arms, now gripping onto his slim waist, pressing his body closer to her. His pale neck hovers over her face, and she can’t help but gravitate towards the unmarred skin, pressing her quivering lips to the base. Her tongue darts out to taste him, whimpering as she tries once more to move her hips. Aemond grunts, moving his fingers down to circle her leaking hole, the tip of his middle finger pressing in slowly.

As he presses the digit fully inside her, she presses her teeth into the nape of his neck, muffling her cry as he finally allows her to move her hips. He moans softly, grunting out her name at the feel of her bite, and she can feel something hard against her lower stomach, burning as it presses itself more to her. Tears spring to the corners of her starry eyes, tongue coming out once more to lick at the stinging bite mark she left, before resting her lips against him, panting. Her hips jolt upwards continuously, his name leaving her mouth like a prayer.

“Will you let me taste you?,” he nearly whines, rough voice cracking. His nose nudges against her temple. “Hm… ivestragī aōha dārilaros sylutegon ao, dōna riña.” (Let your prince taste you, sweet girl).

She gasps out, head nodding, though she’s not sure what she is agreeing to. Even so, she still wretches out, “y-yes.”

Aemond groans once more, pressing his lips to her forehead, before removing his fingers from her core. He’s quick to bend down on his knees, hands lifting up her skirts, dipping his head under the heavy fabric. She furrows her brows in confusion, but her question dies on her tongue as she feels his hot mouth press against her cunt, warm and wet. A strangled moan leaves her, and she throws her head back to stare up at the darkness above, lips parted as she gasps and whines. His tongue feels hot as it slips through her folds and circles her entrance, slurping up her arousal which practically pools out of her.

She can barely comprehend what is happening, her knees wobbly and her brain turned to mush, and all she can remember is his name. It leaves her lips like an incantation, continuously and fervently. Her hands try their best to gather her skirts, lifting them up and away from Aemond’s face, wishing to see him between her thighs. First, she spots a sliver of silver hair, and then, when she pulls the fabric back further, the rest of his head comes into view. His eye is closed, his focus solely on her cunt and how his tongue dips in and out of her. Fingers come up to rub at her once more, a deep grumble leaving him and vibrating through her core.

Something foreign begins to bubble up inside her, burning in its trail and cutting her open like a sharp sword. Her breath catches in her throat, chest heaving and heart stuttering against her ribcage, hips bucking up to chase the rising wave within her. Aemond flattens his tongue against her, another rumble leaving him, making her cry out. He opens his eye, staring up at her disheveled figure, his gaze molten and hungry. This look, and the feeling of him crooking a finger inside her once more, breaks her, and she moans and shudders, vision turning blurry as she’s pulled down under her cascading pleasure.

“Sȳz riña…” he groans, lapping up her essence as it flows out and onto his tongue. “Good fucking girl.”

Once she comes back down, she can barely keep standing, legs weakened and eyes heavy with sleepiness. Aemond stands, a satisfied hum leaving him as he pulls her against him, nose nuzzling in her hair. Instead of fear, she feels comfort as she rests in his arms, head resting on his chest, listening to his racing heartbeat. When he begins to trail kisses down her face, before capturing her lips with his own, she feels like swooning. Is this what she had been missing all along? Her betrothed… not someone to fear, but someone she could grow to love?

Aemond pulls away, fingers coming up to rest against her lips. “Taste yourself, dārilaros.” (Princess).

Timidly, she wraps her lips around his two digits, tongue cautious as it swirls around them. His gaze is dark as he watches her, and when he removes his fingers, he replaces them with his mouth, hot as it claims her own. On her hip, she can still feel that same stiffness against her, but she doesn’t question it as he finally steps away from her, a small smirk on his handsome face.

“In just a few days, we will be wed, my lady. When I take you to my bed, I will spend all night showing you why you shouldn’t fear me.”

[aemondtargaryenonlyfans]

GUILELESS.

Daemon Targaryen x Martell!Reader

The streets of Flea Bottom most definitely were not the place a noblewoman like you should seek out at night, but tonight marked one of the last nights you got to enjoy your freedom for you were to wed in four days.

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT–MINORS DNI; CNC, DUB-CON, p in v, roleplay, profanity, tiddy fucking, degrading, punishing, humiliating, public sex, slight oral (m receiving) and overstimulation, blink and you‘ll miss the breeding and size kink, vague description of fem!Martell!Reader (dark hair, dark eyes, small body)

WORDS: 2.6 K

NOTES: Killing two birds with one stone with this thing. Written for this and this request.

The streets of Flea Bottom were in an uproar with hundreds of gold cloaks roaming around to restore law and order in the foulest and most lawless district of the Westerosi capital. It most definitely was not the place a noblewoman like you should seek out, but tonight marked one of the last nights you got to enjoy your freedom for you were to wed in four days.

Your reddish gown had been replaced by the clothes of a boy. A wide, black tunic and gray breeches hid your body, and your long, brown curls were covered by a black cloak. The boots you wore were surprisingly more comfortable than the sandals you wore around court, yet they were not at all appropriate to be paired to the finest, dornish silk you usually donned.

On your way through the dimly lit alleyways, you bumped shoulders with more than one commoner that fled the scene you were too eager to see. Coming closer to the source of the agonizing screams, you stopped just short of the crowd, barely out of the alleyway.

To your left was a pillow house, the ornate lamp of gilded metal and scarlet glass swung over the door casting you in a red light. You tried to move further and squeeze past the wall of curious bystanders, before your wrist was seized by something firm that caused you to gasp.

“A lady like you should be careful wandering the streets alone at such hour,” a deep voice drawled out. As you turned around, you immediately noticed who had you in a tight hold, the long, silver strands of hair peeking from beneath the helmet a dead giveaway–just like the surcoat depicting the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen that none of the other gold cloaks around you wore. Daemon Targaryen, Lord Commander of the City Watch.

You straightened your back, and decided not to show any of your emotions. Especially not the nervousness that soared through your veins. “I shall have you know that I am no lady,” you replied sternly, though there was a slight tremble in your smooth voice, “I am to be a princess soon.”

That seemed to amuse the man, your intimidation tactic clearly not working. “Oh, you most certainly are,” he replied with a mocking tone, “that is why I have found you in Flea Bottom, hm, dressed like what… a little boy?” Now there was a slight hint of uneasiness accompanying his words and presence, which had a shiver running up your spine. “As your princess, I command you to let go of me,” you pressed, trying to tug your arm back – but to no avail.

“You are a feisty little thing,” the gold cloak murmured with a sly smile. “It is a shame you are nothing more than a pretender. You would have made an excellent wife.” He didn’t even allow you to give him a reply, before his hand found the back of your neck to shove you into the pillow house to your left you had examined not long before.

Upon stumbling inside, you noticed that it was no pillow house but a simple brothel instead. Older wenches with more flesh to their hips and a used appearance did not hone the low quality the common room presented itself in. Considering the size of the crowd in front of the etablissement, it was surprising to spot not so many patrons inside.

“I–What–”

“I shall have you punished for those treacherous antics,” he barked, effectively cutting you off. The light tap he gave your rear caught you off guard, however, it was solely a ruse meant to distract you from both his hands grabbing the waistband of your breeches and undergarments to rather forcefully tug them down your body. It was nothing else than luck that the tunic you wore was long enough to cover your cunt for anyone that dared to catch a glimpse.

You gasped, and seized his hand on your hip that threatened to dive forwards between your legs. “My lord,” you protested, pretending that you did not know whose chest was pressed flush to your back, “you should not– I–”

Before you could protest even more, he had hauled you up against the breastplate of his armor, and you could merely look at him from over your shoulder, your dark eyes filled with lust. You started to struggle against his hold, yet his muscular arms snaked around your frame made it obvious you didn't stand a chance.

“Please, no,” you whimpered.

“Silence,” he bellowed, carrying you through the common room of the brothel to an alcove that granted you just some more privacy. While you were dropped unceremoniously on a chaise standing nearby, he brought a large hand up to the back of your neck, applying a good bit of pressure so you were kneeling on the chaise with your arse up and face down.

From behind you, you could hear a satisfied groan, no doubt spotting the glistening shimmer on your cunt from how aroused you were. When his calloused finger dragged through your soaked mound, you could not stifle a moan to leave your lips.

“Please, stop, my lord, I am still a maiden,” you whimpered, trying to get back up only to be pushed down again forceful enough to have you grunting just once. “Stay,” he warned, and you were foolish to not obey his command. You could faintly hear his hands fumbling with the buckles along the breastplate of his armor, your heartbeat pounding in your ears loud enough to almost drown out every other sound, removing them and allowing the steel to fall to the ground – piece after piece following in its wake. “I am betrothed,” you tried to reason.

You gasped as his hand served a firmer slap to your arse this time, the gentle rubbing of his palm not at all mending the stinging pain. “And you still will be once I am done with you,” came his stern reply. He dragged two fingers through your mound, from your entrance to the little bud, retorting to rubbing mindless patterns over it that had you pushing your hips against his fingers for a moment to chase the friction. Despite the moans that left your lips, you tried to snake your hand between your thighs to cover your cunt and arse, but he was quick enough to capture both your hands, bringing them together behind you to pin them to your back with one hand.

The gold cloak was skilled enough to unlace his breeches one-handed, freeing his cock out of its confines. “I shall refrain from spending my seed inside of your cunt for I do not desire to dishonor your betrothed,” he mumbled, his voice taking on a rougher edge.

“Do not do this, please,” you released a shaky breath, and every protest that threatened to follow caught in your throat the moment he dragged the tip of his cock through your swollen folds, resuming the movements he had previously made with his fingers.

The attempt to resist him was cut short when his cock breached your core, pushing into you at a teasingly slow pace that had you drawing in a sharp breath. “Your betrothed might get to breed you, but I took your maidenhead. You do best to remember that when he lays his filthy hands on you,” he groaned. The moment you stretched around him, all you could choke out was ‘yes, yes, yes,’ being in a stupor because of his cock.

With his hand still around your wrists, he pulled you onto his cock until his hips pressed against your rear, taking his time to adjust to your tightness. The ‘Gods’ he muttered under his breath didn’t go unnoticed by you, and it appeared that he didn’t know where to place his free hand as it squeezed your arse, tugged on your hair and eventually settled in the curve of your waist.

He pounded into you with reckless abandon, the tip of his cock brushing the spot inside of you that had your vision grow blurry over and over again. With your face pressed into a pillow resting on the chaise, you were not able to spot the feigned anger and jealousy blazing in his eyes. The only thing that made you aware of the amusement he found in that situation was the tone of his husky voice, making it more than clear that he had a smirk on his lips. “When I am done with you,” he rasped, bowing forward to put more of his weight on your small frame beneath his. “You shall desire no one else’s cock but mine.”

“Yes–” he interrupted your answer with a hard, percussive thrust, and then another, and another, until you couldn't focus on anything else but the delicious pressure inside your cunt. You pushed your hips back against him, and he reared up to pull you back with each of his thrusts, meeting him halfway which resulted in the lewd sounds of skin slapping on skin bouncing off the walls. The position you were in, with your face pressed into the pillow, granted you some sense of feigned privacy, because otherwise you would have noticed some curious eyes lingering on you two whenever one of the customers or whores decided to prowl the scene unfolding.

“Let’s see how much you desire your betrothed’s cock after this.”

When his hips stilled, and the pleasure in the pit of your belly eased, you propped yourself up on your hands with his vice-like grip suddenly gone. You looked at him from over your shoulder, and if you were not so lost in the sight of him behind you, you would have pouted when he gripped the neckline of your tunic to rip the linen to shreds as if it was nothing, exposing the last bit of your body to the sticky air of the brothel.

His skin was glistening in the dim light the candles granted, small beads of sweat highlighting his muscles. His upper body was defined by numerous cuts and scars, a testament to the dangers he had survived in his short life already. As he glanced down to where his clock disappeared inside of you, strands of his silver hair fell into his face, framing his chiseled features. You were so focused on enjoying the view that you did not immediately catch on to what he had said to you, the words not registering in your mind.

It seemed that his patience was not infinite as he grabbed your waist and hoisted you up as if you weighed nothing, settling you down on the cold floor so you sat on your haunches. He sat down on the chaise with his legs spread, his thick cock flush against his lower stomach, and straining as he leaned back, hands resting on his muscular thighs. You tilted your head, affecting a look of defiance. His eyes flickered over your frame, taking in every exposed inch of skin, and he couldn't help but smirk. “I said I shall not dishonor your betrothed, did I not?” he said, and almost dismissively waved his hand in order for you to continue.

You took that as your cue to use your hands and mouth to coax him towards his peak, however, when you reached to grasp the base of his member, the dragon in front of you merely tsked. Without saying a word, he bowed forwards and brought his paw-like hands to the sides of your breasts, squeezing them together. At the realization of what he had in mind, your eyes widened in surprise, and when he raised an eyebrow with a slight tilt of his head, you knew what was expected of you.

While his hands merely released your breasts to allow you to lean forwards, it was your hand that fisted the base of his cock, still thoroughly lubricated with your arousal. You positioned yourself so his cock rested in the Vale between your breasts, only for him to squeeze them together around it again. “Good girl,“ he praised, and you craned your neck to give a teasing lick along the slit at the tip of his cock, which prompted the prince to take in a sharp breath.

He replied by bucking his hips up, his cock bumping against your slightly parted lips. While he smirked at you in a smug manner, you released a surprised gasp, your eyes flickering between his violet ones and his cock. With his hands on your breasts, he kept them pressed tightly around his member, using the crevice between them to race for completion. You raised and lowered your body in rhythm with his hips, licking and kissing the tip of his cock whenever it came close enough to your lips.

His fingers pinched and brushed the perky buds of your breasts, causing you to release one whimper after the other. It was a titillating sight, watching how your expression shifted to a more focused one as you moved your body for his pleasure, ignoring the throbbing at the apex of your legs as best as you could.

“What an obedient, little wench I have found on the streets of Flea Bottom,” he groaned, his voice raspier, indicating that he was close to reaching his peak. “So willing to please the Lord Commander of the City Watch. Do you like watching me fuck those perfect teats of yours?” You couldn't help but whine, a slight blush creeping onto your cheeks at his words like they were the most embarrassing thing you had ever heard. Dornish people were known for their sexual licentiousness, but that man in front of you seemed to top just that.

“Will you claim me, my lord?” you asked, innocently batting your eyelashes at him. But with his peak approaching him rather quickly, the last threads of his patience seemed to snap as he growled a ‘Tis husband for you’ in return, the thoughts of your well-schemed ploy long forgotten at the aspect of spending himself all over you, claiming you. With a strangled groan, Daemon reached his completion, his cock spurting between your breasts and onto your chest, throat, lips and even your tongue. The pinch on your perky buds turned painfully tight with the pleasure soaring through his veins, causing you to squirm a bit, and it took a moment for the tension to slowly subside.

He watched with hooded eyes as you licked his seed off the skin your tongue could reach, and when your hands came up to peel him off of you, there didn’t come any objection from him. You wrapped your lips around his cock, and took as much of him down your throat as possible. He breathed heavily as he bowed forwards, looming over you as he took in the debauched sight in front of him.

Daemon shivered and grunted as you cleaned him up, the overstimulation making him sensitive to your touch, and he fisted your hair to pull you off of him. With the remnants of his seed still on your chin, you smiled up at him, and you could see his flaccid cock slowly growing hard again. You rested your cheek on his thigh, staring up at him as you lazily tugged him to full hardness again

“Gods,” he groaned, the bump in his throat bobbing in anticipation. “I love you, t–,” you replied, the last word catching in your throat as he hoisted you up to straddle his hips. His hard cock was nestled between your bodies, and your arms immediately wrapped around his neck, fingers entangling in the strands of his silver hair.

“I am going to make you peak, and then I am fucking you until you can no longer walk and you are carrying my child,” he mumbled into the curve of your neck, sucking in your skin to leave some faint marks. “Just to show you how much I love you, wife.”

General Taglist: @aemondx @watercolorskyy @nothingqueens @urmomsgirlfriend1

[alicenttully]

so i don't exactly keep it a secret that i despise this man but like still. in fire & blood laena velayron is the only one of his three wives that daemon targaryen was actually a decent husband to ( but none of whom he deserved ultimately). she's the only one he was never unfaithful to. he doesn't isolate her from her family. he wins a duel for her hand even though by 115 AC viserys has 3 sons so him marrying laena certainly isn't going to make him king consort any time soon. contrast that with how he tried to ruin rhaenyra's reputation to compel viserys into betrothing them so he could be closer to the throne. he was attracted to rhaenyra yes but he was attracted to what she offered more which is like 80% of westerosi marriages anyway. unlike the show where you have rhaena targaryen feeling like she isn't good enough for daemon and laena imo giving a pretty poor defense of him, daemon wrote to viserys after she & baela were born so he could present them at court. keep in mind daemon was in exile for the second time, viserys was pissed with him for the velayron marriage, for rhaenyra, but daemon decided to risk it because he was proud of the children laena had given him. he wouldn't be presenting them at court for viserys' blessing if that wasn't the case imo.

other people have said it better but the way the show chose to adapt laena was really gross.

[gracielikegrapes]

Targaryen Brides! Averaged over vague time periods within Targ Dynasty. Only have 4 because I didn't like the others :)

Before Conquest : Traditional wedding garb. Spun Canvas. Ref: Rhaenyra in House of the Dragon.

After Conquest 13ac - 48ac : Simple but Tasteful dress more in line with Westerosi traditions. Velvet with Satin trim. Ref: Arwen in Return of the King.

Golden Age 49ac - 120ac : Leading fashion in noble circles and court with a lot of heraldry. Predominately silk with Myrish lace. Ref: Danielle in Ever After.

After Dance of the Dragons 129ac - 180ac : Slightly more demure in cut with less opulence however still showcasing wealth and status e.g. no myrish lace but stoned with citrine, jasper and pearls. Ref: Buttercup in The Princess Bride.

[houseofhyde]

i. a game of westerosi whispers.

pairing. daemon targaryen x fem!reader

synopsis. the five rumours about you that made the rounds amongst the court and the five times your uncle taught you to use them as a weapon. read part two here!

warnings. niece!reader, targcest, canon misogyny, mentions of infertility and starvation, attempted rape (not daemon), kinda manipulative behaviour from daemon ig, angst, fluff, smut (heavy petting, fingering, dry-humping). disclaimer!! reader + rhaenyra's age may not be accurate to the time of events but i don't feel comfortable writing about daemon going after a minor, so just roll with it.

word count. 5.5k 

taglist. @nyctophilic0vitnir​

hyde's input. i wrote this on a whim with no clue what the actual plot was gonna be other than the last sentence, so enjoy whatever this clusterfuck of words is. ngl, i felt a little iffy writing targcest but hey, at least it serves as a reminder that i’m 100% not into this shit irl. also, thank you so much for the reaction towards my first (and only other) daemon fic, dressed in white, i'm completely shocked at how many people actually read it and enjoyed it. you're all cute for giving it notes :(

bearing the targaryen name was as much a burden as it was a blessing.

while on one hand it came with dragons and power, on the other it came with prying eyes and hushed gossiping. it was a fact of life: as sure as the sun would rise come the morning, a targaryen’s name would be the centre of the capital’s gossip.

so, why on earth would you ever have believe yourself exempt from this rule, solely on the grounds that you were the second born daughter and not the apple of your father’s eye?

the first rumour was always the worst.

“i heard she threatened to feed herself to her dragon after the king named her sister as his heir.”

“no doubt that’s how she claimed inheritance over dragonstone!”

it hadn’t mattered that you’d never wanted, nor asked, for dragonstone, just the same as it didn’t matter that you’d happily cheered your elder sister’s future ascent to the dreaded iron throne. the ladies and lords who filtered through your father’s name-day feast had staked their claim over the truth, all so humoured by the thought of you, screaming like a small babe and stomping your foot like a spoilt brat, threatening your father with violence against yourself, that they failed to search for the source of such gossip, blindly believing it for the sake of a laugh and fuel to strike up a conversation within the great hall.

like wildfire, the rumour did spread.

lords whispered it into the ears of their dance partners, ladies who would then make their way back to their tables to share the news amongst those sat around it, all of whom would retire to their chambers and muse upon your supposed temper tantrum with their maids and knights, who’d filter out into the streets of king’s landing and spread the word like it were a plague, till even the rats in the sewers were aware of your untrue outburst.

by the next morning, you were branded the scorned princess.

“gossip is where truth goes to die.” he’d startled you out of your own self-pitying thoughts, back pressed up against the tree in the godswoods and book laying open across your knees, not a single page turned in what had to have been well over an hour.

“uncle,” clutching at your heart, your dizzied fright had blinded you to the way the man above you burned his eyes into what little he could see of your developing bosom. with the summer heat in full-swing, you’d taken to lowering the necklines of your dresses and the prince had taken to despising that you’d once dared to hide such a delectable sight beneath layers of clothing. “’tis not wise to sneak upon a woman armed.”

a charming smirk branded his face as you tugged the hem of your dress half-way up your leg, shamelessly letting him gaze upon your supple skin and the dagger sheathed in it’s own miniature scabbard against your calf.

a gift, on the name day in which you had turned ten and seven, from the very man who casted a shadow over you now. (”you told me you wanted a piece of old valyria, little dove. so there you go, your very own valyrian steel.”)

“just the same as it ‘tis not wise to sulk in public spaces, niece.”

“i was not sulking!” the book snapped shut as you rose to a stand, defensive in the way you held it pressed to your chest. his jaw clenched, what little morals he owned swallowing down whatever undesirable comment he had for you newly covered breasts.

his attention redirected itself to your mouth, lips red from the way you'd shamelessly gnawed upon them through all your distressing thoughts, the bottom one jutting out against your own consciousness.

“my brother’s new born babe aegon pouts less than you.” daemon mused, hand reaching out to swipe his thumb over your puckered petal, teasing himself with what they’d feel like pressed against his own. “if your concern is the whispers, ignore them. the cunts in your father’s court mean only to make themselves believe you are lesser than them. they’ll tire by the morrow and move on to someone else in our house to discuss, nyke kivio ao bisa.” i promise you this.

daemon was glad you’d never read into his words too much that day, least he’d have to admit to feigning a drunken state and causing a scene in a brothel that very night just to get your name out of their mouths.

the second time you found your name floating the keep’s halls was a few years after the first.

“they say the princess scarcely bleeds. barren, that’s what the grand maester called her.”

“regardless, she lacks the shape of a proper woman. i’ve seen men with hips more apt for childbearing than her’s.”

once more, no one took notice of the times your handmaidens had stripped your bed clean of bloodied sheets, nor did they pay mind to the fact you’d rushed out your father’s wedding to alicent hightower, dress sporting a bloodied stain and eyes filled with tears of embarrassment.

the scorned princess being also the barren princess? it made for a better story than the truth: a combination of stress induced starvation and lack of sleep had lead to an irregularity with your moon’s blood.

the room around you had long ago emptied itself of guests, those who remained behind either too drunk to make it out of their seats or in too high a spirit to retire to bed.

you were one of the former, head resting against your crossed arms which had found purchase on the table. never having been fond of drinking, it had only taken a few cups of dornish wine to render you inebriated, and thus your pity party had began, lamenting your own withering reputation to whichever poor, unfortunate family member had been a great enough fool to sit themselves next to you.

“father thinks me ruined, hic,” your sentence paused to make space for your drunken hiccups, which served to cover up the little sobs your body shook out. “i heard him speaking to the hand about how he’ll never, hic, find someone to marry a, hic, princess who can not, hic, give any heirs. ziry emagon daor gīda eptan issa, hic, lo ziry iksos drēje!” he has not even asked me, hic, if it is true.

“ao gīmigon skoros ao jorrāelagon naejot gaomagon, byka dove?” you know what you need to do, little dove?

you shot up straight, no longer caring that your face was stained in tears, mind too busy wondering why daemon had been sat next to you and was not off with some whore, indulging in a victory fuck to mark the end of the celebrations for his return as king of the stepstones.

you voiced your curiosity, hand instinctively curling around his own as he reached out for you, the scraping of his chair ringing in your ears when he inched himself closer.

“can i not want to spend time with my niece?”

“yes but we, hic, already broke our fast together this morning.”

“and yet i never managed to speak with you, your father was too busy with his gloats on my return.” he spoke no word of lie, the king had been an unstoppable force of laughter and joy ever since daemon had given him his crown and the crabfeeder’s sword. a part of you had been endeared, watching how he reminisced on his and his brother’s younger days, filling daemon’s cup with wine every time it had emptied, a smile on his face like no other you’d seen since the passing of your mother. “now, you’ve yet to answer my question.”

“your, hic, question?”

“you make for an endearing drunk, little dove.” giving your hand a gentle squeeze, there was nowhere for you to hide from the fondness in his eyes as he brought your intertwined fingers up to his lips, brushing them over the expanse of your knuckles. a chill ran down your spine and a fire lit within your loins. “my question was regarding those who speak on your fertility, or supposed lack thereof. do you know how you must handle this?”

“if i did, do you believe i’d have, hic, made myself so familiar with the wine this evening?”

the prince laughed, you smiled. something sinful flowed through your veins as you took note of his posture, how his whole body was pointed towards you, how his back hunched over enough for him to lean down and level his eyes with yours, how he didn’t seem to take notice- or, if he did, didn’t seem to care- of the remaining guests stares being glued to you both, analysing each detail of your interaction.

“and here i thought you’d turned to drinking to cope with the absence of your favourite relative in these past years.”

“i accepted corlys', hic, absence years ago, kepus.”

“just for that,” he pushed his chair back, hand dropping your own as he stood and straightened out his wrinkled clothing. “i shan’t be telling you what to do about these rumours.”

before he could walk away from you, your hand shot out and grasped at his wrist, foolishly believing you carried the physical strength to hold him in place.

“no!” you were certain everyone who remained in the hall had heard your panicked exclamation, but it mattered little as the desperation to have him near, to have him guide you, to have him tell you how to make everything better took over your sanity. “please, i only, hic, jest! tell me what to do.”

for what felt like an eternity, and was only a mere few seconds, daemon stared down at you, blank in the face. his eyes narrowed in on the tear tracks down your cheeks, and an unspoken- and impossible- vow was made in that instant: he’d pay any price to ensure you’d never cry again.

“what you need to do, niece,” he leaned down, till his lips were near pressed against your ear, ghosting over it with his hot breath and the faintest brush of his moving mouth. “is make sure your future husband fucks you so full of his seed that no one dares question your capability of carrying on the targaryen lineage.”

there still remained plenty a drunken fools and dancing buffoons by the time you decided to retire for the evening, yet you payed no mind to their wandering eyes as you let daemon guide you out the hall and escort you back to your chambers.

you’d awoken the next morning to an aching head and a burning cheek, unsure of whether daemon had pressed his lips against it before bidding you goodnight or if that was but a drunken dream.

the third rumour came not shortly after.

“did you hear about the princess and ser criston? apparently she’s requested he train her in combat.”

“the only combat she wants is within his bed.”

no one cared to enquire on the truth of why a young princess would request to be trained in the arts of the sword, just the same as no one cared to address the fear you’d been left with after an attack on your life within your own chambers, when a knight, angered with his dismissal from the city watch after breaking his vows of chastity, had decided to seek revenge on the king on a personal level, a fatherly level: stripping his daughter of her purity.

your night dress was nothing but torn rags and his breeches were halfway down his legs by the time ser criston had burst into the room.

and though he may have failed at stealing your virtue, he’d succeeded in stealing your safety.

the first few nights, you found no comfort in your own bed, seeking out your elder sister and crying into her welcoming arms till your body grew tired from the sobs and your eyes had dried up. your return to your own chambers had been under certain conditions, your father unwilling to risk putting you in harm’s way again, and thus a collective of knights stood post outside your door at all hours of the day.

none of it made any difference when you fell asleep, however, your slumbering mind taking to bombarding you with nightmares of sweaty palms on your skin and the putrid smell of the knight’s breath as he forced himself atop your helpless body.

when you’d asked ser criston to educate you in manning a sword, he’d taken no interest in asking for a reason, understanding what had been ailing you without you having to relive it through verbalising it.

he was surprisingly patient with his teaching, not caring for the number of times he’d need to repeat himself, nor the plethora of time you’d struck him in the face with the wooden training sword he’d bestowed you with.

but ser criston did not go easier on you, did not lessen the blows he’d deliver your way on account of you being smaller, frailer, nor for the simple fact that you were the princess. he pushed your face into mud, he bruised your skin with his blows, he worked you till you were short of breath and drenched in sweat. all in all, you’d believed him to be a great teacher. perfect, even.

until you found yourself disarmed, a boot digging into your shoulder to keep your back pinned to the ground below and the end of a sword barely gracing the skin of your neck.

“ziry kostagon daor hīlagon nykeēdar gīda lo ziry ropatas hen hen nykeā lōgor.” he could not hit water even if he fell out of a boat.

the heel of daemon’s boot dug further into your shoulder, unknowingly grinding into a bruise you’d earned two days prior, a fair price you’d payed to at last disarm ser criston for the first time.

the man above you glared down in your direction as a series of giggles erupted from your chest, the man already irritated from hearing how you’d taken to training with the cunt in shiny armor.

“ziry kostagon’t sagon sīr quba, lo ziry pyghagon ao isse se tourney.” he can’t be so bad, if he beat you in the tourney.

“urnēbagon ziry, byka dove, ao kostagon find aōla zālagon lo ao tymagon rūsīr perzys.” watch it, little dove, you may find yourself burnt if you play with fire. as if to punctuate his threat, he pushed the edge of dark sister harder against your skin and you felt the unmistakable sting of skin prying itself apart under the sharp pressure. the faintest line of red trickled down the back of your neck, staining your skin and straining daemon’s breeches, much to your own unawareness.

“īlon’re zaldrīzoti, keepus. perzys kostagon daor ōdrikagon īlva, mērī excite īlva.” we’re dragons, uncle. fire can not harm us, only excite us.

the next few moments passed in silence, save for the occasional screech of a bird or the rustling of leaves in the wind. and all the while he was gazing down at you, eyes hooded and chest heavy with each breath. he was contemplating something and you longed to know what.

it went far beyond a longing to know, you wanted to be in his mind, wanted to split his skull in two and burrow yourself in whatever space he may have left for you, taking up as much of his mind as you physically could.

meanwhile, he thanked any god who may exist that you had no insight into his maddening thoughts, safe to imagine you laid out atop his bed and with his hand around your throat rather than the blade of his sword, every rise and fall of your chest punctuating another delicate whine for him to swallow with his own deranged grunts.

only after he’d sheathed dark sister once more did he speak.

“i will inform ser crispin of his dismissal from training you.” it was not a request but, rather, an order. the kind of thing you’d typically quarrel with your father over, yet with daemon you were too busy melting into a puddle under the warmth of his stern tone to care.

“and why,” as he interrupted your own efforts to stand, hand grasping your arm and swiftly pulling you to your feet like you weighed no more than a bird’s feather, you lost your footing, sending you barreling against his solid chest. he stood taller this way, your head having to tilt further back to hold contact with his eyes. “would you be doing that, uncle?”

“because you’ve no need for two swordsmen to train you. it’ll only lead to conflict in training methods.”

“how so?”

“ser crispin is a technical man, commanding the style in which you move and the strategies you must implore to predict his next blow.” his face inched lower, closer to yours and invaded your space in a way only he could. “my training is more... hands-on.”

the fourth rumour was the one you cared the least to disprove.

“i suppose it is only expected that she follow in her family’s tradition.”

“still, i do find it odd how she can lust after her own kin, her uncle! i guess not even the rogue prince’s niece is blind to his charm.”

perhaps the spiders around you were finally beginning to use their countless eyes, staring the truth in it’s face and choosing to spin their web of lies around it, a step forward from their usual habit of spinning straw into gold and staking barbarian claims against your honour.

if they were going to talk, least it be with some truth.

because while no, you had not begged daemon to bed you like the ladies claimed, nor had you followed him out of the castle and spied on his depraved actions in fleabottom as the lords had said, you certainly could not deny there was something going on.

from touches that lingered on the training grounds, your hands clinging onto him long after he’d pulled you back to your feet and his hands remaining on your cheek long after he’d whipped away the traces of dirt.

to public interactions deemed far too intimate for an uncle and his niece, even for the house of dragons. countless feasts passing where neither one of you were keen to take your eyes off each other, whether your bodies were pressed right up against one another in a dance or a sea of people stood between you both on opposite ends of the hall.

two tourneys, one for prince aegon’s first name-day and another for the upcoming marriage between rhaenyra and your cousin, laenor velaryon, and in each the events had played out the same: daemon would stride in on his steed, dressed in the most ridiculous armor one could find, and request your favour, boldly and unabashedly before every gossiping housewife and envious lord, only to defeat his opponents and ruffle some more feathers when declaring you as the queen of love and beauty.

which lead up to this moment in the throne room, the king looming large over both of you from the pile of swords despite his visibly worsened health, anger decorating his features as he spied the wreath of flowers upon your head, still present hours after the rogue prince had crowned you for the second time.

the first time, he’d overlooked it, laughed it off.

the second time, he’d felt his blood boil, shoved his second wife’s hands off him as she whispered in his ear of how his brother meant to ruin his daughter in the eyes of potential suitors.

if the king were half as smart as he was kind, he would have seen the truth in queen alicent’s worries.

“please, father, don’t be so ridiculous! daemon has merely been training me.” you had the nerve to smile at him after he lay the allegations of your indecent meetings at both your feet, trampling them under your pretty words as though they were far too implausible to even entertain with anger.

“i thought ser criston was aiding you with your sword skills.” your father replied, his full-fingered hand curling over the edge of his armrest and supporting his weight as he leaned forward, as though to get a closer look at you.

“there was a conflict of interest.” daemon answered in your place, to which viserys scoffed and kept his eyes on his daughter.

“how so?”

“his methods, i did not find myself... responding as well as i do to daemon’s.” it was only a half-lie, for while you would still argue that ser criston was just as skilled with a sword as daemon, there was no competition when it came to who could hold your focus. in ser criston’s lessons, you’d counted down the minutes till you were free to rest, while with daemon you would often implore him to skip whatever small council meeting required his presence and remain with you on the field. “i have grown good enough to disarm him, though my uncle denies it happening.”

“‘tis my niece who negates the truth of how the rain that soaked us both lead to my sword slipping from my grasp.” the king watched, disgruntled, as daemon spoke towards you, holding you captive in his gaze in a way that was dangerously easy, a power the monarch could recall his beloved first wife held over him. “what she showed was an act of luck, not good swordsmanship.”

when neither three of the targaryens spoke, the echoes of celebrations within the gardens began to travel through the air, as if to mock the king, reminding him that he should be out there celebrating the union of not only his daughter but the realm’s alliance with the lord of the tides becoming stronger than ever, instead of trapped within the seat that brought him nothing but gripe and before his two political headaches- his brother the original, and his daughter the most recent.

the king heaved a sigh.

“very well, you’re dimissed.” he waved what remained of his hand, the stump where fingers once lived a sickening reminder of how his body was slowly falling apart. with a nod and a curtsy, you both made to leave the king’s presence, only for his voice to ring out once more. “not you, daemon. you and i need to discuss something.”

with you bidding them both goodbye, dress trailing behind you as daemon allowed himself to glance back just once, the doors slammed shut and trapped the two bother’s within.

viserys pulled himself off the throne, hardly feeling as a blade sliced through his decaying palm. while the king grew closer, daemon grew bolder, traveling up the steps and meeting his brother midway.

perhaps an act of kindness, to spare him the trouble of exhausting himself.

more likely a show of disregard, to remind him that he wasn’t one of the puny the lords who sat within the small council, ready to be pushed and pulled in whatever direction the king sent them.

“pray tell, brother.” the younger doned a smile and clasped his hands behind his back. “what is it we need to discuss?”

“my daughter.”

“i’m fairly certain it’s rude to discuss a lady when she is not pres-”

daemon was cut short, words dying as a sense of shock took over him upon viserys’ hands clasping the collar of his doublet.

“if i so much as hear of you putting your hands on my daughter without her permission, i’ll-”

“kill me? have me sent to the wall? turn me into a eunuch?” all sounded like awful outcomes, yet the prince wondered if getting his hands on you, even if it was just once, would make it all worth it. he decided not, for he was certain he would find no antidote to the poison of tasting you other than to taste you again and again and again, till his blood ran dry and his skin melted off his bones. “and if she permits me to? what if she is the one to put her hands on me?”

“then i will see to it that you both perform your duties as servants to the crown and have your affairs in order under the eyes of the seven.” he spoke like a king, distant and unfeeling, a man who’s only job was to lead the realm.

and so daemon graced him with an answer fit for a king.

“are you saying what i believe you to be, your grace?”

“yes. i’m saying i would wed you to her.”

the fifth rumour is when you decide enough was enough, the time had come to use their own love of gossip against them.

“the king’s expected to announce her search for a suitor soon.”

“i do pray for her future husband, whoever he may be. it’s doubtful he’ll find any joy married to such an ungrateful, infertile harlequin.”

every step you took that evening was calculated.

from the seat you sat at the royal table, trading your usual post beside rhaenyra for one next to daemon, to the number of lords you entertained with a dance and a laugh, three to be exact: one of them your soon-to-be brother by law laenor velaryon, another the son of the hand, ser harwin strong, a fierce knight and the object of your sister’s desires, and, lastly, cregan stark.

the stark was by far your father’s most favoured suitor when it came to your hand, anyone with a pair of working eyes could see. where his first born’s marriage had secured the relationship between the crown and the sea, his second daughter's would secure that of the capital and the cold, unfeeling north.

only, your father had made one fatal flaw in his game of chess: he’d mistaken you for a pawn, when in truth you were a rook, unwilling to be moved so easily.

betrayal was your initial reaction to the news of your father’s meeting with the starks, an encounter he had not even the good graces to include you in.

your second reaction was defiance.

and, so, you laughed with the stark lord, you let him refill your goblet as he spoke tales of his travels south to the capital, you danced with him before the entire court and stepped on his toes enough times till he politely dismissed himself, claiming he was in need of relieving his bladder before he left you in the centre of the dancing pairs.

just in time for him to swoop in.

“ao jāhor mazverdagon nykeā sȳz ābrazȳrys, byka dove.” daemon wrapped you in both the safety of his arms and the use of your ancestral language, guiding you into the next dance. you will make a fine wife, little dove

“nyke pendagon lo issa valzȳrys jāhor agree rūsīr ao.” i wonder if my husband will agree with you.

matching the other couples, daemon commanded you to spin in his grasp, hands firm as one held onto yours and the other made repeated contact with your waist, spinning you faster and faster, till you tumbled over your own feet and had nowhere to turn to but his strong, dependable hold, hands splaying out on his chest as his own found rest upon your lower back.

even that was not enough for the man, who squeezed you closer to his own bod.

“you’re tired, niece.” the swirling pairs around you turned their heads at his voice, exaggerated in it’s volume as he at last addressed you in a way they understand.

“so very tired, uncle.”

“then i shall escort you to your chambers. the dark hallways of the keep are no place for such a defenceless lady.���

the weight of your father’s stare followed you out of the banquet halls, lungs only refilling with air when you round the corner that leads upwards, the steps to your own chambers lit with torches and manned by several guards who stood guard at your door.

the same guards who payed no mind to how you welcomed your uncle into your chambers.

the same guards who likely felt against their back the vibration of your own body slamming against the shut door.

daemon was a force to be reckoned with, hands coming down to cage you against the wooden surface and render you defenceless to the incoming attack against your mouth.

there was no patience in the way he kissed you, mimicking a man starved for weeks who’s at last been handed a morsel of bread. neither was there gentleness, lips moving with yours in a frenzy of clashing teeth and knocking noses. it was nothing like the books you’ve read, where a pretty princess at last convinces the honourable knight to kiss her, pulling back immediately to stare in bewilderment.

nor was it how rhaenyra had explained kisses to be: boring, unexciting, a waste of time.

daemon licked his tongue into your sweet mouth, chest shaking under your palms at the satisfied groan he released. you caught up with his pace, lips finally moving to the rhythm he’d set, no longer being lead but rather fighting to lead him in the dance of your mouths.

when he pulled away, the hunger in his eyes could only be levelled by that of his dragon’s as it flew into battle, thirsty to burn everything beneath it.

“ao issi tolmiot tolī gevie naejot sagon jurnegēre rȳ issa raqagon bona.” his voice lulled you out of your trance, confused, even if just for a moment, as he spoke to you in your blood’s tongue, instead of one the guards outside your door would understand. it dawned on you slowly that he spoke only for you in that instant. you are far too beautiful to be looking at me like that.

“raqagon skoros?” like what?

“raqagon nyke mazverdagon ao biare.” like i make you happy.

the prince wasted no time in stripping you bare, knowing he’d lose the ounce of little control he had left if he were to gaze upon your heaving breasts and your glistening cunt.

he settled for sneaking his hand under the layers of your skirt till he found his holy grail.

“you’re soaked, little dove.” he spoke in pure awe, as though he hadn’t lay with a thousand whores and tasted every kind of woman the realm had to offer.

daemon was no stranger to maidens nor the feeling of touching them, yet none had ever welcomed him in as much as you, no fear in your darkened gaze as you spread your legs further apart while the middle finger stroked over your velvet lips which dripped with honey and ached to suck his digit in between them.

it was as though you were made for him alone, body trained to take anything he’d offer, and he tells you so as he made contact with your aching bud, calming the buzzing nerves with slow strokes.

“is that nice, niece?” you nodded your head and were met with a disapproving look, quickly correcting yourself with a loud moan. “is kepus making your little cunt wet?”

“yes!”

he rewarded your precious reply with the breeching of your hole, his finger forcing it’s ways into your tight walls as he released his own noises of satisfaction.

the descent into madness was swift from then onwards, with daemon knowing only the feeling of your sticky walls clamping down on him as your eyes rolled back and your mouth fell slack would be enough to sedate him. one finger became two and he watched you mold yourself into the perfect little whore for him, unabashed to call out his name and beg for more.

“have you touched yourself before?” his breath was haggard, as if he was the one having his insides toyed with by you, chasing his inevitable peak with wanton groans and sporadic kisses to your throat, collarbones, chest. “or are mine the first hands to touch this precious cunt?”

when you hit your crescendo, it was with shaking limbs and desperate cries, hands having found home in the tresses of his hair, pulling on their roots as he kissed over your chest, fingers continuing their repeated assault on your entrance till your essence dripped down to his elbows and you shook your head in protest to his touch, his pretty baby too sensitive from her first peak.

he let his resolve slip moments after bringing his soaked fingers up to his mouth, the taste of you sending him to all seven hells and back for all the things he longed to do to you. arms caging around your frame, he lay his forehead to rest against yours as his hardness began to grind against your waist.

“just wait, my little dove.” even as he put on a show, he was mindful to sweet talk you with the names he called you, aware you were not ready yet for all the things he longed to call you, preferably as you lay face down in his sheets, your sweet flower on full display and ripe with honey for his taking. “wait till i paint your insides with my seed, filling your little womb up till it swells with my babe.”

much to his own preference, daemon shortly spilled within his breeches, soiling his clothing in an uncomfortable manner he'd need to clean up later.

in all his years he’s never fought as hard a battle as the one to lead you to bed, all the while you begged in your mother tongue for him to take you, for real this time, to fill you with his cock even after the sun had risen and the royal guards stormed your room demanding answers for the king.

as he finally parted ways with you, this time for sure pressing his lips to your cheek, daemon nodded curtly at your guards who refused to meet his eyes and he swallowed down his amusement, the walk back to his own chambers filled with only one topic: how long till the news reached the king's ears.

after all, the ladies of the court never were good at whispering.

[author-morgan]

Title: Iā Zaldrīzes's Prūmia  Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!Reader Rating: T Summary: Promises are not idly spoken and Aemond proves he's a man of his word.  Warnings: typical Westerosi shenanigans

THE DOORS OF your bedchamber creak and groan as they open without ceremony, but you already know who the unannounced and uninvited guest is at this hour —Prince Aemond Targaryen. “A gentleman would have knocked,” you tease as he makes his way across the room to where you sit at your vanity, following the trail of your discarded clothing —stockings, petticoat, skirt, bodice, and stays.

Aemond steps behind you, his hands resting at the base of your neck, fingertips lightly pressing into your collarbones. He bends at the waist, pressing his nose into the crown of your hair —still half bound up from the evening’s festivities— and inhales the sweet fading scent of rose and honeyed blood orange. “You avoided me tonight, sīmontan,” he notes. 

“Only to appease my father,” you tell him, watching his expression shift from mild ire and annoyance to curiosity in the reflection as you comb through another braid. Lord Wylde thinks himself a perspicacious man, and surely when it comes to the realm's affairs, he is, but he’s nigh blind to his daughter’s heart and longings. He expects you to take a husband soon —and quell the whispers that entertain the servants of the Red Keep and the court for good.

Expectations mean entertaining would-be suitors with pleasant conversation and clumsy dances during feasts instead of gossiping with Princess Helaena and her brother, Aemond. “We’re not children anymore,” you remind him. He is a prince. You are a lady. Neither you nor he can escape the responsibilities that come with each role.

“No,” he agrees. The days of childhood and innocence are long gone —he likes to think his childhood ended when Lucerys Velaryon took his eye. But even if childhood has come and gone, it feels like few things have changed between you and him. And maybe that’s what causes people to talk when they see the prince absconding from your chambers early in the morning or when you both return at indecent hours having stolen away on horse or dragon back.

Aemond sits next to you on the vanity bench and plucks one of the silver combs from your hair. Having him so close after the feast and your father's words gnaws at your heart in a new and strange way. You do not wish to be parted from the prince, but you cannot give yourself false hope either. “How much longer can we carry on like this?” You ask, voice wavering, and for maybe the first time, Aemond realizes the toll of his affections —of the life you both lead in private. “Sneaking around whilst my father and your mother try to make suitable matches for us.”

“I’ll tell mother there’s only one match she need make then,” he tells you. He called you his princess as a boy, but when Vhagar accepted you, he knew —it should have been enough to make your father and Alicent realize too. Aemond wraps a lock of your hair around his finger and tugs on it gently. “You’ll be a Princess of the Realm. What father would not wish that honor upon his daughter?” Then he leans closer and whispers in your ear. “Our sons could be kings.”

“Planning to depose your brother already?” That earns you a quiet laugh. He’s made it no secret that he is better suited for the throne than his lecherous brother. “It matters not, though.” You unwind the last of the braids and glance down at the brush in hand. Aemond’s pursed lips fall, his brow furrowing. “In the end, I am but the daughter of a minor house,” you remind him, “unfit for such a prestigious match.” Queen Alicent Hightower will pursue a union between her second son and a daughter from one of the Great Houses of Westeros —not the daughter of a lesser house from the Stormlands. House Wylde has nothing to offer the Crown save for love and loyalty. 

“I don’t give a shit about prestige,” Aemond bites, his tone sharp and expression harsh. He’ll not tolerate hearing you patronize yourself, nor the thought that anyone other than him would get to decide who is worthy of his love. The harsh line of his lips softens, as does the furrow between his brows. He shifts, taking hold of your hands —thumbs running across your knuckles. “Nyke jaelagon ao.”

Freeing one of your hands, you reach around him, undoing the clasp of his eyepatch. He catches the leather piece and places it next to one of your hair combs on the vanity. The blue of his stone-eye glimmers in the firelight —you’ve never loved that shade of deep blue as much as you do now. Aemond closes his eye when your fingertips meet the start of his scar, tracing downward, over where his eye should be, and across his cheek. He conceals his sapphire eye while at court so as not to frighten the ladies. But you had been among the first to see him after his return from Driftmark —the wound fresh and stitches swollen. Aemond hadn’t wanted you to look upon him, not after hearing whispers from others, but true friends did not abandon one another so readily.

You tilt your chin up and lean closer to him, heart racing. There’ll be no going back after tonight, one way or another. “Then make good on your promise and take me,” you breathe. It’s a promise made a lifetime ago and one you nor he has ever forgotten. 

Aemond inhales before he seizes your face within his hands and lurches forward, lips seeking yours —hungry and zealous and loving. You sigh into his mouth, fingers twisting into his silver-white hair. He tastes of smoke and wine and everything you could ever dream of in this life.

THE SPACE NEXT to you in bed is empty and cold when your lady’s maid, Lyra, comes to wake and prepare you for the day. She says nothing about the state of your undress —only offers a meek smile when she realizes you wear Prince Aemond’s tunic. People in the Red Keep like to speculate about your and the prince’s relationship, but only Lyra knows the truth, having stumbled upon you and Aemond in bed, wrapped up in one another. It had been innocent enough then, but now without the high neck of your linen shift beneath a blue-green dress, the world would be able to see the scattering of dark lovebites on your neck —and speculation would turn to scandal.

A posted guard announces your arrival, and Helaena looks up from her embroidery and offers a faint and fleeting smile. “Good morrow, Lady Wylde,” the princess greets. You arrive later than usual, and Helaena’s already broken her fast with her brothers, sorely missing the pleasant conversation which often quells Aemond and Aegon’s tempers.

“Good morrow to you, princess,” you reply, dipping down into a quick curtsey before taking a seat across from her. Your unfinished embroidery is left on the low table, a poor attempt to create the sigil of House Wylde —a blue-green maelstrom on a golden field. The curves and lines are not straight, and instead of neat swirls, it looks more like a patchwork of yellow and blue thread. “We’ve apple tarts still from breakfast,” Helaena notes to break the looming quiet. “Made sure my brothers did not eat them all.”

You thank Helaena for her thoughtfulness, then turn your attention to little Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, swaddled in pale linens and still fast asleep in their bassinet. Helaena often reprimands you for spoiling them, just as she does their uncle. It’s astounding such pure little beings had come from Aegon’s loins. “Aemond was looking for you,” she says, suddenly —knowing something was off with him this morning. “He’s gone to train now.”

“Did he say why?” But Helaena does not answer, only offering another quick smile. 

Ser Criston Cole glimpses you as you descend the stairs to join the others watching the prince’s training session. “You have an audience,” the kingsguard knight says, pushing away from a stalemate. Aemond always garners an audience when he trains —it makes for a bout of good entertainment on droll days, especially when his opponent is Ser Criston. But now the one person Prince Aemond always looks for arrives —and it’s the only audience that matters to the young prince. He spins the hilt of his training sword, then drives the blunted sword into the ground and turns on heel.

You step to Aemond, hands clasped behind your back and head tilted to the side —appraising his disheveled appearance and the sheen of sweat on his pale brow. “Helaena said you wished to see me, my prince?”

Mindlessly, he reaches for a lock of your hair, twisting it around his finger. “I always wish to see you,” Aemond replies, softly and hushed.

“Flattery will get you everywhere and nowhere, Aemond.” You grip his wrist lest he forgets himself and the others watching with eagle eyes and loose lips.

“Mm” —his lips quirk upward, and his gaze dips downward, tracing the line of your jaw and neck— “let’s hope for the former then, my lady,” he breathes, a heady lilt to the words. You like to think yourself immune to his tricks and sweet words, but the flush of warmth painting your cheeks says otherwise. Aemond smiles in earnest and glimpses his waiting opponent over his shoulder. “May I ask your favor whilst I best this old knight?” He asks, just loud enough for those closest to hear.

“I’ve no favor to give,” you tell him, amused —you have no crown of flowers, ribbon, or handkerchief to present the prince this day, only yourself.

But that’s more than enough. “A kiss then,” Aemond muses, already leaning closer and expecting you to acquiesce his request, “from my fairest lady.”

You press a hand to his chest, fingers toying with one of the buckles of his gambeson. “Only if you win.” A kiss is a precious thing, and you dare not give one away so freely before your titled peers. Aemond steps back and recovers his training sword, then turns to face Ser Criston.

Three more rounds come to pass. One ends in a draw, the other with Aemond knocking the kingsguard knight’s sword from hand, but in the final contest, Criston claims victory.

The gathered lords and ladies clap and cheer, slowly filtering from the training yard now that the spectacle is over. You lean against a training dummy, watching as the two combatants and their page boys come to rerack the training weapons. “It’s good of you to knock him on his arse from time to time, Ser Criston,” you remark, making your way toward the knight and prince. 

Aemond glares across the training yard, but you only smile sweetly for him. In truth, it soothes your heart and mind to know the prince is trained by one of the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms —and one of the few battle-hardened warriors who resided in the city at that. “Even princes must be humbled, my lady,” Ser Criston replies. “A duty I take no pleasure in.”

You reach for Aemond’s arm. “Walk with me,” you say, smiling up at him. He obliges, knowing your company will be the sweetest balm for his wounded pride. You mean to steal him away to the godswood of the Keep but passing members of the court all seek to stop you and the prince for polite conversation —a question about King Viserys’s health, an offhand remark about the unusually warm weather. 

Many in the court believe you to be a good match for the prince regardless of birth status, though they’d never dare speak such improper opinions aloud. And all the while, Aemond presses his hand against the small of your back, his thumb rubbing circles, mindlessly, through the linen and silk of your summer dress —always touching you somehow, as he is wont to do, and uncaring of whoever may see.

It takes time to converse with everyone so as not to be seen as impolite, but the halls of the Red Keep give way to the godswood. Aemond stops beneath the weirwood tree and peers up at the red leaves, suddenly lost in thought and memory. “If you could go anywhere” —his gaze flits down to you— “where would you go?” He isn’t sure what he wants to hear you say. 

“Se hūra,” you answer, needing little time to ponder an answer. You’ve everything you want here in King’s Landing —family, friends, the love of a prince— you needn't go anywhere else save the impossible. 

“You’d have to fly to the moon,” he muses.  

You step in front of Aemond and reach for his hands —twining your fingers with his. “But you have a dragon.” You could take me. If any dragon could reach the moon and stars, it would be Vhagar, and Aemond would take you without question or hesitation. He does not say anything, but there’s a glimmer in his eye, and then he frees one of his hands, the backs of his fingers skimming across your cheek. Aemond exhales softly, leaning in as you tilt your chin up, standing a little taller. It’s a small kiss, just at the corner of your mouth, nothing more, nothing less —for propriety’s sake. But before he can part, you turn your head, noses brushing together just before your lips do. 

It’s a risky decision to display your feelings for one another so openly, but the prince is long past caring, and you’re nigh to that point too. A cool tingle crawls up your arms when his hand cradles the back of your head —fingers lacing into your hair. Aemond nudges your nose with his own, and on instinct, you both tilt your heads, finding a better angle for him to kiss you slowly, lazily. And then he grabs your waist with his free hand and pulls you closer to him, breathing in your little gasp. “Ñuha sīmontan,” he whispers upon parting. Then he releases you from his gentle hold and steps back.

You cannot keep him to yourself this day, he’s promised to tend to his mother before continuing his studies with the maester, and you must return to Helaena’s company as her favored lady-in-waiting.

AEMOND KNEELS BEDSIDE and wakes you with the cool brush of his fingertips against your cheek. “Come to bed, jorrāelagon,” you murmur, catching his mismatched gaze of lilac and sapphire in the dim firelight of the dwindling sconces. But he makes no move to join you; instead, he offers his hand —and his heart. 

Rousing, you don a dressing gown and cloak and follow your rogue prince through the hidden passageways of the Red Keep and into a courtyard below, where Ser Criston waits with a saddled black destrier. The kingsguard knight passes the reins to Aemond with a curt nod before taking his leave to return to his post at the Queen’s door. Aemond helps you up into the saddle, then mounts behind you and takes the reins, turning westward. It’s common for the two of you to steal away for the night, but seldom do such trysts occur without prior thought. You glance over your shoulder. “Where are we going at this hour?”

His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back flush against his chest. “Se hūra,” Aemond replies, a gentle whisper in your ear. 

King’s Landing fades on the horizon as you ride to the south and towards the Kingswood. He slows the horse to a halt at the edge of a clearing surrounding one of the largest oak trees in the swath of forest. Burning lanterns hang from the lowest branches, and an altar bearing miniature stone likenesses of the Seven stands before the great trunk.

Aemond eases you from the saddle, then dismounts himself and offers the crook of his arm. You glance around and to the stars and moon above —the clouds from earlier have parted to a clear night sky— before looking up at the prince. A flutter starts in your belly, and your heart begins beating faster. It isn’t, you tell yourself. He wouldn’t break tradition so easily. “Is this where you disappeared to earlier?” You query, wondering how many days and nights he’s spent planning this moment, but he does not offer an answer.

When you reach the altar, he steps before you and takes your hands. “I like to think I am a man of my word,” Aemond starts, and you can see the nervous twinkle in his eye. “I would make you mine tonight,” he tells you. “Now and forever.” He promised when you were only children that you’d be his princess one day, and again when you were both of age and realized simple friendship could not account for the way you loved one another. The tears pricking at your eyes are ones of joy, and you smile for Aemond before embracing him, face tucked into the crook of his neck.

From the shadows, Septon Eustace emerges, a marriage cape draped over his arm and a lantern held aloft in the other. Part of you refuses to believe this is happing —you’ve scarcely dreamt of something so sweet as this moment. Eustace bows his head. There is no need for ceremony or rambling to appease the masses. Tonight it is only two young lovers, desperate and eager to speak the sacred vows before it is too late.

“We are here to join these two as man and wife in the sight of the Seven,” he begins, looking between you and the prince and the carved figurines of the Seven on the altar. You grip Aemond’s hand, fingertips pressing into his wrist. “One flesh, one heart” —his heart is racing, just as yours is, almost in sync— “one soul, now and forever.” And forever shall come too soon.

“Cloak the bride, my prince.” The septon extends his arm, offering the black cape emblazoned with the sigil of House Targaryen, embroidered with silver thread and shining ruby eyes. “Bring her under your protection.” Aemond takes the cloak and steps behind you —his uneven breaths fan across the nape of your neck— draping the heavy fabric over your shoulders. The new weight makes you stand taller, as a princess of the realm should.

Septon Eustace lowers his head as Aemond returns to your side and reaches for your shaking hand, but his touch nigh instantly soothes your nerves and heart. “In the name of the Seven, I seal these two souls” —the septon wraps a red silk ribbon around your joined hands— “binding them as one for eternity,” he states, taking a step back. “Now look upon one another and say the words.”

You glimpse Aemond, gaze following the sharp line of his jaw, before shifting to face him. “Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger,” you and Aemond say in unison, gazes locked and unfaltering —his cold gaze softens, reflecting the lanterns and stars. You take a slow breath before reciting the vows you’ve only ever dreamt of speaking. “I am his, and he is mine, from this day, until the end of my days,” you proclaim. I am hers, and she is mine, from this day, until the end of my days, Aemond echoes. 

“It is done then,” the septon says, bowing his head as he unbinds the silk ribbon. “I wish you both happiness and good health.” Eustace looks to Aemond. “My prince” —then his gaze flits over to you— “princess.” A flutter of wings stirs in your belly hearing your new title, another promise Aemond had made good on. And then Septon Eustace takes his leave.

Alone, you reach for him and rise on your toes to bestow a kiss just below his sapphire eye, along the scar cutting across his cheek. “Husband,” you call him, giddy with the thought and what it means for the future. 

Aemond rests his forehead against yours, lips curved into a smile. “Say it again,” he breathes, the words a soft caress against your lips and cheek. He doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of hearing his name and titles in your soft, lilted voice. 

“Valzȳrys,” you whisper, remembering the Valyrian word for ‘husband’ —you came across it while reading a book about the traditions of Old Valyria with him in the library. 

“Ābrazȳrys,” he calls you. Another title added to an ever-growing list of endearments: Wife. Princess. My love. Rose. Aemond cups your face in his hands and brings your lips together. The kiss is sweet and soft, not lesser, or more than any other you’d shared in secret, only now, he is more than your dear prince.  

IT’S NOT DIFFICULT to keep your marriage to Aemond a secret. You both carry on as you always have in the eyes of the court, but your husband takes to the secret passageways of the Red Keep to spend the evening and night hours with his new wife —always gone by morning, though. No one, save for Lyra and perhaps Helaena, suspects a thing.

And so your father continues his search for a suitable man to marry his daughter. He calls upon you to take lunch in the gardens with him and hear the good news. “You’re to meet Humfrey Swyft in a week's time,” Lord Wylde announces. House Swyft is a knightly house of the Westerlands, sworn to House Lannister. A good name. A good house. A good match. But as your father speaks, your heart begins to race —pounding in your ears like the war drums of the Giants. “He has asked to seek your hand in courtship.” And marriage. 

“I cannot accept this match, father,” you tell him, eyes downcast and gaze focused on your hands —folded in your lap. Lord Wylde’s brows settle into a deep furrow. He raised you as a proper lady of the court, talented in womanly affairs and always dutiful. Despite your newfound happiness, it is still painful to be a disappointment to your father and house.

“I am wed to another.” Your voice trembles as you speak the truth, and your father’s face turns red with anger. But you go on. Lord Wylde is a devout follower of the Seven, and perhaps it will ease his heart and curb his temper to know you had not done something so reckless on a whim. “Septon Eustace and the Seven will attest to my vows.”

“To whom are you married, daughter?” He knows the answer already, deep down —and knows the whispers which entertain the servants and other members of the court about his daughter and the prince are true. You look up from your glass of sweet wine, seeing Aemond approach through the hedges —a prince come to rescue his lady wife— and give a quiet sigh of relief.

“Me,” Aemond says before you can speak his name. “And we did so with the Queen’s blessing.” You look to your husband, just as surprised as your father upon hearing it. Though, at least it soothes your heart to know Good Queen Alicent looked upon your union with her son favorably.

“You need not worry for her happiness or prosperity, my Lord Wylde.” Aemond rounds the table and reaches for your hand to kiss your knuckles, his lips pulling into a smile against your flesh. “I will honor her as all good husbands honor their wives.” His cool gaze flits from your father back to you, a new, unspoken promise shining in his eye. Now, always, and forever. 

High Valyrian Translation: Iā Zaldrīzes's Prūmia - A Dragon’s Heart Sīmontan. - Rose. Nyke jaelagon ao. - I want you. Se hūra. - The moon. Ñuha sīmontan. - My rose. Jorrāelagon. - Love. Valzȳrys. - Husband. Ābrazȳrys. - Wife.

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[thesugarsoiree]

Of Winter’s Flame | CHAPTER SEVEN

Vhaelor…Nightwing…Maelyx…Moonfyre…

Names cycled through Y/n’s head as she was dressed for the day, freshly washed of dragon's breath and prepped for the impending games. She switched between Valyrian and Westerosi names for Crownstealer, undecided as her handmaids fixed on her corset. She could keep Crownstealer, but what fun would that be? The she-dragon had received her name by reputation alone, it was time a rider gave her a more fitting name.

“My Lady,” A guard announced, opening the curtains to her room, “the Prince Aemond Targaryen.”

Y/n didn’t bother to greet the man as he stepped in. She looked towards her handmaids with knowing eyes, the women curtsying swiftly before exiting the tent, leaving Y/n to do up her dress alone.

“I believe congratulations are in order.” Aemond took a step closer, watching Y/n attempt to fasten the ribbons on her back.

“Is that so? For our betrothal?” She hummed, ignoring his attempts at eye contact.

“No, for your taming of Crownstealer. You are the first in our history to do such a thing, I’m sure the two of you shall be formidable together.” Aemond nodded, hands clasped behind his back. Y/n huffed a sigh out of her nose, failing once more to tie the back of her dress properly. She paused, looking through her mirror to where Aemond stood with frustration.

“Thank you, you are very kind. Would you do me another kindness and do up my dress?” She mused with fake sincerity, Aemond pausing before approaching her. He took the ties in his hands gently, Y/n watching as he focused on setting the knots in place. When he came closer she noted that he smelled vaguely of sweet oils and steel.

“I hope that in time you will forgive my mother and father, they told me only days before you about our betrothal. It is a fine match, one that will benefit the realm.” Aemond mumbled, fastening the last bow of her dress.

“A fine match indeed,” Y/n chuckled sourly, turning to face him. His eyebrows furrowed, hands left to idle themselves as his work was done.

“So, if all the congratulations have been given I do believe we have a tourney to attend, my Prince.” Y/n scoffed, brushing past him.

“I was also here to escort you, my lady.” Y/n stopped, cursing the Old Gods for being cruel as they were. She said nothing, Aemond eventually coming up beside her.

“Shall we?” She hummed, offering her arm to him yet not sparing him a glance. He took her hand, leading them out of her tent and into the buzzing encampment. All eyes were on them as they passed, girlish whispers and boyish mockeries spreading like wildfire. Wildfire, now that was a name for a dragon. Aemond left her with the King and his court when they arrived, kissing her hand and then swiftly departing. Y/n greeted the King first, kissing his cheek before curtsying to the Queen. She nodded towards Aegon as she took her seat and squeezed Helaena’s hand.

“Aemond will be jousting today,” Helaena said, eyes aglow, “he is bound to ask for your favour.”

“I expect my betrothed is not one for pageantries such as favours.” Y/n giggled, toying with the garland that sat on her side table. It was made of a mixture of flowers, to represent both of her lineages. The winter roses were a bright, almost unnatural blue. The red and black roses were nestled beside, creating a contrast that quite suited Y/n.

“I know my brother.” Helaena hummed, and they left it at that. The horns sounded and names were announced, the joust beginning with knights from the Reach and the Vale. It went on like that for an hour, a charming knight from the Riverlands asking for Helaena’s favour. She gave it to him with a grin Y/n hadn’t seen her bless Aegon with, throwing the garland down onto his lance. Then, after the dust settled and the knight from the Riverlands enjoyed his victory, a hush fell over the crowd.

“Prince Aemond Targaryen will now choose an opponent!” Y/n almost covered her ears with how loud the audience screamed, Aemond entering on a horse as black as the Black Dread himself. Aemond’s armor was dark, ridges carved out to resemble that of a dragon's scale. His helmet was in the shape of a dragon’s maw, encircling his head with its sharpened fangs. Y/n noticed that the crest on top of his head was made of both red and green hairs, something the Queen no doubt had influence on.

Aemond paced in front of the knights who were lined up, at least one representative from each region stood proud upon their horses. He paused in front of the knight from the Westerlands, pointing his lance towards the man.

“Ser Rhys Lannister!” The announcer shouted above the crowd, both knights moving towards their respective ends of the arena. Aemond stopped, head raising to look directly into the King’s box. His eyes locked with Y/n’s, sharp gaze searching her own.

“My Lady Y/n,” He called, “I would be honoured to fight with your favour to give me luck.” He lifted his lance towards her. Y/n smirked, picking up her garland and going to the railings that separated them.

“To your victory, my love.” Y/n teased, tossing her favour onto the weapon. Aemond took off without a second glance, readying himself before the starting horns echoed throughout the woods. The men were off in seconds, the beating of their horses' hooves matching the thundering of Y/n’s heart. She leaned forward in her seat as they connected, a wide grin stretching her lips as the Lannister boy was knocked from his horse, his golden mare being wrangled in by squires. Aemond rounded back to the King’s box, bowing his head. Viserys laughed, clapping loudly and ordering another round of wine which Y/n was glad to indulge in. The wine here was oddly sweet, not like the harsh mull she had grown to know in the North. It was like biting into a cake each time she took a sip, enjoying the show Aemond put before her as knight after knight fell to his lance.

The sun was setting by the time the tourney had drawn to a close, Aemond disappearing after his rounds were finished. Y/n stood as the King did, watching him exit with the Queen before the rest of the nobles in the box began to file out.

“My brother is quite fond of you.” Y/n grimaced as Aegon came to her side, walking with her to the feast.

“That is good to hear, my prince.” She answered politely, keeping her hands clasped at her front so she would not touch him.

“Mm, yes. Though, I don’t believe he’s fond enough to satisfy you. A Northern woman like yourself? You need a man, and my brother is still a boy.” Aegon chuckled quietly, swishing around the contents of the goblet which he had taken.

“I do not appreciate these foul insinuations, your highness.” Y/n’s tone was sharp, her accent getting thicker with her anger.

“Oh, no insinuations here, my lady. Simple truth.” Aegon sighed, though it was not sad, it was frustrated.

“I, on the other hand, have had many nights with northern ladies. If you wish to feel satisfied during your marriage I am always—” Aegon’s words choked in his throat as a loud growl echoed through the forest, everyone pausing and looking around them. Y/n sucked in a quick breath, watching as a familiar winged figure circled above them, outlined by the pink and orange hues of the dusky sky.

“It seems that I am not the only one who grows tired of your voice, Aegon. If you’ll excuse me, I need to find my betrothed.” Y/n curtsied, leaving Aegon to stand by himself. She was trailed by two guards, people parting as she practically flew by them to her tent. What she did not expect when she entered was for the Queen to be sitting at her vanity, toying with the necklace she had gifted to her. Alicent stood when she saw Y/n, a small smile plumping her cheeks.

“My Queen,” Y/n curtsied deeply, “to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“It is time we spoke, Y/n.” The Queen approached the girl, grasping her hands tightly.

“About your future.”

————————————————————————————🎀

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[horizon-verizon]

To be clear, this is also disparagement of the court during Viserys’ time: the presence of sexism on Alicent and the Court's parts.

Alicent and the court of the Red Keep both in HotD and F&B all anticipated or gossiped that Rhaenyra's three boys would not have their dragon eggs hatch when presented int their cradles because they were rumored to not be Laenor's kids (they said that Rhaenyra cheated on Laenor and had an affair with Harwin, this the three Velayron boys' brown hair, brown eyes, and "pug" noses).

However, all the V boys eggs hatched not long at all after they were born.

The reason why Alicent and the court believed that Rhaenyra's kids would have hatched eggs is because Westerosi tend to believe that a father rather than the other passes down the most distinctive or powerful treats to a child. It did not ever occur to them that Rhaenyra would pass on her family's dragonriding abilities to her sons on her own "merit", or on her own (as if this were an active decision, but that's a separate issue).

Also, Alicent wants her own son, Aegon the Elder, to be the heir and inherit the throne, so any pretext that could have Rhaenyra removed (since women's fidelity is treated more seriously as a fault and crime than a men's) is something she wants to both believe in and actively use for that end.

I feel it’s important to know that when Rhaena Targaryen (the princess-turned-forced-bride-of-Maegor the Cruel) gave her siblings Jaehaerys and Alysanne their dragons by placing their eggs in their cradles, she did so out of love because she herself grew more confident or willing to confront and interact with others after bonding with her own dragon, Dreamfyre, at age 9.

So when she was 13 and her siblings were born, she wanted them to experience that unique, character-developing event like she did as early as possible. (Maybe I’m just projecting, but this is such an lonely, new older sister move.)

Rhaena is not at fault for displaying such care towards her siblings. This moment of Targ history just goes to also show that dragons, eggs or already hatched, are directly linked to female power, autonomy, etc. Other examples of femininity linked to magic and magical connections, supplying and advancing them even include:

Dany "Stormborn” (obvious, her hatching stone-cold eggs)

Rhaena (Laena’s daughter) -- she was the last dragonrider before Dany and she manged to hatch Morning (interesting name for the “birth” of a dragon...)

Laena Velaryon (she loved flying more than most things)

Alysanne (loved flying, cried when she couldn’t anymore)

Rhaenys the Conqueror (like Laena, also loved flying more than anything)

Alyssa (the only one of Jaehaerys’ daughter successfully claim a dragon; as soon as she could, strapped her two sons on top of Meleys for a ride with her)

Saera, who would have claimed a dragon to escape the unfair and Amisogynist imprisonment her father enforced on her

Aerea, Rhaena’s daughter, who claimed Balerion to escape her mother and upset in her loss of title/heir position 

Nettles (who though not seemingly Valyrian in face, managed to get a dragon to trust her enough to bond with her)

This are the most emotionally-packed stories of the Valyrian human-dragon bond that, again, are also connected to the life cycles and regeneration of Targ dragons and Valyrian power. So it’s ironic for Alicent and the court to perceive and anticipate Rhaenyra’s kids not being able to bond with dragons at the cradle on account that their bio dad is not a dragonrider.

But I also think it’s funny how the that idea turned into a justification to see if a Targ royal child was a “true” Targaryen, trueborn or not (as some people think) by the time of Viserys I. "True" as in they have the makings of a Targ, or truly, truly their legitimacy.

If people hadn’t read Fire and Blood, they wouldn’t know that it’s actually very strange and new in the entire timeline of the Targaryen dynasty that children born from Targaryen men--trueborn or illegitimate--were expected to have a dragon egg beside them and have it hatch so the child can bond with the hatchling.

It was only a mere 3 generations after Aegon I conquered Westeros that this practice came to be, but the Targaryens have had many more generations of people mainly claiming their dragons way after they’re able to walk on their own. Until Rhaena did what she did. 

Including Aegon the Conqueror himself, who had to claim Balerion. Balerion, who was one of the dragons that was brought to Dragonstone many generations before Aegon the Conqueror was even born. 

And Viserys, her own husband, claimed/first rode Balerion in his 20s. Her own daughter, Helaena, claimed Dreamfyre, who once obeyed Rhaena (mentioned above), which means that she also did not cradle-bond with her and lived some time without being bonded to a dragon. So these people are also illegitimate, or should have their parentage questioned?

What does that mean for Alicent saying how she couldn’t understand how Rhaenyra’s first children could have had their eggs hatched in episode 6 of House of the Dragon and in Fire and Blood, when both her own husband and brother-in-law both claimed, rather than cradle-bonded with their dragons? What does it say about the entire court who doubted Jace, Luke, and Joff in Fire and Blood?

Cradle-bonding is a sign of a "blessing”. Yeah, sure. 

And I said children of Targaryen "men" earlier because the Westerosi has had a bad habit of assuming that the father is the more likely subject to pass on his physical or nonphysical traits to his children. Why wouldn't Rhaenyra be capable of passing on her dragonriding to her sons on her own merit? Why is it when Cersei had her children, the maesters automatically assumed that the Baratheon blood would give the kids darker features when the Lannisters also have repeatedly sired blondes in its own lineage? (No one truly knew that Cersei's kids weren't Roberts.)

Finally, with the cradle-bonding vs the longer Targ history of claiming, I find even more reason to call “inconsistency” at HotD: Daemon ignoring Rhaena & favoring Baela in episode 6. 

Why would he do that when he would intimately know the practices and habits about his own house, including the fact that Targaryens mainly claim their dragons? When he himself, his own brother and niece all claimed their dragons way after their time in the cradle? As I mentioned above, Rhaena Targayren bonded with Dreamfyre when she was 9. She also started riding her when she was 12. 

Daemon, a Targaryen, would have known all of this. 

We see him reading about Old Valyrian dragonriders in episode 6.

We hear him talk about brining the Targs to their “glory”, which tells us he has a certain knowledge concerning the progression of the dynasty--meaning he had to have looked back for comparison.

Nah, I call bullshit. The writers of this show are doing too much without ever actually reading the source material carefully, or caring to.

[acewithapencil]

They’re roasting the hell out of everyone, the entire court might as well save themselves the trouble and burst into tears now

Saera and viserra getting along for @thesadboy! Took this opportunity to show how I think targs alternated between westerosi and Valyrian fashion in court ☺️

[knightsickness]

thinking abt the extremely high number of westerosi one in a generation superlative beauties that are targs and how everyone takes that at face value .. firstly the targs establish a valyrian beauty standard in westeros as an identifier of the ruling class secondly all the histories are being written while targs are still on the throne. what do you mean my great great great great great grandmother wasn’t the most surpassingly lovely tween the court had ever seen

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

The Silver Dragon (3)

The Bench

On Arianwyn’s tenth nameday, a grand reception is held in her honor. Though most guests are not in attendance for the Lady of Runestone, but rather the Princess Rhaenyra, who is mere weeks away from giving birth. But Arianwyn does not care, for Aemond is there. And he has a present for her.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC (Daemon and Rhea's daughter)

Warnings: none

Author's Note: This chapter just had minor edits. I've realized that in early chapters I kind of jumped around with POVs, so I've fixed that. Enjoy!

Series Masterlist - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

The nameday celebrations for Aria were far humbler than those for her cousins who held the titles of prince and princess. It drove Aemond mad, for she surely deserved at least an equal celebration, if not grander. But she was still the daughter of a prince and a favorite of the queen. So, on her tenth nameday, a grand reception was held in her honor.

While formal invitations for her past celebrations were sent to all the noble houses of Westeros, only House Royce and their bannermen from the coast of the Vale had dutifully journeyed to the capital to observe the occasion each year. The rest of the court came and went as their own agendas dictated. Indeed, while many were in attendance this year, Aria was not the reason why.

Rhaenyra was with child once again. Though still weeks away from the birth, the nobility of Westeros was eager to ensure their presence at the birth of the newest Targaryen. Aemond and Aria had finally learned why.

Jacaerys and Lucerys were bastards. It meant Laenor was not their father, and their mother was a whore.

It was not hard to see it, now that he knew. Neither had the white hair or violet eyes of a Valyrian child, but rather hair as black as raven’s feathers and eyes a deep brown, like muddy water. Had it been just Jacaerys, perhaps the court could have overlooked his common appearance. After all, his presumed paternal grandmother, Rhaenys Velaryon, was half Baratheon. But even the Queen Who Never Was was blessed with the violet eyes of her father’s house.

When Lucerys was born looking as ordinary as his brother, the court began looking beyond her husband’s family. Most eyes fell upon her sworn protector and Lord Commander of the City Watch, Harwin Strong. The son of the Hand sported the same coloration as the young princes and often visited their rooms in Maegor’s Holdfast when he visited the Red Keep for Small Council meetings – despite the two towers being on opposite ends of the castle.

But while it was clear for all to see, their bastardy never left whispered conversations in empty corridors. At least, not anymore. Not since Ser Evin Tascer had ended an evening of heavy drinking on a cart to the Wall – without a tongue. But the gossip persisted, though out of the king’s earshot. His mother had forbidden him from mentioning it in public.

That didn’t stop him from teasing them about it in private. It was rightfully deserved after all they’d done to him – and obviously true. He only ever felt bad about it when Aria found out and scolded him.

Many suspected Rhaenyra was purposeful in avoiding another pregnancy. After all, the princes were born only a year apart, and Lucerys was already nearly six years old. With no miscarriages or other devastating accidents reported and the princess still young, there seemed to be no other explanation.

But now she was again with child, and every noble in Westeros waited with bated breath to look upon the babe – and its hair. As the birth neared, more and more nobility descended on the capital to ensure they were among the first to know. It just so happened that Aria's nameday coincided with the deluge of Westerosi nobility.

But Aria had not once mentioned that it bothered her. The gardens of the Red Keep were bursting with nobles in colorful and elaborate clothing adorned with glimmering jewels. Aemond was more than content to let her pretend it was all for her – it was his way of protecting her.

After all, it was her nameday, one of Aemond’s favorite days of the year. On this day, he got to spend the whole day with her without having to go to the Dragonpit. And she smiled so much. It was also one of the few times they got to see her cousin, Ser Gerold, who always encouraged their research and praised their dedication to learning about their family histories.

He arrived at King’s Landing as always, with a carriage overflowing with gifts. As usual, a great number of these were ancient artifacts of House Royce. After ten years, her quarters nearly rivaled the vault at Runestone.

Of course, he also brought her new novelties—books filled with fantastical illustrations depicting fairy tales and historical tales alike; carved wooden toys painted in the colors of their house that, at this point, she was decidedly too old for; dresses of the finest silks and brocades; and jewels of all kinds set in gold, silver, and, naturally, bronze.

Aemond knew his present would outshine it all. It was not a relic of her family nor a decadent new creation. It was old, yes, but humble in appearance.

He had slipped into her rooms earlier that morning, his gift wrapped in simple brown parchment and clutched tightly in his arms. As the second son of a King, he’d become accustomed to being looked over and learned to turn it to his advantage. So it was easy for him to slip past Aria’s guards and her lady’s maids to make his way to her dressing room.

She sat at her vanity, holding various jewels up to her neck, her eyes scrunched as she assessed each one against her black and bronze dress. Aemond slipped from behind a wooden screen as she picked up a delicate silver chain dripping with diamonds. Her grey eyes spotted the movement in her mirror, and she met his gaze through the glass.

“Happy nameday, Aria,” he whispered, a gleeful smile on his face.

Her smile quickly matched his, and she whipped around on her seat, the diamond necklace clattering forgotten on the vanity. “Is that for me?” she asked, pointing at the package he held.

Aemond nodded, running up to meet her. She immediately tore into the paper like a dragon eviscerating its prey. He laughed, more excited about giving her this gift than he had ever been to receive one himself.

It was an old book, a thoroughly unimpressive tattered tome. The binding was linen—not leather—and had not weathered the years well. The fiber had degraded so much in places along the spine that the reed and twine holding the pages together were visible. The pages themselves were yellow with age, stiff, and uneven. It was unclear whether they had been torn through centuries of use by countless users or cut that way originally by an inexperienced craftsman.

He knew that all that would matter to Aria was the title: Deciphering the Runes of the First Men.

“Where did you get this?” She asked, eyes wide and mouth agape – precisely the reaction Aemond had hoped for.

Their routine of visiting the castle library to research their families' histories had continued, but over the years, there were questions that even Orwyle could not answer. Many pertaining to the Runes of the First Men. The Runes that appeared on many of Aria’s belongings and gave her keep its name. Orwyle had corresponded with his colleagues in Oldtown over the years to try and answer their questions. However, information on the Runes was scarce, even in the regions of Westeros that still clung to that history.

But now, on the morning of her nameday, she at last held a book that may contain the answers she sought. Setting the book carefully on her vanity, she leaped from her vanity stool and straight into Aemond’s arms, her question entirely forgotten.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she squealed, holding her cousin so tight he struggled to breathe. “I hardly even need the party anymore. You’ve already made this the best nameday ever.”

Aemond hugged her back, face flushing at her gush of praise. “I don’t think my mother would approve. She’s spent weeks planning the party.”

Aria withdrew from the hug, sighing dramatically. “Fine. If we still have to have the party, help me choose a necklace so we can go and get it over with.”

She returned to the vanity, smiling mischievously at Aemond in the mirror. Still laughing, he sat beside her and began rifle through her jewelry box.

Hours later, in the gardens, Arianwyn impatiently fiddled with her necklace. Aemond had chosen one of braided bronze and silver chains, with a smattering of various jewels woven in. The day was growing hot, and Alicent and Gerold relentlessly continued to lead her throughout the party and present her to so many people that her head started to spin.

She was finally granted a reprieve when a servant pulled Alicent aside to discuss the alarming rate at which the pastries were disappearing from the table. As soon as her Aunt’s attention was off her, Arianwyn thanked Ser Gerold for coming and ran to the other end of the garden as fast as she could.

Helaena and Aemond sat on a bench together against the garden wall. Entirely disinterested in the party, they watched honeybees land clumsily on the plate set between them, lapping up droplets of the sugary punch Helaena poured for them.

“There are only ten now,” Helaena said when she sensed her cousin’s presence, though her eyes remained steadfastly focused on the plate. “But a few moments ago, there were twenty-one.”

Arianwyn smiled, glad she had arrived after most of the bees had left. “Do they like the punch?” This conversation was already far more interesting than any she had with any of the other party guests.

“They do,” Helaena said, tipping her goblet to spill more on the plate. “But when they fly away, they seem clumsier than usual.”

Aemond laughed, looking up from his sister’s experiment to his cousin. “Of course they are. They’re drunk, Helaena. There’s wine in the punch.”

Though Helaena seemed horrified at the prospect, Arianwyn couldn’t help but laugh. “If you give them enough, they may start acting like Aegon.”

At this, Helaena at last joined in the laughter. But it did not last long.

As if summoned by the sound of his name, Aegon emerged from the crowd, Jace and Luke trailing behind him.

“Were you saying something about me, dear Aria?” He drawled. Like the bees, he was already quite wobbly. “You know it’s not nice to gossip.” He pursed his lips before chuckling, the two younger boys joining him. Luke dropped his head as he laughed. Jace smirked, looking directly at Arianwyn.

Aemond began to quiet. His smile faded, and he turned his head down, staring at his hands. Arianwyn would not allow this on her nameday.

“We’re simply having fun at my party, cousin.” She said, venom sneaking into her voice. She stepped slightly in front of Aemond. “Are you?”

Aegon scoffed, “As much as I can, I suppose. Though I can’t say the conversation has been particularly stimulating. Most of the people here only want to talk about Rhaenyra,” he spat the name of his sister as if it were a curse, “and the others about you.”

“It’s my nameday,” she snapped back. “Why should they not be talking about me?”

Aegon’s smile grew unsettlingly wide. Taking another deep swig from his cup, he moved closer to her, so close she had to crane her neck to look into his eyes. “Do you know what they’re saying, Aria?”

She felt her face flush with anger. Aegon had few talents, but his careful cruelty was undoubtedly one of them.

“I’ll give you a hint. They aren’t talking about that garish bronze armor your cousin brought you. Though I’m not sure why –  it’s truly horrendous.” He looked back at Jace and Luke, signaling them to laugh. They did.

When Arianwyn continued her silence, Aegon leaned down, his face close enough for her to smell the alcohol on his breath. “Ten is an important number, cousin. You’re not just a girl anymore. You’re well on your way to becoming a woman.” He reached to touch her cheek, but she slapped his hand away, baring her teeth.

“Do you wonder why my mother has been parading you around like a prize mare? Today is the day you officially go to market, Aria. As soon as your father finally acknowledges you even exist and agrees to a deal, you’ll be shipped off to the highest bidder. If you’re lucky, he’ll be kind enough to not bed you until you’re older.”

Arianwyn shrieked in anger, gathering all her strength to push Aegon away from her. He just laughed as he stumbled back. She wanted to hit him more, hit him harder, but she did not want to make a scene at her own party – it would just give him more reason to mock her.

“Come, Aemond,” she commanded, seizing his hand. “I’m tired of the party. Let’s go to the library.” He did not argue, letting her drag him off the bench without resistance.

With his fun over, Aegon left the bench and returned to the throng of people, his two raven-haired lackeys close behind. Only Helaena remained, and two of her honeybees. She dipped a finger into the punch, letting one of the insects crawl onto her fingernail to drink.

“The silver mare shall never be sold,” she whispered.

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[natividadmoon]

Day 03 Martell Week: Favorite Moment

Elia found it all exciting. She was of that age, and her delicate health had never permitted her much travel. I preferred to amuse myself by mocking my sister's suitors.

This challenge is more late than anything else, but I will finish what I promised. A nice moment of a happy Elia receiving the attention they deserve, the boys who court her are from the Chester and Grimm house. Elia's clothes are a combination of Westerosi and Dornish fashion at the time, due to her journey and her mother who was a friend of the queen.

Oberyn and her nose presenting the delayed week