#yet daemon simps are like...there

[kingsmakers]

Ready for Daemon Targaryen simps to unfollow me because they can't stand the fact that I think Criston Cole is a complex and interesting character while they wax poetic about a wife killer and abuser <3

[bumblesimagines]

The Dragon of Runestone

Request: Yes or No

Summary: Prince (Y/N) Targaryen has kept to Runestone with his grandsire in preparation for taking the seat of House Royce but when his uncle passes and his cousin is usurped, he makes the decision to fly to her aid and unite with his family.

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

TW/CW: Typical GoT/HOTD warnings, Targcest/Incest (Half Sister-Half Brother/Cousins/Stepbrothers), mention of Daemon's two dead wives, mention of Luke's death, age gap Jace and Baela are around 18/19 while (Y/N) is in early to mid twenties (don't ask me his exact age I didn't want to do the math), Daemon is a questionable father but what else is new, drinking, Jace is a SIMP, sexual/suggestive content

I hate how intricate Rhaenyra/Alicent/Helaenas hairstyles are in comparison to Rhaena and Baela who get the simplest of styles. I also had more written but it was going into full smut territory 💀

~~~

Luke was dead.

Despite the days and weeks that passed, Jace hadn't yet wrapped his head around it. His partner in crime, his shadow, his closest friend, his little brother... dead. Slaughtered mercilessly by their kinslayer of an uncle. His mother had been clear in her instructions when she agreed to send them away, fully and completely adamant that they not engage with anyone. Luke followed his mother's orders diligently and the Greens took him without remorse. 

The cold that'd washed over him when he received news of it, when he read the letter sent to him by his stepfather and felt the realization settled in... the cold of the North had nothing against it. Nothing against the unsettling iciness that swept through his veins or the way his heart squeezed and dropped to the pits of his stomach. Lord Cregan Stark's attempts at comfort had gone in one ear and out the other during the descent down from the Wall. 

He prayed it'd been a mistake, that Luke's name had been miswritten, and Daemon had meant another Velaryon. Convincing himself of such a thing allowed him to fly back to Dragonstone, allowed him to dream that the moment he got there, he'd see his brother and Arrax waiting for him; that they'd laugh about the misunderstanding and settle down together to talk about Storm's End and the North while the sun set over the horizon. But all he received when he climbed off Vermax were pitiful, sorrowful looks from the servants and guards of Dragonstone. 

Luke was dead... and he was partly to blame for his death. 

It'd seemed like a good idea at the time, for him and his brother to mount their dragons to ensure those who'd bent the knee when his mother had been named heir planned on keeping their oath. It'd seemed simple enough, as well, to fly out to meet and dine with nobles who'd trip over themselves to please two princelings. But Aemond had beaten Luke to Storm's End, and chosen to spill the first blood of war over silly childhood pranks. 

Jace attempted to distract himself through various means such as training twice as hard and attending his mother's council meetings; all in hopes of swallowing his guilt and grief into the back of his mind. He shed enough tears, sobbed enough into the shoulder of his mother, and told his pains to Baela. It was time to focus on avenging his brother, on claiming back the throne usurped by his uncle and the wicked Hightowers. Distracting himself, as he quickly grew to learn, was easier when his stepbrother lingered around and took his place at the table. Visenya born again, they called him. The Dragon of Runestone. 

Jace enjoyed watching him during meetings, observing and taking note of how he conducted himself. (Y/N) cut down power-seeking nobles with ease, his violet eyes piercing into those who dared interrupt or speak over Rhaenyra. It was comforting despite the blatant indifference he had for his cousin outside of war meetings and discussions. Rhaenyra needed powerful people on her side, powerful men that others feared enough to remain silent on their opinions and desires.

He only had a few years on Jace; born three years before his mother's sudden passing. Jace heard the rumors that Daemon had been insistent the babe wasn't his until (Y/N) was born with those signature silver locks, forcing him back to Runestone to see his firstborn son and admit Targaryen blood flowed through his veins. Rhea refused to allow him to take (Y/N) far from Runestone but her wishes were ignored when she passed, leaving her inheritance to her only child and her estranged husband to do as he pleased.

From what the twins had told Jace, even as a toddler and young boy he'd fussed when tended to by his father's new wife, Lady Laena. Kicking, crying, biting, and shoving; it felt as if the boy knew she'd been a swift replacement for his mother. He'd been developing from a boy to a tween when his half-sisters were born and even then, he ignored them in favor of being with others on Pentos or flying with his dragon, Bantis. 

From a young age, Jace had idolized him; the cooler older boy with an air of indifference and mystery. He simply couldn't resist the allure, and neither did Baela. 

"I think the first time he ever looked at me had been during training," Baela had told him one time, back in Driftmark hours after her mother's funeral. They'd been young children then, and it'd been the first time Jace laid eyes on (Y/N) outside of stories and paintings. He'd been captivated despite the never-fading scowl and snarky attitude. "I picked up a training sword and hit his friend in the leg with it. It was the first time I ever heard him laugh." The glimmer in her eye had been undeniable. 

Focusing on silly little feelings hardly seemed appropriate during a time of war, but it took Jace's mind off the reality around them. Especially when he could rest his arms along the stone railing of a balcony overlooking where knights trained and watch (Y/N) knock men twice his age down onto the floor. His eyes followed each movement of his arms and legs, gaze lingering on the tight grip he had on his sword and thoughts drifting to wonder what it'd feel like to have them pressed on bare skin. 

"You can speak with him, you know." Jace flinched, his body instinctively straightening up and heat bursting across his face as he turned to face his betrothed. Baela smiled at him, teasing and friendly, sliding up to take the spot beside him and releasing a thoughtful sigh at the sight of her older half-brother. (Y/N) slammed his foot into the back of his sparring partner's knee, the blade of his sword pressing against the man's neck. He smirked and it sent a shiver down Jace's spine. 

"I doubt he'd like that," Jace responded, albeit a bit whiny, but he felt comfortable enough around Baela to let go of what was expected of a prince like him. They were to be wed one day, after all. Baela glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, a soft laugh escaping her.

It was true, in a way. (Y/N) hardly liked any of his family, apart from those in Runestone. He'd fallen out with Daemon the day his father chose to wed Rhaenyra; an argument so vicious it ended with (Y/N) striking Daemon in the jaw and flying away on Bantis, never to answer any letters from any of them again. King Viserys appeared to have been the only one left he cared enough about to visit, but he'd proven to at least hold some love for them by ensuring Lady Jeyne Arryn kept to her oath without being asked to and flying to Dragonstone to serve on Rhaenyra's council before a letter could be sent to Runestone. 

"He is kind when he wants to be." Jace looked at her sideways. Baela laughed again, the sweet sound carrying with the wind that tousled her silver curls. "It's true, I swear! I've seen it before. He can be kind. He is just... hard to reach. You cannot blame him for being distant, I suppose. It can be hard to have Daemon as a father." 

"It must be." Jace thought back on the rumors surrounding Rhea Royce's death. He winced when the sparring partner tapped out, the knight's nose trickling with blood. The squires and available knights around shrank back when (Y/N) turned toward them. "The only times I've heard them speak has been from arguments heard all around Dragonstone. I hear even Caraxes and Bantis cannot stand to be around each other."

"Father does love him and wants him around but... he has little patience and (Y/N) has never tolerated being yelled at," Baela spoke, her hand flying to grasp his arm as she did and feet turning toward the stairs leading down to the training area. Jace felt himself automatically tense when (Y/N)'s sharp violet eyes turned in their direction. 

Gods, he hated how easily his legs weakened and cheeks flared in (Y/N)'s presence. The others around dipped their heads respectfully, bowing to whom would be their future rulers once the Iron Throne returned to its rightful heir. Jace managed to tear his eyes away from the prince to nod to those around, motioning for them to leave with another nod. They quickly did, practically scrambling away before (Y/N) could pluck one and toss them around. 

"Brother," Baela greeted, her hand leaving Jace's arm to lace her fingers together before her. (Y/N) gave a hum of acknowledgment, the tip of his sword digging into the mushy ground when he leaned into it. His hair had long gone askew from the constant movement but Jace thought it suited him perfectly. "Perhaps it'd be better if you stopped beating up our knights."

"They're knights." (Y/N) drawled. "They ought to get used to it before facing real battle. If they cannot do well in training, they'll die on the field. The sheep of the Vale are tougher than some of the fools here." 

"If you feel their performances are inadequate then feel free to train them." Jace felt more than thankful to have Baela at his side, otherwise he would've stuttered through his sentences harder than a babe learning to speak. (Y/N) regarded him with little emotion. "We deserve to have the best of the best protecting us and our claim, after all."

"Whatever you say, Jacaerys." (Y/N) raised his sword and slipped it back into its sheath, unaware of the disappointment coursing through his stepbrother's veins. Baela glanced between them, her fingers tightening around each other and teeth catching her bottom lip. She stepped forward, blocking his path before he could depart. 

"Why don't we catch up, Brother? It has been much time since we've spoken. You must have many stories to tell of the Vale, do you not?" Baela, ever the quick thinker, said as she looped her arm around (Y/N) and sent a look Jace's way. The brunette nodded along with her words, a prick of hope sparking in his chest. 

The older prince's eyes slowly slid between the two, a single brow lifting for a moment before he gave a curt nod. "I suppose I have time to spare. It'll be over wine, however. I could use a drink or two." 

"Over wine." Jace agreed and found himself unable to resist a giddy grin from spreading across his face. 

The buzz of wine coursing through his veins hardly helped with the heat flowing through his body. Conversation had surprisingly started easily with Baela asking questions about the Vale and Runestone, perhaps the taste of Dornish wine having some to do with (Y/N)'s relaxed, semi-open composure. Jace absentmindedly listened to his betrothed and stepbrother speak, his hand swirling the cup of deep red wine that he assumed to be some sort of Dornish wine. It tasted sweet, addictively so. 

His eyes flitted around the bedchambers given to (Y/N), mostly lingering on the bed Jace noted to be the perfect size to fit three or more people. His thumb pressed into the designs of the goblet in hand, his mind racing with his vivid imagination.

He'd hardly done anything with Baela apart from holding her hand or embracing her, but he oft' thought of how their life as a married couple would go. He'd never been with any else before, man or woman, unlike many of the men around him. He was a prince, for Gods sake. He was meant to be the very definition of a gentleman... although that certainly never stopped the thoughts from conjuring late at night. 

His teeth caught his bottom lip and tore a bit of skin off, the heat rushing to his stomach making his grip tighten on the goblet. Baela and (Y/N) looked dazzling in the warm glow of the candlelight and moonlight seeping in through the balcony. Baela's brown skin looked warmer, dewier, so much so that Jace wanted to run his hands over every inch of her. He loved when she released her hair so it tumbled down her shoulders and framed her face with those perfect curls. Her purple eyes glimmered with each flicker of the candles, and her full lips looked utterly enticing. 

(Y/N) looked similarly, his hair pushed back from running his fingers through it multiple times and his features softened into a look of contentment. He'd rid himself of his overshirt when they entered his room, leaving him in an undershirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Jace's gaze trailed over his arms, strong enough to no doubt lift him from the ground. He slowly moved his gaze upward, studying each detail of his body until he focused on his face. He startled when the two made eye contact and (Y/N)'s lips curled upward into a smirk that reeked of trouble.

"Jacaerys," (Y/N) called, dragging his propped-up feet off the table and planting them firmly on the floor. Jace swallowed thickly, contemplating taking another swing of his wine. Baela delicately sipped on the last of her wine and reached for the pitcher, pouring herself the last of its contents. "Have you ever gone to bed with someone before? Or have you been keeping your hands to yourself 'til marriage?"

Baela grew still, her eyes widening at the swift change in topic from something innocent to speaking of sex. Jace flushed, heat spreading across his face and neck, his ears growing unbelievably hot. She was a lady. Hardly the sort of subject two men would speak of so carelessly. Sex was only spoken of with certain people: parents, septas, maesters, and partners. Sure, he'd heard plenty of filth spew from Aegon's mouth, but it hardly beat hearing it from (Y/N) in front of Baela.

"I-" Jace cut himself off with another swallow, his adams apple bobbing and tongue unable to form words. He pressed his lips together, his free hand curling against his thigh and eyes flickering wildly between Baela and (Y/N). "I-I have not. I... I was taught not to bring ruin onto a lady by... such acts."

"Ah, you sound like a prude." (Y/N) laughed lightly and set his goblet on the table, the smirk hanging onto his lips. "I'm certain your parents would hardly fault you for... indulging with one another. You've thought about it, haven't you, Jacaerys? She's your bride-to-be, after all." 

Jace's face felt as if a dragon had blown on it. "I-"

"What about you, Brother?" Baela cut in, her composure drastically more calm and collected than Jace's but he noted the way her thighs pressed together beneath the skirt of her dress. (Y/N) tore his amused stare away from Jace and onto his half-sister, his finger running circles over the rim of his goblet. "Have you... been with anyone before?"

"'Course I have." He gave a light scoff and envy flooded Jace's stomach. "Maids, ladies, whores, knights, lordlings. I'm not a child nor saving myself for whichever noble lady ends up my wife. There's little to do in the Vale apart from typical lord things; hunting, riding, and those sorts of things get boring after a while." 

Maids, ladies, whores, knights, and lordlings.

Women and men.

Jace's gaze darted over to Baela, meeting her wide-eyed stare as the two came to a similar realization, and then, the same idea; a spark ignited in her eyes and a light flickered on in his head. Gods, was he glad they were betrothed. They were so similar in so many ways, he certainly couldn't wait to rule side by side with her. Jace knew coming to an agreement with her would hardly ever be a hassle. 

"Show us, then," Jace said, the wine dancing in his body only filling him with confidence and boldness. (Y/N)'s head tilted to the side in question, and for a moment it was easy to forget he was the child of a brutal prince. "You have much experience under your belt, do you not? Why not teach us how to properly bed one another?" 

"I'm certain you know where everything ought to go, Jacaerys." 

"Obviously," The heat returned to his face. "But... I've never kissed anyone nor touched anyone. You have, however."

Jace received a hum in response and (Y/N)'s head tilted back in thought, seemingly contemplating the idea. Jace felt nerves beginning to bubble up in his stomach, anxious over what the response would be. It'd be one thing to finally have one of his dreams fulfilled, another to have to face him the following days with a sober mind and a dejected heart. Baela met his eyes again, giving him a subtle nod of encouragement. He could still backtrack, still laugh it off-

Fingers grasped the side of his throat, coarse fingertips dipping into the hairs on the nape of his neck and digging into his skin. He only had a brief moment to look back at the older prince before lips pressed against his own, a sharp shiver darting down his spine and body tensing. (Y/N)'s lips felt soft against his own but Jace hardly knew what to do apart from tentatively parting them. He shuddered when (Y/N)'s tongue invaded his mouth, his hand nearly dropping the goblet as he clumsily searched for the table in order to set it down. Once both hands were free, he pressed them against (Y/N)'s shoulders and began meekly mimicking him. 

When they pulled back, Jace sighed at the string of saliva connecting them before (Y/N) wiped his mouth. He grinned at him, a breathy and amused chuckle leaving him at the dazed sight of Jace.

Be it the wine or simply the giddy feeling constricting his heart, Jace could barely think straight, his thoughts only focusing when (Y/N) patted his thigh, his attention directed onto Baela. She rose from her seat and shuffled around the table, carefully sitting sideways on her half-brother's lap. Jace's breeches felt excruciatingly tight, the feeling only growing as he watched the two lock lips. 

Baela lifted her hand to cup (Y/N)'s cheek, the other tightly curling around the sleeve of his shirt. (Y/N) kept his palm pressed to her back while his other hand danced downward until it reached the skirt of her black and red dress, his fingers curling and slowly dragging the fabric upwards to reveal her calf and then her lower thigh. Jace squirmed in his seat, battling with urges threatening to take over his mind; a battle he began slowly losing as he watched (Y/N)'s fingers dig into the flesh of her thigh.

Suddenly, (Y/N) stood and took Baela along with him, setting her down on the edge of the table and pulling away to grab his forgotten cup and blindly toss it aside. It clattered with the stone floor, the wine spilling and darkening the shade of gray. Effortlessly, (Y/N)'s fingers undid the knotted laces of the back of Baela's dress, his legs pushing hers apart and causing the skirt to ride up further. Jace watched, eyes bouncing around their bodies until he looked at (Y/N)'s face pleadingly. 

"Put what you learned to practice, Jacaerys." 

With those words, Jace shot up from his seat, nearly knocking the chair back from the sheer speed and force. Baela's chest lightly heaved with pants, her half-lidded eyes meeting Jace's when he stood at her side. He leaned in and despite the need blazing in his lower belly, Jace kissed her gently, sweetly, moving slowly and taking his time. Her lips felt soft and plush, and they parted easily. It was clumsy but endearing, and it made his heart swell. 

"Shit," Jace cursed, reeling back from Baela when his pants loosened and a hand dipping beneath his breeches. (Y/N) chuckled breathily against Baela's neck before latching his lips onto her and searching around until he found a spot that made her breath hitch and hands fly to grab the collar of his shirt. Jace's legs threatened to give out from under him when (Y/N) lightly squeezed him, forcing him to brace himself against the table and drop his forehead down onto Baela's shoulder. 

"Sensitive, the both of you." (Y/N)'s muffled voice said, and Jace caught the way he dragged his teeth along Baela's neck, enticing a shudder and soft whine out of her before he lightly dug his teeth where her shoulder and neck met. Jace barely had a chance to respond before letting out a strangled groan at the feeling of (Y/N) slowly stroking him, his hips bucking and knees trembling with each slow drag of his hand. 

Jace whined suddenly when (Y/N) retracted his hand, a sound that made his neck flush in embarrassment and lips form a disappointed scowl directed at the older prince. (Y/N) rolled his eyes at him, fingers hooking along Jace's pants and breeches to swiftly tug them down to his thighs. The cold air from the cool breeze flowing in through the balcony made him shiver, goosebumps rising along his skin. His first instinct was to tug his pants back up and hide himself from their prying eyes but he pushed the urge down.

"Take it off." (Y/N) told him, or rather ordered him, the tone making Jace woozy with the desire to fulfill his every command. He clumsily did as told, nearly stumbling over his jittery legs as he undressed fully despite the cold nipping at his exposed skin. (Y/N) eyed him over and then grinned again, his hand roughly grabbing Jace by the hip and tugging him closer to slam their lips together. When he drew back, he nodded over to the bed and Jace's features brightened, eagerly moving toward the bed.

(Y/N) carefully tugged Baela's dress down her shoulders, dragging the sleeves down past her elbows and freeing her arms. She shivered at the cold first and then wrapped her arm around her chest, her skin feeling as if the sun were glaring directly down on her. (Y/N) snorted softly, his eyes surprisingly soft as he peeled her arm away from her chest, leaving butterflies fluttering around her stomach. He wrapped an arm around her waist and lifted her, his hand pulling and tugging at her dress until it fell down her thighs and partly over Jace's scattered clothes. 

His arm dropped so he could lift her by her thighs, her arms wrapping around his shoulders and head burying into his neck as they moved toward the bed where Jace awaited them. (Y/N) lowered her down on the bed, the covers feeling soft and silky against her skin. Jace's chin hooked over her shoulder, his hand cupping her jaw before lowering to explore her neck and shoulders, trailing down her arm and moving onto her hip. 

"You're beautiful." He murmured, and any tension in her body disappeared. She smiled and kissed him, already addicted to mushing their lips together no matter how clumsy or messy. Jace pulled back, brushing his lips over her cheek before swooping down to peck her shoulder, his long brown curls tickling her jaw. 

"I think..." Baela spoke softly, head turning toward the older prince still standing and still clothed. "Someone has far too many layers on." 

"I do not recall saying I'd bed either of you." (Y/N) spoke, attention shifting downward when Jace pushed the bottom of his shirt out from his pants to expose the skin beneath. Despite his words, he did little to stop the brunette from undoing his belt nor did he protest when Baela tucked her knees underneath herself and rose to unbutton his shirt. 

"You said you'd teach us," Jace reminded him, his lips pressing against (Y/N)'s happy trail and hands eagerly mimicking what the older prince had done to him moments prior; swiftly undressing him and leaning back to look him over, the sight alone making the brunette's mouth water. "We have to practice on someone, do we not?"

The corner of (Y/N)'s lips twitched upward. "I suppose."

[mmogurl]

In The Shadow of Dragons Chapter 1: Requited Passions

18+ | 7.2k | Daemon Targaryen X Female OC | possessive, protective, objectifying, simping, raunchy Daemon | Uncle / niece incest, Smut, Dragons, Political Intrigue, Plotting, Murder, lots of old timey concepts that don't make a lot of sense today, but are still kind of hot/fun.

The second born daughter of King Viserys Targaryen, Ryna, is nine and ten years old and still unwed. Despite being surrounded by suitors, she has yet to find a man who captures her interest, and bristles at the pressure to select a husband. But a chance encounter with her enigmatic uncle, Daemon, promises to disrupt all her assumptions and to set her on a path she could never have anticipated. (Loosely set in episode 6, but Laena has already died a year prior)

CH 1 | CH 2 | CH 3 | CH 4 | CH 5 | CH 6 | CH 7 | CH 8 | CH 9 Also on AO3

The Great Hall was bristling with celebration held in honor of Viserys’ latest grandson, Joffrey Velaryon. The massive chamber was alight with dancing shadows, decorated grandiosely with Targaryen tapestries hung where all could witness to demonstrate wealth and power. Long tables filled with the most toothsome of fine delicacies lined both sides of the throne room. Perhaps Father was trying to distract the noble assembly with pomp, away from the very obvious fact that Rhaenyra’s children were all bastards.

Numerous guests filed in with their entourages in tow, announced by the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Criston Cole. Ryna grimaced at who he declared next.

“House Lannister with their lord, Jason Lannister, Lord Paramount of the West, and Master of Casterly Rock,” Cole’s voice was stout enough, but had nowhere near the authority his predecessor, Lord Harrold Westerling had in his day.

The Lannister strode at the head of his retinue, like a preening peacock adorned in so much crimson and gold that one might think he were royalty and not the hosting family.

Ryna sat sandwiched between her good-brother Laenor Velaryon and Lyonel Strong, a position that made her feel most irritable as she was not even allowed the courtesy of being placed next to her own kin. The Hand was pleasant enough, albeit mostly a stranger, but she had never grown close to Laenor given how much time he spent preoccupied with affairs outside of his marriage.

As always her father, Viserys, sat proudly next to Rhaenyra, his named heir and, one might wonder at times, favored daughter, despite how much he protested to the contrary.

When the Lannister party drew close to the high table, Lord Jason bowed before them with a flourish and as his party withdrew, he climbed the steps and approached the King.

“Congratulations, Your Grace,” he fawned in the manner only a Lannister could muster, a tone both disrespectful and servile at the same time. “Healthy babes are a worthy cause for celebration. Where is the strapping lad? I had hoped to pay my respects.”

Rhaenyra piped up this time, looking exhausted and not fully recovered from child bearing even though it had been days since Joffrey’s birth. Ryna supposed the wee babe had been keeping her awake more often than not.

“Prince Joffrey is resting. He would not tolerate staying up any longer. You know how babes are, always sleeping,” she replied, playing into Jason’s feigned deference.

It was then that the Lannister shot a glance down the table at Ryna. She tried to smile just politely enough so as not to encourage more attentions from the man, but it was without success.

“Your Grace…” he started off in that same falsely sycophantic tenor. “Has the Princess given any more thought to the courtship I proposed?”

Father looked down the table at her, leaning forward slightly so that he might see the expression on her face. Ryna’s eyes were pleading ‘No’ while trying to remain civil in the lord’s presence. Viserys’ features hardened with annoyance and he rested back into his chair.

“The Princess should be happy to consider your attentions. After all she is but ten and nine summers and still not wed,” his voice was stony and strict, markedly cross with her for shirking her duties even longer than Rhaenyra had.

Jason Lannister ruffled his feathers as he voiced appreciation to her father and stepped down the length of the table until he came to stand before her. Ryna had to choke back a smirk when the thought occurred to her that the Lannister’s sigil should be a primping cock instead of a lion, for Jason had more in common with a fowl than the fearsome and proud predator.

“Princess, I trust you will save me a dance?” he squawked and it took all she had to keep from rolling her eyes.

“I shall try, Lord Jason,” she answered with a prim smile through grit teeth. “But, I have not been feeling well. It might be something I ate.”

Father shot her an irate look and Ryna had no doubt that if they had been seated next to each other, that she would have felt his palpable frustration.

“The Princess is in good health,” Viserys said, with a snide smile. “Expect her company once the revelry starts.”

With a pompous smirk, Jason Lannister excused himself and made his way down the steps and back to the banquet. Ryna heaved a sigh, finding it difficult to hide her true feelings on this subject, despite years of learning to comport herself in the presence of refined company.

Viserys was still glaring at her, and she reckoned he might be wrathful enough to cause a row amongst guests and their kin alike.

“Ryna, draw near,” he called out and she rose from her seat and came to where he sat.

“We are gathered here today to celebrate the birth of my grandchild, but unofficially, I had hoped you’d make use of the congregation of eligible lords and find a husband once and for all. Enough of this procrastination. Find a man worthy or I shall make the choice for you.” His voice was low so that the company in attendance of the great feast could not hear them.

“You would wed me to a Lannister?” she practically spat. “Just to fill the coffers with his dowry?!”

“Watch your tone with me, girl. You have heard me and I will not suffer your insolence any longer. Leave me so I might enjoy the festivities.” Viserys turned his head back to the next guests approaching the King’s table. He was done with her, his decision final.

Ryna could not help but to stomp swiftly away with a childish petulance that did not become a lady. Leaving her family behind, she slipped into the shadows of the great pillars that lined the throne room and made her way down a short corridor until she was outside in the crisp night air.

She let out a troubled sigh, wishing now that she had brought a goblet of wine with her. Ryna walked to the edge of the stone parapet and looked down at the splendor of King’s Landing in fall of the leaf. The color marking the trees was apparent even at nightfall and the sea was glittering in the moonlight just past the city’s edge. The sight made her feel both reverence and panic in equal measure, with a mounting desire to climb atop her dragon and take flight away.

Why should a princess of Valyrian blood be constrained to laws of man when she had the power to tame a dragon? She should be free to do as she longed to - to wed whom she desired, and not be forced to play along to such formal vulgarities, duty or not.

Ryna was so deep in thought that the nearby sound of a clearing throat startled her back to awareness. She turned sharply and could just barely make out the figure of a man leaning against the massive stone bricks of the castle wall behind her. Then her eyes caught the blinding billow of moonlit tresses and she knew it must be her uncle, Daemon, for no other Targaryen males yet had his height.

Daemon had returned from exile a year ago to attend to the funeral of his wife, Laena Velaryon, who had died in childbirth. Although to be more technically accurate, her dragon Vhagar had incinerated her once the baby would not come out. The end result was the same; Daemon widowed once again.

She had been closer with her uncle in the past, back before Rhaenyra’s wedding to Laenor, but her uncle had made himself scarce as of late. He spent much of his time away from King’s Landing, presumably finishing up his business in Pentos or simply behaving restlessly as Daemon was wont to do. Often she had observed his comings and goings from a distance by the sight and screech of Caraxes in the sky outside her window.

Daemon stepped forth from the shadows and approached her, yet halted at a pace’s length, his eyes roving up and down her form in keen appraisal.

He leaned in closely, his eyes of violet hooded as he whispered in a velvety, ardent tone, “My you’ve grown, niece.” His closeness and the heat of his gaze caused her cheeks to flush, and she could not help but feel a flutter in her chest.

For a moment, Ryna just stood there incredulously, unable to think of how to respond. He had never shown any interest in her before, no matter how much she had desired it. Daemon had only ever had eyes for Rhaenyra it seemed, and Ryna had always remained a child in his eyes. She had honestly forgotten those long lost unrequited desires until his simple greeting brought them all rushing back like a wave breaking hard as the tide comes in.

“Uncle,” she acknowledged him, yet scarce a word could she find in answer to his bold suggestion.

“Such beauty should never be sullied with a frown,” he continued, his demeanor charming without effort as he brushed a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “Tell Uncle what is troubling you.”

His inquiry proved to be somewhat of a balm to her tensions, providing a welcome transition into a topic she could put words to.

“Father has given me ultimatum to choose a husband lest he choose one for me,” she pouted, her lips pursing and her eyes sullen.

“Surely it cannot be so grim, sweetling,” he reassured her smoothly and she now saw he was holding a silver chalice adorned with the the three-headed dragon, likely filled with wine. “I imagine you’d have your pick of many fine and wealthy lords.”

“I’m afraid the selection is quite lacking,” Ryna scoffed gently, feeling a fondness stir as she recalled the old pet name he’d given her in many years past. It had been some time since she had heard him utter the word, but the fact that it sounded so well when spoken by him did not escape her notice.

Daemon quickly turned her around by the shoulder, then with a firm yet gentle hand placed against the small of her back, he led her towards the balustrade. His hand remained steadfast even as they halted, and Ryna shivered involuntarily at the feel of his fingers tracing the fabric of her gown with a tender and possessive touch.

“Let me guess,” he relished with sardonic glee. “Some old and fat oaf of a lord… No doubt a widower with a dozen children?”

“That and much worse,” she scowled thinking of all of the potential suitors that had approached her father for her hand. “A Lannister so full of himself that is makes my skin crawl to think of his paws upon me.”

An easy laugh escaped Daemon’s mouth and she thought with a wry smile that many must share her disgust for the lions.

“Ah, Lannisters. What a bunch of cunts,” he chuckled condescendingly, stealing a wanton glance down her bodice. “And the rest? Are there none suitable, niece?”

Ryna pondered the question, but could not think of a single man that had caught her attention. Except for Daemon of course, but that had never been a real option, especially after his transgressions with Rhaenyra some years back. Father had tried to keep it secret, but she’d crept into the throne room upon hearing his furious yelling and had heard the entire ordeal take place between the brothers.

Even still, she could not imagine marrying anyone of plain blood. In fact, it repulsed her to think that Father would ever marry a Hightower without an ounce of Valyrian heritage. And even though her brothers were technically half Targaryen, they were both young, and while Aemond seemed sweet, Aegon was a reprehensible human being.

The answer it seemed was simple after all. “No,” she replied curtly with a rueful sigh. “There are none who please me… But, I fear Father will not be thwarted this time. He will not permit me to celebrate my twentieth nameday without a husband.”

She glanced over at her uncle and took in the almost ethereal way his pale skin glowed in the moonlight. He hadn’t changed at all, like an ageless god from the legends she’d so loved as a girl. His hair swayed against his shoulder in the slight breeze as he took a sip from his cup.

“Ah yes, sweetling, It would seem your father has you in quite the bind,” he said matching her somber tone. “No doubt he believes that time is running short. That you must fulfill your duty to the family and start producing heirs before you get much older.”

“He has been patient with me. Rhaenyra shirked her duty at first, but still acquiesced to marry at seven and ten years, but I… Well, they will be calling me an old maid soon.” She hung her head down, feeling ashamed for the way she’d behaved towards her father. He had meant well for her after all, and Ryna had done nothing but rebuke him as reward for years of lax freedom.

Daemon removed his hand from her back, sliding it gently up her arm until it came to rest below her chin. He tipped her jaw up to meet his face and she was met with a kind smile.

“Do not ever lower your head, sweetling. You are a dragon,” he said warmly, letting go so that he could sit against the stone wall beneath the balustrade. “Now, perhaps we can solve this little problem.. What would make a suitor worthy of your hand in marriage?”

She felt a hot wave of embarrassment rise within her, for she knew well the answer that rested upon her tongue, yet dared not speak the words aloud. Surely, Father would never let her have him even if she begged on her knees. Even so, Ryna didn’t see the point in lying completely. She would be honest about the qualities she sought in a partner, even if not being direct about the person whom she had in mind.

“It is important to me that my offspring remain pure. I do not wish to mix with those who are laden to the ground. That doesn’t leave me with many options,” she spoke softly, her head tilting up towards her uncle as she finished.

There was an intrigued sparkle in Daemon’s eyes as he comprehended her words and a smile wove its way across his face. “A dragon’s clutch should remain undiluted and pure, I agree. The blood of Old Valyria is powerful and should be preserved.” He hummed in approval as he wrapped his free hand around her waist and pulled her a touch closer. She gasped softly, unaccustomed to being so close to him.

“Tell me, little dragon. Have you never considered your uncle as a match before?” Daemon’s words cut like his sword, Dark Sister, through the cool night air.

Ryna’s lips parted as if to speak, unsure of how to proceed. He had taken the bait she’d unintentionally laid out and given he suggested it himself, the prince must be partial to the idea. But, Daemon was an enigma and she found it difficult to gage his intentions at all times.

“I have,” she said concisely. “It is the only obvious choice when it comes to such aims, but… It is… complicated.”

She saw his eyes flare, brow rising in challenge as he gripped more tightly around her waist. He placed his chalice down on the stone and drew her even closer to him. His knee wedged between her skirts to rest between her legs and her breast was now pressing indecently against his chest. It was not a position she was familiar to enduring. Ryna knew she should pull away, but Daemon had lulled her into compliance like a Dragonkeeper.

“Oh? And why is it so complicated, sweetling?” he asked with a smug grin and mock concern as he looked down at her.

Her uncle’s words snapped her out of it. How could he feign ignorance to the current situation?

“After your,” she began but found her mouth grow exceptionally dry after only two words. She turned her head to the side and brought her hand to her lips, clearing her throat before she continued. “After your exploits with Rhaenyra, Uncle… I doubt Father would consider letting us wed.”

Daemon’s gaze darkened with the mention of Rhaenyra. “Ah yes, that little indiscretion.” He said with an air of indifference that turned into an irritated smirk. “What do you know of it?”

“I overheard the two of you in the Great Hall that day. Father’s booming voice drew me in and then I stayed once I saw you lying on the floor with guards on either side. I was worried for you, but then I heard Father’s words. That you had taken Rhaenyra’s purity in some brothel… And you did not deny it.” The memory was not a fond one for Ryna. She could remember the inebriated state he’d been in as he asked her father for Rhaenyra’s hand in marriage as a result of their transgression.

“No, I did not deny it. And I did not confirm it either,” his voice was harder than usual, sterner as though upset by her knowledge of what transpired that day. “In all truth, I didn’t do much. I merely took her to a decent establishment to show her the reality of life outside the castle.”

“If you did not sully her virture, then why would you not refute such slanderous claims made against you, Uncle? Why accept exile for it… Again?” she asked furrowing her eyebrows, her hands with a mind of their own coming to rest on his shoulders.

He chuffed like a dragon, the only aspect missing was perhaps smoke escaping from his nostrils. “Why would I deny it? What would be the point?” his words were gruff. “What could I have said to convince your father that Rhaenyra was still untouched? Was I supposed to prostrate myself before him as a loyal dog to prove it?”

“You were already at his feet. Why not tell him the truth? Unless you hoped only to make him believe you besmirched her honor, just so you might wed her and recover your claim to the throne,” there was a certain amount of hurt in her voice as well as misgiving.

Ryna had never spoken to her uncle in this manner, or anyone so far her elder for that matter. But, part of her felt scorned, wronged for how much stock he had placed in Rhaenyra instead of her. She had to know what his true motivations had been and what he was capable of carrying out in order to get what he desired.

“You are treading on thin ice, little girl,” he voiced dangerously as his grip on her hips tightened. “How dare you make me out to be some incorrigible fiend. If anyone has been wronged in this whole… ordeal it has been me.”

His knee shifted a bit higher between her legs as he pulled her hips forward onto his lap, his thigh pressed firmly against her center. She whined faintly with the force of it, even through the layers of her skirts it made her core throb with unknown want.

“Iksos bona skoros ao pendagon hen issa?” he resumed in a more measured tone, his voice lower now. Is that what you think of me?- “That I only wanted Rhaenyra for the throne?”

His hands slid up her back, pulling her flush against him. Ryna’s lips pressed against the leather of his collar as he whispered in her ear, “Or do I detect a hint of jealousy?”

Was she so transparent? The very thought of him reading her so accurately made her feel about as obvious as the sun is bright. Despite Daemon’s embarrassing insinuation, it was impossible to think whilst being held in such close proximity to him. She attempted to regain her composure, but his hot breath against her ear and the way he dug into her heat with his knee was driving her mad.

“And what if I was?” she finally blurted out. “You never once glanced my way, not like you did her. I do not wish to be second best even to my own husband.” Ryna tried to make distance, attempting to push away from his chest.

Daemon wouldn’t allow it. His grip was strong and possessive, making it clear that he was not willing to let her go just yet.

“Who said you would be second best?” his words spilled out gravely, sweet, yet viscous as they fell from his lips. “Have you so easily forgotten how I used to dote on you? How I called you my little sweetling? Do you not remember how I would let you ride with me on Caraxes before you claimed your own beast?”

Ryna was taken aback by his perception of the past, not realizing that her uncle had remembered her so fondly. Perhaps she had spent too much time dwelling on inconsequential matters. She peered up at Daemon as he held her forearms tightly in front of his chest. The matter of Rhaenyra was still of some concern, but clearly she was mistaken about a great deal.

“Yes, Uncle, I do recall. And that is what made my envy all the more dire when you attempted to pursue my sister, barely noticing me as I tried to bid you welcome home. I felt you had forsaken me in favor of her.” She didn’t feel obligated to mention how desperately lonely she had felt when he was sent away once again, nor the deep sense of heartache she had experienced upon hearing about his wedding to Laena.

Dameon’s grip on her lessened and the softness now present in his features made her feel a little more relaxed. His hands caressed up her back once more as he sat down on the stone parapet and brought her fully onto his lap. Ryna’s dress protested, the skirts fighting as he pulled her knees forward to straddle him. It was an obscene, intimate position for a young maiden, but she couldn’t help be reminded of better times when she found great comfort in that same lap.

“Your envy?” he mused almost sympathetically. “Have you been pining away for me all of this time, sweetling?”

“No,” she answered abruptly, feeling the hot sting of mortification as he continued to reveal the inner yearnings of her heart.

He let out a deep, hearty chuckle as he brought a hand to her face. Long fingers traced the outline of her cheek before wrapping around her chin. She had forgotten the contentment of his affections even though the way she recieved them had been altered now that she was grown.

“No?” he echoed with mock disbelief.” He gently gripped her chin between his fingers, forcing her to look at only him as he spoke harshly. “Do not attempt to deceive me, niece. You could never tell-tale when you were young, and you still lack the talent.”

Daemon’s hand released her chin, sliding it down to rest against the base of her throat. “You forget I can see right through you… I know what you’re really thinking.”

“What am I thinking then?” Her voice was not haughty, but tinged with awe as his rakish wiles seduced her into calm once more.

“You’re thinking…” he paused, bringing his hand to brush a strand of hair from her face before caressing her cheek. “You’re thinking that you would welcome my touch further. You’d welcome my affections. My attention.”

His hand slipped further down, sliding along the neckline of her bodice he drew a finger against the top of her breast. “You’d welcome more than that. You want so much more than that. No matter how you pretend otherwise.”

Ryna’s breath stuttered out disjointedly, her chest heaving not just from his capricious words, but the unfamiliar touch of his hand at the swell of her breast. It was not at all unpleasant, but it was unseemly. The sounds of the banquet carried on from inside, but nobody had disturbed their solitude yet. She would venture an allowance, just this once.

“And what do you want, Uncle?” Ryna gazed at him, entranced at being the object of his focus after having been starved of it for so long.

As Daemon looked into her eyes, his expression darkened with what appeared to be lust and longing. His palm lowered over the curve of her breast, cupping her soft mound gently as he leaned his forehead against hers. A low whimper struck against Ryna’s closed mouth as his fingers grazed lightly down her bust, traveling over her ribcage and then rounding to her hips.

“Nyke jaelagon ao, jorrāelagon mēre,” he purred deeply. I want you, dear one- His lips brushed against hers as though trying to lure them open. “I’ve always wanted you, but thought it too wicked, even for the likes of me, to tarnish you with my degeneracy.”

His hands slid around to the small of her back, pulling her closer with a satisfied grunt. “But, now that I know you’ve been hungering for me, sweetling, I’m beginning to think… that you’ve always been mine. That I’ve wasted so much time hiding from the truth.”

She could feel the heat of his breath upon her face, coaxing her so enticingly into his thrall. Her lips parted to release a quiet breath, but before the air had fully escaped her mouth, Daemon sealed them with a kiss. Even though she had never kissed a man, she was consumed by his fiery passion. She closed her eyes, her fingers wrapping around his back as she whispered hushed, sultry mewls against his lips.

His tongue swept her lower lip, teasing at her mouth until she yielded to him and allowed entrance. The kiss was urgent and demanding, filled with untold desire she’d only read about in old tales of Valyrian mythology. One of Daemon’s hands roamed to the exposed skin at her right knee, bunching the fabric up higher and groaning as his fingers felt the bare skin of her thighs. His lips tasted of Westerosi strongwine and spices, his tongue plundering her mouth as though it were an indulgent ambrosia all its own.

“I should stop before I go too far, sweetling,” he groaned, tearing his mouth away as he regarded her. “I don’t want to ruin you out here in the open… Or at least I do not wish to get caught doing so.” A wicked smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, but the yearning was still present in his eyes.

Ryna fussed at the loss of his sweet kiss, an aching throb now coursing throughout her entire core. Lost in the affections she’d always wanted, she could not possibly think to stop now.

“No, please,” she pleaded without meaning to. The words were barely a soft gasp against his neck as her lips found the pulse of his throat and pressed a gentle kiss to it.

Daemon chuckled at her protestations, leaning his forehead against hers again. It was a simple gesture he had always used in the past to ease her distress, although there was an entirely new meaning to it now, it still made her feel at peace in much the same way.

“What will people say if they see us?” he whispered with feigned anxiety, his hot breath skimming against her dampened lips. “A wicked prince spoiling a young innocent maiden with his turpitude. What sort of debauchery is this?”

Her uncle’s words were laced with a sense of mockery, but she knew he spoke true. She sighed and kissed him once more, making sure to keep it brief lest she become unable to refrain from continuing. Ryna slipped off his lap, feeling her senses slowly return to her. She glanced at the glowing light coming from the hall and exhaled with relief when there was nobody present to see their misconduct.

She smoothed her skirts so that they were not so unkempt and tucked away any loose strands of hair back against her scalp. Daemon took his time in rising from his seat on the parapet, adjusting the front of his trousers slightly as he did so.

“You should return to the party,” his voice was rough with lust and did not sound pleased by the prospect. “At least for now we should keep up appearances. For now…”

“And what of our earlier conversation?” she asked almost demurely, with a submissive tone she was not frequently used to employing. “What of Father’s ultimatum?”

Daemon took a few steps forward, crowding into her as he rested his hands firmly at her waist. “I won’t suffer any suitor but myself to claim you,” he hissed possessively. “Especially not some timid lordling whose ineptitude would bring your heart naught but bitterness, my sweetling.”

Ryna couldn’t help but smile with the ornery way he insisted no other man should wed her, but it would still be difficult to convince Father to allow it.

“How shall we persuade my father that you are worthy than, Uncle?” she peered up at him, her fingers gently clutching the sleeves of his doublet.

“Worthy,” Daemon said with a scoff. “I have the blood of Old Valyria. I am the Prince of the City. I am a dragon, little niece.” He let his hands slide around to her back, gripping her hips greedily. With a swift tug, he yanked her flush against his chest and whispered quietly in her ear. “Name another who is more worthy?”

Gods, he was too good at this. With barely his low trill in her ear, Ryna’s knees felt weak.

“I do not question your value, Daemon. There is no better match in my eyes,” she placed her small hands on his chest and pushed him back so she might look upon him face to face. “But I fear Father will think the worst of your intentions.”

He let out a gruff chuckle at that, a knowing smile spreading wickedly as he tilted his head. “Intentions?” he mused with thick sarcasm. “Yes, how horrible it would be to bed, wed, and impregnate his sweet innocent darling daughter. I’m sure the thought of the latter will be a dagger to his heart.”

“I am speaking in all earnestness, Uncle,” she ruffled, her lower lip pouting out at his jest. “He will think you wish to claim the throne by way of wedding me.”

Daemon chuffed, clearly amused by her petulant scolding. “So, my brother thinks me a scheming opportunist, does he?” With a shrug he dismissed the notion, yet added, “Well, he isn’t wrong.”

A wolfish smirk pulled at his lips as he leaned his head down to her ear once more. “Although, if the throne comes to me as a result of seeding your belly with my babe, my sweet niece, then I certainly won’t complain.”

“You are awful…” she scoffed with disbelief, making space between them again. “How can you not take this seriously? I don’t want you to be sent away again. You know you should renounce any claim to the throne.” Her pale lilac eyes grew wide, peering at him with thinly veiled worry and beginning to gleam as tears threatened to come.

He clenched his jaw at the mention of relinquishing the Iron Throne. “Daor. Nyke jāhor daor,” he growled. No. I will not.- “Do not ask me to lie down like a whipped dog. And do not bring tears to your eyes in an attempt to soften me.” Daemon’s eyes remained cold as they narrowed at her, the fondness all but gone from his voice as he continued.

“I have spent my entire life living to the expectations of others. I will follow the path I know I am destined for.” He gripped her chin roughly, forcing her to look up at him and meet his gaze. “I will claim what is mine by right, and you will be a part of it whether you wish it or not, little niece.”

Ryna attempted to speak, but he stopped her by placing a single finger over her lips.

“You have made it clear that you are mine. You will do as I say. You will wed me and stand at my side when I ascend to the throne. Those are the only outcomes I will accept,” he ordered sternly. “And to ensure it, I will have to use any means necessary. If that includes ruining your innocence to ensure you do not wed another… So be it.”

There was a palpable tension in the air between them. She wished to have the sweet man she had shared her first kiss with back and not the tyrant that stood before her. But, Ryna understood his ambitions, just as everyone in their family did. She knew she had touched upon a sensitive subject, perhaps too insistently, and now regretted digging into a wound that ran exceptionally deep.

Most distressing of all, was that she believed his purpose to be true, even though the thought of what lengths he might have to go to achieve it sometimes haunted her. Now, he might not even trust that she had any faith in him or his calling at all.

“I am grieved,” she replied with a quiet whisper. “I did not mean to say that you should not seek the throne, Uncle, but use it as pretense so that Father lets his guard down. He knows you want it and he does not wish you to have it.”

The truth of it was that between Rhaenyra’s bastards and the Hightower half-blood mongrels, the pairing she’d make together with Daemon would have the strongest claim to the throne. If something were to happen to Rhaenyra, the throne would pass to Ryna, but the realm was still not wont to have even a Targaryen Queen rule over it. If she wed Daemon though, then there would be no question of a higher authority. She had no desire to rule and would pass it to her uncle gladly.

His grip on her chin faltered, the anger leaving his voice and replaced by a tired sigh. “My sweetling, you know not how difficult it has been for me to restrain myself for all these years. You have grown more beautiful than I could have ever imagined.” He spoke low and deliberate as he gently brushed along the line of her jaw. “It was a challenge unto itself, not to ravish you the moment you became a woman, but I was certain your father would geld me for it.”

She could not help but laugh at his admission, although Father had certainly not opted to castrate her uncle for his supposed transgression with Rhaenyra.

“You laugh but only I know how it felt to resist you day after day, year after year,” he growled, voice husky with need. “I was tempted on so many occassions to claim you as my own, to steal you away to Dragonstone and keep you there.”

He leaned closer, burying his nose in her platinum tresses and inhaling deeply of her scent. “And now you’ve left yourself vulnerable, sweetling. Now that I know you want me as much as I desire you… There is nothing that can keep me away.”

“Not even the King,” he added with a huff, his lips moving to trail the smooth skin along her neckline.

She was not sure how to reply to such conviction, especially when it concerned her father. Ryna did not wish ill of him, but then she was sure Daemon would not hurt his own brother. Well, mostly certain at least.

Daemon must have sensed her hesitation, for he murmured softly against her temple. “Let me handle your father, my sweet little niece… Just focus on being my good girl, alright?” His grip was firm, but tender on her shoulders as he pushed himself away from her. “Now, you must head back, before anyone comes. I wouldn’t be surprised if Viserys hasn’t had the servants upturning the keep for you by now,” he chuckled wryly and pressed a kiss against her forehead before disengaging from her completely.

As he released her, Ryna suddenly felt an unbearable emptiness. His lips left her skin feeling warm and wanting more, but he was already taking steps away from her, retrieving his chalice from the surface of the parapet. The tone of his voice told her he would brook no disagreement in this and she knew it would be for the best that she return.

“Return to the celebration, sweetling,” he said with his back to her as he looked out over the city. “And do not worry your pretty little mind of all this. I will take care of your father. You have my word.”

Ryna had so wished to ask him if he would dance with her this evening, but soon realized something as she turned and headed back inside. That once they were wed there would be a week-long celebration and she would have as many chances to dance with her uncle as she liked.

She paused for a moment as she stood in the flickering shadows of the hallway that led back to the Great Hall. Ryna had seen it clear as day when she was only but ten and two years old. She did not understand what it meant, but had spent weeks combing the library for information trying to understand it with no answers to be found.

She’d had a strange daydream or perhaps a vision. In it, Ryna had seen a beautiful young woman with flowing silver-gold hair standing beside her uncle Daemon as he sat upon the Iron Throne.

It had befuddled her for years until finally she began to mature, her skinny, tomboyish body blossoming outwards like the petals of a flower. And, one day she looked in her hand mirror and realized that the woman she’d seen, was none other than herself.

It did naught but break her heart when she then found out that his affections, nay his ambitions, laid with Rhaenyra. And, she’d forced herself to tuck that long lost song of what might come to pass away, when she heard Laena gave birth to twins. Ryna locked it all tightly, somewhere she might never think of it again.

And yet now, it might all be coming to pass regardless. She didn’t know whether she should be excited or aghast at what might happen in the coming months.

She stepped into the Great Hall and was pleased to see that most every guest had imbibed much of her father’s generosity since her departure. Nobody seemed to take notice of her as she walked through the crowd aside from Ser Criston Cole who eyed her wearily. She cared little for the man, thinking him a miscreant since observing him beat a man to death at Rhaenyra’s wedding. Ryna wondered how it was he still held such an esteemed post regardless.

Heading right up to the King’s table, she was not surprised to see that most everyone had abandoned her father as they always tended to do once a banquet got underway. He sat alone in his chair without a soul to even pour his wine. Ryna lamented how lonely he appeared. The most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms and here he sat deep in his drink and completely alone.

Father’s eyes brightened as he saw her, a slur in his voice, “Daughter! I was wondering where you ran off to. Come and pour your father another.”

“Do you think it wise, Father?” she asked with a playful tone, knowing he would not be denied despite her pestering.

“Your King demands it, girl,” he jested with a smile and she obediently filled his cup.

“I’m sorry, Father,” she apologized, her voice demure and meek in an attempt to show him the deference he deserved, not just as her King, but as her forebear.

He waved a hand, scoffing as though it mattered not. “I should bid you apology, my child. For suggesting you dance with that Lannister fellow. He is truly insufferable.” Father’s eyes grew wide with joy as he let out a boisterous laugh and she could not help but join in the royal ribbing of Jason Lannister.

“But you still must choose a husband, Ryna,” he said somberly, the mirth still poking at the edge of his words.

“I know,” she replied with a smile, trying to show her appreciation for the years of independence he’d allowed her. “I will perform my duty for you and the realm, Father.”

“That’s my good girl. Disobedience never suited you,” he took a long swig from his ornate chalice. “Besides, I have all that I can handle of that with Rhaenyra,” he quipped with a chuckle and quick raise of his brow. “Now leave me, child. I have wont to pass swiftly from drink to slumber tonight.”

“Good evening, Father,” she bowed her head to him slightly and turned to give him the space he desired.

She glanced around the hall looking for a certain blond uncle, but did not catch sight of him. Perhaps he was being cautious by not being seen together with her in front of the masses gathered for the celebration. It was an intelligent idea that she thought she would abide by as well for now. After all, she’d had enough excitement for one night.

Ryna nodded at several lords and ladies she know of, but barely knew as she retired from the banquet hall. The path to her chambers was quiet and uneventful and after minimal effort undressing, she soon found herself comfortably lying in her bed, ensconced in plush blankets.

Thoughts swirled of the moments she’d shared with Daemon on the balcony. Ryna could still taste him upon her lips and feel his hands upon her body. As though attempting to reprise the memory, she ran her fingers gently over her breast in much the same way he had. It was too much to bear. She clenched her thighs together and turned harshly on her side with a squeal of flustered arousal.

She tried to clear her mind of lustful thoughts and peered out the window at the high moon. Would Daemon be able to convince Father that he would be a worthy suitor? Truly there was no better man in terms of Valyrian descent, but her father had been so angry with her uncle, so many times over the years. She worried he might not be able to let it go.

Given all that had occurred and the pressing marital matters at hand, she’d thought it might be difficult to sleep, but surprisingly it found her quickly.

Notes: This was the longest chapter I have ever written! I could not stop - a woman possessed!

So, I know this is not entirely necessary, but I thought I would write up a little post-chapter introduction to explain some of the setting I’ve chosen for this story.. And why I decided to make these choices.

I wanted the OC to be young, but not too young as it wouldn’t make sense that she would remain unmarried if allowed to get too old. I also did not want such a huge gap of time to pass after Rhaenyra and Laenor’s wedding. Ten years is such a huge amount of time, and I wanted the OC to have been within a comparable age to Rhaenyra when she last sees Daemon.

Now, with that in mind, the timeline of the show is also very confusing when you compare it against the timelines on the wiki, which is based on lore. There is an understanding of an approximate amount of time that has gone by on the show, but even when using those estimations, the years don’t come close to the dates on the wiki. I know I shouldn’t focus on such trivial matters, but it did in fact bother me while planning my own outline. I decided that I would base it more loosely off the official lore dates of events and ages of characters, and not the show's. This is something you may or may not notice, but it is worth mentioning. Any changes made are not necessarily for lack of being informed about it, they are just conscious changes.

One glaring issue is the birth of Rhaenyra’s first three children.. All of which are born in pretty quick succession, 115 AC, 116, AC and then 117 AC. That means that technically, this fic should be starting in 117 AC.. Only 4 years after the events of Rhaenyra’s wedding to Laenor (114AC). And Baela and Rhaena were born in 116 AC, which certainly causes some difficulty in lining these dates up with the show. Laena dies in 120 AC and yet her children look much older than 4 and the same can be said for Rhaenyra’s as well.

So, I’ve decided after much deliberation, that Joffrey’s birth will take place in 119AC instead of 117AC, meaning that instead of 10 years, only about 5 years have passed since the wedding. And Laena’s death will be moved to 118AC, 2 years earlier than in the lore, and much earlier in the show. I think if you add the time skips together.. That the (10 years later) jump that occurs ends up being about 126AC which doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me, except for the fact that they’re likely trying to line things up for the Dance of the Dragons, but the timing still feels off.

I also wanted to say that I had several starting points in mind for this story, but this was the one I just happened to like the most in terms of the timeline and how close it is to Viserys’ death and all the major events that take place afterwards! So please enjoy, and I do hope I can capture the tone and feel of the show and characters without stepping on my own feet too much. I have never attempted to write a story in this time period or style, so I guess we’ll see how it goes. Expect some growing pains until I’m more practiced and do not judge me too harshly.

Another thing worth mentioning is that I wrote the first chapter in a rather obsessive flurry that lasted most of one day and all of a night. Suffice it to say, it slipped my mind to add in the High Valyrian, given how much I had my hands full with grasping a more Shakespearean take on English. I will likely add placeholder Valyrian in, so that it does not hold me up too much as I write. When finished, I’ll take the time to research how to make it more accurate. So don’t worry too much if you do happen to know High Valyrian and find any glaring errors.

But! Please DO tell me what you thought! Also.. Yes, there will be a lot more. This is planned to be a rather big story... Read Chapter 2 here.

[multifandomfix]

Imagine losing your virginity to Daemon.

The firelight casts flickering shadows across the stone walls, but all you can see is him. Daemon Targaryen stands before you, eyes dark and unrelenting as they trace the curve of your body. Your breath catches when he steps closer, the heat of his presence making your skin prickle.

"Are you afraid?" he asks, voice low and edged with something dangerous.

You swallow hard but lift your chin. "No."

A smirk tugs at his lips, sharp, predatory. "Good." His fingers brush against your cheek, featherlight but enough to set your nerves alight. "A dragon should never fear fire."

And yet, you tremble when his lips find yours. The kiss is all consuming, a claim rather than a question, and it leaves you breathless. He doesn't stop. His hands are already undoing the ties of your dress, slow enough to give you a chance to pull away. But you don't.

The fabric slides from your shoulders, pooling at your feet. You resist the urge to cover yourself, and the intensity of his gaze makes you feel as if he's stripped you bare in more ways than one.

"Perfect," he murmurs against the skin of your collarbone.

His fingers trail over your skin, and you shiver under his touch. He guides you back until the backs of your knees hit the bed, and when he lowers you onto it, you let him. Every brush of his lips, every press of his hands, ignites something inside you, something wild and wanting.

"You can stop me if you wish," he says, hovering above you, but there's something in his voice that almost pleads for you not to.

You shake your head. "I don't want you to stop."

The words unleash something in him. He claims you slowly at first, giving you time to adjust, but the stretch still burns. You gasp, and his lips find your neck, murmuring quiet reassurances against your skin.

The pain fades, replaced by heat that builds with every movement, and soon you're clutching at him, one hand tangled in his hair, the other with nails biting into his shoulder. He whispers your name like it's sacred, and when he finally shatters, pulling you with him, you know you've given him more than your body.

You've given him your soul.

Forever Tag: @baubeautyandthegeek, @ghostsunderstoodmysoul, @immyowndefender, @valencethefriendlychangeling, @crimsonwidow666, @rebelbossheart, @thedailyspiritualist, @orangeisnttheonlyfruit, @woman-simp, @aperol-with-izzy, @leonoralessoem, @ellepossum69, @lakita-fisher, @trexsuit, @analuw, @luvlesavyy, @malfoyfeed, @aliciabrower, @sparrowspixie, @imaginationismyworldlypleasure, @og-kxsh-420

Daemon Targaryen: @thekirbishow, @astrogrande

[therogueflame]

OMGG hiii... i have been kinda DYING to ask you what are your favorite traits on Cregan Stark and Daemon bc yknow we're kinda the same i feel like in taste of men!! I was gonna message you but I can't unfortunately so here I AM asking. Also thoughts on Daenerys? She's kinda my biggest girl crush ever and I was so in love i consumed the entirety of GOT and HOTD in the past 2 months, then I fell in love with Aemond, Aegon and Daemon and now I'm thinking I'm just a Targaryen simp 😔

wow do i love asks like this!! my fave traits for harwin and daemon are so opposite of each other its sooo ridiculous (but you can blame my birth chart and horrendous ADHD for that)

Daemon:

Daemon was described by Maester Yandel as dashing, daring, and dangerous, but mercurial and quick to take offense.[7] Archmaester Gyldayn wrote that Daemon was ambitious, impetuous, and moody, as charming as he was hot-tempered.[

19/20 year old me is FOAMING AT THE MOUTH with the pure toxicity and dopamine this man could provide. i have always been a more "masculine" girl, so i love hyper masculine men that would protect me yet completely and utterly ruin me in bed. i love wit, and i think people doubt his intelligence. i think him and i would have some wonderful banter that ended in fighting in bed and god do i want a man who is quick enough to match me. im not the smartest or the fastest, but i can be and banter is sooooo hot (@any random tumblr men reading this)

Harwin: we don't get much of him in the show, or really in the books. but again, i love a hypermasculine guard dog of a man, and then to be a complete mush underneath? get me 100 actually. like i need him. THIS is the kind of man i want now as an almost 25 year old. safe, kind, comforting, protective. hes also a huge man and again, like i am built like my 6'4 father and my 6'4 brother. i am a chunky gal, i want a man who i wont break.

Now for my opinion on dany....

I love her in the books. She's sharp and kind but also soft and ultimately still a child who has been forced to grow up in a world that does not want her. I think george writes her beautifully.

In the show? Not a fan. I like Emilia Clarke enough, and I think she did a decent enough job for the material she was given, but I think the casting for the HOTD Targs was just so much stronger.

I definitely recommend reading (or listening to) the books before Season 3 comes out. The books are 1000000x better than the show (as it usually goes), and I'm currently on my second read through. If you want something lighter to introduce you to the books, read Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. It's all three Dunk and Egg Novellas, and its the next show that has wrapped filming and is slated to come out near summertime. Those tales arent nearly as long and are just genuinely so cute.

Thanks for asking!

[quietbluejay]

The Buried Dagger Take 2 #3

we continue the flashback

behold! Overlord description

yay

honestly i feel like this gets a bit into bathos here like starving dogs as a baby? climbing a cliff naked? it's a little ridiculous but it's also trying to be sincere so i'm going to try and not poke at it too much well also because im torn between that vs making sad faces the tldr: mortarion's life really sucks if anyone's got a reason for being a sulky teenager who sometimes wishes he'd been killed as a baby, it's this guy

Arzach: What a lovely father, he took out his kid for moutains climbing.

this is the kind of line i would have written as a teenager which is why my first instinct is to mock but like come on bluejay be kind to your past self, you were going through it

Arzach: I may be a bit biased (…) but I think the ridiculness of that is here to depict the Warp aspect ? How Necare do that for fun, he enjoys torture him.

bluejay: like the book in general kind of ping pongs between being, you know, genuinely compelling vs The Silly Edge Zone

ok you know what i made a cringe perturabo playlist i need to make a cringe mortarion one as well it's literally just going to be songs i listened to as a teenager in case people are wondering no i don't really relate to morty, i get along just fine with my dad, and also i don't believe the ends justify the means now if you'll excuse me i need to go watch a heartwarming instagram video of ravens opening christmas presents

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okay everyone enjoyed that? because we're back to the present

RIP the regular humans though, a whole bunch of whom have died "humans are so pathetic," mortarion thinks no really, that's verbatim

everyone agrees it's because they're in the warp and yet their gellar fields are intact, so what gives? he eyes typhon with suspicion but typhon decides not to rise to the bait and is just like "lol sometimes weird things just happen" reports come in and looks like all the other ships were similarly affected mortarion is going to address all the commanders

typhon agrees with vos so they're gonna gather data first before doing anything else

it's always expedience of scruples with ya

like Angel Exterminatus, this isn't exactly a book of subtle characterization but then i mean, that's not necessarily a bad thing anyways Mortarion wants to be alone for a bit so he can listen to his linkin park chapter ends there

now it's time for more reader torment as we return to Captain Cardboard's Amazing Crew it's a bunch of space marines versus…THE SWARM we get some simping for Garro's sword which I have been informed is actually apparently Excalibur

space marine vs a swarm of insects? who will win? the answer will surprise you

yay okay so the reveal…the cloud of flies is a daemon we know… Decius! the guy who didn't believe a genocidal warlord was a god and thus got nurgle'd oh apparently Garro threw his remains into the sun they chat a bit about Meric, the apothecary who was trying to save Decius also im feeling unusually unfair and mean because it's garro

so i am not being charitable to this cliched dialogue i know i say this a lot but come on, man, do you have anything else to you that isn't nobly standing there while wielding what is apparently freaking excalibur?

and now over to the pilot of their associated storm eagle who just got called to missile the location where garro and his crew are

normally she wouldn't do this but garro is Just That Cool and has survived this before

flashbacks of all the primarch stupidity we've ran across run through the bluejay's brain

LoreLover: "divinity of the Emperor" lol once again, 30K fails at not being 40K

well to be fair divinity doesn't actually imply wisdom just i guess in this case puissance the old tales huh despite the cult being a relatively new thing RIP pilot, she gets eaten by the flies

back to worshipping the Emperor, Garro says a prayer for the Emperor to remember the pilot's soul and thinks about the inspirational text that is the Lectitio Divinitas

he thinks sadly about yet another pointless death Garro pins Decius with Libertas and then the psykers show up to kill the rest of the flies

so malcador…risks peoples lives for entertainment? lmao this is the book that is like "why does anyone laud this guy again" begrudgingly i have to admit that "doing things for the drama of it all" is a trait that tends to endear characters to me but i refuse to like this guy after the wyntor thing

oh hey back to Rubio's POV

but Rubio is kinda enjoying the freedom he gets that the highly organized Ultramarines don't really have there's a bunch of references in here to what are probably short stories apparently Malcador had Rubio tracking down a… ex-Night Lord librarian wait i think i remember that short story garro: so what's bothering you rubio internally: so many things lmao rubio externally: so, saw a guy kill himself to get away from malcador today

garro: i guess, kinda, but that time is running out lmao?

also apparently garro is the only speshul death guard and the rest who came on the eisenstein have still been locked up and or have a mysterious fate rubio knows garro is hiding something and decides to rummage around in his brain

there's a blank nearby who of course only became able to be sensed at that specific moment time to go into a collapsed building and find an unconscious sister of silence

she's got a crimson eagle tattoo on her neck Garro starts taking off her shirt to see more cmon dude she's catatonic and he finds her name rank and serial number tattooed on her collarbone and i feel like having your rank tattooed is kind of silly, what if you get promoted or demoted anyways he snaps the chains and pushes her to start walking geez garro you could at least pick her up

Garro and Rubio talk about how this is a mystery because she is speaking incoherently, and the sisters don't talk and also they don't travel alone garro, an intellectual: i think she has suffered some kind of psychological damage

surprise! it's malcador garro: can't you use a vox channel like a normal person? malcador: it's quicker and more direct, and less chance of my commands being "creatively interpreted" bruh? that last one? it's not like they can't do that when you're gone

so this is not the first Sister they've found like this Malcador orders Garro to take her to encrypted coordinates that he is…sending by vox

so rubio is now in command of the dudes the two of them wonder why malcador doesn't want to return her to her sisters garro gets his coordinates, and asks rubio to investigate around here to try and figure out what was going on so much for not creatively interpreting things, malc and chap ends there next time: teenage mortarion writes in his diary. finally we're getting to the good stuff, and i say that without one iota of irony

it's time for the next episode of the grimdark disney princess musical that is mortarion's life

mortarion is writing in his diary and he's feeling pretty down that his life is just this endless cycle

ow mortarion puts the pen down and broods and normally i'd probably say something mocking but you know what he deserves to brood he stares at his book collection and there's a whole thing about how originally necare didn't want to let him learn how to read but he grew too fast and he kinda resigned himself to it so it's all overlord books that are often contradictory

so yeah i don't think there's a definitive answer in canon about the Overlords and that's where Mortarion got his diaries after he used his eidetic memory to memorize the texts he soaked all the ink out of the books he looks out from the depressing discoloured walls into the depressing discoloured outdoors narration goes on a good bit about how everything on barbarus is toxic and mortarion thinks longingly about killing his dad

and that's when he hears gunshots

hi typhon! so typhon (it hasn't been revealed yet but he's fox face dude) opens up the machine and a whole bunch of humans come out, and mortarion realizes they were going to be experimented on by necare

typhon does something, presumably with his powers, to get a bunch of eel things to attack the golems, but it's pretty rough on him he yells up "what are you?" to mortarion and tells him he could help them

Mortarion thinks about how this is probably yet another test by Necare but whatever choice Mortarion makes, it'll be the wrong one so necare's got a lot of arbitrary and changing rules but the most solid one is, don't interact with the humans

just like in my disney movies… he starts shooting (and killing) the golems attacking typhon then dramatically jumps off the battlements he's fully committed to this treason flashback's over for now now i want the musical version of this…

current reaction:

next time we're going back to the present!

[messenger-of-stupidity]

Vega Latest Audio Thoughts

Im going to put in under the cut for those who can't listen yet and don't want spoilers. (Ik that feeling.)

MY HUSBAND IS BACK FINALLY I MISSED HIM SO MUCH!!! I love him and i want him to step on me im so fucking glad hes here im sobbing

I feel like Warden is settling more into their personality now. At first they kinda gave off a timid vibe since they were trying to fit in with humans and not appear as a threat. Then there was that moment they snapped at him. When they get frustrated, they lash out. And here we see it again. Vega is shooting down their ideas, so they call him stubborn instead of considering why he's shooting them down. It's his fault.

He calls them Darling when he's not upset with them or something. Then it turns into "My Warden" I'll be your anything.

Vega my poor baby had to go through so much. I'll kiss his boots to make him feel better.

ALSO THE LORE MMMMM!! DELICIOUS

Vega had to fight in the cocophany and he emerged before then. And he was one of the voices that spoke out. He's definitely old. Also does that mean that he was one of the first rebelling demons? (Wouldn't it be daemons then since everyone was a daemon until the sovereigns split and then the serenity and empathy kept the term daemon in rememberance of the sacrifice?)

What cost did daemons have to pay to feed? O.o

So the meridian didnt exist until the sovereigns formed it? But before then, they were running experiments on humans... so wouldnt aria have eclipsed or whatever with elegy?

He severed a Sovereign's spellsong? O.o (hmmm wonder where we heard that term before... HMMMM)

HELL YEA LETS GO TO CLOSEKNIT AND FUCK SHIT UP

What stronger power? The sovereigns im guessing. Or what if this is where Hush comes into play? We know he's prolly strong as long as there's a conduit.

Plot twist, Blake's listener's death is going to be at the hands of Vega somehow. Blake did say their death was coming and he was out of time. First listener death owo? (/hj)

Vega baby, im like a face hugger. You can't get rid of me. Stop fucking trying. Morals dont exist in our love. Lets murder children idc. JUST LET ME LOVE YOU

Wait... we weren't in Dahlia this entire time? WHERE TF ARE WE?

Outside of simping... I wanna talk about the manipulations

The whole complicit thing? It's a subtle urging them to stay. He's told them everything that he plans to do. Even if they choose to leave, they're still incriminated. They're tied to him and his actions.

Firsthand accounts are difficult to give without making the other party feel a sense of guilt. Kind of survivor guilt type of things. Did you feel like you needed to apologize as if you were at fault? Not just from sympathy? Well there you go.

There's more but im too feral to remember.

[ladymorghul]

I've found your blog last Sunday and omg, I'm entrhalled! You sound like of a very few voices of reason in the HOTD fandom! I would also like to ask- why the heck Criston gets do much hate? The guy was a victim of SA, forced to break his own rules as well as his vow cos the Princess was horny. Why call him an incel or/and a simp for Alicent? He was a worthy knight and flatly refused to be Nyra's secret paramour. He clearly considered marrying the woman whose "innocence" he had taken the only honorable solution. Seems like was reluctant to fathering bastards! And as for his feelings for Alicent - I'm guessing the idea of courtly love was widely known in quasi - medieval Westeros, so being a lady's sworn knight wasn't out of usual.

hey, thank you for liking my blog! <3

i honestly can't understand it either. like i get disliking him, he has done stuff that warrants criticism and dislike, but then you look at the fandom and they're giving free pass to worse men than him, like viserys and daemon. so you have to ask yourself... why is that happening?

personally i think his thing with rhaenyra is more complex than simple SA but regardless of that, he hasn't even done half the things daemon did and yet one's the most hated character and daemon's considered one of the best.

i think it's a couple of things: that he is in direct opposition to rhaenyra right now (it's not about her well being though, because if it is was, they would have an issue with the domestic abuse she is facing more than a word from a man she was never there to hear), the oversimplification of his character by the fandom, the obviously careless way the writers addressed his character, the romantization of bad boy daemon, and ngl a part of it could be that he is and looks mixed but i'm not exactly the best person to discuss that.

anyway, even without that, it's clear there's an unreasonable bias against him so far. i'm not sure what they'll make him do in s2 considering the liberties they took with the plot, but the way people reacted to his character in s1 already set the tone.

[aemondsbabygirl]

Here we goooo ! I’m so happy you updated despite going through something personal and difficult AND trouble with your computer. Let me just say that I am so glad I started your story and wasn’t rebuffed by the number of chapters. I love it so much !

My heart broke for child aemond in the first few paragraphs! The way you describes his yearning for a dragon and acceptance as a Targaryen, his loneliness, and his feelings of neglects was so accurate and sad! The fact that he couldn’t even rejoice long enough after finally claiming a dragon, always broke me. He should not have had to pay any price for Vhagar.

Aemond seeing Daenera was so beautiful! Aegon forever the jester had to annoy his brother even in the sept 🤭 the way he gave her that forehead kiss and then immediately looked at Aemond and smirked !

The way Dae was avoiding looking at Aemond was so endearing. Babygirl is trying so hard to ignore her feelings 🥹

I find Aemond’s obsessive love for her beautiful (I don’t know what it says about me lol). He’s such a simp for her and I love it. This part was so beautiful: “In the recesses of Aemond’s mind, a poetic notion flickered through his consciousness: he was the night itself, cradling the radiance of a star, guiding her across the sky in a loving dance.”

Wtf is wrong with Aemond and the way he hates the small folk that much? He sounded like such as asshole, thinking of them as dirt beneath his feet. Maybe only Daenera can help soften his heart towards them. The crowd calling Aemond a monster made me sad though. Yeah it is true he is a kinslayer, but he isn’t a monster. To me at least.

The emotional distance between them is hurting me!!!! I mean, I get that it’s totally a normal reaction for her. I have to remind myself that he killed her brother. But yet I still miss them SO MUCH! I feel the weight of their distance almost as much as aemond.

Otto’s speech was clever. Painting them as forbidden lovers. I wonder how it will reach Daemons ears and how it will be received..

Loved Daenera’s little taunts to Aemond with the poisons. She technically could have poisoned him. And Aemond is so prideful that he went with it 🤭 and then the way he watched her eat that fruit! Poor boy is going to die from blue balls.

I also loved the way Dae made Tyland shut up 🤭

Aegon speech omg!!! He is insane. Clearly playing with fire. I absolutely loved the way Aemond responded. He subtly humiliated him publicly. I loved even more their discussion after Aemond’s speech. He definitely hit a sore spot for aegon. He’s right in everything he said. Aegon keeps mocking until someone snaps, and we both know where that led Aemond in the show…

Alicent’s is continuing to be annoying with her obsession with the faith. I am glad aemond took Dae’s threat seriously lol And Jaehaerys’ gift!!!! I love this boy so much!!!! The twins are so cute, and I am in denial for what is coming.

!!!! The books from the Citadel!!!’ I’m going insane over this! The fact that this was Aemond’s plan

Aemond’s realization, while Dae danced with gwayne was so sad but true. Despite making her officially his wife, he cannot posses what isn’t freely given. And she’s purposefully (and understandably) giving her positive attention to other people, laughing, and dancing with someone else. Luke haunting Aemond is only fitting, as he is the embodiment of his betrayal of Daenera. I totally get what she’s doing and why she’s doing it. Aemond deserves her scorn and more. But I can’t deny that I do miss them together so much 🥹.

This was such an insanely good chapter! I loved the several little funny moments thrown in, they made the whole chapter lighter despite the heavy events. I loved seeing what was going on in Aemond’s mind. I’ve missed our one eyed criminal.

A Vow of Blood - 94

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 94: Once in grief, heart of black but forced in green II

AO3 - Masterlist

25k words.

The Great Sept was awash in shadows, despite the shutters of most windows being thrust open to let in the light from outside. Yet, the shadows seemed to reign within the sacred space. From each point of the sept’s seven-pointed star structure, a sliver of golden light spilled in, illuminating each statue of the gods stationed at the center of each point. These statues faced inward toward the sept’s heart, where a large, round altar stood surrounded by hundreds of flickering candles. While each idol had its own altar at its feet, the central altar was dedicated to all of the gods, signifying their unified presence. 

Above, from the expansive, domed ceiling, light cascaded through the windows, its intensity waning as it delved deeper into the sanctum. The air was thick with the scent of beeswax from the large candlesticks scattered strategically throughout, their flames battling the ever-encroaching gloom with bursts of warm, golden radiance. The flickering light cast moving shadows that played across the stone floors and walls, adding a living element to the stillness of the sacred space.

Aemond stood at the heart of the Great Sept, with only the High Septon beside him, facing an altar ablaze with candlelight. 

The gods had never granted Aemond anything; as the second son, he was merely the spare. And everything he possessed, he had fought to claim for himself. 

As a child, Aemond had attended the dragon-riding lessons at the Dragonpit, despite not having a dragon of his own. He often lingered in the shadows, a fierce envy igniting within him as he watched his brother and nephew-cousins bond with their dragons. His only companion during those times was Daenera, who, like him, was also without a dragon. Aemond had never understood why Daenera did not share the same bitterness and envy–he couldn’t grasp how she could accept her status as a Targaryen without a dragon so readily. He had surmised that perhaps it was because she was a bastard, fearful that her Targaryen blood was not as pure as his own–or so his mother had told him.

The air had been thick and warm, as it was now, though it had been heavy with the scent of dragons–smoke, and charred flesh, and ash mingling together��and not the sweet, cloying scent of incense and beeswax from the many candles littering the Sept. It was there that his brother and nephew-cousins had played their cruel jest, strapping wings to a pig and presenting it to him in mockery. The Ping Dread, they had called it. Their laughter had surrounded him, ringing in his ears as he had descended into the cavernous depths beneath the Dragonpit.

Insult after insult had marked his childhood, a relentless stream of disrespect and indignity that wove itself into the fabric of his early years. His brother and nephew-cousins had never hesitated to remind him of what he laced, never missed an opportunity to make him feel lesser–to make him feel less Targaryen than even the bastard children who had dragons hatch to them. 

The seed of resentment had taken root all those years ago in the depths of the Dragonpit, where Aemond’s desperate effort to claim a dragon of his own began–a fierce attempt to prove he was no less Targaryen than any of them. 

Each time he had ventured into the bowels of the Dragonpit, he faced failure. The dragons housed there had already been claimed, and once a dragon accepted a rider, it recognized no other. Despite this, Aemond had persisted tirelessly. He tried again and again, driven by a relentless determination to demonstrate his worth and secure his place within the Targaryen legacy. 

Night after night, Aemond had bowed his head in fervent prayer to the gods–prayer for a dragon of his own. He prayed for his father’s acknowledgement, yearning for a moment when his father might see him, recognize him, and care for him. He prayed for relief from the constant mockery of his brother and nephew-cousins, wishing for their respect rather than their scorn. Most desperately, he had prayed to be freed from the crushing loneliness that gnawed at his soul.

Faithfully, he had performed the rituals: lighting candles during his visits to the sept, attending masses alongside his mother. Yet, no divine answers came. There was no dragon for him to claim. His father continued to overlook him, turning a blind, guilt-ridden eye away. His brother and nephew-cousins never ceased their jeers, offering him no respect, only a deep scar that split his face–a permanent mark of disdain. And through it all, he remained isolated, perpetually alone. 

When the chance had finally arisen, presenting a dragon without a rider, Aemond seized with an desperation that eclipsed all other concerns–he had long since ceased praying to the gods. He had set himself before Vhagar, the largest and oldest dragon in the realm, and demandes she accept him as her rider. This was the opportunity he had yearned for–a dragon of his own, and with it, he thought he would gain the respect and acceptance he so desperately sought. 

And in that moment, as he stood before the beast and bellowed his command, the dragon’s massive jaws gaped open, the heat from her breath searing the air as flames began to gather at the back of her throat, Aemond questioned if he had prayed to the wrong gods. The primal power of Vhagar, so close and overwhelming, made him wonder if the divine had ever truly listened, or if his fervent pleas had been in vain.

His grip on the reins had been so fierce his knuckles had turned bone-white, and he had felt his bones groan under the strain of his hold. As Vhagar’s powerful wings beat through the air, his heart had pounded so forcefully it felt as though it might burst from his chest. In that moment, with Vhagar beneath him, Aemond had felt an exhilarating sense of invincibility–a god himself, or as close to one as he would ever be. He had claimed the most formidable dragon in existence, and with that claim, he believed he had finally attained his greatest desires. 

The price Aemond had paid for claiming Vhagar had been steep–an eye, cruelly carved from its socket by one of the bastards who had mocked, humiliated, and tormented him throughout his life. 

Claiming the dragon had changed nothing. There was no justice for the blood he had spilled, no reparation for the grievous injury he had suffered. Instead, the seed of injustice had taken root in the soil of resentment, and from that, his rage had flourished.

His father had never truly acknowledged him, even when Aemond had gone to great lengths to be the ideal, dutiful son. The respect he had longed for remained elusive; instead, he was the subject of whispered conversations in shadowed corners, his scarred face drawing looks of revulsion.

Even the love from his mother, while genuine, was marred by shame and guilt—it was a conditional affection, a painful truth that Aemond had come to realize now that he had sought justice for himself. 

Claiming a dragon had changed nothing–except for him. In his loss, he had forged himself into a weapon, burying any notion of love deep within his heart where it could neither grow nor see the light, left instead to rot and fester in darkness. To the world, he presented a mask as hard and cold as steel, as sharp and merciless as the blade he wielded with ease.

Duty had demanded sacrifices from him, and sacrifice he did.

For so long, all Aemond had desired was to be respected, to be revered, to be seen as someone of greatness. He had admired The Rogue Prince for the respect he commanded, a respect born of both fear and honor. As a second son and a dragonrider, Aemond too yearned to carve his name into the annals of history as a war hero, to be remembered not just in fear but in awe. And beneath all the layers of ambition, the desire to be loved still lingered, buried yet persistent.

In pursuit of this, he had made his sacrifices. He spilled blood. He let go of his hopes and wishes for genuine respect and reverence. He sacrificed his honor and, ultimately, his very name.

If respect would not come through admiration, then he would claim it through fear. His honor was irrevocably stained, yet in its own twisted way, this realization liberated him. Aemond accepted the grim truth of his legacy: his name would be carved into the annals of history, not alongside the Rogue Prince’s for his daring feats, but as the Kinslayer. He was destined to be remembered in infamy, condemned by gods and men alike, forever marked by their curses.

The gods had never bestowed upon him any gifts, nor had anything else come to him freely. Everything he had, he had fought for and seized with his own hands, claiming each fragment of his existence through struggle and strife.

Standing in the sanctity of the gods, he felt no divine presence; he believed they had abandoned him long before he became a kinslayer. Had the gods shown him mercy or ensured justice when he most needed it, perhaps they would have been with him as he rode into the storm, perhaps they wouldn't have placed the boy who stole his eye in his path. Maybe then, things would have been different. But the gods had not been with him, and he suspected they never truly had been.

If the gods now thought of him, they did not think of him kindly–not with the blood he had on his hands.

As Aemond shifted his gaze, a gold dread settled in his chest, his heart seeming to freeze as his eye locked onto something–or rather, someone–on the far side of the altar. His breath caught, as he stood in silence, watching the figure that lurked just beyond the flickering flames of the altar. The light cast eerie shadows across the figure's face, lending a deceptive warmth to skin that was otherwise as pale as death itself.

Death had its grip firmly on him–his skin devoid of life, his eyes clouded with a milky blue haze that spoke of the grave. The figure stood there, drenched to the bone, dark curls clinging to his scalp. Water dripped steadily from his soaked clothing, forming small pools on the cold stone floor of the sept. 

There he was, the boy he had killed.

The boy who had made him a kinslayer.

The boy whose blood had cost him what he loved… 

Yet, not everything was lost. Though her love might forever elude him, she remained his–his bride, his wife. The boy may haunt him all he wanted, it would not change a thing. Whether it was vengeance or justice, it no longer mattered. He was dead. Aemond would carry the weight of that haunting gaze–those lifeless, milky eyes judging him silently. 

Aemond’s gaze fell to the cloak draped over his arm. His fingers brushed lightly across the plush, velvet fabric–rich green in color, adorned with a golden, three-headed dragon embroidered elegantly on the back.

He was under no illusions about the gods playing any part in this union. There were no divine blessings gracing this marriage; it was a product of his own ambition, a result of his personal decree. Underneath the soft glow of the candles and the veil of decorum that draped the ceremony, Aemond knew a hidden, festering truth lingered–a wound concealed, yet far from healed.

The heavy doors behind him swung open with a resounding throng, the sound slicing through the low murmur of conversation and resonating through the vast, domed ceiling. The sound reverberated within Aemond’s chest, his heart thrumming with its echo. All eyes turned towards the source of the light that split the darkness, streaming through the widening gap–a sliver that expanded until the light became almost blinding in the shadowy room. 

Aemond took a moment to steady his heartbeat and ensure that his composure remained intact–his features set into a mask of smooth, cutting steel, an expression of indifference crafted to rival those of the gods that seemed to gaze down in silent judgment. As he turned to face the blinding light, he had to squint against its glare, momentarily disoriented by the dazzling brilliance that seemed to cleave the sept in two. 

At first, she was little more than a dark silhouette, swallowed up by the blinding light that streamed through the sept’s entrance. She was light refracted, a splintered, ruinous divinity–an image of a goddess, both unlovely and lovely, like a half-forgotten memory of something divine. 

Was this what the moth saw just before its wings succumbed to the searing embrace of the flame? Aemond believed so, for in that moment, he felt a similar pull, as if he were the moth drawn into the fire. A fierce heat ignited beneath his skin, engulfing him, consuming him, as he stood transfixed by the sight of her.

Aemond gritted his teeth, swallowing hard as he beheld her. His heart thundered violently within his chest, each beat threatening to shatter his ribs and burst forth, falling to the sept’s floor for all to see–exposing how pathetic and vulnerable and weak it truly was, corrupted by love, poisoned by love that had rotted him from within. He clung to his mask, steeling himself, gripping it so tightly in fear that those gathered would see what lay beneath it. 

Desperately, he clung to his mask of indifference, gripping it with the facade tightly for fear that those gathered might glimpse what lay beneath. Beneath the cloak, his hand tightened into a fist, the ring on his finger pressing uncomfortably into his skin. 

As they began their procession into the sept, following the stream of light pouring through the open doors, she seemed to absorb the light around her, drinking in the radiance. The beads on her gown shimmered like morning dew catching the first rays of the sun–she seemed like a star descended from the heavens to walk among them. Each step she took was accompanied by the soft whisper of her gown brushing against the floor, the sound resonating in the deep silence of the sept. 

With each step, she drew nearer to the altar–nearer to him. The brilliance of the light dimmed as she approached, swallowed by the encroaching shadows that clung stubbornly to the space, despite the hundreds of candles flickering in defiance of the darkness. 

As she was led down the aisle towards the altar, there was a delicate, almost fragile quality to her demeanor. She resembled a wounded bird, her smile a blend of ineffable melancholy and sweetness. Beneath the crafted facade of porcelain and ivory, there was hidden steel–an armor not unlike his own. 

Her gaze, fixed on the flickering flames at the altar, refused to meet his. This act of defiance, while deeply endearing, also cut him sharply. He longed for her eyes to turn towards him, but her refusal only heightened the sting of rejection, a familiar restlessness that prickled beneath his skin. It was a sensation akin to needles against his nerves, a reminder of the bitter sweetness of her presence–an affliction he craved, even if it came with a burning resentment. 

They came to halt just before the altar, with Aegon allowing Daenera to withdraw her hand from the crook of his arm as he faced her. Aemond’s gaze narrowed slightly, his lips pursing as he glared at his brother who had moved to cradle the sides of Daenera’s face. His brother’s touch was almost tender, as if it were familial affection, and Aegon brought Daenera’s forehead down to his lips, bestowing a kiss that seemed both intimate and patronizing. Daenera’s expression shifted to one of bewilderment, a slight frown creasing her brow as her lips pressed together in confusion and discomfort. Her gaze flitted nervously down the aisle, her brows knitting together in uncertainty as he held her face a moment longer–too long. Before he withdrew, he let his knuckle gently trace over her cheek–a gesture that might seem tender and affectionate if Aemond didn’t know how his brother. 

Finally, Aegon turned away from Daenera and faced Aemond, a smirk curling at the corners of his lips. The smirk was charged with amusement and seemed to mock Aemond’s pointed glare.

Fury simmered within Aemond, his fingers itching to unsheathe his sword and cleave Aegon’s hand from his body, but he was all too aware of the absence of his weapon and the presence of witnesses. And he knew better than to let his rage explode in such a public setting. Aegon smugly retreated to stand with their mother and grandfather, the latter offering him a reproachful glance. He reached out to briefly ruffle his son’s hair as the boy stood before his mother. 

The bewilderment lingered on Daenera’s face as she watched Aegon retreat, her eyes blinking slowly before she composed herself. As she turned towards the altar, her blue eyes lifted to meet the High Septon’s gaze–pointedly avoiding Aemond’s. She took a tentative step forward, then paused. 

At that moment, a tightness gripped Aemond’s chest, as if his ribs were constricting around his lungs–tightening around his heart. He suddenly felt like that young boy again, alone in his suffering, refused the one thing he ever truly wanted. 

Daenera’s gaze drifted over the crowd before she slowly turned away from Aemond entirely, making her way towards Helaena and Jaehaera. With a soft smile, she extended the bouquet of flowers to the young girl, her voice a gentle hum, “Will you hold this for me?”

A radiant smile lit up Jaehaera’s face as she let go of her mother’s hand to take the bouquet, which was nearly as large as she was. Although Helaena would likely end up holding it eventually, for the moment, Jaehaera glowed with pride at being entrusted with such an important role.

Once the bouquet was settled in Jaehaera’s arms, Daenera straightened to her full height and turned back towards Aemond. She walked deliberately back to his side, her gaze remaining steadfastly away from him. As she took her place next to him, her expression was once again a mask of porcelain–an impenetrable facade of serene grace, betraying no hint of vulnerability. 

The High Septon’s voice rang out, commanding and resonant, cutting through the silence of the sept like a clap of thunder. “You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.”

Turning away from Aemond, Daenera adjusted the veil, carefully lifting it from her shoulders along with the cascade of her hair that tumbled down her back. The removal of the sweeping of the veil unveiled the gentle curve of her neck, where her earrings swayed with the motion, catching Aemond’s eye. His gaze was inevitably drawn to the faint line of soft pink drawn on her skin from where the blade had kissed her. Though it had healed, a subtle scar remained, a mark on the tender flesh that, while not deep enough to be permanent, would take its time to fade. 

As Aemond unfolded the cloak, its deep green hue appeared almost black in the subdued light, though its true color shone through when it caught the light just right. When he draped the cloak over her shoulders, he noted the subtle tension in her neck, the fine hairs at the base of her skull stirring as a shiver seemed to travel down her spine. 

The lingering scent of roses clung to her skin–sweet and flowery with undertones of saffron and raspberry, and a hint of something he couldn’t quite place. The fragrance filled his senses, warming his blood and settling in his stomach, sending a shiver through him.  A tingling sensation prickled beneath his skin, the desire to reach out for her itching at his fingertips. Yet he exercised restraint, allowing his hands to fall and settle behind him as he straightened his spine. 

As Daenera turned back toward the High Septon, her hair cascaded elegantly over the cloak, with the veil gracefully following suit, settling softly over both her hair and the cloak. Aemond’s gaze, too, shifted forward, focusing intently on the High Septon as the ceremony continued.

The boy’s silent figure lingered by the altar, shadows seemingly coiling around him as rivulets of water trailed down his face and soaked clothing. Motionless, he made no move to acknowledge his sister or intrude upon the scene; he merely stood there, an eerie specter that continued to haunt Aemond with his presence.

The High Septon directed his gaze toward the King and Queen, his tone respectful as he addressed them, “Your Grace,” and “Your Grace.” He then turned to acknowledge the Dowager Queenwith a respectful nod before addressing the assembly as a whole.

“My lords and ladies,” he began, his voice resonant and commanding, “we stand here in the sight of the gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

The High Septon extended his weathered hand, silently inviting Daenera to place her own within his. As she complied, the heavy sleeve of her gown rustled softly against the fabric of her skirts, her hand coming to rest gently in the Septon’s grip. 

Then, he extended his other hand toward Aemond. He lifted his palm, the deep scar running across it visible, glowing in the candlelight–a lingering mark of the love they once shared; the testament of it. 

As the Septon brough their hands together, he placed Daenera’s delicate, soft hand into Aemond’s calloused one. The contact sent a shudder down his spine, which he struggled to suppress, his heart pounding violently against his ribs–beating much the same as it had when he had claimed Vhagar. Her skin felt unnervingly cold against the warmth of his own.

A ribbon, symbolizing unity and connection, was then delicately wound around their clasped hands. This act served as a tangible representation of the vows they were about to make, physically binding them together in a gesture of their newly forged bond.

Once, her hand had not trembled as it did now. It had been warm and steady, her palm gently meeting his, their blood mingling in a bond that neither of them fully acknowledged at the time. For a long time, it had been a creeping vine, slowly touching upon everything. This creeping love had flourished in the darkness, thriving in the night and the spaces between the shadows and the heart.

His gaze drifted to the altar behind the High Septon, where flames burned brightly, and the candle wax dripped slowly down the stone slab. At the center of the altar, the seven-pointed star was etched deeply into the stone. 

Aemond found it strange that he had felt a deeper sense of divinity back when they had sat alone before the hearth’s flames, enveloped in darkness with only the flames as their witness. There had been something sacred in that moment when they had cut their palms–when they had shared their blood. 

Now, as he turned his attention back to Daenera, he observed her intently. The flames cast a warm glow over her delicate features, flickering in the blue of her eyes–eyes that stubbornly continued to elude him. He found her denial cruel, even now, as they stood so close, hands tied together. She ignited in him a feverish desire, a longing not just to possess but to be wholly possessed by her. 

The love Aemond felt for Daenera was of a nature separate from the divine sanctity preached by the Faith or the sentimental ideals told to children. He understood that it was marred by darkness, corrupt and corrupting, a love that was as vicious and obscene as it was consuming. It was born from the shadows, a dark flower growing from tainted soil–an inherent reflection of its twisted, obscene and flawed essence.

Yet, amidst its darkness, there was an element of purity–a facet of this love that was beyond the sanctity preached by the Faith, deeper than any tale told to children. Even a flower that grows twisted, possessed its own haunting beauty. 

As a boy, he had yearned for love, a longing that had been ruthlessly bullied out of him, carved away until he rejected any hint of weakness. And love was weakness in the purest form, wasn’t it? He had sworn never to seek such vulnerability again–determined never to be perceived as weak. That desire had been buried deep within him, denied and discarded. Yet here he was, a scar burning across his palm, having sought that very weakness he abhorred. 

He found himself ensnared, tormented, and utterly consumed by the intoxicating sweetness of her poison–even in its cruelty. The yearning he harbored for her suffocated him; he choked on it, drowned in its dark allure. He loathed this weakness, the restless unease it brought, for it exposed the soft, pathetic core of his rotten heart. 

When does love truly begin? At what moment does the knife sink so deep that the flesh weeps with love? Aemond had cut himself open on this love for her, bleeding and wounded, yet still willing to endure another wound, just for a single kiss–just for a fleeting glance. 

If the gods were ever inclined to heed a prayer of his, he hoped it would be this one: either to liberate him from this torturous love so that he can fulfill his duties to his family, or grant him the strength to withstand the weight of her hatred. 

It seemed the gods had born Aemond with an insatiable hunger–the longing of it, a hungry desire, a craving to possess and be possessed. 

He had long starved himself of his desires, had swallowed his longings, denying his ambition and wants for years, claiming only what little he could. For so long, Vhagar had been his sole solace, the only refuge from his hunger. But now, he would not deny himself his single true desire. He would claim Daenera as his wife, even if it cut him open. He would harden his heart around the vulnerability she inspired, protecting her there even if she clawed and tore at it.  

The High Septon spread his hands wide, holding them aloft as he called upon the gods, his voice resonating through the heavy silence of the sept. “We invoke the Father, to protect these two souls from their enemies and ensure that any wrongs against them are met with justice; the Mother, to bless this union and keep it safe and fruitful–”

Aemond felt something stir within him at the invocation, a feeling clawing its way from the darkness into the light, neither entirely pure nor wholly corrupt, but imbued with a deep reverence. His heart pounded against his ribs, threatening to burst forth as a deep hum emerged from his chest. It flowed from his lips in an ancient vow, long buried and mostly forgotten. 

“Isse aōha perzys nyke rijībagon.”

In your fire I worship. 

He had spoken those words to her that night–the night when they had cut their palms and mingled their blood, binding their veins together in a shared vow. Though it felt like a distant dream, Aemond recalled it with startling clarity. In that moment, the world had seemed to dissolve into insignificance. All ties of duty and responsibility vanished, leaving only his hunger for her and the two of them alone in existence. 

Back then, they too had been enveloped in shadows, the warmth and light from the hearth licking at their skin, much like how the hundreds of candles now tempered the chill lingering in the air of the sept. That moment had been far more intimate, a baring of hearts as profound as it was unspoken. 

Aemond had known it even then; deep within him, the realization had gnawed at his consciousness and echoed through his bones. He had desired her as his wife, shrouded though his feelings were in denial and pretense. His longing had been so intense that it had even driven him to seek out his father once he felt her slipping from his grasp.

He yearned for the days when she had gazed upon him with affection–with love. He ached for the moments when her eyes had met his with understanding, prying beneath his mask, erasing the deep, persistent ache that followed him like a shadow, soothing the deep-seated loneliness that had settled within his bones. 

But he would accept her scorn as long as she was his. 

As Aemond spoke, her gaze rose to meet his, her blue eyes flickering with a tremor of uncertainty. She looked at him in bewilderment, confusion, and disbelief–she looked upon him as a girl would behold a thing once cherished, that had come to destroy her in the end. 

The High Septon’s voice rose solemnly in the hushed silence in the sept, “We call upon the Warrior, to grant these souls with the courage needed to stand firm against adversity, and to protect their sacred union from the evils seeking to pull them apart; the Maiden’s grace, to fill their hearts with love and tender joy!”

A low, reverent murmur fell softly from his lips as Aemond watched her closely, “Isse se vāedar hen aōha prūmia mazeman lyks. Isse aōha ondos, iā egros lēda skore kostā gaomagon naejot nekēbagon hen skoros iksis aōhon.”

In your breath I find life, in the beating of your heart I find peace. 

In your palm, a blade, with which you may use to carve out what is yours.

In the utterance of those words, Aemond found both rot and reverence. They evoked a memory–one where Daenera had pressed a blade to his throat, its edge a dangerous whisper against his skin. She had wielded the power to press the blade deeper, to end his life with a single, ruthless stroke, and drain him of life–she could have cracked his ribs and torn his heart from his chest. 

Yet, she had refrained. Despite her resistance, her refusal to voice it–despite the silence that followed–there was an unmistakable thread of love in her restraint, reluctant though she might be to recognize it.

In that fleeting moment of hesitation, Aemond found a sliver of hope–imperfect and twisted though it was. This love, betrayed and broken, was nonetheless a form of love, shaped by the sharp edges of their intertwined fates. And even in its twisted, deteriorated form, it was something he clung to desperately.

“We ask the Smith, to fortify their bond, crafting from their spirits a connection as resilient as the finest steel, capable of withstanding the trials of time; the Crone, bestow your wisdom upon them, lighting their path with the lantern of foresight and understanding, guiding their steps through life together.”

Her gaze remained on him, the fire from the altar reflecting in the deep blue of her eyes–reminiscent of a sun blazing against the night sky, tears barely held at bay. Her lips parted, releasing a trembling breath.

In that moment, Aemond felt the urgent press of her nails against his skin, a sweet stinging marking his flesh as she dug her claws into him. “Ondoso aōha prūmia rests ñuhon.Nyke tepagon ao ñuha jorepnon.”

By your heart mine rests. 

I give you my prayer.

“And from the Stranger,” the High Septon’s voice rose with solemn authority, “we ask that he not claim them before their time, but instead grant them a long and loving life together.”

The High Septon’s invocation reached out to the gods who had long been indifferent to him, who had never answered his own pleas. Aemond did not seek the divine favor of the gods who had abandoned him–would they even hear him if he did? Instead, he sought a divinity shaped by something far more visceral–one forged in fire and blood, far removed from the distant indifference of the gods he knew. 

Aemond concluded this vow with a voice that held both resolve and raw intensity, “Isse aōha nesh, morghon kesan gīmigon, se isse aōha perzys kesan zālagon…Ñuha jorrāelagon, bisa nyke vow naejot ao ondoso Perzys Ānogār.”

In your embrace, I will welcome Death; in your fire, I shall be consumed. My love, this vow I make to you with fire and blood.

Daenera’s eyes, a stormy sea of blue, held a tempest of emotions–the cornflower blue of willowing fields mingling with the deep blues of dusk and dawn, relentless waves crashing upon the shore mingling with the blue of fleeting dreams. In that sea of blue, a fierce resentment burned with such intensity that Aemond could almost feel its searing heat against his flesh–a consuming fire that promised only to reduce him to ashes in the wake of its wrath. Within this blaze, there was a strange sense of intimacy–only hatred born of love could bring such intimacy. 

Her voice slipped through the space between them with the subtlety of a hidden blade pressing between his ribs, each word furthering the blade, letting it sink into his flesh. “Aōha kivio, pōnta vāedagon lēda se echo hen pirtir.”

Even your vows sound like a betrayal.

The accusation stung, and perhaps it was a betrayal, both to the gods who had long ignored his pleas–who remained still his gods–and a deeper treachery–a betrayal of his own heart, laid bare and vulnerable. He betrayed himself, and in this, he revealed a weakness he had long sought to conceal–a weakness he had long sought to rid himself of. 

In the bite of her nails, Aemond felt her silent demand for him to hold his tongue, for him to keep his words burning in his throat to choke on. The sting of her touch held a dark reverence–a perverse sort of devotion only hatred born of love held. And like a sinner seeking absolution through the infliction of pain, Aemond welcomed the sting, knowing well that there was no true absolution for him, but accepting the pain with a twisted sort of gratitude. 

His love for her was a brutal thing, verging on viciousness–an intensity that he understood as the only true way to love. For him, love was akin to a blade working a wound, a relentless assault of teeth, claws, and shredded flesh. It was a raw, bloody vulnerability, given and received in equal measure, an all-consuming force that left both of them exposed and scarred.

The High Septon’s gaze flickered between them, his voice rich with gravitas of tradition and divine solemnity. “Look upon one another and speak these sacred words,” he instructed. “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger, I am theirs and they are mine from this day until the end of my days…”

Aemond’s voice was steady as he began, “Father, Smith, Warrior–” as Daenera spoke the same words. They continued in discorded unison, their voices intertwining in the sacred vows, “Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger…”

Their gazes remained locked on one another, the faint whisper of flames fluttering in the silence that enveloped their words. A tremor threaded through her voice, eyes wide and wet as she stared back at him, the corners of her lips quivering. 

“I am hers…” Aemond declared as Daenera answered, “I am his…”

“And she is mine…” He continued, voice steady.

“And he is mine…” Daenera echoed, her voice soft but firm. Her grip on Aemond's hand tightened, her fingers curling and pressing into his flesh with a vindictive intensity. The tips of her fingers dug into the spaces between his bones, twisting his flesh, promising to leave the sting of red crescents on his skin.

Together, they intoned, “And with this kiss, I pledge my love from this day until the end of my days…”

Gently, Aemond raised his free hand to her face, tenderly brushing away the tears trail. Daenera neither moved closer to welcome his touch nor recoiled from it; she merely endured it with a quiet resignation. His hand lingered on her cheek for a moment longer before he leaned in, capturing her lips in a quick, aching kiss. It was fleeting, yet devastating in its intensity. Her lips were soft, but there was a coldness to them, a distance that stung him more than any blade ever could. As their mouths met, he tasted the bitterness there–bitter like the dark wine he liked, bitter like the poison that he had come to crave.

Aemond’s heart ached with the need to linger, to lose himself in her, to drink deeply from her as if she were the sweetest nectar–desperately pathetic for it. He knew well the taste of her lips, the pull they had on him, and how he was drawn to them despite knowing it could destroy him. Her lips, though soft, were distant, and even in this intimate moment, she felt like something just out of reach.

It was a kiss that seemed to solidify their vows, a silent pledge made before the watchful eyes of the gods. 

The High Septon’s voice cut through the silence, rising with a solemn authority as he declared, “Let the gods and all present bear witness to this union!”

He raised his hands towards the heavens, as if drawing down divine favor to imbue his words with sacred power. “Let it be known, from this day until the end of days, Daenera and Aemond are united as one, bound together in the sight of the gods. Cursed be he who seeks to tear them from each other, for their bond is holy!”

As the High Septon concluded his oration, the solemnity of his words hung in the air, a profound declaration of unity and commitment steeped in the traditions and beliefs of the Faith of the Seven. “They are one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever!”

The High Septon carefully untied the ribbon that had bound their hands, his movements deliberate and measured. The soft fabric brushed against Aemond’s skin as it slipped away, signaling the end of the ritual. Though their hands were now free, the vows they had exchanged had irrevocably bound them together in a more profound way.

Lucerys presence lingered just beyond the altar. He hovered there, a silent witness to the proceedings, his unseeing eyes fixed on them, judging, watching–a cold reminder of the past that refused to stay buried, refusing to be forgotten.

As they turned to face the court, the air within the sept seemed to shift. They stood side by side, a unified front, their hands still clasped together as though the ribbon hadn’t been removed. The quiet solemnity that had enveloped the sept was slowly replaced by a growing murmur of approval, building into a robust applause that reverberated through the grand space. The resonant sound filled the ornate, arched ceilings of the sept, reverberating off the gilded stone. 

Aemond felt the weight of the court’s gaze settle upon him, a familiar burden he bore with practiced ease–steel concealed beneath a veneer of calm. His lips curved into a self-assured smirk as he bore their judgment. 

Together, as the applause washed over them, Aemond began to lead Daenera, and their procession, down the aisle when a youthful voice pierced the air, halting them. 

“Aunty Dae!” Princess Jaehaera shouted, much to the dismay of her nursemaid, her voice followed by the patter of small feet over the smooth stone of the floor. The young princess darted towards Daenera, her arms filled with the bouquet of flowers she had been given to hold earlier. “Your flowers!”

Daenera’s lips curved into a warm, genuine smile as she accepted the flowers with a gracious ‘Thank you.’

“Can we have lemon cakes when we get back?” Jaehaera asked with hopeful eyes, moving out of the reach as her grandmother came to quiet her from interrupting the procession. 

“Of course, you can have as many cakes as you’d like,” Daenera replied, her tone soft and indulgent. Jaehaera’s face lit up with a radiant beam, her joy palpable as she was swept into the embrace of her nursemaid. 

With a decisive, yet graceful stride, he guided his wife forward, each step marked by the soft rustle of her skirts. The sound of their footsteps, muted beneath the applause, echoed against the stone floors of the sept. The court began to follow after them as they led the way. 

They moved into the column of light streaming through the open doors, the golden rays catching on Daenera’s gown once more, the beads shimmering with a delicate brilliance. In the recesses of Aemond’s mind, a poetic notion flickered through his consciousness: he was the night itself, cradling the radiance of a star, guiding her across the sky in a loving dance. 

Ascending the steps into the daylight, they emerged onto the landing that overlooked the plaza below. The sky above was a brilliant blue, the sun beginning its slow descent towards the horizon. Aemond guided Daenera to the edge of the landing, their presence announced by Ser Rickard Thorne’s resonant voice:

“Prince Aemond Targaryen and his wife, Princess Daenera Targaryen!”

As Ser Rickard Thorne’s announcement echoed across the plaza, the crowd erupted into cheers and adulations. Aemond gazed down upon them, observing the shifting masses of people as their hands reached towards them. It was as if they sought to touch upon them. Despite their enthusiasm, Aemond felt detached, viewing them with disdain; to him, they were mere mud beneath his heel–a sea of commonality, their attire practical and drab, tinted in various hues of brown that matched the earth. 

The hands that surged towards them were as telling as the faces: weathered and worn by hard labor, stained and rough, clawing at the air in a desperation that bordered on primal. Pathetic. 

The cheers that rose from the crowd were not for him; Aemond knew that if they reached for him, it was not in reverence but in violence–they sought to tear him limb from limb and wrench the sapphire from his eye socket as they tore the ribbons of his bowls out of him. It was a cruel death, and in their eyes, he was all too deserving of such a fate.

At his side, Daenera waved to the people, her expression softened by a gentle smile. He wondered, with a tightening in his chest, whether the crowd would turn on her if given the chance now that she was his wife. Would they rip at her dress, snatch the silver and gold from her hair, claw into her flesh in their wild fervor?

The thought of their hands, stained and rough, ravaging her was anathema to him. He resolved silently that he would not allow it. Any attempt to harm her would be met with swift retribution. He would see to it that anyone who dared lay a finger on her would lose that hand. 

Aemond’s watchful eye scanned the crowd when he felt Daenera’s hand slip from his grasp. The loss of her touch struck him like the snuffing out of a warm flame, leaving his skin tingling with its absence. He let his hand drop to his side, restlessly twitching.

His attention followed her as she took a tentative step forward, passing her bouquet of flowers into Lady Edelins hands as she did so. Her posture was poised, her spine straight and head held high, though there was a carefulness to it. Moving with deliberate grace, she approached the edge of the landing, her gaze sweeping across the now hushing crowd. 

The plaza descended into silence as Daenera reached out to grasp the wrought iron railing of the landing. Her hands traced the contours of the weathered metal, sweeping along its length as she gracefully bent her knees and leaned forward. Her arms extended fully, her body nearly parallel to the railing as she tilted her head forward in a deep, respectful bow to the assembled masses. 

“The Mother bless you, Princess!” A voice pierced through the silence. “May the Mother protect you!”

The crowd, seemingly moved by her gesture, erupted into a cacophony of shouts and cheers, surging forward with renewed fervor. 

The gold cloaks sprang into action, their voices raised in a command as they pushed the crowd back, striving to prevent them from breaking through the line and storming the steps. The tension between the disciplined restraint of the guards and the swell of the crowd grew. 

Suddenly, a shout cut through the clamor, piercing and clear: “All Hail Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen! The Rightful Queen!” It was quickly followed by another, the crowd’s voices swelling, “Seven blessings to Lucerys Velaryon!” 

Just as the clamor swelled, Ser Criston Cole intervened from behind them with a decisive tone, “We should get back to the Keep. The crowd is getting restless.”

Heeding his advice, Aegon and Helaena descended the steps, the nursemaids trailing closely behind, each holding one of the twins. Jaejaerys clutched his toy dragon tightly, a frown on his face at the noise, while Jaehaera’s head bobbed slightly, her eyes wide and uncertain. The Dowager Queen followed in their wake, accompanied by the Hand of the King. 

The Kingsguard flanked their procession, their white cloaks fluttering dramatically in the breeze. Their hands rested on the hilt of their swords, ever vigilant and poised for action, ready to draw steel should a threat arise. 

Aemond approached Daenera, his hand finding its way to the small of her back as he spoke softly but firmly, “Come.”

Their gazes met, and she responded with a small, solemn nod, a slight frown on her face. Aemond's touch remained firm yet gentle as he led her towards the staircase. Daenera carefully gathered her long skirts in her hands, lifting them just enough to ensure she wouldn’t trip, her movement graceful and deliberate under his watchful gaze. 

They descended together to second landing, their pace deliberate as they approached the next flight of stairs leading down to the bustling plaza below. As they drew closer, the roar of the crowd grew louder, and hands reached out from between the guards who struggled to maintain control. The guards formed a human barricade, their voices sharp and commanding as they ordered the crowd to step back and make way. Despite their efforts, the narrow path through the plaza seemed to shrink under the pressure from the surging throng, which grew increasingly restless and agitated.

A piercing shout cut through the din, “Cursed be the Kinslayer!” 

The word ‘kinslayer’ echoed ominously through the air, its resonance carrying the weight of venomous hostility as it reverberated among the crowd. 

Aemond drew Daenera close, his hand steady against the small of her back as he cast a wary glance down the narrow path. The crowd pressed against the line of gold cloaks, their faces contorted with hostility and their hands reaching out in a desperate, grasping motion. 

They shouted at him as though he were some cruel man who had lured away the princess of flowers–drawing her from her mother’s protection, binding her in marriage to keep her forever by his side. They painted him a monster. And, perhaps, the accusation rang true. After all, the monster they thought him to be was not so far from the man he was.

“Monster!” Someone hurled at them–at him–the word slicing through the air. In stark opposition to the insults hurled his way, flower petals began to rain down upon them, fluttering through the air like pink snow before settling on the ground where they were trampled underfoot. The sweet scent mingled with the dirt and grime of the city. 

“The Mother protect the princess from the kinslayer!” A voice rang out, its fervent swallowed by the tumult. Almost immediately, another shout echoed through the throng, “The gods protect you from the monster!”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding as he suppressed the impulse to react. He remained impassive, his gaze unwavering despite the barrage of vitriol directed at him. To him, their disdain was inconsequential–a mere squeak from rats that would not distract a cat from its path. He cared little for their outcries; his focus was solely on the path ahead and on Daenera by his side. 

Amidst the cacophony of insults and outcry directed at Aemond, there was also currents of prayers and adulations aimed at Daenera. Shouts of well-wishes and expressions of admiration were directed towards her, while flowers and petals continued to rain down upon them as they made their way through the narrow passage between the buildings towards the awaiting litter. 

Aemond extended his hand, offering support as Daenera climbed the steps. Her veil fluttered in the wind as she prepared to step into the litter, momentarily revealing the green cloak draped over her shoulders. With a graceful motion, she settled into the plush seat, the fabric of her gown spreading around her. Aemond followed, ascending the steps and ducking into the litter. He positioned himself directly across from her, his gaze lingering on her as the door closed, shutting out the bustling city beyond.

She had been radiant, smiling and waving at the crowd outside, but as soon as the door closed, her smile vanished. It fell away like a fading illusion, her hand drifting to rest in her lap, her demeanor shifting to one of quiet resignation. Her gaze remained on the narrow slit in the window shutters, through which she could watch as they city slipped by as the litter began its journey. 

Outside, the clamor of the crowd was reduced to a distant murmur, muted by the walls of the litter. The noisy throng was mostly swallowed by the relentless sound of wooden wheels rumbling over the cobblestones, the litter jolting and shaking with every bump. Aemond detested riding in a litter. 

The fleeting rays of sunlight played across her face as the silence stretched, heavy and unyielding. Aemond’s gaze remained on her, watching her closely, attempting to decipher her expression–her face was a mask of neutrality, eyes resolutely averted, her demeanor devoid of any pretense or desire for interaction. 

Aemond broke the silence with a tone that seemed almost too forceful. “You look beautiful.”

Daenera’s eyes stayed locked on the narrow gap in the shutters, her refusing to meet his gaze. She answered coolly, her voice devoid of warmth or emotion. “So I’ve been told.”

Lively music echoed through the throne room, the musicians playing with a cheerful energy, their instruments weaving a tapestry of festive melodies that filled the grand space. The low hum of conversation mingled with the music, creating a backdrop of lively chatter and the soft clinking of glasses. 

At the center of the festivities, Aemond and Daenera were prominently seated on a raised dias, positioned before the imposing Iron Throne. Behind them, the twisted wrought steel of the throne loomed like a dark, intricate wreath, its sharp, jagged edges framing their elevated position. Their table, draped in lush green velvet, stood out against the grandeur of the room, adorned with two opulent floral arrangements that flanked them in a rainbow of colors; red, yellow, orange, purple, blue, white. 

The table, set between columns bearing the stern, stone effigies of Aegon the Conqueror and his son Aenys, seemed almost dwarfed by the weight of their gaze. The stony visages of the king's past seemed to watch over the proceedings, their silent presence a reminder of the legacy that had led them to this point. 

The table itself was a canvas of decadence, laden with an array of sumptuous dishes and fine wines, reflecting the opulence of the occasion. Gold and silver platters gleamed under the flickering light from the wrought iron light fixtures above, their surfaces showcasing a feast fit for royalty. Each dish was meticulously arranged, a testament to the culinary mastery that had gone into preparing the evening’s repast. 

Aemond had filled his plate with meats and steamed vegetables. And yet, he felt no desire to eat. 

From his elevated position, Aemond cast a detached gaze over the lively celebration below. Although he was positioned at the head of the festivities, an unmistakable sense of separation lingered within him. It had been barely a week since he had last sat here, celebrated for his perceived victory over the bastard boy and his dragon at Storm’s End–just a week since Daenera had entered the throne room draped in bloody red, mourning her brother's death.

Now, she sat beside him once more, adorned in gleaming ivory rather than somber red–a cloak of green draping over her shoulders. This time, she was not just his betrothed but his wife, bound to him in the sight of the gods and the realm. 

This was what he had longed for–her by his side as his wife. This was what he had fought for, what he had meticulously plotted and schemed to achieve, even going against his mother’s wishes.

Although the satisfaction of finally claiming her as his wife was immense, the sense of victory was diminished by the persistent coldness that lingered between them. Her polite smiles to guests were a veneer over the underlying chill, while Aemond himself offered no more than a sharp, satisfied smirk. Beneath that smirk, though, lay a constant ache, an unspoken yearning that prickled at his fingertips, urging him to bridge the distance between them. 

Daenera offered no pretense, her demeanor cold  and unyielding beneath the mask of formality she wore. She made no effort to engage in conversation with him, nor did she show any desire to. Aemond had expected this, and he refrained from forcing the issue–though it did little to ease the sting of her indifference. Instead, he resigned himself to the chill of her silence, finding some solace in the knowledge that she was now his wife–an unalterable fact that remained, despite the emotional distance between them.

Around them, guests in their finest attire mingled and laughed, reveling in the opulence of the feast. The room buzzed with animated conversation and the clinking of cutlery as the evening’s festivities unfolded. The servants moved deftly among the tables, replenishing goblets with rich wine and ensuring no cup remained empty for long. 

Rows of elegantly set tables stretched between the imposing columns, their surfaces adorned with gleaming silverware that shimmered with every flicker of light. The tables were meticulously arranged to leave the broad central aisle open, creating a clear and inviting path for the evening’s dancing and festivities. Around the bases of the columns, elaborate floral arrangements were wound, while grand vases brimming with blooms stood proudly at the center of each table. The air was infused with the sweet fragrance of fresh flowers, mingling with the rich aroma of beeswax candles and the scent of the lavish feast.

To the right, set apart by a respectful distance, the King and Queen’s table partook in the celebration. The table exuded a grandeur that was both understated and unmistakable. Adorned with regal silver and rich velvet, it commanded a view of the entire room. Strategically positioned, it provided a vantage point over the celebrations while maintaining a dignified separation from the bridal table. The elegance of the table mirrored the room’s overall splendor, ensuring that even in their distinct placement, they remained central to the evening’s events.

A sudden, resounding clank pierced through the hum of music and conversation, drawing every eye in the room. The Hand of the King had risen from his seat at the King’s table, a cup of wine in hand. He discarded the knife he had drummed against the cup before stepping away from the table. The music came to an abrupt halt, the lively chatter of the crowd faded into a hushed silence as Otto Hightower commanded the room’s full attention. 

Clearing his throat, Otto began, his voice carrying the weight of formality and authority. “Upon his deathbed, King Viserys had two final wishes…” His gaze swept over the assembled guests before settling on Aegon, who lounged comfortably in his chair, offering a nod and a faint, satisfied smile. Otto continued, “The foremost being that his firstborn son to succeed him on the Iron Throne.” He paused briefly, allowing the significance of the statement to resonate. “And secondly, that his beloved granddaughter, the princess, should marry the man she loves.”

The room remained silent, the solemnity of the Hand’s words hanging in the air as the crowd awaited the continuation of the speech. 

Aemond caught a soft exhalation from his blind side–a delicate, faint sound that seemed to drift across the space between them, sending a chill down his spine. He turned his head just enough to observe her, noting that the porcelain mask of her composure was still perfectly in place, concealing the steel beneath. Her eyes were fixed intently on Otto, her back straight as a sword, and though her lips curved into a gentle smile, Aemond saw the strain behind it. 

Otto’s voice cut through the silence once more, commanding attention with its authoritative tone. “We are gathered here today to celebrate the union between the second-born son of King Viserys, Aemond, and his firstborn granddaughter, Daenera.” He turned slightly towards the bridal table, his voice rising to emphasize the narrative he was crafting. “Much has been said about this union, but allow me to clarify the truth of it.”

With a deliberate sweep of his gaze across the crowd, Otto continued, “Upon the princess’s return to King’s Landing, she and Aemond grew close–as they once were in their childhood. When her mother learned of their friendship, she forbade it…” He paused, allowing the words to echo in the silence. “The princess was commanded to wed Lord Boris Baratheon, and being the dutiful daughter she is, she married her first betrothed.”

Aemond’s thoughts drifted as he idly traced the rim of his cup of wine, a smirk playing on his lips despite the falsehoods unfolding before him. The tale being spun held morsels of truth to it, but it was far from the whole truth. When Daenera had returned to King’s Landing, he had harbored no intentions of welcoming her back. Instead, he had aimed to send her fleeing back to Dragonstone once more. 

He recalled vividly the day she had arrived–recalled it as clearly as the curses he uttered at her return. His focus had solely been on the blade coming at him, which he had parried with skilled precision. It was only when he had caught a glimpse of her entering the Red Keep that his concentration had wavered. Her gaze had been fixed on the towering walls before her, a subtle frown marring her features as she had taken in the sight of what had once been home. 

A sudden jolt of recognition and something far more unsettling had rippled down his spine and settled somewhere low in his stomach. As he had glared at her, the familiar pang of irritation had flared within his chest. His attention had then snapped back to his opponent as he had swung his word at him. It was only after he had made away with his opponent's sword that he had returned his gaze to her. 

Their eyes had met then, and he had felt that uncomfortable twist in his gut–a sensation that festered within him. It had felt as though she had been intruding where she was neither welcome nor wanted. 

The last time Aemond had seen her before her return was at Driftmark; she had been standing on a balcony as he soared overhead on Vhagar. She had looked different back then–her face round and childish,  marked by a bruise on her apple cheek from when he had defended himself. Her return to King’s Landing had only intensified the resentment he had harbored towards her. 

Now, seeing her grown and almost strikingly beautiful, his old grudges were stoked anew. He resented her presence more than ever–resented the feeling of something molten and heavy in the pit of his stomach whenever he had looked upon her.

Aemond clenched his wine cup tightly, lifting it to his lips and taking a long draught of the overly sweet wine. As he set the cup back on the table, his fingers lingered on the rim, twisting it restlessly between his fingers. He brooded over the thought: had Daenera never returned to King’s Landing, her poison wouldn’t have seeped into him so deeply. She would not have ensnared him, worming her way into his bloodstream and, more troublingly, into his heart. Yet, despite his attempts to remain detached, impenetrable, she had managed to do just that. 

Somehow, in their game of cat and mouse, they had managed to pierce through each other’s defenses–prying beneath the armor they each carried to bury a blade into the other, planting a seed that had since blossomed into the twisted flower of their love. 

Despite setting out to destroy her, to dismantle her very being and ruin her so completely that there was no coming back from it, he had never succeeded in doing so. He had been armed with every advantage, every opportunity, yet he had refrained. The only explanation, he mused, was the insidious nature of his own desires–the poison on her lips, a poison he had grown dependent on. 

He admitted, with a pang of bitterness, that jealousy had stirred within him upon hearing of her betrothal to Lord Boris Baratheon, the man he considered a fat-headed fool. At the time, he had been unaware of the true nature of his emotions; all he had known was an overwhelming urge for her return, a yearning for more of the bitter-sweet poison on her lips. 

“After the tragic passing of her first husband, she was bereft with grief. Aemond was a source of comfort to her, soothing her aching heart,” Otto’s voice rang out, furthering the narrative that was far from the truth. “In the solace he provided, an affection blossomed–growing into love…”

In his own mind, Aemond reflected on the nature of their relationship. It had begun as lust, raw and unfiltered. Yet, he mused, love had subtly entwined itself within their connection–emerging long before either of them fully acknowledged it, even before the murder of her husband. 

How could it have been anything else? Only love could compel him to forsake all reason and rationality–forsake his honor and decency. 

“They married in a small, private ceremony, witnessed only by a handful of her servants,” He stated, skillfully intertwining falsehood with truth. They framed these imaginary witnesses as her deceased servants, ensuring they could not challenge the truth of the tale. The dead, after all, held no voice, and their secrets were buried with them. “They hid their union from her mother, fearing her wrath. And no more than a day before his death, they sought the blessing of King Viserys for their marriage…” 

Aemond’s gaze was fixed on the table before him, his eye unfocused as he clenched his jaw. Memories of that night needled at him–standing in the shadows at his father’s bedside, a small figure permission to marry the woman he loved. He had felt like a boy then, cloaked in desperation, finally understanding what he felt was love now that he stood to lose it. He had only ever asked his father for two things: for justice, and for Daenera. 

Yet, his father’s response had been one of sheer disappointment, a refusal that stung with its finality. He had approached him, heart laid bare, only to be met with scorn and disdain.

‘You have ruined her,’ his father had said, ‘Your heart is even blacker than I thought. You are a plague sent to destroy me.’

Aemond pursed his lips, a wave of bitterness flooding his senses. He felt as though he were drowning in it, consumed by the realization of his own actions. He had indeed ruined her–ruined her honor, laid waste to her heart, and betrayed her trust. His own heart, he acknowledged with grim acceptance, was as blackened and corrupted as his father had claimed. 

Otto’s voice rang out, cutting through the low murmur. “And so, here we stand to witness a forbidden love brought into the light of day, as King Viserys wished–blessed by the gods and the realm alike.” 

He raised his cup of wine high, his gesture mirrored by the assembled court. The guests rose from their seats, eyes turned to the newlyweds. “To the happy couple, may your marriage be long and fruitful!” 

“To the happy couple!” The crowd echoed, their voices a chorus of cheer as they raised their own cups in celebration. 

Aemond and Daenera, seated at the head of the room, raised their own cups in a gesture of acknowledgement. Aemond’s gaze swept over the room with practiced composure, the sweetness of the wine doing little to remove the bitterness that lingered on his tongue. He took a long drink, finishing the wine in one go before settling the empty cup down on the table with a muted thud.

As the music resumed, its lively strains wove through the lull of the room, soon to be filled with the hum of conversation as guests returned to their seats and resumed their meals. Otto’s eyes briefly met Aemond’s before he turned and settled back into his place at the King’s table. Aegon, lounging comfortably in his seat, playfully tossed something at his son, a broad grin reaping across his face despite their mother’s disapproving reproach. Alicent chided at him as Helaena, having turned away from her husband, was fully absorbed in watching the children. Her attention was focused on their lively chatter and animated eating, while Jaehaerys, in response to his father’s teasing, cheekily stuck out his tongue. 

Daenera’s voice, sweet and lilting, cut through the din of celebration, pulling Aemond’s attention back to her. Her words carried a deliberate sting–like that of the dragonglass biting into his palm. “Would you care for some wine, husband?”

The question cut through him like a blade, its edge sharp and unrelenting. It was a reminder cloaked in seeming innocence, twisting into his heart with the precision of a lover's strike—deceptively tender yet cruelly calculated. The way she inflicted this pain was intimately cruel, as if she knew exactly where to wound him to inflict the deepest hurt. Husband. Husband. Husband…

Aemond’s gaze followed her with wary–curious–intensity as she extended her slender fingers to grasp his empty cup. His eyes traveled up her arm, lingering on her face, which was poised with an unnervingly calm grace. Her lips, a soft shade of red, curved into a gentle smile that barely masked the sharpness in her eyes. 

“You would do well to consider,” she said, her voice smooth and measured, as her other hand reached for the pitcher of wine. The rich red liquid sloshed around as she lifted it, “that it was during the feast of my first wedding that I began to poison my husband…”

Aemond’s gaze narrowed slightly as he leaned back in his seat, the back of his head resting against the high cushion. He watched her with curiosity, finding amusement in the contrast between the clear, sweet tone of her voice and the subtle threat lurking beneath it. Were he a different man, he might have felt a shiver of fear at her casual confession, but he was not a different man–he knew her darkness.

Her gaze remained focused on the task at hand as she carefully set the heavy glass pitcher before her. She continued, her voice a musing drawl, “I simply added it to his wine.” Shifting her hold on the pitcher, she lifted it again. “It was surprisingly easy–he was already deep in his cups, and his attention was elsewhere.”

She lifted the pitcher once more, tilting it gently as the rich wine inched towards the glass’s rum, beginning to pour with a slow, deliberate stream “The poison rendered him more vulnerable to the effects of the wine,” she explained, her voice smooth and matter-of-fact. The soft splash of liquid hitting the bottom of the glass chimed between them, a fleeting sound lost amidst the swirling music and lively chatter that filled the room.

Aemond’s gaze drifted from her face to her hands. He watched as one hand deftly steadied the glass, her middle finger and thumb cradling it, while the other hand gripped the handle of the pitcher. The golden rings on her fingers were delicate, each set with pearls and small jewels. None appeared large enough to contain a chamber of poison, or so he thought. His thumb absently traced the underside of his own band, feeling the subtle ridge of the hidden lever that concealed the needle.

Her gaze remained focused on the task at hand as she spoke, a soft smile playing on her lips. “He drank so much that night,” she continued, her tone conversational, almost reflective. The dark liquid swirled inside, catching the candlelight with each subtle movement. “I properly didn’t even need the poison at all–he was so deep in his cups. But… I used it to make sure he wouldn’t be…” Her voice faltered slightly, as if searching for the right words. Her lips curled further in amusement, head tilting slightly as she finished, “able to perform that night. And then a little more to ensure he slept soundly and would not bother me.”

A low chuckle bubbled up from Aemond’s chest, a dark mirth that spilled out into the air around him. The amused smirk he had worn widened into something more–a genuine smile of merriment. The memory of that wretched day, watching Daenera marry the pompous, routed stag, brought him a grim sense of pleasure. His satisfaction was not merely in the act of poisoning her husband, but the knowledge that Daenera had decided upon it long before. 

Even then, she had shown herself to be a master of deception–poisoning her husband to evade the marriage bed, and inflicting a cut on her inner thigh to feign the loss of her maidenhead. The irony was not lost on him; it was a deception that concealed the truth of the bedchamber, where Aemond himself had taken her maidenhead. 

As the cup filled, she righted the pitcher with practiced ease. “I became quite skilled at slipping poison into his drinks without detection during my marriage.” 

For the first time since the sept, she turned her gaze fully upon him. Her eyes held a challenge–a dark amusement that played within the deep, unyielding blue. Her head tilted slightly as she watched him. “The poison I used on my first husband intended to be lethal,” she said, her tone laced with a hint of satisfaction that made the hairs at the back of his neck prickle. “Not at that moment, at least. If I had wanted to end his life, I would have chosen something more potent, like wolfsbane.”

Her fingers traced the delicate pattern etched into the glass–a dragon winding its way up the stem, its wings nearly encircling the base, and though he should keep his attention on her hands, he couldn’t help but be drawn to her face–to that wry amusement in her expression. “Wolfsbane, you see, has a profound effect on the body. It depresses the blood flow and hampers bodily functions,  and finally it halts the heart–but not without inflicting considerable agony first,” she continued, her voice steady and measured. “In smaller quantities, it’s less fatal but still intense, causing paralysis while making it feel as though one’s veins are filled with fire.”

Their eyes remained locked, neither of them relenting. Anticipation prickled beneath his skin, his heartbeat a discordant rhythm that was both jarring and oddly familiar. He relished the way she regarded him–amused, knowing, and dangerously alluring, no longer were her gaze filled with cold resentment, for now at least. The fire in her gaze was one he recognized all too well, and one he was willing to let consume him. Tilting his head slightly, he watched her with a blend of curiosity and wariness. 

“Then there’s nightshade,” she said, “which acts quite swiftly. It begins with an irregular heartbeat and a headache, accompanied by an aversion to light. Vision soon blurs, sweat breaks out, and speech becomes incoherent. This is followed by confusion, delirium, hallucinations, convulsions, and, in the end, death of course.”

The casual manner in which she discussed her poisons, the nonchalance with which she threatened him, seemed to seep under Aemond’s skin, sending a thrill coursing down his pine and settling in the pit of his stomach. There was a strangely arousing quality to her words–the lilt of her voice deadly yet captivating. Perhaps it was the sheer rarity of her speaking to him these days that made her words resonate so profoundly with him. He was indifferent to the threat itself; it was the connection, the way she held his gaze that captivated him most.

His eyes dropped to the soft curve of her mouth, and he felt the familiar urge stir within him–an itch at his fingertips to teach out and touch her, to trace her lips with his thumb, to taste their sweetness. 

“Hemlock,” she continued, with a slow, deliberate murmur, “begins with stomach pains and vomiting. It progresses to tremors, muscle weakness, and a gradual loss of coordination. Paralysis then creeps through the body, eventually reaching the lungs. The victim remains conscious for much of this torment, helpless as their ability to breathe is choked off.”

Her fingers traced the rim of the cup, following its delicate curve with a languid grace. Her gaze remained locked with his. “Equally deadly but less known is white baneberry. The berries are highly toxic–just a handful can be fatal to a child, and a few more will do for an adult. It’s one of the gentler deaths; it acts by slowing the heart until it ceases entirely.”

The lively strains of music filled the air, mingling with the animated chatter of guests and the rhythmic steps of dancers on the floor. Despite the exuberance that surrounded them, Aemond’s gaze remained fixed solely on Daenera, his fingers absently tapping a quiet rhythm against the surface of the table.

“Crab’s eye is another poisonous berry. Its effects are more gradual. It induces nausea, vomiting, and convulsions, eventually leading to the failure of the liver. Death comes only after several agonizing days…” She trailed off and drew in a deep breath, her hand caressing down the sides of the glass as it came to rest at its base. The motion briefly caught Aemond’s attention, a subtle shit in her posture that drew him in closer. 

“Then there’s moonflower,” she said, her tone taking on a darker edge. “It’s perhaps the most torturous. It begins with intense thirst and an unrelenting chill, leaving you unable to stay warm. Severe delirium soon follows; vision blurs, you grow incoherent, and often, you’ll experience violent outbursts. Death can linger, from a few hours to days, marked by a slow, excruciating decline.”

At last, Daenera broke their gazes, her eyes drawing to the cup of wine she had poured for him. With deliberate slowness, she slid the glass across the table, her lashes fluttering briefly before she met his gaze once more. 

Aemond pursed his lips in measured curiosity. His eye followed the movement of the cup, the dark liquid within swirling gently against the glass. Though he knew she had every reason to want him dead and could very well have poisoned the wine, he found it hard to believe she would actually do such a thing–let alone risk such an act in plain view, where suspicion would be immediately cast upon her alone.

A groom poisoned by his bride at their wedding feast was the kind of tale that would undoubtedly etch itself into history. Yet, as much as she might harbor resentment, Aemond knew she was not foolish enough to commit such an act. The consequences would be immediate and severe–she would be detained and swiftly executed for murder. Moreover, she would become a kinslayer, just like him, a fate he knew she was determined to avoid–if only to spite him.

If she truly desired his end, it would not be at her own hand, not directly. Aemond still remembered the cold press of the blade against his throat, its ghostly touch still lingering. He fought to suppress a shudder. She had hesitated then, unable to deliver the final blow–a hesitation that told him she could not do it now either.  

What was a little more of her poison, Aemond mused, reaching for the cup. His fingers curled around the cool glass, lifting it from the table. His gaze met Daenera’s as he brought the cup to his lips, silently accepting her unspoken challenge–trusting, perhaps foolheartedly, that she had not poisoned it, at least with something deadly. 

After the first gulp of the sweet wine, he almost choked on it–the taste was wrong, strangely salty. Overpoweringly so. Yet, he had already taken the second mouthful before he realized it, and he refused to show any sign of weakness. The wine's sickening saltiness clawed at his tongue and slid down his throat with a nauseating cloying quality. He nearly choked on the vile concoction, but he forced himself to swallow, his resolve unwavering even as the repulsive taste clung to his palate. 

With a sense of grim satisfaction–and nausea–he finished the wine, his mouth prickled with the persistent taste of salt and his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. 

Aemond forced his expression into a mask of composure, suppressing any sign of revolution as he set the empty cup back on the table. His tongue flicked out, sweeping the salty residue from his lips, before his eye found Daenera once more. Her eyes were alight with amusement, her lips curved into an almost mocking smile–wholly self-satisfied with what she had done. 

Without further comment, she turned her attention back to the feast, leaving Aemond with a burning throat and roiling stomach. Amidst the unsettling awareness of how effortlessly she had introduced the salt into his wine–how easily it might have been poison, or perhaps there was poison and the salt merely serving to mask it–Aemond couldn’t shake the strange thrill. While he didn’t truly think she had poisoned him, the possibility added a dangerous edge to their interaction, sparking a peculiar excitement within him at the thought of her sheer audacity. 

Daenera returned to her plate, deftly splitting open a pomegranate and carefully selecting the seeds. As she brought each seed to her lips, savoring the burst of juice with slowness, Aemond felt a shift in the uneasy churn of his stomach. The sight of her delicate fingers and the soft, almost intimate act of tasting the fruit stirred something within him, shifting his discomfort from the wine into a keen sense of longing. 

A warm sensation began to unfurl within him, spreading through his veins like a wildfire and igniting a smolder of desire that he found increasingly difficult to ignore. The deliberate act of her eating, her lips parting for another seed, seemed almost intimate. He couldn’t help but think how sweet those lips looked–red like the fruit itself, as sweet and sinful as temptation incarnate. He wanted nothing more than to taste that sweetness, to claim it for himself, to feel it linger on his tongue like forbidden nectar. 

Her tongue darted out to like the curve of her thumb before slipping it between her lips, sucking away the pomegranate juice that had trickled down. The gesture was simple yet maddening. His stomach fluttered, the heat intensifying, and he swallowed thickly. She continued, seemingly oblivious to the weight of his gaze, to how the sight of her consuming the fruit seeped beneath his skin and made home there, unsettling and irresistible all at once. 

After the sixth seed disappeared between her lips, Aemond forced himself to look away, though it felt like wrenching a blade from the flesh–leaving behind a sharp, lingering sting. Every movement she made seemed to pull at him, his gaze clinging to her like a shadow, reluctant to part from the delicate, sensual way she enjoyed the fruit.

With a slow, deliberate breath, he reached for a nearby cup–not the one from which he had tasted the sickening salt earlier–and poured himself a glass of water. The coolness of the liquid promised a momentary relief, an escape from the taste that still clung stubbornly to his tongue, though he knew it was far more than the salt he sought to wash away. As the water hit his throat, he felt his heartbeat gradually steady, but the heat she had stirred within him still simmered, refusing to be so easily quenched.

The silence that lingered between them, though less hostile than before, still pricked at him with its relentless presence. As the moments passed, it felt as though the chasm between them widened, deepening with the persistent quiet. Yet, the conversation had given him a semblance of hope–even if threads had been weaved into the very fabric of it. He would endure a thousand more salty cups of wine just for her to look at him again. 

Driven by a desperate need to keep the conversation alive and stave off the creeping chill of her disregard, Aemond reached for a topic that might engage her–a rare venture into the nuances of poisons, a subject he seldom favored compared to the directness of steel and combat. How wretchedly pathetic he had become in his yearning for her attention. 

“What of Widow’s Blood?” He asked, recalling the name he had come across once in his studies. 

Daenera’s gaze shifted from the pomegranate to him, her eyes narrowing with guarded wariness as if weighing whether to indulge his curiosity. Aemond felt a familiar flutter in his chest whenever she looked upon him. He felt her gaze prickle over his face, searching his expression–seeking to pry beneath the mask he wore. He tilted his head slightly, meeting her gaze with his own steady scrutiny, his eyes tracing the motion of her thumb as she brought it to her lips to lick away the pomegranate juice. 

“Widow’s Blood,” she began, her voice smooth and measured, “is a thick, cloying substance that resembles blood–hence the name.” She punctuated her explanation by dragging her pointed finger to her lips, savoring the last traces of juice. “It causes the bladder and bowls to cease functioning, leading to death by the body’s own poison. It’s a particularly ugly way to die.”

Her description, delivered with a casualness that belied its morbid content, revealed not only her knowledge of poisons but also a detachment that intrigued and unnerved Aemond in equal measure.

“The Strangler?” 

Daenera’s brow arched slightly, her gaze unwavering as she assessed him. “The Strangler is a rarer poison, appearing as dark purple crystals, similar to black amethysts. It must be dissolved in wine or water to become effective. Once ingested, it closes the throat tighter than a fist,” she explained, pausing to lick her middle finger thoughtfully. “The victim's face turns a deep purple, and their eyes swell with blood as they struggle for air–or so it is said.”

She casually returned to cleansing her thumb, ensuring no trace of pomegranate remained. “Procuring Strangler is slow and costly, but considering the results, it seems a small price to pay for liberation from one's husband.”

The ease with which she spoke of poison and death intrigued Aemond, a flicker of something dark and thrilling igniting within him. Her nonchalant threats seemed to send a strange flutter through his stomach, a reaction he couldn’t quite ignore. The corners of his lips almost widened into a full-blown smile, but he managed to suppress it, maintaining only a wry, amused curl to his lips. 

He watched as she discarded the remnants of the pomegranate onto her plate, reaching instead for her cup. She took a deliberate gulp of water, then placed the cup back down on the table with composed grace. 

“And you can make this poison?”

Daenera’s brows arched slightly, a fleeting hint of a smile tugging at her lips before she quickly masked it. Her expression shifted, the corners of her mouth falling into a more serious line as her brow furrowed. Within the depths of her blue eyes, a spark of something dark and unsettling flickered–something tinged with sadness and deep melancholy. Nevertheless, she answered, “I can.” 

Her tone was measured and even as she continued, “Though the ingredients are rare and difficult to acquire, and the process is both lengthy and costly.” She paused, her gaze becoming steely. “If I were to invest the time and resources, I would acquire Tears of Lys instead. It is more subtle–clear, tasteless, and odorless, leaving no trace to be found. It eats away at the stomach and bowls, and appears to be a disease of the organs once the body is opened up… unfortunately it is not within the realm of my abilities to make–only the alchemists in Lys possess the knowledge to create it.”

Aemond considered the implications of such a rare and potent poison. Its elusive nature and the cost associated with it led him to a grim sort of gratitude. He looked at Daenera, a wry twist to his lips as he said, “I suppose I should count myself fortunate that you cannot make it.”

Daenera’s eyes held a sharp, unyielding glint as she responded coolly. “I had no need for costly poisons to deal with my first husband. I needn’t the Tears of Lys to rid myself of my second.”

Aemond’s gaze remained with Daenera’s as the celebration swirled around them, their intense exchange echoing darkly amidst the jubilant festivities.

Around them, the dance floor had come alive with more guests joining in. Their movements created a lively tapestry of colors and fabrics, twirling and swaying to the cheerful strains of music. The dancers wove around each other, their steps following the music in a vibrant display of joy and celebration.

Ser Tyland Lannister approached the dias, his burgundy doublet contrasting sharply with the heavy golden chain of office that swung from his shoulders. As he bowed respectfully, the chain swayed before him, the head of a lion gleaming in the candlelight. His demeanor was warm but formal as he rose again. “My prince, congratulations on your wedding.”

Ser Tyland continued to speak, attempting to weave a tapestry of congeniality that hung uneasily in the air. “Princess, you look truly radiant–just as your mother did when she graced this hall. My brother was one of your mother’s suitors, to think he could have been your father, and I, your uncle…” Ser Tyland’s voice held a nervous chuckle, his eyes darting as he clumsily shifted his cup between his hands–if he was this anxious he shouldn’t have approached them. “He-he had hoped to unite our houses, and become…” 

Aemond’s gaze narrowed sharply, unamused by the implication.

His voice faltered as he nearly slipped into dangerous territory–almost lending credence to Rhaenyra’s claim by suggesting that his brother would have become King  Consort. He paused, coughing slightly as if to expel the inadvertent implication. 

“Please,” he continued, adopting a more somber tone, “you have my condolences for your recent loss…”

Irritation flickered within his chest as Aemond glared pointedly at the Master of Coin. This was no place or time for condolences. He was about to voice as much when Daenera, her voice soft and controlled, interjected, “Thank you, Ser Tyland. That is very kind of you. However, let us not ruin this joyous occasion with talk of war and loss.”

The smile on Daenera’s face was tight and unconvincing, though it maintained the veneer of courtly grace, her eyes betraying a cold detachment. Aemond’s irritation at this simmered just beneath the surface, twisting within him as he gritted his teeth. He desperately wanted this event to be a joyful celebration for her, to be something she wished for as well–but he knew that wasn't the case. The pretense that it was hung heavily inside him, a weight like lead settling in his stomach.

Ser Tyland, seemingly oblivious to the tension around them, continued with an unwitting bluster. “Ah, of course, Princess,” he said, his tone slightly pompous. “As my brother would have said, had he been here, we shouldn’t burden the delicate sensibilities of the fairer sex with such grim topics. After all, war is a grim affair, best kept away from the gentle hearts of women.” 

“Yes, my lord,” Daenera answered pointedly. “However, the ravages of war do not spare women on the basis of their sex. They are often grieving mothers, the wives of soldiers, and women who must confront those soldiers as their fields are trampled and their homes invaded…” 

Ser Tyland shifted on his feet, his smile faltering as he attempted to ease the palpable tension with a hesitant chuckle. “Indeed, it’s a regrettable aspect of war, and it speaks to your kind heart, Princess, that you show such concern for these matters. But perhaps your energies would be better spent on more suitable pursuits–needlework, or the noble duty of birthing sons. I am sure you will find yourself quite occupied soon enough…”

Tyland fidgeted with his cup, his eyes darting towards Aemond. He seemed to seek approval or reassurance from Aemond, but finding none, his confidence visibly waned. Aemond remained unmoved, his lips curved in the familiar, sharp expression that always seemed to unsettle the Master of Coin.

Daenera’s head tilted as she scrutinized him. “Have you ever seen war?”

Ser Tyland’s smile waned, his brow knitting into a frown as he blinked, shifting his gaze nervously between Aemond and Daenera. His discomfort only seemed to grow as Aemond returned his gaze, staring at him expectantly, relishing in his unease. He leaned back in his seat, finding quiet satisfaction in the unfolding interaction, content to observe how it would play out.

“The reign of our late King Viserys was a peaceful one–”

“And what of any battle experience?” Daenera pressed further, brows lifting in scrutiny. “Have you won any tournaments perhaps? Or dealt with raiders and poachers?”

Tyland shifted uneasily, his expression revealing more than his words might. “We have people who handle such matters…”

The smile Daenera offered was not gentle; it was scythe’s edge, calculated and sharp, ready to cut down the weed that grew before them. She let out a soft, dismissive hum. “Then perhaps you would be more suited to join my needlepoint circle, since it seems our experience in matters of war is quite comparable.” Her head tilted to the side, her gaze fixed intently on him, offering him a leg up after having cut him down. “Or should I be making room for your brother instead, if these opinions are his and not yours?”

Though Aemond considered Tyland Lannister somewhat bearable compared to his arrogant brother–a man inflated with an unwarranted sense of self-importance in his opinion–he still found him a blustering fool. Appointed to the position of Master of Coin largely due to his house’s influence and wealth, he seemed intelligent enough to keep the position on his own. 

At this moment, Tyland displayed a surprising degree of this lesser-seen acumen as he nodded respectfully towards Daenera, a flicker of respect and amusement in his gaze. 

“I fear my brother would fail with the needle,” Tyland remarked with a wry smile. And given the match to Golden Tooth, he is like to see battle soon enough.”

Daenera’s smile was gentle, yet beneath its softness lay a steel edge. “Nevertheless, I shall reserve a seat for either of you in my circle.”

Aemond’s gaze tracked Tyland Lannister as he nodded with a begrudging air of deference, the faintest hint of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth in response to Daenera’s barbed remark. With a final, somewhat resigned glance at the newlyweds, the Master of Coin retreated from the table and made his way down from the dais.

Just as Tyland’s foot touched the ground, a loud clank pierced through the throng of celebration. The sudden noise cut through the crowd, halting the dancers in their steps. Women’s skirts, which had been in motion, fluttered momentarily before coming to a rest, and the lively music tapered off into silence, drawing the attention of all present towards the source of the disturbance. 

Aegon, rising from his seat with his wine goblet in hand, discarded the fork he had been using to rhythmically beat against the metal cup on the table. With an air of grandeur befitting the occasion, he turned to address the court. 

“My lords and ladies,” he proclaimed, his voice echoing through the now-quiet hall, “let us raise our cups in honor of the newlyweds–my brother Aemond and my cherished niece, now his wife, Daenera!”

The court obediently rose to their feet, their cups lifted in a collective gesture of salute. The air was briefly filled with the scraping of chairs and the murmur of movement as the nobles shifted positions.

A broad grin stretched across Aegon’s face, his expression radiating a dark delight. With an exaggerated flourish, he continued, “The two of them are upholding the grand traditions of our house–nieces marrying uncles…” His eyes sparkled with a familiar, mischievous amusement that Aemond had learned to dread. “How strange to think that if Mother had accepted my dear half-sister’s offer years ago, the bride would have been by my side today–”

He pushed his chair back with a bit too much force, stumbling slightly as his foot caught on an unseen obstruction. Regaining his balance with a swift adjustment, he moved around the King’s table, narrowing avoiding their mother’s outstretched hand as she tried to halt his antics. Ignoring her silent plea for decorum, Aegon continued, his voice rising over the room’s growing tension. “Daenera would have worn a queen's crown, and perhaps we might have avoided the ravages of war. But alas, she graces my brother's side as his wife…”

As Aegon ascended the dias with bounding steps with an almost reckless exuberance, Aemond’s hand tightened into a fist as it rested atop the table, his solitary eye burning with a sharp intensity that tracked his brother’s every move. Though irritation seethed within him like a fire, he maintained his composure, his expression carved into an impenetrable mask, only his gaze betraying his anger. 

His brother’s voice dripped with a saccharine veneer of politeness as he spoke, the corners of his lips curling into a mocking smile. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed on Aemond with a glint of malice in his eyes. “I wish them both the utmost happiness in this war–marriage,” he corrected with a deliberate pause, the misstep in his words presented as if it were a mere trifling matter. The truth of his sincerity was as thin as a razor’s edge, his words balancing precariously between genuine and feigned–falling to neither side.

“It’s not often one witnesses a love so resilient that it endures the death of a brother,” Aegon continued, his voice laced with mocking reverence. “Truly, it is moving. A love so rare and profound that it deserves its own place in the annals of history, wouldn’t you agree?”  His eyes narrowed with a glimmer of cruel satisfaction, the biting commentary wrapped in a guise of false admiration, as if he were bestowing a grand compliment rather than delivering a stinging rebuke.

Aegon held himself as though on a stage, seemingly reveling in being the center of the court's attention. He performed for the guests with a theatrical flair, drawing out each word for dramatic effect. The court, however, appeared unsure–divided with some courtiers watching with veiled amusement, their lips curling into knowing smirks, while others exchanged uneasy glances, their discomfort evident as the King mocked and belittled his own brother. The air thickened with a tangible tension, unsure whether to cheer on Aegon’s audacious display or remain quiet.

Aegon’s voice carried an almost mocking cheerfulness as he continued, “Daenera Velaryon–though perhaps I should say Baratheon? No, that doesn’t quite suit her,” His voice rose, dismissive of their mother’s low warning to temper his speech. “Daenera Strong might be a better choice,” he paused, seemingly savoring the way the name sounded, his eyes moving past Aemond to Daenera, his head tilting slightly. “Yet even that name seems inadequate now that you have, at last, become a true Targaryen.”

Aemond tore his gaze away from his brother, momentarily focusing on the green velvet of the table in front of him. As he shifted his attention to the side, he noted the stillness on Daenera’s face. She resembled a porcelain doll, her expression eerily serene, but her eyes were a different story–they smoldered with a fierce intensity, set firmly on Aegon as though they could incinerate him with their gaze alone.

His hand clenched tighter into a white-knuckled fist, his bones protesting under the pressure. The skin stretched tight across his knuckles, and he could feel the intense heat of his fury searing through his chest. The impulse to seize his brother by the collar, drag him through the throne room, and hurl him into the dirt outside was a sharp, almost tangible sensation at his fingertips. He bit down hard on his tongue, the bitter taste of suppressed anger filling his mouth as he fought to keep the scathing words trapped behind his teeth. He remained mute, enduring the sting of his brother’s derision with a tense, painful silence. 

Across the table, Aegon leaned in with a smirk, his hand planted on its surface. “The only thing you’re missing to become a true Targaryen,” he taunted, his gaze filled with a condescending satisfaction, “is a dragon to ride. But then again, it seems you’ve already claimed my brother for that role, haven’t you?”

A ripple of polite and uneasy laughter swept through the crowd, the tension growing, becoming thick and suffocating. Aemond’s gaze swept across the assembly, sharp and penetrating, locking eyes with those who dared meet his stare. He could feel the weight of their judgment pressing against his skin, a prickling sensation that made his blood simmer beneath the surface. Their expressions betrayed what words would not–disdain, pity, and a loathing barely masked by the forced decorum of the occasion.

He knew, without a doubt, that there was no love for him here. Not truly. Not now. Not with the blood that stained his hands. Not with the title of ‘Kinslayer’ following his name like a curse, turning even the faintest flickers of respect into something twisted and bitter. What they felt for him was not respect, but fear and disgust. He saw it clearly in their eyes, the way they recoiled slightly when his gaze met theirs, the scorn etched into their faces despite their attempts to hide it. The whispers, the glances–everything confirmed what he already knew: he was an outsider in his own home, a monster in their midst.

Yet, amidst the disdain, Aemond detected a flicker of pity in their eyes–not for him, but for Daenera, who endured the same public humiliation. Aemond dismissed their scorn with cold indifference, but the sharp sting of humiliation was harder to ignore. It burrowed beneath his skin, a familiar ache that gnawed at his composure. The sensation itched along his nerves, a persistent irritation that threatened to unravel the fragile threads of his restraint, pushing his patience to its limit.

“Moonflower,” Daenera murmured, her voice so soft it barely reached Aemond’s ears. Yet, in that single whispered word, he found an unexpected comfort, a dark solace that cut through the tension–even as it carried a threat towards his own brother. 

“Widow’s Blood,” Aemond replied, his tone equally hushed, matching her grim indulgence in this shared fantasy. The words hung between them, tying them together in animosity. In his mind, he could almost see it–Aegon’s body swelling grotesquely, the poison turning his own flesh against him, letting his bowels fill with shit until they ruptured, his blood slowly turning black as his insides festered. The thought brought a twisted satisfaction, a brief respite from the humiliation his brother aimed at him.

“Quite a climb, wouldn’t you say?” Aegon tilted his head slightly, his eyes meeting Daenera’s with a malevolent gleam. “From Strong to Targaryen–just a small leap across a sea of blood. Ah, the things we do for love…”

He straightened to his full height, a mischievous grin spreading wider as he lifted a finger to scratch thoughtfully at the corner of his mouth, as if debating whether to push his jest further. The gleam in his eyes suggested he had already decided. 

“This isn’t the princess’s first marriage, as most of you are well aware,” he continued. “You were all here for her first wedding, after all. Let’s hope this one lasts longer.”

As Aegon moved around the table, Aemond leaned back in his seat, his gaze never wavering from his brother’s every step. His jaw clenched so tightly he feared his teeth might shatter under the pressure. When his brother reached him, he patted him on the shoulder in mockery of brotherly affection, humming softly. “I hope you won’t be disappointed with your wedding night, brother…Though, you shouldn’t be too disappointed about not claiming her maidenhead this evening–you only have yourself to blame for that. And her late husband, well, he didn't seem to mind just how well she has taken to dragon-riding.” He offered a half-hearted shrug, his face twisting in a grimace of amusement. “As the Lord Hand mentioned, the two of them grew rather close after her return to King’s Landing… And following the unfortunate passing of her husband, he became a great comfort to her. He often took her riding on his dragon, and she took to it like a true Targaryen–just like her mother before her!”

The insinuation hung heavy in the air between them, thick and suffocating like the charged silence before a thunderstorm. Aemond’s glare sharpened as he looked up at his brother, his thumb idly grazing the band on his ring, fingers tracing the hidden lever that concealed the needle within–prickly but not poisoned. The tension between them crackled, a silent threat simmering just beneath the surface. 

Aegon never knew when to stop. 

As the Lord Hand rose from his seat, the scraping of the chair legs against the floor seemed to thunder through the room, the sound echoing off the stone walls. He strode toward Aegon and the bridal table, his face marked by a deep furrow–a clear expression of exasperation mixed with his growing caution. Each deliberate step he took seemed to carry the weight of his reproach.

“One might’ve mistake her for the Maiden herself on her first wedding day, but looks can be deceiving, and my brother finds himself at a disadvantage…” He leaned in closer, his breath carrying the cloying scent of wine as he murmured, “Perhaps there are other ways for your bride to bleed for you, brother. Other places your cock has not yet breached.” 

Aemond’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together as agitation simmered just beneath his skin. He uncurled his fist, irritably tapping two fingers against the table in a vain attempt to restrain the impulse to throttle his own brother.

Meanwhile, Otto Hightower ascended the dias with a grave purpose, a weary and exasperated expression on his face. It was clear  he intended to prevent one grandson from ending his reign prematurely and the other from becoming a kinslayer twice over. His hand settled firmly on Aegon’s shoulders, steering him away from the seething Aemond–just far enough that their exchange was out of earshot. 

Aemond heard his brother inhale deeply, the sound heavy with annoyed resignation, before he reluctantly returned to the front of the dias. Otto descended the steps and quietly returned to the King’s table, his presence a cautioning influence that sought to avoid further conflict. 

Now back in his place, Aegon pulled a face at the crowd, lifting his goblet of wine high to brush off the tension with a forced display of merriment. “My lords and ladies, let us raise our cups to the newlyweds and wish them a long and joyful life together! May their love flourish in the light and may they fulfill their heart’s every desire!” He raised the cup higher still, declaring, “To the bride and groom!”

“To the bride and groom!” Echoed the court, as everyone raised their cups in unison before indulging in a hearty drink–a gesture that Aemond found bitterly fitting after such a speech. He poured himself a cup of wine, seeking to soothe the seething anger and humiliation that churned within him. Beside him, Daenera did the same, albeit with a cup of water. 

Just as Aemond hoped the spectacle might be drawing to a close, Aegon slammed his now-empty cup onto the table with a definitive thud, a wide, mischievous grin spreading across his face as he declared for all to hear, “Let the presentation of gifts commence!” 

As the crowd stirred with anticipation, Aegon leaned over the table again, a wide grin spreading across his face as he murmured in a tone brimming with mischief, “You are going to love this, brother.”

Aemond felt no comfort at his brother’s words; instead, a heavy sense of apprehension settled in his gut. He knew all too well the nature of Aegon’s so-called gifts, having been the recipient of a venture to a brothel for his thirteenth name day, as well as a few unsavory gifts he had no taste for. The memories did nothing to ease his growing unease. 

His suspicions were quickly confirmed when servants entered, carrying a large, ornate book. It was wider than most, its cover crafted from creamy silk, embossed with gold, and adorned with rich blue and purple paints. The book was carefully placed before Aemond and Daenera, with the servants swiftly removing the plates of food to make room for it. 

As the book was turned towards them, its golden clasps–set with pearls and sapphires–were unfastened, and the cover was gently opened to reveal the first page. The page was decorated with a gilded frame and intricately painted leaves and vines curling around the frame, the text within written in common tongue; A Flowers Bloom.

Aegon leaned casually on the table, his amusement evident in the gleam of his eyes as he watched them closely. “This one, brother, I think you’ll find quite enjoyable–”

With practiced ease, Aegon flipped through the pages of the book, as if intimately familiar with its contents–an assumption Aemond had no trouble believing. The page settled on a particularly lewd illustration: a man, his face buried in the bosom of a woman, suckling at her teat, while her hand gripped his erect cock. His legs were spread wide, revealing an object inserted into another orifice. The image was as explicit as it was vulgar, a grotesque display meant to provoke. 

“Given the stick so firmly lodged in your…” Aegon finished, letting his voice trail off as Aemond glared at him with such intensity that it seemed to stifle what words remained. His jaw tightened as he stared angrily at his brother, the weight of humiliation once again bearing down on him, but he refused to give Aegon any other reaction. 

Aegon merely half-shrugged, his smirk never faltering as he continued, “Though, my favorite is this one.” He gave them no time to dwell on the previous obscene illustration before casually flipping to another page. “A bit of stretching might serve you well before attempting this one–it's demanding on the thighs…”

The illustration Aegon revealed next was more shocking still. It depicted a woman completely upside down, her weight resting on her neck and shoulders, arms bracing as she held her lower half vertically in the air. Her ankles were positioned by her ears, her toes making a precarious effort to prevent her from tipping over. Directly above her, a man loomed, his knees slightly bent as he engaged with her from above, his gaze intent and downward.

Aemond’s gaze narrowed as he took in the image, the absurdity of the position only deepening his disdain. Outrage and humiliation surged through him, burning up his throat like a wildfire rapidly spreading. The intense emotions threatened to overwhelm him as he struggled to maintain his composure in the face of such blatant provocation.

As Aegon circled the table, he came to a stop beside Daenera, one hand resting casually on the back of her chair while the other pressed firmly against the table’s edge. Leaning down toward her, his posture exuding a predatory ease, His gaze, however, traveled beyond her, locking with Aemond's, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His voice dropped to a low murmur, just loud enough for her–and Aemond–to hear, the intimacy of the gesture adding a layer of provocation that bristled in the air. “You know, brother, I can’t help but wonder… With all these positions, I do hope you’re up to the challenge. A woman like our sweet niece–well, she’ll need more than just your brooding one-eyed stares to be satisfied.”

He let his gaze drift over Daenera, who shifted uncomfortably away from him, then back to Aemond, amusement flickering in his eyes as he continued, “Of course, if you find any of it too… uncomfortable or lacking in taste, I’d be more than happy to step in and show her the finer points. I’ve got plenty of experience in these matters, after all.” Aegon’s smirk widened as he casually flipped through the book, landing on another obscene image. “Our poor niece has already endured one unsatisfying marriage, brother. It would truly be a tragedy for her to suffer through another.” His voice remained low and steady, his eyes never wavering from Aemond’s. “We both know she deserves more than to be left wanting–”

Aemond’s fist slammed onto the table with such force the cutlery rattled, the sharp clatter echoing throughout the hall. The lingering tremor seemed to heighten the tension as he rose from his seat, venomous words already forming on his tongue, fueled by the blaze of rage searing through his chest. His knuckles flushed red and bore the fresh sting of skin split open from the blow. He flexed his hand, ignoring the throbbing pain that now pulsed in time with his heartbeat. 

Without a second thought, he seized his goblet, the grip so tight it was a wonder the cup didn’t crack under the strain. His gaze, cold and unyielding, turned upon his brother. The smug smile that had danced on Aegon’s lips wavered at last, though his posture remained almost mocking, one hand still resting lazily on Daenera’s chair while the other hovered near the table. 

“A toast,” Aemond announced, his voice as sharp as steel drawn from its sheath, slicing through the air with brutal clarity. The soft hum of conversation and the delicate strains of music faltered into silence, all eyes turning towards the bridal table. “To my brother, the King.”

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken tension, the weight of his words hanging ominously between them. Even the musicians, hesitant to resume, left their instruments in uneasy pause as the scene played out.

Aemond turned slowly towards his brother, his single eye gleaming with a dangerous light. “Though you bear the name of the Conqueror himself and wear his crown,” he began, his tone deceptively calm, each word veiled with simmering contempt, “you remain ever our father’s son.”

He let the sentence linger in the air for a moment, a soft hum escaping his lips as his head tilted slightly. 

“Our father,” Aemond continued, taking on a faint edge of mockery, “ruled with a gentle hand, beloved by the realm for his kindness and patience. His was a reign of peace.” The faintest smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth, his expression coldly calculated–mocking. “He knew his limitations well and deferred to the judgment of his council…”Viserys had been weak and pliable, a puppet in the hands of anyone seeking to pluck his strings–and Aegon stood to be no different, Aemond thought. “It was through his… amiable nature that he upheld his peaceful reign.”

The hall seemed to hold its breath, every ear straining to catch the edges of his words, the tension rippling through the guests like a silent current. Aemond’s gaze hardened as he contemplated the consequences of their father’s indecision–his weakness. If he had not been so hesitant to displace Rhaenyra once he had finally secured the son he desired, perhaps the realm would not have to descend into the chaos and war that it now teetered on.

“But the times have changed,” Aemond declared, his lips pursing into a smug expression. “War descends upon us, as our half-sister seeks to claim your throne, and war demands more than mere amiability.”

He emitted a low, contemplative hum, the sound tinged with anticipation as he savored the words he left unspoken. They lingered in the air between them, silent but present; It requires strength, brother, and I am that strength. 

“While you sit the throne as our father once did,” Aemond continued, each word carefully chosen. “With Vhagar, the largest and fiercest dragon in the world, I will secure our victory and ensure your rule remains unchallenged…” 

Aemond subtly flicked his finger across the hidden lever in the band of his ring, engaging the concealed needle as he circled around his wife's chair toward his brother. Aegon's eyes narrowed, watching his approach with growing suspicion. With a feigned casualness, Aemond bumped against Aegon's arm in a gesture of brotherly warmth, then clapped his hand firmly on his brother's arm, ensuring the needle made its mark. 

“So, let us drink to your rule,” Aemond said, raising his cup higher with his other hand, giving his brother’s arm a squeeze, “and may you reign as our father did–while I see to it that our enemies are crushed and your throne remains intact.” 

He turned his gaze to the crowd, his voice ringing clear, “To Aegon the Magnanimous!” 

“To the King!” The crowd responded, their voices merging into a chorus that filled the hall. They lifted their cups high, the light glinting off the raised goblets before they drank deeply. Yet, despite the enthusiasm of the moment, the cheering carried a tense, uneasy undertone. Many in the crowd exchanged uneasy glances, their laughter forced, betraying their uncertainty about the implications of the toast. 

Aemond’s lips remained in a sharp smirk as he watched his brother’s gaze narrow slightly. He then plastered a strained smile across his face, nodding to the crowd as they cheered for him. Through gritted teeth and a forced grin, he muttered, “Well done, you little twat.”

As the servants removed the obscene book from the table, making space for any future gifts, Aegon turned back to his brother, his expression shifting into something resembling a begrudging amusement. The familiar upside-down smile appeared on his face, head tilting slightly–a sign that he was impressed, albeit unwillingly.  

Without warning, Aegon’s hand shot out to grip Aemond’s shoulder, both brother’s locking eyes as they held onto one another, a brief and tense connection. “Come now, brother, lighten up. It was only a jest…”

He gave a half-shrug under Aemond’s steady hole, his head tilting further as his gaze flickered briefly to Daenera, a sly glint in his eye as he seemingly couldn’t help himself, adding, “Unless, of course, she takes me up on the offer.”

Daenera rolled her eyes, the faintest flush coloring her cheeks from the ordeal unfolding around her. She remained silent, her expression a blend of quiet exasperation and discomfort, letting the brothers’ exchange continue without interruption as she dismissed them by turning back to the feast.

Music had begun to play again, the murmur of voices rising as people returned to their conversations. The dancers began again, the steps adding a low shuffle to the air as they followed the tune of the music. 

The sting of humiliations still burned in his chest, a familiar ache that carved itself into him over the years. Aemond’s expression remained stony, his eye cold and sharp. “There's a fine line between teasing and mockery, one you cross all too often–”

Aegon waved off Aemond’s retort with an exaggerated flick of his hand, dismissing his brother’s irritation. “Oh, please,” he scoffed, brushing Aemond’s hand from his shoulder with casual indifference, his fingers gingerly touching upon the spot on his arm where the needle had pricked him, his brows knitting further together as he continued, “You’ve always been so easily offended–one would think you’d learn to grow thicker skin over the years.” His tone took on a mocking lightness, as if Aemond’s frustration was something trivial to be laughed away. 

“Be happy, brother,” Aegon continued, gesturing towards Daenera, who seemed to catch the movement out of the corner of her eye as a scowl grew on her face. “You’ve got a beautiful and loyal wife at your side–one you choose for yourself, mind you. That’s more than some of us ever got. And,” he added with grimace, “yours has all her senses. I think it’s time you loosen up a little.”

He gave Aemond another playful shake, a gesture that only deepened the simmering tension between them. Aegon’s words, meant to placate, only served to underscore the insult buried beneath his brotherly act, the mocking jabs hidden in plain sight. Aemond stood rigid, his composure fraying, but held in place by years of restraint and the weight of duty.

Aemond sharply brushed Aegon’s hand away, his glare cutting through his brother’s amused smile. “You should be more careful with your words, brother,” he said, his voice low and cold. “Vhagar is the greatest asset we have in this war. Without me–and my dragon–Rhaenyra would already be sitting on your throne. I think that alone should earn me your respect–”

Aegon’s smile faded slightly, his brows rising in sharp retort. “If it weren’t for you, there might not have been a war.” 

“You know as well as I do that war was inevitable,” Aemond replied, his tone hardening. “You should be grateful I brought you back. Without me, you’d either be rotting in a gutter outside some brothel or with your head mounted on a spike outside Dragonstone. You’re king now, Aegon, by sheer luck of being born first–try and make yourself worthy of it.”

Aegon’s expression shifted, his earlier amusement draining away as a nerve was struck. “I am trying. And I will not be weak like our father.”

The crack in his confidence was clear, and Aemond knew he had hit a sore spot.

“Good,” Aemond answered coolly, “because he would have lost this war.” His words hung in the air as he looked at Aegon with a mixture of challenge and cold expectation. 

Aegon grimaced with a half-shrug, turning on his heels. With a mischievous grin, he snatched a grape from a nearby plate and propped it into his mouth with exaggerated delight as he gave Daenera a teasing glance, quickly winking at her. He stepped down from the dias and was welcomed into the midst of revelry by his friends. Aemond watched him for a moment, his annoyance simmering just beneath the surface. 

Daenera caught his eye briefly, her expression meticulously neutral but her eyes sharp with unspoken words. Her gaze flicked away swiftly, refocusing on the reviving festivities as the tension in the air slowly began to dissipate. 

Returning to his seat, Aemond murmured under his breath, “Hemlock.”

The silence stretched between them for a long moment before she responded, “Slowed manticore venom.”

“What does that do?”

“It kills you slowly.”

Aemond sank into his seat with a weary sigh, his gaze flickering toward his mother as she approached, her lady-in-waiting, Talya, trailing closely behind. He rested his hand on the table, fingers drumming lightly against the surface as he leaned back. Though outwardly composed, the simmering irritation still lingered beneath his skin, slow to fade. His jaw remained tense, and his eyes, though calm, held a flicker of the frustration that had not yet fully dissipated.

Ascending the steps to the dias with her hands clasped together in front of her, Alicent came to stand before the table. Behind her, Lady Talya carefully placed three ornate totems on the table before them, each one thicker than the others. One of the books had a leather cover, with the seven-pointed star delicately embossed in gold leaf, gleaming under the dim light. The other two were bound in rich green cloth, their covers adorned with pearls carefully stitched into the fabric, adding a touch of elegance to the simple design. 

“It is my hope,” Alicent began, her voice soft but firm, as she unclasped her hands to rest one gently atop the stack of books before her, “that the two of you will find guidance in these.” Her eyes shifted between them, the weight of her words carrying a deeper meaning. “They were given to me on the occasion of my own wedding and helped me find my place in the new role as a wife. It is my prayer that they will guide you as well–and offer a path of atonement for the sins we each carry.”

“Thank you, mother,” Aemond said, his tone polite but distant, his eye briefly flickering over the books before shifting away. He had little interest in whatever atonement they promised–neither the books nor the gods could grant him the absolution he sought. It was a different kind of atonement that weighed on his soul, one far beyond what the seven-pointed star and its gods could offer. 

Alicent regarded Daenera with dark, scrutinizing eyes, her expression carefully measured as she seemed to note something amiss. “Your necklace…” she remarked, her tone laced with a subtle undertone, as though the absence of jewelry meant more than it seemed. 

Shifting his gaze to Daenera, Aemond caught the slight flicker in her demeanor as her hand rose instinctively to her chest. Her fingers brushed the exposed skin just below her collarboes, as if searching for the absent necklace. Her smile, though poised, was stiff and brittle, like a finely honed blade.

“Oh, I hadn’t noticed,” she responded lightly, her voice carrying an edge of feigned innocence. “I must have lost it–what a shame…”

The statement hung in the air for a moment, and Aemond could feel the tension simmering just beneath the surface. His mother’s eyes narrowed slightly, suspicion brewing between them, but she said nothing further. Instead, she smoothed her hands over her skirts with practiced grace, the movement calm yet telling of her thoughts left unspoken. 

His mother turned and descended from the dias. 

Daenera smiled faintly, her face betraying none of the disdain he knew she held for the seven-pointed star. As his mother retreated and the books were whisked away, Daenera spoke lowly, an edge to her voice, “If those books cross the threshold of our chambers, I will shave off your hair while you sleep. You will be the bald, one-eyed kinslayer.”

Aemond’s lips twisted into a brief, amused smirk at her remark. He had no reason to doubt her threat. The memory of her petty nature was still fresh–he recalled the time she had slipped dye into his bath oils after a long day of training. He had sat in the bath, unaware, until the bottom of his hair had turned an unfortunate shade, costing him a few precious inches. Thankfully, he hadn’t sunk fully beneath the water, sparing the rest of his hair, though the stray hairs on his body had turned a vivid pink. He had swiftly dealt with the issue, removing any trace to avoid the embarrassment of discovery.

Aemond also knew Daenera was entirely capable of making good on her current threat–cutting his hair as he slept. With that in mind, he subtly waved over a servant, leaning in to quietly instruct them. “See that the books are brought to my chambers.” 

The Hand of the King, Otto Hightower, was next to present his gifts. For Aemond, a warhorse–a black stallion bred and trained specifically for battle–was promised, currently on the way from Oldtown. It was said that it was a magnificent beast, fit for a prince. Daenera, on the other hand, received two large chests filled with brocade and rich fabrics, most in shades of green. 

Both gifts were accepted courteously, though Aemond thought he had little need for another horse. He only needed the one to get to Vhagar. The stallion was impressive, but when it came to war, he had Vhagar–no other mount could compare to a dragon. 

Next, Ser Tyland Lannister stepped forward, offering an ornate golden dagger set with gleaming emeralds for Aemond, as well as a chest brimming with gold bars from House Lannisters vast coffers. Daenera was given an array of fine jewelry and precious gems, each piece more extravagant than the last. Lord Jasper Wylde followed, offering them more fabrics–rich and finely woven–while Lord Larys Strong presented a book chronicling the history and legends of Harrenhal, paired with a tapestry depicting a serene forest teeming with woodland creatures. 

Aemond watched silently as his sister approached with her children. Jaehaera was perched on her hip, while Jaehaerys clutched her hand, his small legs working hard to keep up. They ascended the dias together, a nursemaid following close behind, carefully placing a neatly tied bundle of fabric on the table. Helaena’s smile was soft and gentle as she spoke, her gaze meeting Daenera’s “To bring you comfort… it is a blanket.” 

Jaehaera, with her wide, beaming smile, caught sight of Daenera and waved excitedly with childish pride, declaring, “I had three lemoncakes!”

“Three!” Daenera chuckled, leaning in slightly as her tone brightened. “That is a lot of lemoncakes.”

“I would have had more if I had been allowed,” Jaehaera pouted, burying her face against her mother’s neck, her earlier excitement fading into disappointment. 

Helaena gently chided her daughter, a soft smile playing on her lips. “Had you been allowed more, you would have gotten sick, sweet one.”

“No, I wouldn’t!” Jaehaera shot back, her small face scrunched into a determined scowl, pulling away from her mother to make her protest. “I wouldn’t!”

Aemond felt a feeling of softness pass over him as he watched his niece and nephew interact with his wife, though his face remained impassive. The warmth of moments like this was a rarity to him, and he struggled to engage, even as the lightheartedness of the exchange echoed faintly within him–he didn’t want to spoil it and instead sat back. 

“Aunty Dae!” Jaehaerys interjected, his small fingers gripping the edge of the table as he stood on his tiptoes, attempting to peer over the tall surface–his nose just about reached over the edge, eyes blinking at them from across the table. “I have a gift for you too!”

His balance wavered, a slight frown crossing his face as he teetered. Without warning, he bent his knees and peeked under the curtain of the tablecloth, his expression suddenly mischievous–the same gleam in his eyes as his father often got. Much to the nursemaid’s dismay, she called out sharply, trying to draw him back as he disappeared beneath the table, crawling along the floor of the dias. 

A dull thud followed from under the table, accompanied by a displeased, “Ow!”

The tablecloth shifted again as Jaehaerys reemerged on the other side, now beside Daenera. Quickly standing, he brushed his long hair out of his flushed face, doing his best to regain his composure despite the obvious embarrassment painting his cheeks. 

Daenera laughed, her laughter soft and genuine, the sound lifting the atmosphere around her. It slipped beneath Aemond’s skin, twisting around his heart and making it ache in a way he hadn’t expected. It had been so long since he had heard her laugh like that, and he found himself watching her quietly, captivated by the rare moment of joy.

Daenera twisted in her seat, her gaze warm as she reached out, brushing her hand gently over Jaehaerys’ head. “Are you hurt?”

“No…” Jaehaerys replied, standing up straighter, his small chest puffed out with determination as he held up the gift in his hand. “Here.” His face scrunched into a slight frown as he hesitated, the earlier embarrassment still burning brightly on his cheeks. “I… it’s–did you really claim a dragon?”

Daenera blinked in confusion, head tilting. “No?”

Jaehaerys’s frown deepened, his brow furrowing as he looked between her and his mother. “But father said you had… he said you had claimed one to ride!”

“Oh… I…” Daenera stammered, her eyes widening slightly as a laugh bubbled up, soft and warm. She shook her head in disbelief, amusement dancing across her features, even as she attempted to compose herself for the boy whose frown only grew. “No, Jaehaerys. I have not claimed a dragon. Your father meant that your uncle has taken me flying on Vhagar.”

“Oh,” Jaehaerys murmured, a hint of disappointment creeping into his voice. He furrowed his brow, clearly unsatisfied with Daenera’s answer. “Will you claim one?”

Before Daenera could respond, Helaena gently interjected, her soft voice carrying a quiet authority as she called her son back to her side. “Jaehaerys,” she said, her tone calm but firm, reminding him to mind his manners.

The boy hesitated for a moment, his curiosity still evident in his eyes, remaining at her side.

“Maybe one day,” Daenera answered. She accepted the small wooden dragon, her delicate fingers tracing the grooves carved into its surface. A soft smile played on her lips as she carefully placed it on the table before her. The toy, worn with age and clearly cherished, had once been one of Jaehaerys’ prized possessions, something he had clung to when he was younger. Now, it seemed, he was ready to part with it–though he undoubtedly had many others to take its place. 

“Jaehaerys, it is time for bed. Come,” Helaena called softly from the other side of the table, her voice gentle but firm. Jaehaera rested sleepily against her mother’s collarbone, her small hand inching towards her mouth until her thumb found its way between her lips. She began to suck on it absentmindedly, her eyelids drooping.

Jaehaerys, full of energy despite the late hour, held up his hand expectantly towards Daenera. When she placed hers in his small grasp, he brought it gallantly to his lips, pressing a knightly kiss to her knuckles with all the seriousness of a boy his age could muster. Then, with a dramatic flourish, he stepped back and gave her a deep bow, mimicking the courtly gestures he had seen countless times. 

Before anyone could stop him, he glanced towards the table again, clearly intent on repeating his earlier adventure by crawling beneath it. Both Helaena and Daenera quickly chided him, their soft voices stopping him in his tracks. 

Reluctantly, the boy abandoned his plan and instead walked around the table as instructed, his head held high. 

When he reached the other side, Helaena took his hand and led him down the steps, her movements calm and measured as they made their way towards the quieter edges of the hall, where the revelry was less overwhelming. 

Aemond’s gaze drifted across the grand hall, taking in the whirl of festivities around him. The room was alive with motion and color–nobles and courtiers mingled, their laughter blending with the clingking of goblets and the soft rustle of silk gowns. The lively tunes of minstrels filled the air as more gifts were presented–small chests brimming with silver, gold, glittering jewels, and delicate ornaments. Some contained sheer fabrics from distant lands, their origins puzzling giving the ongoing blockade. He couldn’t help but wonder how such rare items had slipped through. Each offering was either sent to the vault for safekeeping or delivered to their chambers. 

His gaze eventually settled on Aegon, who stood leaning against a table, a goblet lazily balanced in his hand. Surrounding him were his usual friends, the ever-present lickspittles who laughed heartily at his every jest–though their attention seemed more focused on Ser Martyn Reyne at the moment, who had seemingly become the latest target of their mockery. Eddard Waters, the bastard, had his arm draped casually around Ser Martyn’s neck, whispering something that looked like advice, judging by the exaggerated gestures. Aegon’s eyes flicked briefly towards Aemond and Daenera, where there was a moment of unspoken mischief between him and his group. 

A rose was shoved into Ser Martyn’s hands, and with a rough push from his companions, he stumbled forward, clearly meant to approach the dias. Aemond’s eye narrowed slightly as he watched the awkward display unfold, but before Ser Martyn could reach them, another knight stepped forward, cutting off his advance. 

Tension simmered beneath Aemond’s skin as he observed the antics unfolding across the hall, a suspicion growing that it was yet another deliberate attempt to provoke him–if not outright mock him. Though he had long grown accustomed to being the target of Aegon's jests, the old irritation still sparked within him, tightening his chest with the familiar pang of annoyance.

His attention was soon drawn to Ser Gwayne Hightower as the knight approached with a casual grace, a subtle smile tugging at his uncle’s thin lips. His pale blue eyes flicked from Daenera to Aemond, a glint of amusement dancing in them. He stopped before them, offering a courteous nod. 

“Congratulations, nephew,” he said, his tone smooth and measured. His gaze then shifted to Daenera. “Princess…” 

“Ser Gwayne,” Daenera greeted politely, her tone measured but pleasant. 

“You make a beautiful bride,” Gwayne continued, his voice soft and almost too smooth, the curve of his lips teetering on the edge of a smirk–one that only seemed to sharpen the gleam in his eyes. Aemond always thought there was something fox-like about his uncle, sly and clever, never fully revealing his intentions. 

“And as such,” he went on, producing a golden flower from behind his back, “I thought you deserved something just as remarkable in beauty–a flower for a flower.”

He extended the shimmering blossom towards Daenera with a flourish, his words drenched in flattery as his gaze lingered on her, perhaps longer than Aemond would have liked. Daenera reached across the table, the beads of her long sleeve scratching against the table’s edge as she took the delicate gift with a soft smile. Her eyes lingered appreciatively on the finely crafted petals, her fingers delicately tracing their intricate edges–each petal shimmered as though touched by the sun itself.

Something bitter twisted in Aemond’s gut, a surge of possessiveness and irritation rising within him. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to remain impassive, though every instinct urged him to show his displeasure.

“And I thought you might be tired of receiving roses,” Gwayne said with a soft smile on his lips. “You deserve something more enduring, something that will not wither in time.”

Behind Gwayne, unbeknownst to him, Ser Martyn reyne floundered awkwardly, clutching a simple rose in his grasp–a flower stolen from one of the many arrangements scattered throughout the hall. His gaze dropped to the common flower and without a word, shuffled back from the dias, his intentions seemingly crumbling under the weight of Gwayne’s more lavish offering. His retreat was met with loud jeering from Aegon’s circle, but Martyn took it in stride, smiling sheepishly as he rejoined the group. 

Aemond felt a brief flicker of amusement at the scene, watching Ser Martyn’s failed attempt. Yet that amusement quickly faded, withering away as Gwayne placed two books upon the table, his hand resting atop the leather bound parchment.

“How fares my brother?” Aemond inquired, diverting Gwayne’s attention from Daenera with a deliberately casual demeanor. His smile was restrained as he leaned forward slightly, interest flickering in his gaze–even as Daenera’s eyes remained on the book before her.

“He is thriving,” Gwayne responded, his tone softening and carrying a hint of pride. “He’s becoming quite the swordsman, as his older brother is.” His eyes gleamed with amusement as he continued, “And he’s equally dedicated to his studies and music–he plays well, better than I ever could. Though, as he’s grown older, he has begun to draw quite a bit of attention from the ladies. I suspect he’ll leave quite a few hearts in disarray when he marries the Baratheon girl.”

Aemond nodded as he considered his younger brother, whom he hadn’t seen since childhood. He had been ten and his brother just six when he had been sent to Oldtown, and the distance had only grown with the years. He had missed him deeply, the only brother with whom he shared any sense of kinship, the one he had wanted to be a better brother for–to protect him as his own older brother hadn’t. 

A memory flickered in his mind, a moment when he had been confined to his bed, his body wracked with fever. His eye had been cut open again, maggots feeding on the festering edges of the wound after the maesters had removed additional tissue. In the delirium of fever and pain, he had wondered how different things might have been if he had been sent to Oldtown in his brother’s place–if he could have escaped the scorn and suffering that had shaped him into the weapon he had become. 

“I brought these with me from Oldtown,” Gwayne began, shifting his attention back to Daenera, his voice steady and confident, “they might serve as fitting wedding gifts.” His hand brushed off the book, laying them side by side. “They’re translated copies of The Nature of the Body by Maridos Irroran of Qarth, and The secrets of the Earth by Taenolla Vynaar of Qohor–”

Before he could continue, Daenera stood abruptly from her seat, her excitement palpable. She left the gilded sunflower behind, resting it next to the small wooden dragon Jaehaerys had gifted her earlier. Her fingers momentarily clenched the fabric of her skirts as she pushed herself from the chair, the pearls and beads adorning her gown rustling softly, brushing against the floor of the dais with a faint scratching. 

With more enthusiasm that she had shown for any of the other gifts, Daenera quickly made her way around the table to stand beside Gwayne, her eyes bright with anticipation as she approached. 

Aemond watched with a tightening within his chest as a wide, genuine smile spread across Daenera’s face, her eyes alight with excitement. Her delicate fingers traced the cover of the book with reverence, her love for its contents unmistakable. She looked up at Gwayne, her expression full of curiosity and gratitude. 

“Do you know what these are?” She asked, her voice brimming with enthusiasm. “These books hold wisdom on assorted medicinal practices prevalent across the Free Cities, alongside practical uses of herbs upon the flesh.”

“I would scarcely believe the Free Cities might hold any wisdom not already known to us,” Gwayne remarked, a brow lifting in skepticism.

“Though the customs of the Free Cities differ from ours, Ser Gwayne, their wisdom is not to be overlooked,” Daenera answered, “For instance, they describe a procedure where they drill open the skull to relieve pressure, or use fine needles to ease pain, reduce tension, and improve general health. I do not wish to limit myself.” Her fingers caressed a page, eyes flicking over the parchment before rising to meet Gwayne’s. “How did you find these? How–how did you know?”

Gwayne shifted slightly, his smile deepening, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes as he glanced towards Aemond. “In truth, the idea wasn’t mine. A few months ago, my nephew wrote to his brother, requesting that he visit the Citadel and have these works translated and compiled. I never imagined they would become wedding gifts, but… here we are.”

Aemond had seldom taken to the pen in recent years to write to his brother–let alone his uncle. But when he had learned that Daenera had been searching for certain rare books at the library, pestering every maester in King’s Landing to no avail, he had taken to the pen to send a letter to Daeron, asking if he could procure the copies she sought. It appeared his brother had succeeded in finding them and had sent them along with their uncle. 

As Daenera’s fingers traced the spine of the book and flipped through the pages, her smile faltered.. Her gaze, usually sharp and intent, softened as she glanced at the scribbled pages, her brow furrowing slightly with a note of sadness.

“I will have to write to him and thank him for this,” she murmured softly, her voice measured, restrained. Shen then glanced up at Gwayne, offering a polite nod of acknowledgement. “And you as well, thank you, Ser.”

“You’re very welcome, princess,” Gwayne replied smoothly, turning his attention towards Aemond. There was a slight bow of his head, a gesture of respect that felt rehearsed, as if to appease both Aemond’s title and temperament–and only served to agitate him further. “May I have the honor of a dance with your wife?”

Aemond’s gaze flickered to Daenera, her expression unreadable as she closed the book gently, the tension in her fingers almost imperceptible. A slight scowl tugged at her brows at the request, undoubtedly because it was directed to him rather than her. His eye narrowed in response, the request hanging in the air between them like a blade. The thought of his wife–his wife–dancing with another man, his uncle no less, gnawed at him. His lips curved into a smirk, masking the simmering annoyance that threatened to rise to the surface.

Before he could respond, Daenera’s voice cut through the moment like a knife.

“You needn’t ask my husband, I would be honored to dance with you,” she said sharply, her tone holding a quiet edge as her gaze met his in defiance. There was a flicker of challenge in her eyes, one that Aemond recognized all too well. “A bride should dance at her own wedding, should she not? I've grown weary of sitting.”

The smirk on Aemond’s lips tightened ever so slightly as he felt Daenera’s words push between his ribs like a subtle, finely honed blade. Restless agitation stirred beneath his skin, itching at his fingertips and needling at his bones. Yet, he remained as still as a stone, gripping his composure with such force that it alone threatened to crack beneath the composure. 

He clenched his jaw, the sharpness of his thoughts twisting deeper as he watched her closely. She was playing her part, as expected–but the way she held his gaze, the way she took control of the moment, stirred something deeper within him. It tightened in his gut, made his blood simmer, but he said nothing. Instead, he remained still, his smirk slipping back into place. 

Aemond’s eye slid from Daenera to Gwayne, lingering on his uncle with a simmering edge–remembering his mother’s words–before he forced out a deceptively soft, “But of course…”

Gwayne, seemingly ever the gallant, extended his hand, and with her gaze still fixed on Aemond, Daenera took it. Her gown whispered against the steps as she descended with Gwayne, the fabric trailing behind her like a pale shadow as they approached the dance floor. The delicate train of her sleeves barely skimmed the stone, while the green of her cloak, abandoned on the chair beside Aemond, was left behind like he was.

Aemond’s eye followed them, sharp and unyielding, the agitation deeping in his chest. She moved with grace, and the crowd’s murmurs faded into the background as she took her place on the floor with Gwayne. His fingers curled tightly around the armrests of his chair, and though he kept his expression neutral–indifferent–there was no mistaking the possessiveness that burned within him. 

Aemond’s eye remained locked on her, the space between them feeling like a chasm, immeasurable and vast. The wood creaked faintly under his hold as he watched her take her place before Gwayne. Her hand rested in his uncle’s, the other poised on his shoulder, while Gwayne’s hand settled at her waist. 

A fierce spark ignited beneath Aemond’s skin, a heat that was both possessive and volatile, threatening to spill over. 

A new tune bega, so did the dance. Aemond sat back, dragging his blunt nails over the edge of the chair, his movements slow and measured, though the tension coiled within him like a tight spring. The sight of his wife in the arms of another man, gracefully moving across the floor, sent an ugly twist through his chest. He watched, silently seething, as the fabric of her gown flowed behind her, and her hair caught the light as they spun–a star burning through the colors of dusk.

He wished it was him–wished to feel her under his hand, to lead her across the floor. But he knew that if he asked, she would refuse. And even if she didn’t, it would be out of obligation, not desire. That was a truth he could not bear to confront tonight. So he remained in his seat, the air around him sharp and brittle, the desire to claim what was his warring with the restraint that held him back.

His gaze flickered down to the cloak left behind on her chair, the symbol of their union cast aside so easily. It pricked at him like a thorn, digging into his pride and fueling the possessive fire that burned in his veins. She might dance with Gwayne now, might let another man place his hand on her waist, but in the end, it was him to whom she was bound.

The gods had never granted Aemond anything–everything he possessed was something he had seized with his own hands. He had claimed Daenera as his wife, as he had claimed Vhagar, yet now, as he watched her dance, a genuine smile lighting her face, a thought gnawed at him. He had her, she bore his name, wore his cloak, but still, she was not truly his. She may be his wife, bound to him in the eyes of the realm, but her smiles, her laughter, her heart–they eluded him, slipping through his fingers like sand.

She was his. The thought echoed in his mind, but did little to soothe the ache deep within his chest. He had her, yes, but he wanted her in ways that went beyond mere possession. He craved her tough, her affection, her love–things he could not take by force, no matter how skilled he was at wielding a blade, things he had lost when he had chased her brother through the storm. The thought left him restless, the sharp edges of longing cutting through him. 

The boy stood there–Lucerys.

Still and unnatural, he stood a ghost amidst the living. The colors of the dancers–rich greens, shimmering golds, soft purples, and vibrant reds–whirled around him. The dancers, absorbed in the merriment and music, were oblivious to the pale figure in their midst. His presence was like a chill shadow cutting through the warm hues of the throne room–water dripping from his dark curls as if freshly pulled from the depths of the storm. His skin was ashen, lips blue and silent as death itself–and his eyes, blue hidden beneath a veil of white, staring right at him. 

His blood had felt no different from the rain when it had splattered against his face. 

Daenera spun past Lucerys, her gown flowing as she twirled to the tune of the music. She danced past the ghost of her brother without a second glance, unaware of the haunting presence that clung to the air around them. She danced on, moving past the dead boy, past the lingering chill and blood-soaked memories that pricked at the back of Aemond’s mind. 

Aemond’s eye followed Daenera’s every movement, his heart thudding heavily within his chest. The weight of his sins pressed against him like an iron vice. His love for her, his desperation to keep her, were tangled with the horrors of his deeds. And though she danced, beautiful and serene, he could not escape the creeping terror that her smile, like the ghost in their midst, would one day vanish into the cold silence that followed Lucery’s death. 

Aemond’s desire for Daenera was both pathetic and desperate. She belonged to him, yet the intensity of his yearning felt like a hollow victory. As he watched her, the realization that she was truly his wife, and yet he was left longing for her.

Yet, perhaps more dreadfully, he was hers.

That truth, though unspoken, pressed upon him with a weight he could not shake. It was as if she had claimed him just as surely as he had claimed her, though not with the same brutal finality. She had burrowed into his heart, the poison of her presence spreading through his veins, making him weak, vulnerable. He resented it as much as he craved it. Even now, watching her glide across the dance floor, he could feel the twisted seed of his desire for her growing, tangling around his soul.

Aemond clenched his jaw, his gaze burning with intensity as he followed her movements. She was his, and yet, not entirely. He had taken her as his wife, but what he wanted–the parts of her that were not just bound by duty–remained distant. And that truth, bitter and maddening, settled deep within him.

It was a fitting punishment for a monster, wasn’t it?

[just-some-random-blogger]

The children would respect mama stark 😤

Daemon: FOR THE LOVE OF GODS STOP TRYING TO JUMP OF DANGEROUS PLACES

Y/n : ...children

Triplets : * stop and make a line from tallest to shortest by minutes *

Also i feel like aemond would have a big crush on her , he would be talking to one of her children like :

Ok ...the first one who gives me mommy's panties gets a ride with vaghar

MILF

[Blurb IV for the Stark!Reader Universe]

Aemond Targaryen & the Stark-Targaryen spawn + a hint of Aemond Targaryen x Stark!Reader [Daemon in the background be fucking quiet]

Summary: AWWW HERE COMES MY FAVORITE MILF

Word Count: >700

Warnings: Shitpost ahead (real), my a/n is longer than the fic (half real), I locked Daemon in the basement to write this AHHAHAHA (very real), crack fic, soft!aemond, aemond simping, and me simping for him, this is honestly pretty long for a blurb but whatever, fluff, typos, etc.

Blurb III Blurb V

A/N: THIS IS MY AUTHOR'S NOTE BECAUSE I'M WRITING THIS AND ADDING MEMES NO ONE CAN STOP ME THE WAY I CAVED SO QUICKLY FOR THIS MAN My reaction to your ask anon: 💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀

THE FACT YOU wILLINGLY BROUGHT UP AEMOND I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR SOMEONE TO SAY SOMETHING ANYTHING ABOUT AEMOND AND MAYBE EVEN REQUEST SMTH AND IT IS NIGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Also i don't know if you noticed bestie, but i set the start of daemon and stark!reader's relationship wayyyyyyyyyy before aemond was alive, cause Aemma was still queen when they got married. BUT FUCK CONTINUITY. IS AEMOND PROBABLY YOUNGER THAN HER KIDS??????????? ASHFA:FOAEW HAHAHHAHHAAHHAAHAHH MAYBE WTF but let's pretend it's totally canon that aemond is a grown ass adult when stark!reader gave birth because it took THAT long for their enemies to lovers to turn into fucking lovers LOLOLOLOL And i literally just answered an ask about how many kids they have and i was like 'idk i didn't even gender or name them' FUCK OFF NOW THATS ALL ABOUT TO CHANGE i still didn't name them though because a;lsfhkalsfhahsfas The incest is real, i got so confused about how they were related to aemond Tagging: @deniixlovezelda @pinksirensong @nyctophilic0vitnir

"Company fall in," Aemond commands. He peers down at the blonde children, hands behind his back, jaw tense. His violet eye narrows, "where is your brother?"

The eldest by technicality answers, "which one?"

Aemond hums at the sass, "obviously the one that is not here."

The siblings look amongst themselves and decide it was one of the twins missing. The youngest of the triplets shrugs, "we don't know where he went."

"Clearly, you don't even care where he went. You will get in trouble with your mother if she hears of this."

"No," the second triplet answers, "you will, cousin."

Aemond's nose flares as he narrows his eyes yet again.

"Aemond," the only girl in the row raises her hand.

"Yes, my love?"

"My braid is falling out," she raises her blonde hair. The flowers Aemond had placed in it moments ago fall. Sequentially, her lip quivers and tears prick in her eyes.

"Oh no," "Don't cry," "It's okay," and things along this line are spoken by the little girl's infinite supply of brothers.

Aemond can only watch as the boys come upon her, picking up her flowers and trying to fix her hair.

"NO I WANT AEMOND TO FIX MY HAIR!" she whines, full on breaking into a sob.

The boys turn to their him in panic. Aemond swiftly picks the girl up in his arms.

"Right," he mutters to the boys as he rocks the child too soothe her. She latches onto him as Aemond continues, "have you lot retrieved what I asked you to?"

"No! They're truly lost!"

"They weren't in the drawers."

"Or the laundry."

"They're," poof sound, "gone for good!"

He hums, readjusting the girl in his arms to look at her, "well it seems no one will ride Vhagar today-"

OUTCRY.

"-and your sister and I," he turns to the boys once, "will busy ourselves with braiding."

She grins as she grips Aemond's cheeks in her tiny hand.

Aemond gives her a lopsided smile.

"Aemond," I call. My son, who had come to me in hopes we find his siblings, releases my hand runs off to the rest of his brothers. "I see it is you who have been entertaining my children."

"MUMMYYYYYYYYYYYY!"

A stampede of children run up to my skirt. The girl in Aemond's arms wrangle away from him. Once she is released, she runs up to me, flashing her teary eyes and pout.

"Oh my dear, what has-"

"Her flowers fell."

"HE ruined her braid."

"I did NOT!"

"You did!!"

"Boys, that's enough," I quip.

"Aemond and I will braid hairs!" my little girl mutters amidst the chaos of her brothers.

"Ah," I lean down to her and caress her face. I straighten up when Aemond circles around the kids to come up beside me. I give him a look before turning down to the small blondes, "children, have you been heckling Prince Aemond for a ride on Vhagar again?"

"NOOOOOOOOO!"

"Your father will not be happy to hear about this."

"We were only helping him look for your knickers, mummy."

Aemond's blood stills.

"What?"

"There is a knickers thief!"

"Aemond is trying to catch him."

I turn to Aemond who offers a stoic look. He clears his throat and eyes me intently when he says, "the matter has greatly distressed the servants and I have been alerted by it."

"We can't find your knickers anywhere!"

"Because I don't have knickers," I retort to my son, "I do not wear them."

Aemond gulps roughly.

The boys look up at me and one asks, "why?"

"Well, that is a question for your father," I dismiss, cocking my head to the side, "come along. It is time to feed the wolves."

The children cheer, falling into conversation about their direwolves. I turn to Aemond, who was rubbing his temples, stressed by the noise I suppose. I watch as my daughter comes up to him and grabs his hand.

"Aemond, if you still wish to indulge my daughter, you may take her up the chambers while the rest of us head to the wolf den."

"But I want to see the wolfies too, mummy!"

Aemond chuckles airily, shaking his head, "then off to the wolfies."

"But you clearly seem distressed-"

"I assure you, my princess," Aemond reaches his hand out to me. I place my hand in his. He presses a kiss at the back of my hand, "no distress is possible in your presence."

I snort, rolling my eyes. I pull away, "you are such a boy when you tease me."

[bruhstories]

perfectly imperfect

summary: otto hightower gathers more allies in support of his nephew after the destruction of the dragonpit. y/n reyne, lady of castamere, offers her hand in marriage to aemond targaryen to secure the safety of her land and people.

pairing: aemond targaryen x reyne!fem!reader (aged up)

warnings & content: canon-divergent, graphic descriptions of violence, aegon makes fun of disabilities, aegon is a dick to women, typical asoiaf shenanigans, unprotected sex, p in v, loss of virginity, fem bodied reader

wc: ~3.7k

a/n: listen, i did not plan on simping for aemond, okay? i was actually planning a daemon fic but i got carried away. also, there are NO spoilers for episode 10. i know it got leaked, i haven't watched it yet.

It seemed as if Aegon had won a trophy in Helaena when compared to Aemond's betrothed. He had complained about his sister-wife when he was a child, complained that she wasn't beautiful enough, that she was strange, with her fascination for insects, particularly spiders. Aegon could not fathom why his wife was drawn to such peculiar practices, but part of him was grateful he ended up marrying Helaena and not Y/N Reyne.

Aemond, on the other hand, made no verbal complaints about his soon-to-be wife. He had always obeyed his mother's rules, and he knew his marriage to the Lady of Castamere was nothing but political — an alliance with a powerful and rich family would only benefit in supporting Aegon's claim to the throne. All he had to do was put an heir in Y/N and secure his Targaryen lineage. He didn't have to love her, but he would respect her.

After the destruction of the Dragon Pit, Otto knew he had to act swiftly, asking lords and ladies all around Westeros for their support. It was Y/N Reyne who offered her own hand in marriage in exchange for the protection of her lands and people, and Otto and Alicent agreed. A small price to pay for the riches of Castamere. With her silver and gold, they could fund soldiers for the impending war between the Blacks and the Greens.

Not long after Aegon's coronation, Y/N Reyne travelled to King's Landing for a quick wedding. There was no time for feasts and parties, there was no time for her to get to know her husband — she wanted her people safe, and Otto wanted supporters.

The Lady of Castamere arrived at the Red Keep on horseback with a promised 200 soldiers, chests of gold, silver and rubies. Greeted by the king himself, Y/N bowed down, offering Aegon a dagger encrusted with small rubies on its silver handle.

"It's not Valyrian steel, your grace, but it was made by my finest blacksmiths." She removed the hood of her cloak, exposing a scar that went from her cheek, down her neck, the rest hidden behind her chest plate.

Aegon scrunched his nose at the sight of her scar, but the look of disgust came after she removed her leather gloves, revealing a missing ring finger on her right hand.

"You'll make a fine wife for my brother." The king sneered, and Alicent smiled. Finally, her son was speaking like a true royal. "Seeing as you're both cripples." Aegon laughed, toying with the dagger in his hand, bored and perhaps drunk.

Y/N pursed her lips. It took a lot of willpower not to bark back at him. She had sworn her loyalty to him, after all.

"I see your grace has a sense of humour." The Lady of Castamere smiled, the scar more visible when her cheeks puffed up.

It made Aegon's stomach churn to see a flawed woman. At least Helaena tried to look feminine, dressed in the finest of silks and wearing the most expensive jewellery, like a true queen. Yet Y/N was boyish, wearing metal plates and leather trousers. In the king's mind, she should've been in a carriage, not on a horse. She should've worn a dress, not an armour. She should've let her hair flow, not wear it in a plait.

The silence in the Red Keep was deafening, until Alicent offered to take Y/N to her chambers and Otto ordered Ser Criston Cole to take the westerlands soldiers to the East Barracks. The Lady of Castamere was taken aback when Alicent had asked her about her wedding dress, as Y/N had not brought one.

"I assumed it would be a quick wedding." She shrugged.

"I understand, but the king would not like it if you came to your own wedding wearing... that." Alicent sighed, exhausted by Aegon's shenanigans. "Come, we'll find something in Helaena's chambers."

All of the queen's dresses were beautiful, most of them silver or gold, but they did not fit Y/N. Her frame was quite athletic, as the scar on her skin was won in battle, and she was much taller, making the dresses look like they were tossed on a fence, not worn by a woman.

"My lady, I am truly sorry-"

"No, it's fine." Alicent chewed on her lower lip, an idea creeping in her mind. Y/N could wear one of Rhaenyra's old dresses, preferably one that wasn't black. In a bitter twist of fate, Rhaenyra's clothes did fit Y/N, and it only made Alicent more conflicted about her friendship, about everything that was happening.

It was overwhelming to see her son's future wife wearing her best friend's clothes. In the dusty golden dress and her hair in a braid, Y/N reminded Alicent of the day she had asked Rhaenyra about her and Daemon, a day that changed the course of everyone's lives. Who knew back then that their friendship would turn into animosity?

"My lady? Is something the matter?" Y/N took Alicent's hand in hers.

"No. No, you look perfect. Please, I have one last request." She smiled, but there was so much sadness hidden behind that smile.

"Of course."

"Untie your hair. Let it flow down your back. Just for tonight. After your wedding you may do with it as you please."

It was a strange request, but Y/N did not dare question it. She untied the bow holding her hair in place, running her fingers through her locks. Satisfied, Alicent hurried her out of Rhaenyra's chamber and into the Throne Room, where the king, the queen, the Hand, the High Septon, and Aemond waited.

That was the first time Y/N met her soon-to-be husband, the patch on his eye making him look both mysterious and menacing. She then understood what Aegon meant by cripple. Y/N bowed in front of the king and queen, taking her place to Aemond's right side. The younger Targaryen showed no emotion whatsoever at her presence, instead took her hands in his, listening to the Septon's prayers.

"With this kiss, I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband." Y/N uttered her vows, noticing the disinterested look on Aegon's face.

"With this kiss, I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife." Aemond did not hesitate snaking his fingers behind Y/N's ear, pulling her into a soft kiss, interrupted only by the king's own drunken chuckles, mixed with hiccups.

"You are now man and wife — one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever." The High Septon concluded, followed by dead silence.

Everyone knew what would happen next — consummation. Y/N was clever enough to know that she had to give Aemond an heir, but part of her hoped she would not be with child. She wanted to fight by her husband's side, not stay in the Red Keep or Castamere and raise children. Nevertheless, she was urged by Otto to follow Aemond in his chamber, and she reluctantly did.

To her surprise, her husband gently held her hand on the way up the stairs, and while she has been in battles, lost a finger, and had her face mutilated, the thought of losing her maidenhead made her feel sick. Before her mother died, she had prepared Y/N for the consummation of her marriage — how to seduce her husband, how to please him, what to say, where to touch him. It all seemed easy in theory, but putting it in practice was much, much harder.

There was a lump in her throat that she couldn't swallow, and although she felt cold, beads of sweat began to form on her forehead. Y/N thought she knew fear, but nothing compared to this. It did not help that Aemond did not utter a single word after speaking his vows, and perhaps it was for the best. There was nothing he could say that would make her feel less anxious. When he began to remove his cloak and unbutton his doublet, Y/N froze.

"Wait." She finally spoke, and Aemond did wait. He wasn't necessarily impatient to consummate his marriage, unlike his brother who would fuck anything that had two legs and a pretty face. "Before we proceed, I have to say this."

"Go on." Aemond neatly folded his cloak, placing it on a wooden chair, the half-unbuttoned doublet exposing his chest.

"I'm a fighter, not a mother. I will gladly give you an heir, if that is what you desire, but I want to fight side by side with you, my lord husband." Y/N hurried to where he stood, stripping herself of her ego by pleading with him.

"Why?" There was a hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. The only other person who shared Aemond's passion for violence was Ser Criston Cole. Not even his brother was seduced by violence, let alone a noblewoman.

"You are a dragon." She replied. "I am a lion. We are not meant to be kept as pets. You, out of everyone, must understand the thrill of the battle, especially when you fight for what you believe in." Y/N spotted the wine on the table and poured herself a cup, only to ease her mind — and her body.

"And what do you believe in, then?" Aemond watched her sloppily drink the wine, the red liquid spilling down her chin, down the crook of her neck, staining the dress of the woman he so much hated.

"Violence." The Lady of Castamere slammed the cup on the table, feeling herself a tad more courageous. "Pure, ecstatic violence."

It was quite clear that her mother's seducing techniques would not work on a man like Aemond, and they did not need to work, because Y/N's honesty completely enchanted him. To have someone share his passions was more than he could ask from a wife. Once, he was fascinated by, perhaps enamoured with Helaena, but she was soft, and had he married her and grown to love her, she would've softened him. Y/N, on the other hand, was the spark he needed to ignite the fire flowing in his veins. He was a dragon, after all.

"I do not desire an heir." Aemond admitted. He couldn't see himself a father, partly because his own father seemed to prefer his nephews instead of his sons. The fact that Y/N was not interested in being a mother only solidified his love for battle. "And I do not care if you give me one."

Aemond's words awakened something in Y/N, something she had never felt before. It most certainly wasn't love — she couldn't possibly love a man she had just met. It was something else. Lust.

"So, will you allow me to fight, then?" Her voice went up an octave, excited, like a child receiving a toy.

"Gladly. Tell me," Aemond decided to consummate the marriage by discussing their experiences in battle, "have you killed before?" He poured himself a cup of wine. The young Targaryen wasn't keen on drinking, like his brother, but he enjoyed the occasional cup of Arbor Red. And he enjoyed drinking it over talks of spilled blood.

Y/N nodded, taking a seat at the table, finally feeling relaxed.

"Once." She watched her husband sit on the chair next to her, urging her to tell him how and when, and to not shy away from details. Y/N explained that it truly was an accident. Or, better it started as an accident. "Because father never let me fight, I used to dress like a boy and play with wooden swords. But because I was also a spoiled child, I couldn't fathom losing." She sighed, and Aemond was beginning to pick up on where her story was going.

"You don't seem like a spoiled child." Her husband watched her unwind, taking her shoes off and kicking them away.

"I suppose I never wanted to be one, but I liked the perks that came with it. That day, I was playing with the stable boys, and one of them beat the life out of me. I didn't mind the physical pain, but I felt humiliated." Y/N scoffed. "When I attacked him, he removed the hood from my head and instantly recognised me. I was fortunate enough that the other boys left, but out of fear of father finding out what I was doing, I pushed him so hard he fell and hit his head in the stone wall."

"But it was accidental." Aemond mimicked his wife by taking his boots off. He felt strangely comfortable around Y/N, discussing issues he could never talk about with his family.

"Indeed." She agreed. "But I was afraid he would heal and tell the maesters who did that to him. When I caught a glimpse of a dagger, I picked it up, straddled the boy and stabbed him."

"How many times?" His voice was dangerously low, and although Aemond was leaned back in the chair, his fingernails dug into the wood of the armrests, excited to hear more.

"Enough for him to never recover. There was so much blood." Y/N gingerly touched her face, as if she could still feel the hot crimson liquid trickling down her chin. "Warm blood — on my hands, my clothes, my face. I should've felt guilty, but I didn't." There was no hint of remorse in her voice, and her eyes darted to Aemond's lap. It did not surprise her that he was aroused by her story, the bulge in his leather trousers growing more noticeable every time she spoke about blood.

"Then what happened?"

"I left him there, ran back to the castle, burned the clothes and went to bed." Y/N laughed, not at the poor boy's death, but at how selfish she had been. "I was young and stupid."

"You talk as if you're an old hag." The corners of Aemond's lips turned into a smirk.

"It happened a decade ago."

"Tell me, then, if you had your current wisdom, what would you have done?" He leaned forward, studying his wife.

"I would do it all again." Y/N smiled, the wine taking over her brain. She played into her husband's game by imitating him and leaning closer to his face. "I would perhaps get rid of the body this time." Y/N whispered into Aemond's ear.

He had heard enough — enough to desire her in bed. It could've been the wine, it could've been that he hasn't laid with a woman in a long time, but Aemond grabbed Y/N by the back of her neck, pressing his lips onto hers. She allowed him to slide his tongue between her wine-stained lips, and even dared to pull him closer.

Her fears? Gone.

Her morals? Gone.

Her last shred of dignity? Gone.

Aemond pulled away, earning a soft sigh from his wife, only to pull her up from the chair and push her onto the table, the cups clattering onto the floor.

"You..." He whispered, struggling to pull her dress up. "You were made to be mine." Aemond resorted to tearing the dress apart. He didn't like it, anyway, and he knew it brought sorrow to his mother.

Y/N melted under his touch like steel in dragonfire. She hastily pulled his green shirt over his head, taking a moment to appreciate his looks. It tickled Aemond's ego. He did not give two shits on people's opinion of him, but seeing the lust in her eyes only fuelled his inner fire.

"I-" She pressed her palms against his chest. "I am a maiden." Y/N told him, as if he expected her not to be one.

"I can't promise to be gentle." Aemond kissed her again. "But I can promise you will enjoy it."

That was a foreign concept to her. All the stories she heard from her mother were about pain, and how it was a woman's duty to bed her husband and not take pleasure from it. Only whores enjoy it, her mother would say. A whore she would be, then.

Once both of them were stripped of their clothes and morals, Y/N squeezed her thighs together, partly because she wanted to tease her husband. And Aemond was too far gone to respect his wife. His elbow pushed between her thighs, opening her legs while his hands dug into her hips, pulling her closer to him, like a starving dog.

"It will hurt." Was his attempt to comfort her.

"I know." Y/N nodded, her fingernails digging into his upper arms, bracing for pain. "I'm ready."

With her consent out of the way, Aemond slowly slid the tip of his cock between her already slick folds, stopping when he saw the discomfort on her face.

"Relax." He demanded, but it came from a good place. Being more experienced, Aemond wanted everything but to hurt her. When she nodded again, he pushed further, only to hear his wife scream in agony. "Bite into my shoulder. I don't suppose you want to wake everyone up."

Reluctantly, Y/N obeyed the order, her teeth sinking into his skin, and when he bottomed out, she arched her back in pain, wriggling and writhing under him. Tears pooled at the corners of her eyes, despite Aemond stopping every movement to allow her to adjust to his size. What was worse was gone, and Y/N wrapped her arms around his shoulders, clinging to him as if her life depended on it.

"By the gods, it hurts so much!" She cried out, gasping when she saw the mark she left on his skin.

"I know. But it will not get any worse than this." Aemond assured her. "Do you trust me?"

"I do." Y/N sobbed, but he was right. The pain slowly dissipated, and her muscles relaxed, no longer feeling on edge. It still hurt, yes, but it did not compare to the sheer pain she had felt moments ago.

When Aemond began rolling his hips, something awakened in the Lady of Castamere. The slight discomfort was still present, but it was quickly replaced by an unknown feeling which Y/N realised was something primal and instinctive — pleasure. Not even the thrills of fighting could compare to the pleasure she felt when Aemond thrusted harder and harder into her sloppy cunt.

"Fuck, you're so tight." He practically growled, surprising himself with his own words. Aemond wasn't the type of man to talk during these intimate moments, and while he enjoyed the occasional visits to brothels with Aegon, his wife was superior to all the whores he'd ever fucked.

Even her gestures were drawing him to her — the way Y/N rolled her eyes back, how she gasped, how she scratched his skin, leaving her mark on his body. Sure, Aegon might be disgusted by her scar and missing finger, but to Aemond, she was perfectly imperfect.

"So g-good!" Her thoughts were fuzzy, her words barely coherent. All Y/N could do was take him all in and revel in the bliss Aemond offered her.

But he wanted more, and when he pulled out, she complained. It bewildered her how much she actually enjoyed herself, to the point she cried out when she couldn't feel his cock stuffing her.

"Turn around." Aemond ordered, but he was already in the process of flipping her over, his hand pressing her face on the table.

Instinctively, Y/N lifted her ass up, like a bitch in heat, her fingernails leaving scratches on the wood.

"Please, put it in." Her cheeks were squished on the hard surface, body hot to the touch. There was no more room for decency and grace when all she wanted was for her husband to fuck her stupid.

"Already worshipping my cock, eh?" His lips pressed a kiss on her shoulder before he released the grip on her neck to lift her leg on the table. But he delivered, and he pushed his cock into her yearning cunt, a string of moans escaping her lips.

Y/N arched her back, not believing it would be possible for her to feel better than before. Oh, how wrong her mother was. She could feel him deeper, and he was anything but gentle and respectful.

The more he thrusted, the more she bucked her hips, using her trembling arms for support. Aemond's chambers echoed with her moans and his grunts, with the sound of skin on skin, and the disgusting wet noises that filled the Street of Silk.

And then it happened — Aemond's pace quickened, his fingers bruising her hips, and Y/N could feel her climax boiling into her core, awaiting release. Her spongy walls clenched around his cock, her head felt lighter and her chest heavier.

"Gods, Aemond, I can't-" She fell flat on the table, the filthiest guttural sounds emanating from her.

"Fuck." He could feel himself closer to his own climax, but he swiftly pulled his cock out, spilling his seed onto her lower back.

The warm liquid made Y/N prop herself on her elbows, curious as to why he did not finish inside of her.

"No heirs tonight." Aemond said, as if hearing her thoughts. "You're not a cow for breeding, you are my wife."

"I could've taken the tea." She spotted a piece of fabric from her wedding dress and took it, attempting to clean herself.

"You could've, but then everyone would find out." He snatched the fabric from her hand and wiped her skin clean. "And what would my grandfather think, then? That you're not a woman of your word, or worse, that you're plotting against the king."

Aemond was right. The maester would surely let the Hand know, and then she would either be imprisoned or killed.

"Very well. No heirs tonight." Y/N took the soiled fabric, tossing it into the fireplace. 

Aemond brought Y/N one of his robes, draping it around her shoulders, his hand resting on the small of her back. Strangely, he felt the urge to hold her close to him, this woman he met and wed on the same day. He felt the need to protect her, despite knowing very well she did not need his protection.

But the only people he ever showed affection were his mother, and occasionally his sister. He did not know how to be a husband. But to show his wife that he trusted her, Aemond quietly took his eye patch off, revealing a sapphire gem in place of his missing eye.

"Disfigured." He uttered, watching his own reflection in the mirror next to the fireplace.

"No, perfect." She smiled, tilting her head so that he could better see her scar. Aemond brought his index finger to her cheek, tracing the scar down her neck, down her collarbone, in-between her breasts.

"One flesh, one heart, one soul." He repeated the Septon's words, and they began to make more sense.

"Now and forever."

[queers-gambit]

Midnight Calls

prompt: your Dragon Prince summons you to the throne room late one evening.

pairing: Daemon Targaryen x female!reader

fandom masterlist: House of the Dragon

word count: 7.1k+

note: oh, this fucking guy is doing something to me.

warnings: not edited because wonky brain gave up, poorly written Iron Throne smut (too lazy for specifics), Daemon's a simp in this, too, cursing, descriptive language and situations, allusion to domestic abuse, murder plot? ... murder plot.

next: part two: High Noon

"My Lady?" You heard from the front of your room, turning mutely away from the newly-stoked fire to spy a handmaiden sheepishly standing in the cracked doorway. "I'm sorry to intrude, but your presence has been requested - "

"By whom? It's well after midnight, Mary," you snipped, exhausted from the day's events. Your husband laid in a separate bed with his company of whores, and you? You were chosen as witness for the Princess' marriage to the Heir of Driftmark, and after the excitement of the feast, you were ready to take yourself to bed. "I am retired for the evening, for I am beyond my wits in exhaustion, so, please, go inform whomever that I am not available at this - "

"Prince Daemon has sent for you, Lady."

These words made you come to something of a screeching halt; where your heels actually skidded over the stone floor of your bed chamber. Your hands instantly fiddled with each other, slowly turning to stare at the maid as if to sus out her lie.

Truth was, years ago, when you were young and stupid, you and the Prince Daemon had something akin to a love affair; though you had never coupled before, it was something grand. Mary knew of this due to the fact that she has been your handmaiden for as long as you had been apart of court - going on some decade now.

Your father had pushed for you to marry the Prince of the City, and in fact, Daemon often liked to entertain the idea of a wedding, and putting babes in your belly, and living a 'simple' life with you. He courted you royally, loved you wholly, and never once made you feel as if you were anything less than your status - yet still lit a flame of desire in your stomach that made you feel like a dirty whore. Everything was good, the court - and most of all, the King, Daemon's grandfather - seemed to approve of the love-match and would often show their support by addressing the pair of you together as one.

And then... The Queen, his grandmother, had struck a bargain with the Royce's of the Vale, and the second son, Daemon, was wed within a fortnight after his knighthood - where you had celebrated with him lovingly. Supportively. Protectively.

You had held his hand possessively through the entire reception (not that he let go, either), kissed his cheek with desire pitting your stomach, and played your part of dutiful Lady well. You celebrated the Prince with love in your eyes, before those same eyes filled with tears when you stood in the same throne room, watching him repeat vows to a woman he'd never love.

He was different after that, distant and stoic; cold and calculating. He became brutal and unpredictable, and after his wedding, he wasn't to be seen with you - as you were still unwed.

But you held no quarrels with that because seeing Daemon in court, even, weighed your heart to your feet. His absence was always noted, and you were never sure if you were more on edge when he was present or not; yet, when he was banished, nothing ever truly stuck, as he would always return, making your stomach and heart flip.

This time around, Daemon Targaryen had strut into the throne room of the Red Keep and was offered a chair at the King's table - his brother's table - during the wedding feast of his Lady niece, the Realm's Delight and Heir to the Iron Throne, Princess Rhaenyra.

You were in the crowd, a grimace on your face from your husband's heavy, greasy hands, and your heart turned to stone after Daemon's 'abandonment'. Sure, you understood he had no choice, but you still hated that he actually married her, and now, years later, he just pranced back into everyone's life following the news of his wife's untimely demise. And how tragic, for the young couple did not have any children, and therefore, no heirs to Rhea's home, Runestone.

To say you were suspicious was an understatement, but curiosity burned a fucking hole in your mind over what the Rogue Prince wanted with you now - after all this time - at this very late hour.

Huffing, your hands smoothed over the skirt of your evening gown, and your throat constricted with emotion to see no lie in the maid's eyes; only nervousness, and fear, as if she knew what would become of her if she did not produce you to the Prince.

Nodding, you assured, "Thank you... I will find the Prince soon."

"He's waiting for you," she glanced to the hallway; confusion knotting your stomach.

"He's out there right now?"

"No, no, Lady, but he lingers in the foyer for you," she nodded, watching you nervously pace in a small circle.

"Very well," you relented, sighing once more as you came to a halt. "Take the night off, Mary, you've worked all day. I will see you in the morning."

The maid nodded and sighed with relief, "Thank you, Lady. Yes, yes, I will see you soon for the tournament begins in the morn. Sleep well, my Lady, do not let the Prince plague you greatly."

"He's just a headache to the court, I can handle the Prince," you waved, slightly rolling your eyes; feigning passiveness while the idea of seeing the Prince again made hair on your neck and arms stand rigid with excitement.

It didn't take long for Mary to leave and for you to slip from your room, most of the castle already fast asleep from the exhaustion the day warranted. You moved along the darkened halls, still in your evening gown with heels clacking over the stone floors; thoughts and wonder over what Daemon wanted now - as you were married, and it was uncouth for him to call upon you like he was.

Yet, curiosity shot through your blood like an arrow through a pheasant.

You rounded the last corner to the foyer, slowing your gait as you glanced around; wondering where the hell your caller could've been, and why the hell you had so easily agreed to meet with him. Your hands joined in front of you again, twisting in anxiety as your head turned on a swivel to try and spy the white-haired-devil you had loved since you were a young girl, new and fresh to the courts.

You saw nothing to give any indication anyone was there, until your gaze caught the double doors to the throne room - where only one was cracked a sliver to allow a dusting of lighting to flood into the room. With as much bravery as you felt you could muster, you neared the doors, checked once more for anyone watching you, and pushed the door open only a hair more to allow you to slip inside.

The door clanged shut as you pressed your back against it.

The stone of the throne room floor was still wet with blood from the murdered Velaryon Knight, a few candles still alight to provide an outline of the room's furniture. Your eyes scanned the room before finding your caller, sat lazily on the Iron Throne - staring you down with a knowing smirk, fingers curled to toy with his bottom lip.

"My Prince," You greeted smoothly, dress fluttering as you descended the stone stairs into the lower landing of the throne room.

"What do you think?" He asked in his native tongue, having taught you what felt like a lifetime ago. And like muscle memory, your ears understood his words, and your tongue formed a response without needing to be reminded,

"Of what?"

He smirked when he heard you slip into Valyrian. "Of me, my sweet Lady, here, on the Throne," his other hand opened in a lazy gesture.

Your head cocked, shrugging, "Doesn't suit you. You look unnatural up there, my Prince."

"Is that so?"

Your smirk grew only a fraction, "It's a chair to grow old and fat in... Hardly becoming to a knight of your stature."

"My Lady knows how to flatter me," Daemon smirked.

Your feet stepped over the pooled blood, skirts of your dress dragging through the tacky substance to streak across the floor. "Why did you call me here tonight, Daemon?"

"Is that malice in your voice that I detect, my Lady?"

"You expected me to be happy?" You wondered, eyes casting to the half-burning candles around him. "Tonight has not been what I ever could've imagined - and then you send for me after midnight? I am not happy, Prince, but should you call, I'd be a fool to refuse, yes? Or so you've had it known."

"I am not the same as before," Daemon sighed patiently. "I am newly single, my Lady."

"Right. My condolences for your late, Lady wife, my Prince."

He waved your words off as you finally came to a halt at the base of the Iron Throne's pedestal. "Her passing matters not - "

"Especially since my husband still draws breath," you quipped, cocking your head; reminding him that you were not his.

Daemon sighed tiredly, "Oh, you bore me with talk of marriage to the wrong people. Come, my Lady, you know I would have you - "

"From what I've seen tonight, you'd have me, your niece, and her cousin, too! Lady Laena is truly a rare breed, a beauty beyond this age."

"Is that jealousy?" He mused, still speaking to you as if in Valyria itself. "First malice, now you are jealous? I must admit, it is not becoming on you, Lady."

"Matters not what I feel, for I am owned by a man. Who is not you, I'll remind."

This time, Daemon's head cocked, "Is that right? Never thought I'd see the day someone 'owned' you - you had the most spirit of any Lady in court - "

"Funny how things change, my Prince. Now, is there a reason for you calling on me tonight?"

Daemon leaned forward to press his elbows to his knees, gesturing you forward, "Come."

"Daemon - "

"My Lady, do you not trust me? Is that where our friendship has gotten us?" His head cocked naughtily, smirking deeper than before.

"Our friendship has brought us nothing but heartbreak, Daemon," you refused, standing your ground.

"And my wife is no longer around - "

"Leaving only one obstacle?"

"An obstacle I would gladly cut down - if it meant I could have what is owed to me!" Daemon snapped, standing to his feet in anger. "You would blame me for what was never within my control!?"

"You did not fight for me! You did not fight for us, Daemon, and now you want me to believe - that what? After all this time, you love me still?"

"I never stopped - "

"Yet you couple with your niece!?"

"ENOUGH!" Daemon roared, panting heavily.

"No!" You raged in return, stalking up the stairs. "No! You don't get to shut this down because you are uncomfortable or ashamed! For years - years, Daemon - you let me feel this! We've never spoke of it - let alone been alone to have such a conversation since the Queen Mother broke our engagement!"

His eyes turned hard, "I did not do that, dove, you do not - "

"Yet, you did nothing!"

"And what did you do?" He demanded. "Hmm? Why must this only be on me? We were both powerless against her, so, tell me - what did you do?"

"I plead," your voice wobbled, tears brimming from your confession. "I begged my father to do something - anything. I even took an audience with the Queen..."

This caught Daemon's attention, making him step closer, "What?"

"I took an audience," you repeated, emotion clawing at your throat, "to beg her to let us marry, that you were... You were all I ever desired. She spat on me in return, and married me off to Lord Tytos out of what I assumed to be vengence."

Daemon's jaw steeled at the mention of your husband, "You did not mention this before."

"When would I have? She married you within 12 days of announcing the end of our and the start of your new engagement! I had no time with you, we could not do anything - there would never have been a difference!"

His head shook as he slipped back into the Common Tongue, "You do not know that."

"I do know that you did not fight for us," you repeated, following suit and changing the way your tongue formed words. "You left me... Like it was easy to forget me..."

He stepped closer, a hand raising to your cheek and jaw, "I did not want to leave you, ever, my dove, and trust me when I say that walking away from you was the hardest thing I've ever done."

"Makes no difference now," you sniffled, allowing yourself a weak moment to enjoy the feel of his warmth. He always ran hot, like the fire in his blood warmed his whole body. You never could sleep properly, feeling far too cold at times - and with Daemon, you were always at ease.

"Tell me to do it," he growled, tightening his grip on you; tugging you into his chest to press closer. "Tell me to cut him down, my Lady, and I will. In the tournament, I will ensure your Lord husband meets his end," he spat the word 'husband', like it was acid on his tongue.

"Daemon," you breathed, his lips ghosting over your own, "I cannot ask that of you, I know you'd do it."

"And? You'd be mine again - "

"You are after too many, after too much! What? Did the other ladies already reject you? I know your niece married tonight, did the Lady Laena reject you, too?"

Daemon's body was pressed to yours, hovering over you in the dim candlelight of the throne room; the Iron Throne looming beside you both as Daemon kept your head tilted back.

"Watch yourself, Lady, I am still your Prince," his breath fanned over your lips and chin. "I could take you and make you mine, for you will never belong to another man. Tell me, my love," he purred sinfully, "has he consummated your marriage?"

Tears sprung to your eyes as you were forced back to your wedding night; gaze dropping to his chest as your lips pursed to keep emotion behind a mask of neutrality that had long since been perfected. But the change in body language, where you tensed under his hands, did not go unnoticed by Daemon.

"What is it?" he asked when you remained quiet, stroking your cheek. "What did he do?"

"Daemon," you breathed, begging him to stop without needing to say the words.

"Did he bring you harm?"

"Don't."

"Has he put his hands on you, Lady?" Daemon demanded, almost jostling your chin as he pulled you to look at him directly. "Tell me," he asked again, petting the apple of your cheek as you choked on your words. "Your Prince asked you a question."

"Daemon, w-what happens between a man and wife behind closed doors... That's sacred - that's not something we should discuss."

His lilac iris' bore into yours, staring straight into your soul, and as if watching it happen in his mind, seemed to understand, "He has brought you harm."

"It matters not," you swore, nudging closer to his chest. "You cannot help me now, Daemon, it's done."

"Tell me something?"

"Like it's a choice," you whispered, his lips pulling into a smirk. Gently, his forehead met yours, and time suddenly stopped as if you were young again.

"Why has his seed not taken?" His voice dropped to a whisper, as if afraid to shatter the glass illusion you had fallen into.

Your shoulders shrugged meekly, "He has other heirs, from earlier marriages. He... He does not share my bed often."

"No? He neglects the one duty a husband has?" He toyed, but your eyes fell from his again. "It is not welcomed, is it, my dove? You do not welcome his touch, do you?"

Sniffling, you answered, "In truth, my Prince, you have the only welcomed touch."

"Then ask me, and I will cut him down, and nothing will stand between us, my sweet," he pet the skin of your cheek, down to your pulse point - like he was drawn to the rapid beating of your heart. "There is no Queen left to tell us what to do, and we can be together."

"We speak of conspiracy, deceit, and me, of mutiny against the man I am sworn to..."

Daemon sighed, "What has he done to you?"

You huffed through your nose, "Only what you have allowed to come to pass. Tell me in truth, is my House so lowly that the Queen sought to undermine the King?"

"In truth, pet, I believe she saw the power we stoke in one another and feared for it," he licked over his lips, gently wetting yours in the process. Relishing in the smallest of gasps that fell past your lips, Daemon continued, "Knowing you and I had each other, she feared the hold we might have on the kingdom. She sought to undermine us, dove, because we showed promise to be stronger than she ever was with the King." Both of his hands seized over your hips to grind into his, hissing, "How powerful our children would be."

"Daemon - you speak dangerously," you whispered, gasping when his teeth gnashed over the sensitive skin of your neck. Your hands jolted to grab onto his biceps, squeezing in temptation as the Prince's mouth salivated from the feel of your breasts pressed against him.

"I speak only the truth," he breathed, forehead to yours; one hand now wrapped around your hips to keep them anchored to his, as the other slithered up to cup your jaw and cheek. "Give us the chance we had stolen from us," his mouth taunted your own, dancing over one another as you breathed one breath. "Let me love you, as a husband properly should."

Your resolve was crumbling, "'S improper."

"The only improper idea is that we are not together now," he all but hissed, frustration evident. "Why do you push me away, Lady? Do you not want me anymore? Say it - tell me you don't want me, and I will walk away. I will leave you alone, the only formalities being that of court."

The idea of Daemon being so far from you, and being someone else's husband again, drove your stomach into your throat. Your heart was his, and had been since you were all but 14; leaving you hardly any room to resist him, and yet duty and honor screamed in your head.

Your hand rose to pet fingertips down his face, catching his bottom lips as your mind waged war with your heart. "What if it's not the same?" You wondered, unable to draw yourself from him even if he asked you to.

Perhaps he needed to push you away - literally and physically - for you to truly let him go. But now that you were in his arms again, you did not want to stray far from them.

"You are still you," he murmured, "and I've always loved you as you are."

And like that, you were done for; rocking to your toes to press your mouth hotly against his, both releasing instant moans from the long-overdue kiss that's haunted both your dreams. His hands were everywhere at once, petting through your hair; over skin; over clothes; and gripping you in ways your husband could only imagine. Yet, your heart tugged, and your mouth muttered against his, "Tell me again."

He chuckled, pulling back to pet over your loosening braids, curling a portion behind your ear; staring beyond your soul, and into your very heart before speaking with the most conviction you've ever heard, "I love you, my dove, and I always have after all this time."

You groaned onto his lips, arms moving to coil around his neck and breathe him in as his hands squeezed your hips tightly. Daemon let his teeth rake over your bottom lip, trapping it, before suckling it wetly into his mouth; making your knees buckle some.

He breathed heavily against you, reaching back, and hissing when his palm was sliced by one of the sword points making up the Iron Throne. "See?" You mused, glancing back to the (stupid idea of a) chair and nudging Daemon. "Not suited for you, my Prince."

He chuckled, "Still... I bet you'd love to fuck me on it."

You nearly hiccuped at his words, "Daemon, if we're caught - this is already risky enough. I'm married..."

"Not for much longer," he rolled his eyes, stepping back to lower himself into the seat of the Throne; eyes never straying from yours as his legs spread almost casually, "and everyone is in bed after tonight's excitement. Wouldn't it be grand for us all to wake in the morning, to another wedding?"

You scoffed lightly, his hands holding yours tightly and easing you forward to his lap; never forcing nor rushing, but encouraging you. "Wouldn't it be a funeral first?"

Daemon cocked his head, smirking as he took hold of your hips to guide you into his lap, musing, "Technically, two of them, my dove."

With knees planted on either side of his slender hips, your cunt was pressed directly over his bulge; foreheads pressed together again, simply existing in your new position. You blinked once, then thrice, asking, "Daemon? Would you lie to me, my dragon?"

"To you?" He repeated, tutting after with a shift of his hips. "Dangerous woman, you know I cannot."

"Then tell me..." You paused, whispering over his lips, "Did you kill your Lady-wife?"

His hands tightened over yours, "Careful, dove. Those are heavy words."

"Do not lie to me, my Prince, I only wish to know the waters we are wading into," you purred, gently rolling your hips forward to test the waters of uncharted territory. Judging by how he stiffened some and held you in a bruising grip, you wagered you were doing something right as you were never charged with another man's pleasure.

You were barely charged with your own.

However, without Daemon, you felt no life in you - no reason to touch yourself, save for the few times in court he had made meaningful eye contact with you before and in-between his banishments.

Now, you had time to show him your adoration, and how perfectly ready for this you felt after the realm's biggest event of the year - a Royal Wedding. Your previous words added with your ministrations caused Daemon's brain to fog a bit before clearing when your teeth nipped his bottom lip. He confessed, "I did not kill my Lady-wife, but by the Gods, do I wish it were me. To get rid of that which stands in our way."

"She is not all," you reminded, his forehead slick against your own.

"I will handle your husband," Daemon promised, helping your hips roll into his at a more practiced pace. "Leave it to me, dove, just give me permission, and he's done for. You and I can finally be together, like we were meant to be, hmm?" he nodded against you, panting lightly as his experienced body felt like a virgin's again by the very idea of having the woman he loved - finally.

You whined against his lips, clinging to his body as your hips moved with his as if with a mind of their own; a wet patch forming under you from how aroused you were, and evidently, how much he was, too. Feeling bold, your hands clamped over his shoulders, and you pushed and pulled your hips with more of a swirl; gaining friction and speed.

"Shit," you cursed, the feeling indescribable. "'S always like this?" You slurred a bit, mouth at his ear as you were focused on the feeling of his hips under yours.

"Can be," he promised, pulling your face to his, licking against your lips; pressing a few searing kisses against your mouth.

"Fuck," you moaned, dry-humping Daemon like you were being paid for it; but not a single fiber of your being cared for how fucked-out you already were. He was the man of your dreams, someone you'd never move on from - and here he was, all yours.

How powerful you felt in that moment.

Daemon even hissed lightly in appreciation when your hand grabbed around his throat to hold him still as your lips and teeth nipped his. "Dove," he panted your old nickname like a prayer held at an alter, bliss coating every syllable; lips licking over the shell of your ear, "I'm not gonna last, and I'll be damned if I don't finish in you tonight."

The notion knotted your stomach, "And if your seed sticks?"

"Then we know who the Gods favor," he purred, biting his bottom lip as he fought off a knowing grin; hips hoisting yours up to hold, allowing him to reach for his trousers to find them already unlaced. "How'd you do that?" he asked with a small laugh, freeing himself from the fabric.

You only winked, leaning in to capture his smiling lips in another kiss as both his hands returned to your hips to squeeze. He let you grind over his lap once, twice, and a third time before lifting you gently again so he could gather the skirts of your soiled dress. "Oh," you gasped when your bare cunt came to settle over his glistening cock.

"Mh," he sighed out, holding you against him. "Just the smell of you is enough for me, dove."

A shiver raked over your body, wondering what the hell was wrong with the Lady Rhea Royce to not bed her husband... Or was that more his doing? "Daemon," you moaned wantonly against his ear, letting yourself squirm on his lap.

"Gods, dove," he hissed, grabbing at your throat to lift your head, "fucking soaking me." He groaned and tossed his head back when your hips swirled to coat his cock with your gathering slick. Another moan fell from your mouth as he reached between you to swipe his fingers down your slit; causing you to jump in slight panic as a fingertip dared to round the rim of your puckered hole - forcing a strangled moan from your throat. "Shhh," he crooned, "'s me, dove. Just me," he soothed, easing a finger down again, into your wanting, pulsing, hot and slick hole; licking his lips, "and you know I've got you. Hmm? Say it, my love."

The sentimental term of endearment was not lost on your ears, yet you only replied, "I know you've got me, my Prince. Only you - only ever you, fuck."

"That's right," he praised, adding another finger as your back arched and thighs quaked a little from straining in order to give him room to work. "There's my good girl, fuck..." His teeth nipped at your ear lobe, humming in appreciation, "Always were such a good girl for your Prince, weren't you, my dove?"

One of your hands was laid along his shoulder to hold the back of his neck as the other cradled his cheek; hips held at an angle as you pressed to him in an arch. "Only ever wanted you," you affirmed in his ear, rocking your hips as his fingers increased speed, "and I always want to please you."

He groaned lightly, your slick arousal causing his fingers to squelch in an echo across the throne room - both moaning at the explicit obscenity. "Fuck - you do, sweet girl," he whispered, voice hoarse from want. "Always fucking please me - just looking at you - fuck," he licked a bold strip up your neck, ending at your ear, "always were the prefect minx for me - no matter how broken you think you are, my dove, you're still so fucking perfect to me. Hmm?" His voice grew steadier as he held you up; legs giving out as his fingers found that spot within your walls, and focused all his energy on that single spot. "Know what you are to me? Know how I will spend my life worshipping you? Never want you to change, dove," his fingers curled inside you, "always want you wild, and free - " He trailed off with a taunt breath, gathering your wetness in his palm as if milking you for your nectar. "Such a good girl, making a fucking mess, mhmph, yes."

"Daemon," you whimpered in a broken whisper that told him more than your words could right now.

"Cum on my fingers, dove. Fuck - I wanna feel you. Fuckin' everywhere, just wanna be with you," he almost deliriously admitted as your cunt contracted around his fingers and he had to hold you close as your hips stuttered to trap his hand between you two. "Fuck, that's it," he praised you, "that's my good girl, such a pretty little thing. Gods, look at you," he teased lightly, looking down at you splayed against his chest as he retracted his fingers and hand from the warmth of your caverns. "My pretty princess, huh?" He slipped back into his native tongue.

You chuckled breathlessly, almost rolling your eyes. Instead, you hummed, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his pale neck and encouraging his head backwards for you to explore his flesh. "Only for you, my Prince," you promised, reaching between you to grab him in full. And oh, how delicious he felt in your hand - hot and heavy, like all those rumors whispered.

Daemon stiffened slightly as you acquainted yourself with the feel of his cock; the velvet softness a sharp contrast to that of the wrinkled displeasure your husband bestowed you with. "Yes, that's it," he whispered as your hand worked over him; letting your sopping-wet cunt roll in tandem, "oh, that's my good fuckin' girl."

"Daemon," you whined lightly, boldly smearing your thumb through the gathering pre-cum leaking from his engorged tip.

"What's my princess want? Hmm?" He taunted lightly through a thick tone, still very much in control of the situation despite letting you feel somewhat like the boss. A red flush was creeping up his chest and neck, making your mouth salivate as he demanded, "Tell me, sweet girl, and I can give you - "

"You," you whined, still rocking against him with your wrist rolling to accommodate the sheer size of him, "jus' want you, my Prince, please."

He growled, both hands now tightly fisting the ends of the arm rests of the Throne you were sat upon, "Beg for me again."

"Please," you whispered, "been so patient, please - want you inside me, my Prince - my love - please. Show me that what I dream of every night is truth, that those rumors I was forced to listen to after your marriage are right."

He stiffened lightly, knowing the rumors you spoke of - the rumors of him in bed, how whores would literally line up when he showed up at any pleasure house, how he fucked through most of the city by now all in an effort to avoid his Lady-wife.

Truth was, he couldn't get you out of his mind, and if he couldn't have you, he'd have anyone who reminded him remotely of you. Anyone with the color hair, eyes, skin tone - same smell - same height - or body shape. Anyone he could imagine being you, and occasionally, would pay a little extra if his bed companions would let him call them your name. He figured it was the only way he'd have you, but now, he knew what he had to do to ensure you never slipped through his fingers again.

"C'mere," Daemon growled, lifting your hips to position you; and with his eyes locked with yours, lowered you. Your mouth opened in a gasp when his cock rimmed the seam of you, holding on tighter as he pressed you further, pushing inside, and kept lowering you until seated fully in his lap. "No," he nodded when your hips went to move, "just take a moment, dove. Feel it - feel everything. Become friendly with this feeling," he instructed dutifully, uncharacteristically patient as his hands squeezed the fat at your hips. "'S pleasure, fullness, my dove. 'S me you feel," his breath was hot on your ear, "and it's me you'll feel for days more."

"Oh, fuck," you breathed, unable to think rationally as he guided you in gently rolling your hips to grind your clit against his pubic hair. "Daemon - oh, shit."

"Yeah?" he grinned wickedly, letting your movements naturally increase as your pleasure spread. "This is what it is, my dove. This is," he paused to groan when your hips lifted to glide you up and down his shaft. "Shit - this is what fucking is. A duty to a marriage, yes," he agreed against your lips, pressing a searing kiss there after, "but a primal pleasure few come to understand and enjoy."

"Th-This is how it should be?" You wondered, instantly hating the Queen Mother for breaking your engagement and robbing you of experiencing this feeling for years.

"Yes, dove," he groaned, both arms wrapped around you as a sheen of sweat broke out across your skin. "This is what it will be like everyday for us," he grinned, eyes locked with yours as he kept you bouncing in his lap; well-aware of the strain to your thighs, "because a husband's first duty is to his wife, ensuring her pleasure outshines his."

You whimpered.

"You close, love?" he muttered, feeling your tempo turn desperate, and groaned. "Fucking use me, that's right, my love, go ahead - ah! Shit!" He hissed, planting his feet to meet your thrusts now; fucking up into you, and making your mind stutter to a halt. The feeling and sound of his balls slapping against the wetness of your cunt was enough to fill a brothel; making you feel like Daemon's prized whore.

"D-Daemon," you begged, unsure of what you wanted; but he understood none the less.

"C'mere, I'm here," he promised; resting your forehead to his. "That's it, my sweet, yes, yes," his thumb dropped to your clit, "just fuck yourself on me, I've got you. Shit," he huffed, "all of this beauty, this wet, tight little cunt wasted on that fucker - waste of a man - fuck!"

"Tell me what you're going to do, Daemon," you moaned in his ear, feeling your climax approach rapidly. "Tell me how you're going to make me yours."

Daemon all but bared his teeth, "First, I'll kill that fat-fuck of a husband you have. He's all that's in our way, dove."

"Shit," you nodded, bracing your hands against anything you could reach; trying to ignore how the thrill of his warmed blood from his cut hand sent ripples of pleasure straight to your core. It felt wrong, but so fucking right since it was Daemon's blood on you - the greatest knight in the Seven Kingdoms. "Keep going," you moaned, "tell me, my Prince, what you'll do."

He held your face to his, grinning, "You were never not mine, dove. But I will kill him first, then take you to Dragonstone, and make you my wife. Long overdue, my love, for you should've been mine this whole time."

"And now?"

"I'll never let you go," he grit his teeth, thrusting faster when your whimpering echoed around the chamber. When you came, your eyes screwed tight and your mouth latched to his shoulder to muffle the way you cried almost anomalistically. "Yes, yes, yes," he praised, milking you for all you had, before allowing his own pleasure to take hold; hips stuttering to eventually pause against yours as he bottomed out, spilling his seed deep in your womb.

And now, the only thing heard was the two of you panting; room much darker as a few candles had finally burned out. Daemon held you close, not wanting to let go now that he had achieved what he had considered 'impossible'. Your throat contracted as your swallowed, his eyes soft as they gazed over you, prompting your whisper, "Everyday of that, you said?"

He chuckled through his nose, nodding a bit, "Multiple times a day if you wanted."

"Oh," you bit your bottom lip, eyes scanning over him in haste. "That sounds most enjoyable. But where would we live?"

He smirked, "Wherever we desired. I'd take you anywhere, my Princess."

"Even Essos?" You smirked in a small tease.

"Anywhere, my dove," he reiterated, "so long as I am at your side."

"I don't want you anywhere else," you admitted in a whisper, still sat on his lap as his cum was plugged only by his softening cock that still kept you feeling full and stretched. Your eyes blinked back tears, turning so he would not notice, and laying against him, "Would you stay with me tonight, my Prince?"

He smirked, "What would your husband think? To find me in his marriage bed?"

"That it's just practice," you whispered in a gentle tease, slowly lifting to find his gaze.

His brows furrowed when you did not speak, asking, "Love? What is it?"

"Daemon... I fear I must ask you of the impossible..."

"Name it, sweet Lady," he purred, leaning forward to pepper a few kisses to your neck.

It was quiet, your lips moving only above a whisper at his ear, "Kill my husband for me, make me your bride after."

Daemon's hips shifted, groaning a low, "Fuck."

"Hmm?" You hummed, face hovering over his; his eyes scanning you up and down.

His bottom lip was trapped and released by his teeth, answering, "Think I just got hard again. That was music to my ears, dove."

"Promise me you will not make it conspicuous. I could not bare it if anyone suspected you, or foul play. Though I have never been openly fond of my husband, I do not want to see you suffer for his passing as I will have to play the part of mournful widow."

He huffed, "How long after can I wed you?"

Your shoulder shrugged, "When my Prince wants to."

"I'd take you now," he swore, shaking his head lightly. "Though, I respect you too much to let such gossip at court take place." He sighed, "Fine... Yes, all right," he sniffled, "I'll do away with him, my dove, and in six months, ask for your hand. Hmm?"

"Think you can wait six whole months?" You teased lightly, palm pressed to his cheek; thumb petting over his smiling lips.

"So long as you play widow well, and keep other suitors at bay," he joked, cocking his head, "then I do not have to wait six months to have you - just to marry you."

Your head shook lightly, snickering under your breath. "You'd do well not to sire your heir yet, as it would bring trouble before we need it."

"I'll have the Maester bring you tea," he sighed lightly. "But when we are married, you're not to take the tea again, my love."

"The moment we marry, it will be done away with," you promised in a whisper, leaning in to seal the deal with a kiss. When you pulled back, Daemon was content to just stare down at you; making you humm lightly, "Well, tomorrow fast approaches and I need sleep, my Prince."

Daemon nodded and just stared at you for a moment longer before sighing heavily, "Off to bed, then. Where does your husband sleep?"

"In a different wing so I do not hear him fucking his whores," you answered, wincing when Daemon helped you stand on shaking legs.

When on your feet before him, you gasped as his hand shot out to slither under your fallen skirts, scrape up your thigh to gather his cum that had dripped out before shoving up into your cunt. "Keep that there," he whispered, kissing your navel before standing and withdrawing his fingers. "And perhaps we should be grateful for his sleeping arrangements tonight."

"Oh?"

"He won't have to listen to me fuck his wife... Yet," Daemon smirked, hands all along your body as you moved from the Throne Room - knowing the next round of servants was sure to be up in a couple hours and not wanting to leave any traces, nor be caught. "We'll let him enjoy his last night on this earth, for tomorrow, my dove, you will be a single Lady."

With a small shudder, your head nodded before his hand caught your own and laced together as a gentle and simple sign of affection. "You would make it quick, right?" You wondered, keeping up with his longer strides; chin pressed to his bicep as you leisurely walked the castle's halls, starting towards your bed chambers.

But Daemon scoffed, "Oh, my dove, no, not after what I've learned tonight. No, he will suffer, and he will know why he suffered. The atrocities committed against you will not go unpunished."

Shock colored your system, nearly gaping at him like a gawking child. "You cannot - "

"I can," he assured with a firm nod, giving your hand a squeeze, "and I will, for he has acted with dishonor and that is intolerable. Now," he pulled you to your chamber door, looking up and down the hall, "which maids do you think will find us first? Or hear us?"

Your eyes rolled as you gently smacked the back of your hand to his chest, "You act as if we will fuck all night."

"Why would we not?"

"You need rest to keep your wits about you - especially for tomorrow," you alluded, his eyes softening. "There is too much at stake, we cannot afford any mishaps."

"Hmm, all right," he relented, watching you open your door. He sighed lightly, "This will have to change - your quarters should be with mine."

"Not separate?" You asked gently, watching him crowd into the room. The door shut firmly under his hand, eyes staring straight into you.

"As my wife, you would not be far from me, as I would not want you to be," he purred, slowly stalking forward. When he reached you, his hands physically held you in place while his gaze held you hostage, assuring, "You would not go a single night without the warmth of my body. I would do it all differently with you, my dove... Let me show you that I should've been your husband the first time."

Your head nodded, guiding his lips to yours in a frantic kiss; never truly registering what you had asked of him, nor what this might entail for the future. But you were damn sure - with Daemon, anything could've been handled. Though all that stood in the way now was faking the accidental death of your husband, publicly mourn him, wait a period of time, and then announce your engagement to the Prince - which sounds easy enough, right?

... Right?

part two: High Noon

Midnight Calls masterlist

requesting rules and masterlist

HOTD masterlist

[alannybunnue]

Ok, Joking Around: Modern!Reader stuck with the Yan!Targaryens Part 2

So, my computer is still in repair (Yes, i have been crying a lot because of it), so i will write about the modern!reader. Because that always fun and not expected to be good

Tags: @rosaryos

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You were living in chaos, and you were down for it.

Not too long after you showed up inside of your favorite show atm, you were taken and...given the title of Princess, wait what???

Ok, now you are the second daughter of Viserys(Or first? You are older than Rhaenyra) and Aemma Targaryen. You were just happy that Aemma was still alive 😃...then you realized that her death was still coming 😨😭

You decided, that in this moment, you would change the story, you would not let Viserys make that choice, then she would have more chances of surviving right?

You spend time with your new father a lot, in which makes your new uncle (that you kinda want to...y'know 😗) jealous as f*ck

And another person who is bothered by it is your new sister, Rhaenyra, who is adamant of learning more about you and weird language that is totally not lady like.

Speaking of your "language", after you calling the men "Dilfs" it became a honorable title, and you had to spend 2 hours trying to come up with an excuse of why Daemon could not get the title like his brother at first(Daemon, you haven't spread the blood of the dragon yet, wait your turn, accept that Viserys is the Dilf of the Seven Kingdoms-).

Funny thing, after you said that this title only served for powerful men who already fathered a child, you noticed that your supposed uncle started to act more...not family friendly with you.

In fact, one time, he tried to convince you to ride on Caraxes with him (You knew that he was going to kidnap you) but thank the Gods that Otto appeared and took you away.

Speaking of the Hightowers now...Otto didn't like you at first, in fact, your behavior bothered him and his daughter quite a lot, even when they didn't understand it. But after warming up to you, they made it their mission to change that. (THEY FAILED)

As for the Velaryons, well, now Corlys is the "Dilf of the Seas" and Rhaenys is the "Queen Milf" (although you don't say that publicly by her request) and both adore you. And yes, you told Laena and Laenor the meaning behind your language, they are now adapting to it, you are bringing them to the dark side.

Last but not least, Aemma, the Milf of the Seven Kingdoms, you don't want to grow attached to her and then fail to save her, so you keep you distance and makes her sad 😔

Now to the actual story.

You spend a lot of time with Rhaenyra, excited for the day she becomes the Black Queen, but also you dragged around with Alicent because she misses you.

On the day that Daemon appears, he gives both you and Rhaenyra a Valyrian steel jewelry, in which, confuses you, you are not Valyrian...wait, did he caressed your skin two seconds ago?

Anyway, you stay around around watching the scenes happen all in 4d and in real time, while knowing all the spoilers that are soon to come.

Then the tournament happens, and while you were watching, you finally found your favorite future incel with anger issues, Sir Criston Cole.

Also in that scene, instead of asking for Alicent's favor, Daemon asks for your favor, and knowing that he will lose anyway, you gave it to him, because you are a simp 😊

And then it hit you, Viserys is no longer there...YOU RAN AWAY INSTANTLY.

You almost barge into the room, but the guards stopped you, so the last resource you had, SCREAM AT THE TOP OF YOUR LUNGS UNTIL YOUR THROAT ACHE.

But it was too late, and Aemma's scream could be heard, you cried yourself to sleep 😣

You where by Rhaenyra's side when Syrax burned her mother and baby brother, actually, you stayed with her even afterwards.

Until it clicked again, ALICENT-

Again, you ran to Viserys' chambers to make him company- and Alicent was already there.

You are failing in this shit hard, my champion.

And you know that things are only gonna get worse.

Cuz the next day, Daemon was exiled(Not before he tried to take you with him tho-)

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A/N: And...basically this was me covering up the first episode, i know some nicknames are stupid, but still, there are too many Milfs and Dilfs in this series. I hope you enjoyed.

[mmogurl]

In The Shadow of Dragons Chapter 5: Flower

18+ | 5.6k | Daemon Targaryen X Female OC | possessive, protective, objectifying, simping, raunchy Daemon | Uncle / niece incest, Smut, First Time Oral, Semi Public Oral Sex, Cunnilingus, V fingering, Targcest, Courtship

This scene was kind of sweet, going back to the gift he had attempted to give Ryna on that day when he returned from the Stepstones some years back. It also rolls into their first real physical encounter, besides that closeness they shared on the terrace in the first chapter. Daemon trying so hard to be good, but not that hard xD Told from Daemon's POV.

CH 1 | CH 2 | CH 3 | CH 4 | CH 5 | CH 6 | CH 7 | CH 8 | CH 9 Also on AO3

The two of them walked in silence for a time, Ryna’s arm in his, until they were past the guards and into the long corridor that led towards the outer yard. Once safely out of sight of any witnesses, Daemon suddenly pulled her into a nearby alcove, jostling a vase on the table beside them as he pressed her tightly against the wall. His eyes glittered with excitement, barely disguising his darker desires as he stared down at her.

At her startled gasp, his mouth curled into that familiar smirk. “You, my little niece,” he said in a growl, “did extremely well back there.”

The look of surprise quickly faded from her face, replaced with an air of indignity. “Can you believe she had the nerve to call me dull? I am still livid.” She huffed, her cheeks rosing with the sufferance of insults and not embarrassment for once.

He let out a quick series of pointed laughs against his lips before replying. “She clearly has no taste. You are anything but dull, sweetling. You are fire made flesh.” He had enjoyed seeing her behave in such a daring manner at breakfast, relishing in her cheeky attitude. Daemon had not thought his pure and sweet little niece capable of such aggression, but evidently he had been wrong.

“Do not let her get to you,” he added, tracing a finger along her jawline. “Your father summed it up perfectly. Rhaenyra behaves like an entitled, petulant child throwing a tantrum until she gets her way.” His gaze lingered on her plush lips, recalling the kiss they had shared the night before.

Oblivious to his attentions, despite the obviousness of his proximity, she continued to vent her frustrations. “And to think she called me, a Targaryen princess, with fire and blood running through my veins, ‘still as a pond!’ Even a Velaryon would be offended to hear such insults spouted against them!”

He snickered with a playful look in his eye, the corners of his mouth turned up in amusement. Though his niece had never displayed an inclination towards angry outbursts in the past, today’s incident had led him to wonder if her character was more akin to his own quick-tempered nature rather than the complacent demeanor of his brother.

Ryna’s ongoing tirade was abruptly cut off when Daemon held a finger to her lips, silencing her mid-speech. “Enough of that,” he said, his voice authoritative yet tinged with a hint of allure. “You are far too exquisite to waste your time complaining about a brat like Rhaenyra.”

Daemon leaned in a little more until he was so close that he could feel her breath against his face. “There are far more enjoyable things you could be doing that with that pretty mouth of yours.” His words were a soft insinuation spanning the possibilities between mostly innocent to entirely lewd. It certainly got her attention, her eyes darting up to his with a shy expression.

He pressed a simple kiss against her lips, wetting them with his tongue slightly as he savored the taste of her. His eyes rolled back for a split second as he let out a groan and pulled away, knowing he could not control himself lest he continue. The hall they were in was often traveled and not the best spot for an interlude. They would find more privacy in the gardens.

The princess became flush in response to the small demonstration of affection, the region below her collarbone now a bright pink in contrast to her alabaster skin.

My sweet niece. It doesn ’t take much, does it?

Daemon then took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers and led Ryna back down their originally intended route towards the garden. “We have something more important to discuss, Niece.”

“Such as?” she asked, trying in vain to compose herself as she looked up at him curiously.

“Our courtship, of course,” he said in a playful tone as they approached the exit.

They passed through the stone arch that led out into the garden proper and walked down the trail through the carefully manicured greenery until they reached the inner garden. It was surrounded by tall rose bushes, secluded and out of sight from the main walks. Water trickled from an ornate fountain of a dragon into a small pond edged with smooth rocks and there was a stone bench beside it so one might sit and enjoy the scenery.

He guided her to take a seat on the solid slate bench looking out over the waters and rustled in his pocket to fish something out. Daemon smiled fondly as he got down on his knees before her. Another shocked, almost frightened expression crossed her face, her eyes growing wide at the thought of what he might be up to.

Innocent little thing.

Reaching up, he tucked a loose strand of her Valyrian white-gold hair back into place behind her ear, letting his fingers remain on her face longer than perhaps was necessary. He found himself mesmerized all over again by her beauty, her purity, and the way she could make him feel simultaneously protective and sinful.

If only she knew how much he thought about her, his sweet, chaste little Ryna. How he wanted to claim her as his own and ruin her completely, yet at the same time, he wanted to shield her from all other harm. The irony of it made him both sick and excited all at once. He had been a man of vices, of carnal pleasure, with no thought given to any future consequences, and here he was for the first time, experiencing what it was to restrain himself for another. At least somewhat…

His hand lowered, brushing against her thigh as he took her hand once more, running his thumb over her knuckles gently as he began to speak.

“Sweetling,” his voice was soft and deep in the quiet solitude of the garden. “I have something for you.”

His niece’s expression changed, from worry to a veiled delight. “For me? What is it?”

She always did love it when he brought her gifts upon returning from his travels, whether they be from afar or direct from the streets of King’s Landing.

Daemon turned her hand and spread her fingers apart so that Ryna’s palm was exposed. Not allowing her to see what was in his closed fist, he placed it above her outstretched hand and let the trinket fall slowly until it settled into her grasp with a clink.

The princess’ eyes lit up as he removed his hand, finally allowing her an unobstructed view of his present. It was a very unique bracelet, one he’d had fashioned for her by the same grateful peasants who’d created his crown, to commemorate his victory over the Crabfeeder. It was crafted with small bits of rough sandstone, seashells and driftwood from the beaches on the Stepstones, and accented with an orange gemstone that was abundant on the islands.

“It is beautiful, Uncle,” she marveled at the intricate little shells and beaded stones.

Not as beautiful as you, my sweet, delicious, little peach.

“I’m pleased it’s to your liking,” he smiled softly at her. It was exactly the response he was hoping for. Watching her face as she looked over each tiny detail made him feel a mix of satisfaction and desire. It had taken all of his willpower thus far to resist her innate charms, and he wasn’t certain that it would hold for much longer. “Allow me to put it on for you, sweetling,” he said assuringly, already taking the bracelet from her hand and unclasping it so that he might wrap it around her slender wrist.

“I had meant to gift this to you when I returned from the Stepstones, but I found I simply could not.” His words were almost somber as he closed the clasp carefully, securing it in place.

“I remember,” she said with a touch of sadness. “That was when things changed. When you began to avoid me.” Her eyes wandered off in thought, her gaze cast across the water for a moment before returning to him with a fiery determination. “What happened? Why did I repulse you so when we embraced that day?”

Daemon was impressed, if not also taken aback, by the clarity of her memory. In fact it shook a more direct response from him than he was typically accustomed to giving. “You could never repulse me, my dearest niece,” he began, struggling to find the right words to explain himself without directly stating what he truly felt on that day five years ago when their bodies entwined. “I merely… It was for your own good.”

When I first realized that my desire for you had begun to take root.

“It did not seem like it was for my own good,” she contended his reasoning, her voice tinged with a hint of sadness. “I have missed you all of these years.”

“I know, sweetling. I missed you as well.” If only she knew how he’d longed to return to the way things were before that moment. He hadn’t realized how much he’d yearned for the smiling face of his darling little cherub, his precious jewel, until it was gone, forever replaced with the reality of his lust.

Even though he’d already mentioned his aversion to tainting her the night before, it seemed she was still incognizant to why he had started to withdraw from her, believing it was due to some shortcoming on her own part. He had no desire for her to shoulder the blame of his own perverse desires though, so perhaps some further explanation was due. Still knelt before her, Daemon placed his hands on either side of her hips, nudging forward so that he was closer and just about nestled between her legs. A crooked smile crossed his face as he spoke once more. “Do you know why I started to avoid you?”

The princess seemed a touch flustered by his intimate proximity, but did not stay his hand. “I could not say. I only knew that before you left, I had been your cherished niece and upon your return… Suddenly it seemed you held my very presence in contempt. Then before I knew it, you had been sent away again and I had no idea what to think about it.”

If only you knew, little sweetling.

He chuckled at her naivety. It was endearing how pure his little girl still was. His fingers gently rubbed her hips through the soft fabric of her velvet gown. “You really don’t know, do you?” his tone was almost sarcastic, finding it hard to believe she hadn’t the slightest inkling. The look of worried concern did not waver from her face and he knew it was true. Daemon leaned in closer, his nose close to the swell of her breast. He allowed himself to inhale the sweet smell of her skin, all the while the warmth of her body was radiating outwards. He looked up, finding her expression heavy with longing, craving reconciliation.

“Did you ever stop to think that perhaps I avoided you because I found you too tempting?” Daemon’s eyes roamed down her figure before returning back to her face, taking in every little response. It seemed he would always be torn by his lust for Ryna.

She did not respond immediately, but instead averted her gaze to the bracelet he’d given her. Perhaps she was putting all of the pieces together in her mind, recalling past events and how they might be reshaped with the new knowledge he’d presented her with. His little niece seemed confused, as if unable to fathom that his desires had kept him away.

“But…” she started to speak, the words fizzling on her tongue. “If you… Then why?” Her lavender irises turned back to him with puzzlement. It seemed she’d come to terms with the idea much sooner than he had.

“Why?”

The question echoed with a laugh from his lips. How could he ever hope to explain the depraved thoughts that had consumed him whenever he’d seen her sweet body during those years. How tortured he became whenever he allowed himself to imagine the debased ways he wished to use her. Yet, she was looking to him for an answer, her eyes wide and her pink lips parted in confusion. “Why,” he said once again, taking a deep breath. “Because you were far too innocent. A wholly pure thing in this corrupt world. Even I am not that wicked.”

There, he’d said it. The truth was out. A twisted admission, but an admission nonetheless. The words, as well as the secret, that had tormented him for years were now finally released into the open. But her expression did not convey the disgust he’d expected. Instead, there was a look in her eyes that he couldn’t quite place. “Too young. Too sweet. You should never have known the depths of depravity running through …” he began to explain, but as he looked upon her face, he realized her features had shifted to something more akin to anticipation.

Gods, that look on your face …

The little princess’ lips were parted in expectation, her breath growing quicker with each passing second. There was something untamed he saw in her eyes that threatened to set his entire being ablaze. “You’ve heard tales of what a degenerate I am, haven’t you, sweetling?”

“Who in the Seven Kingdoms has not?” she admitted with ease, her expression unflinching while her hands danced restlessly on the surface of the bench.

“Then you know what a wretched man I am…” he spoke in a lower tone, his nose brushing against the pucker of her breast for a moment. “The vices I give into… The women and wine that I consume without reservation.”

Daemon raised a hand up to her face, his fingers tenderly tracing along the length of her jawline. “Does it not frighten you?”

“How could I possibly be afraid of you?” she mused, her voice laced with affectionate reassurance. She brought one of those fidgeting hands to rest gently upon his head, tentatively smoothing back his bright blond tresses. “I will admit I lack the same level of experience that you possess, Uncle, but it does not diminish my own curiosity and eagerness to learn.”

He tried to resist the shiver that wracked through his body as her fingers ran through his silvery gold hair. Daemon’s hand glided down the length of her skirts, skimming over the fabric until he reached the hem. Slipping his fingers below, he groaned at the feel of her leg, soft and silky beneath his palm.

How can you not be afraid of me, little sweetling? I am a fox in the hen house.

Her words had struck him in a way that he was not expecting. It seemed unnatural, given what he’d confessed and what she surely must suspect he desired from her.

“How eager are you, sweet girl?” he asked with the last ounce of his restraint as he continued upward, cresting her knee. “Eager enough to let me show you how debased I truly am?”

Ryna appeared a touch uneasy, but did not move to stop him. It was as though she had already resigned herself to exploring wherever this moment might take them. She swallowed before replying, her voice a low whisper as she continued to stroke his hair. “I cannot resist you, Uncle.”

What a dangerous thing to admit, my sweet little niece.

Daemon pressed a kiss against the exposed skin between her cleavage as his fingers crept higher. He found purchase on her inner thigh, gripping the smooth flesh there with barely constrained hunger as he felt the heat emanating from her core. His mind was filled with sinful thoughts the likes of which this pure, untouched flower could not possibly begin to imagine - but even still, she was willing. A small breathless laugh passed his lips and the little whimper of submission elicited from his sweetling was like the most deadly, yet intoxicating of poisons. Her soft sounds nearly pushing him over the edge, so obliging was she to accept his perversions.

“I promised your father I would not bed you until the wedding night…” he finally broke the silence as he laved another wet kiss upon the slope of her chest. “I admit, I’m still not convinced I can wait that long, but there are ways to stay… Occupied… For a time. To keep that curiosity of yours sated.”

Daemon’s eyes returned to hers, finding a look of trepidation in her gaze like he had never seen. She was too pristine, too eager, too wholesome for what he sought to give her. And, Gods forbid, if she ever did let him take all that she had, he feared there would be no going back. He’d become a man possessed.

For now though, given she was inclined to test the waters, he would explore how much of an agreeable lamb she truly was. He ran his tongue along her collarbone, his thumb digging into the fatty meat of her inner thigh.

“Do you trust me, sweetling? He asked, looking up once more into those pale lilac eyes, almost silvery in their sheen.

“Y-yes…” she stuttered, willing but still nervous.

He looked into her anxious eyes for a moment more, searching for any hint of doubt. But he could only find her inexperience, her apprehension, and ultimately her anticipation. Had Daemon not regarded her as so naive and innocent, he’d have believed she was getting off on this, and perhaps she was. His mouth curled into a smirk, wearing a wicked, wolfish countenance of intent. A quiet laugh escaped his lips as he grasped the waist of her smallclothes, and pulled down the short pair of braies until she was completely exposed beneath her skirts. Daemon placed a hand on each of her tender thighs, looking up at her with a devious spark in his eyes.

“Slide to the edge of the bench and lean back, little dragon,” he urged her, all but salivating at the thought of what she might taste like. Completely untouched, unspoiled, and just for him.

Ryna slowly shifted her hips forward, an embarrassed blush in her cheeks as she followed his bidding. “Good girl,” the sweet praise fell from his lips in a guttural moan. “Now let me take care of you. I’ll make you feel good.”

Daemon’s heart pounded in his chest as he knelt before his little niece, bunching up her skirts enough so that he might duck his head beneath her gown. The scent of her arousal was overwhelming, a sweet, crisp perfume that only served to heighten his desire. He inhaled deeply, taking in the sight, the smell, the very essence of her.

With a flick of his wrist, he swept her juices onto his thumb, bringing it to his lips and tasting her. A low grown rumbled in his chest as he licked her wetness from his finger, the taste of her intoxicating. He lowered his head, his tongue dipping between her folds and eliciting a startled gasp and jolt from Ryna. Daemon wrapped his arm around her thigh, holding her in place as he began to devour her like a starving man.

He spread her apart carefully, alternating between laving her bud with the flat of his tongue and the pinpoint of the tip, delighting in the way her hips bucked with each intense sensation. Daemon slid his fingers down through her wetness, teasing her tight entrance with the promise of penetration. His cock was rigid and aching in his trousers, leaving a mess as he leaked seed to the taste and feel of her purity. He’d give anything to have her fully bare in his bed right now, to be able to see everything all at once, to touch and take what he wanted.

Soon … Soon..

Ryna’s body was trembling beneath his touch, her soft little whimpers and moans driving him absolutely mad. She sounded so lurid for such a sinless creature and finally delving into her tight heat with his index finger was all he could do to keep from enacting the near constant thought of how good it might feel to fuck her. The thought of the noises she would make when something much bigger than his tongue or finger were instead driving into her pretty, virgin cunt consuming him.

His finger circled her inner walls, teasing her as he continued to pleasure her with his tongue, flicking and lapping at her pearl until she was writhing beneath him. He could feel the taut lining of muscle tensing at his intrusion and smiled against her wetness at the sound of her insistent cries. Daemon slid another finger into her now sopping wet core, wincing at how tightly her walls were gripping him.

He began to pump his fingers in and out of her in a steady, forceful rhythm, his tongue circling her swollen bud before he sucked it into his mouth. Ryna shot up like a lightning bolt at the acute feel of it, the combination causing her to arch her back into him as her peak built. There were a dozen filthy, raunchy things he’d love to purr in her ears at that moment, but there was no way he was going to stop until he brought her to completion.

Ryna shuddered and jerked, her moans growing louder and more desperate as she finally let go, climaxing in a beautiful splendor of shaking thighs and ragged breath. Her hands shot to his head even through the gown, trying to push him away now that her swollen bud had grown too sensitive. Daemon let her free of his suction, laving the nub softly with the flat of his tongue and sliding his fingers out of her snug little hole. She squealed as he lapped through her folds, the creamy sweetness of her come tasting like the most decadent ambrosia.

Fuck, I will not be able to stop myself if I keep at it like this …

Daemon bit his cheek with a wince, trying to rein in his urges as he removed his head from under her skirts. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he soon forgot his own need at the pride that surged through him upon seeing her flushed cheeks, her heaving chest exhausted and panting, the evidence of his ministrations and the pleasure she’d just experienced apparent all over her body.

As she locked eyes with him, she sounded tired, but excited all the same, “God! I have… But never like that… What in the Seven Hells was that!?”

A smug, yet satisfied chuckle escaped his mouth at her comment as he slipped her foot through the free opening of her smallclothes and slid them back up. He moved to sit beside her on the bench, his cock still straining against his pants painfully, a testament to just how much he had enjoyed the taste of her.

“That, my sweetling, was your first lesson in pleasure,” Daemon said as he leaned into her, his lips finding her neck and pressing a hungry kiss upon the delicate skin there.

She writhed under his lips, still so sensitive from his efforts. It was enough to drive him utterly mad with need. He could not recall anyone so perfect, anything so divine in his entire life. How could he ever be satisfied with another after this?

“You will be the death of me, my precious girl,” he mumbled against her shoulder, burying his nose into her hair and taking in the bouquet of roses, cinnamon, and styrax in her fragrance. “I can tell neither of us are creatures of restraint, sweetling,” he let out a sharp laugh as he pulled away from the temptation. “But Gods help, I am trying.”

He sat roughly against the back of the stone bench, comforted by the pressure of its hard surface. Daemon ventured a look into those pale lavender eyes and ran a hand across her chin, tilting her head up so that she was forced to meet his gaze. His voice took on a graver note, seeking to assert the seriousness of his words.

“If your father accepts our betrothal… I need to know that you want this. Jāhor ao sagon biare, riñītsos?” Will you be happy, little girl?

Ryna’s brow furrowed, either confused or hurt by the inquiry. “What kind of question is that? Of course…” she peered at him now with a smoldering intensity. “Nyke jaelagon ao, Daemon.” I want you, Daemon.

“Se jaelan ao, zaldrītsos,” he replied with a quick sigh. And I want you, little dragon. “But you are so young and inexperienced, and I…”

I may be too much for you to handle. You engage with a beast, sweetling. I am possessed by the need to control you and to keep you near me in every way possible, both well intentioned and depraved as well. He shook his head to bat the thoughts away, pushing down the worry and fear that were creeping to the surface. He didn’t want to risk losing her, but he also couldn’t bear the thought that she might one day look at him with contempt in her eyes. “You’ve never known another man, Niece. You do not know the extent of my desire.”

“Iksan daor riña,” she retorted in a defiant tone, her eyes locked on his with a look that could only be described as downright challenging. I am no child. “It seems you cling to these persistent ideas, Uncle. That I am too young… That you are too debauched for me. That I couldn’t possibly be happy with you… And to be honest, such worries are insulting to us both. I am not some pathetic little whelp in need of your pity. I know full well what I want.”

She exhaled through her nose with frustration, her features proud as she continued. “I would not choose a suitor for years because I did not want any of them. I knew they would not stoke my fire and keep my interest. I chose you and that is all that should matter. Inexperience can be mended by exposure, and I have never thought ill of you. I have felt jealousy and confusion, yes, I have missed you, but I have never felt poorly.”

Daemon felt a spark ignite within him as she spoke, her voice and words filled with passion and conviction. But, she was a stubborn thing, his little niece. His princess. A perfect mix of both fire and ice all the same. He would have found her impudence amusing if not for the fact that he too was feeling a hint of irritation begin to boil inside of him.

He let out a laugh that was nearly a scoff. “And do you think yourself ready for the full extent of it?” he riposted, his voice hardening. “Do you have any idea the dark desires that swirl in the recesses of my mind?” Her facade cracked slightly as a hint of doubt crept across her face. Of course she had no way of knowing what he actually thought of in the privacy of his own licentious mind. It was obvious the unknown concerned her from the winkle on her forehead, but she did not back down.

Ryna’s voice softened considerably, a blush returning to her cheeks. “You could show me… Teach me… In a way that is not too overwhelming.” Her eyes brightened with mild epiphany. “Like you did today.”

Once again, he found himself caught between a sense of pride that she seemed so willing to face whatever he might bring forth and the fear that he might break her.

“And if I can’t hold back, little girl?” he mumbled against her ear, leaning in and resting his chin against her the crown of her head. “My appetites… They are strong… Violent… Depraved… You could not imagine all that I want to do you.”

“Why must I fathom it all?” she asked with longing in her eyes as she wet her lower lip with her tongue. There was an obvious arousal present in her body language and the flicker of her features.

“Because, sweetling,” he replied, cupping her chin in his hand and gently forcing her to meet his eyes once more. “If we go down this road, there is no turning back. I will consume you, dear girl. I will take and take until you forget what it is to live without me.”

I cannot stop even now. That small taste of you was simply not enough.

“You realize I will ruin you for anyone else?” he stared into those piercing lilac eyes, shining bright with desire and need.

“I don’t take issue with that for I do not wish to have another. Only you, Uncle,” she spoke with conviction, but her cheeks blushed at the notion.

Gods, you have no idea what you are doing to me.

Daemon’s heart ached with so many warring emotions. His little niece - he feared he could not resist when it came to her. “Then… I will show you… I shall try my best to ease you into the darkness,” he whispered as he nudged his arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer.

He captured her lips once more in a hungry kiss, his cock twitching at the thought of her keen obeisance - at hearing her proclaim that she only wanted him. It made his possessive nature flare with lust that he knew he must keep in check for now.Ryna was already moving closer though, the little minx, twisting towards him as her leg struggled against her skirts to rise over his. “Stop…” he murmured against her lips, feeling his self-restraint slipping. He gripped her shoulders tight, keeping her at bay as he withdrew from the kiss.

He could tell from the look in those tempestuous eyes that she was still riding the high of her climax, lovedrunk by the feelings he’d coaxed out of her body. Daemon truly loved how eager she was, but if he gave in completely to his own impulses, it might wind up destroying any chance they had at wedding. He was certainly not willing to let her go now that he’d come so close to having her.

But how is a man to hold back from such a sweet, delicious flower?

He clutched her arms with a little more force than necessary as he pushed her back against the bench and pulled away from her. With grit teeth he busied his hands so that they might not wander again, smoothing the pleats of his long wool jerkin back into place.

“I said I would ease you in, sweetling.. Not toss you over the edge,” he chuffed at her, making it known that he was not to be trifled with any farther. With a slight cough, he cleared his throat and took a deep breath before pursuing the topic of their courtship. “Now what plans shall we make to ensure that my dear old brother, Viserys, thinks that we are courting properly?”

Ryna was slow to reply, a bewildered look on her face mixed with a slight pout of disappointment. “I’m not sure…” she finally answered. “We have already strolled in the garden and you have presented me with a gift. So, today has been a good start to it.”

“Yes, little one. I do believe today has been a very good start. But not good enough,” he countered as he stood up and offered his hand to her. “My dear brother will not believe that a rake like me has suddenly become a proper gentleman without proof. We must make a very open display of our integrity.”

“What about a dinner? Or perhaps a packed lunch that we might enjoy on the beach that overlooks the Blackwater Bay. We might even stop by the Dragonpit. I could introduce you to my girl.” Her disposition had improved considerably at the mention of her dragon and he couldn’t help but smile as he helped her up from the bench.

Come to think of it, he did remember hearing that his sweetling had claimed a rather powerful creature, one of the older and larger dragons that had not been reclaimed since its previous owner. He felt a thrill at the thought of meeting such an ancient beast, at seeing his little niece mount a powerful dragon.

She will mount another soon …

He chuckled to himself as he let out a velvety smooth reply, leading them back down the path through the garden. “That sounds like a fine idea,” he purred, enjoying the thought of gaining some measure of freedom outside the confines of the keep. “And I cannot wait to meet your dragon, my sweetling. No doubt, Caraxes will be eager to see you again as well. I do believe that grumpy old snake preferred you to me when last I took you riding.”

Ryna beamed at his insinuation, giggling softly as they came out from the worn trail and entered the open expanse of the garden’s grassy courtyard. “I wouldn’t say that, Uncle, but he was certainly kind in nature towards me. A good boy. I look forward to seeing him up close again.”

His lips curled into an amused smile at her joyful reaction to being reunited with the beast. “Indeed… And I look forward to watching you ride, all on your own, without need of your uncle to supervise you,” he said with a slight rasp.

The image of her straddling that massive dragon, handling its reins and commanding it in the Valyrian tongue was enough to get his member swelling in his breeches again.

“Tell me, sweetling. Which beast did you tame again?” he asked trying to distract himself from other wandering thoughts.

“Oh, didn’t anyone ever tell you?” she smirked with a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “I laid claim to Silverwing. Queen Alysanne’s beloved mount.” Read Chapter 6

[wulfhalls]

The way people are using Daemon's "I'll take Rhaenyra as a second wife, like Aegon the Conqueror did, and we will restore our House to greatness" as a sign that he doesn't actually want/love her and only wants to marry her because it's useful. Meanwhile I am laughing my ass off at this idiot who freaked the fuck out when Rhaenyra took the lead, because he couldn't handle all the out of control feels it made him feel, and is now clearly trying to regain some control by telling himself he'd totally only marry her for the good of the House. We are not the same.

also I think its a lot to do with the showrunners trying to keep the audience on their toes and like muddying the waters a bit. we're not even halfway thru the season and they can't give us Simp on Main daemon yet because they need to milk that dramatic tension for a few more episodes before unleashing protective husband daemon on unsuspecting viewers. also they wouldn't have made their scenes prior to this episode so layered and charged and electric if they were truly trying to sell the whole daemon is only using rhaenyra for power bullshit. and also matt smith in licherally every interview: he loves his family more than anything and also he doesn't actually want to be king :)

[alltidvinter]

how do i love the blindfold scene? let me count the ways

(shitty screenshot for visibility sake, but c’mon, you knew which scene i was talking about)

- first of all, the cinematography. what’s with the indie movie vibes?? 

- the eerie silence, broken only by those little nature sounds, then the otherworldly music, with the flute and the bells

- JC struggling a bit to follow WWX, stopping to catch his breath

- black and white is such a good combo on JC and WWX looks regal in Yunmeng Jiang’s purple sash and undergarments, plus The Cape™. they both look fire and Wang Zhuocheng should wear blindfolds on a daily basis, his jawline really pops in this scene. 

- je simp

- honestly I’m obsessed with the (relative) simplicity of JC’s robes, compared with WWX’s more sumptuous attire. i wanna say, initiate and hierophant? idk, the whole scene looks like a ritual initiation into the mysteries of some deity (Baoshan Sanren, i guess?). 

- i was a classicist kid, what can I say

- “Why would I lie to you?” - WHY INDEED, WEI YING

- unrelated but can we, as a fandom, agree that what WWX did was equally a horrible violation (and likely a cultural abomination, à la cutting daemons away in the HDM universe) AND a supreme act of love?? both a selfish AND a selfless act?? and that’s PRECISELY why it is an interesting and compelling narrative choice?? k thx bye

- “From here on out, you'll have to go alone”, well, fuck me gently with a chainsaw

- THE BLINDFOLDING, OH GODS, THE BLINDFOLDING

- i can’t gif to save my life, but the sheer tenderness with which WWX ties the blindfold around JC’s eyes?? even making sure that JC’s side fringe doesn’t get caught in it?? JC’s lowering his head almost submissively?? WWX reassuring touch lingering for a moment on JC’s shoulder?? 

- i’m dead

-listen, JC is so utterly vulnerable in this scene (WWX could literally crush him with his bare hands like a baby bird) and yet he’s so heartbreakingly trusting and hopeful, allowing himself to be blinded to the truth for the next two decades or whatever

- the way the camera goes black - for we go blind with JC, sure, but also out of modesty for the intimacy of the whole scene (idk??)

- i do love the anger in WWX’s voice where he goes all “You only have one chance! Next time, don’t ever be this reckless again”. WWX is no saint and, for all he knows, he’s about to lose the most important part of himself due to JC’s inability of controlling his own emotions. i respect him for that, 10/10 would love to see that kind of energy again

- JC waving goodbye, fuck

- the rollercoaster of emotions on WWX’s face while he’s watching JC take off. no, really. he literally goes through the five stages of grief. at first, he almost looks like he’s about to call off the whole thing, then we’ve got anger and pain, and finally stone-cold determination and acceptance. kudos to Xiao Zhan 

- WWX’s voice guiding JC up the mountain

- WWX giving his name away to JC. JC taking it as his own. names have power. i repeat. NAMES. HAVE. POWER. i’m getting huge fairytale vibes from this detail and tbh, from the whole scene, and i’m here for that

- the wandering fool imaginary, with the stick and the unseeing eyes (after all, JC is being fooled). even more interestingly, The Fool is arguably the Major Arcana that mostly identifies WWX himself.

- also, Orpheus and Eurydice vibes (”No matter what, do not open your eyes”)

- again, i was a classicist kid and that’s my only excuse, really

- back to the eerily beautiful cinematography

- Wang Zhuocheng really invented bone structure, mh?

- the flight of birds is both symbolic and aesthetic, which is excellent

- WQ’s voice is very clearly WQ’s voice but i’m not gonna hold it against JC. he was nervous and emotional and most importantly, he would believe WWX even if he said that the sky is made of silk and the moon of spun sugar. that’s just the way it is

- JC’s little speech, blazing with grief and hope and innocence

- holding onto the fabric is also very aesthetic

- in another story, in another genre, this would be a defining step in JC hero’s journey. the disgraced young prince stepping into a fairytale realm where no fierce beasts dwell, disguised as a blind beggar, humbling himself in order to fulfill his destiny with the aid of an immortal sorceress. but alas, the genre here is tragedy and JC is no hero. so the only fairytale here is the one spun by WWX (ever the storyteller) in a web of lies and love. WWX, who held his shidi’s life, soul and destiny between his hands and weighed it against the whole world, and found the whole world lacking 

- that’s it, im going fully feral