#“The Dragon’s Daughter” they’d call her

[thewolvesandtheirbard]

Beware the Accursed She Wolf, for she was born under the Black Sun.

(A Witcher!Deidre Ademeyn mood board because she definitely deserved better from the world).

[novaursa]

Bless you for opening your requests 🙇‍♀️

Could I get one, maybe following on from The Valyrian Bride, where cregan and readers children get their dragons? Maybe they get eggs in their cots, or maybe they have to travel to dragonstone as one of the children bonds with a dragon that’s already grown and unbonded, and cregan is a bag on nerves having to watch them claim the dragon, but reader is the opposite, she is composed and reassures him that they are safe?

Thank you for everything you do 💖

Valyrian Bride (dragon eggs)

- Summary: Cregan was expecting a quiet day. But nothing is ever truly quiet with his dragon-blooded children.

- Paring: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: The reader is an only daughter of Rhaenyra.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Next part: dragon's bath

- Previous part: 3

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess @ferakillia

Winter had tightened its grip on Winterfell, but the great hall was alive with warmth and noise, the fire in the massive hearth burning bright and high. Cregan Stark sat at the long table with his bannermen, their voices filling the room as they discussed the usual matters—supplies for the coming winter, the training of new recruits, and the ever-present question of the safety of the northern borders.

He listened with half an ear, his thoughts drifting occasionally to his wife and children. The boy of ten and the girl of barely eight, were spirited and curious, always finding new ways to test their parents’ patience and were more trouble together than a pack of wild direwolves.

Cregan took a sip of his ale, his gaze turning toward the fire where children had spent most of the day. They had been unusually quiet, which in his experience meant they were plotting something. The problem was, with those two, ‘something’ could mean anything from sneaking a wildling pup into the kennels to hiding the cook’s ladle in the godswood.

“Lord Stark,” called Arnolf, his bannerman and old friend, pulling Cregan’s attention back to the table. “You seem distracted. More than usual, I mean.”

Cregan gave him a wry smile. “Just wondering what those two are up to. It’s too quiet.”

Arnolf laughed, shaking his head. “They’re probably just practicing their swordplay or playing a game. You worry too much, Cregan. They’re only children.”

“They’re Valyrian children,” Cregan corrected dryly. “And I’m beginning to think there’s no such thing as a harmless Valyrian game.”

As if in response, a high-pitched scream rang out from the far end of the hall, followed by another, then two more. Cregan’s heart leapt into his throat as he shot to his feet, his chair scraping back across the stone floor. His bannermen did the same, hands going to their swords.

“Seven hells,” Cregan muttered, his stomach twisting. The sound wasn’t one of pain, but panic still gripped him. “What now?”

The answer came quickly enough. His children’s voices echoed through the hall, but they weren’t screams of terror—they were shouting and laughing, the kind of noise that only came from sheer, unbridled excitement. His heart still pounding, Cregan took off toward the hearth, his bannermen trailing behind him, their faces a mix of confusion and alarm.

As he rounded the corner, Cregan skidded to a halt, his eyes widening at the sight before him.

His children were kneeling on the stone floor near the hearth, both of them grinning from ear to ear. Between them, nestled in a thick pile of blankets and surrounded by a glowing ring of embers, were two dragon eggs—large, oval, and gleaming with a strange inner light. And right there, amidst the warmth of the fire and the delighted shrieks of his children, the eggs were cracking.

“Look, Papa!” his daughter cried, hair falling around her face as she pointed eagerly at the first egg. “They’re hatching!”

Cregan blinked, his mind trying to catch up with what his eyes were seeing. He’d known they had the eggs, of course—gifts from Vaetrix’s last clutch. They’d been family heirlooms more than anything, relics of their mother’s lineage, kept cool and dormant. He had assumed they would remain that way. It hadn’t even crossed his mind that the children would try to… heat them up.

“What in the name of the Old Gods are you doing?” he asked, his voice a mix of incredulity and exasperation. He took a step forward, waving a hand at the flickering flames that danced dangerously close to the precious cargo. “You—You put them in the fire?”

His son, crouched next to his sister, looked up at him, his face flushed with excitement. “We read about it in one of Maester Kennet’s books! Dragon eggs need heat to hatch. The hottest fire we could find was here in the great hall.”

“And now they’re coming out!” his daughter added, practically bouncing in place as she watched the egg wobble and crack.

Cregan glanced around, half expecting his wife to appear and explain that this was some sort of elaborate joke. But no, it was just him, his two children, and two dragon eggs about to hatch in the middle of Winterfell’s great hall.

The second egg shuddered, a thin crack running down its length. His son leaned in closer, eyes wide with awe, and for a moment, Cregan’s heart nearly stopped. “Careful, lad!” he barked, reaching out and pulling the boy back. “Those are dragons, not pets. They’re dangerous!”

“But they’re ours,” his daughter insisted, not taking her eyes off the eggs. “And they’ll be our dragons, won’t they, Papa? Just like Mama has Vaetrix.”

Cregan opened his mouth to argue, to tell them how dragons were wild, unpredictable, and far too dangerous to be playing around with, but before he could get the words out, the first egg cracked open completely.

A small, wet dragonling tumbled out onto the blankets, its wings flapping feebly as it let out a tiny, high-pitched screech. The creature was a deep, shimmering green, its scales flecked with gold, and its eyes—bright and curious—blinked up at them as it tried to shake itself free of the last bits of shell.

His daughter’s gasp of delight was echoed by her brother’s, and both of them immediately reached out, their hands hovering just above the hatchling as if afraid to touch.

“Look, Papa!” she whispered, her voice hushed with wonder. “It’s beautiful.”

Cregan stared at the tiny creature, his emotions a tangled mess of awe, terror, and something that felt suspiciously like pride. “Aye,” he murmured, almost to himself. “It is, but—”

The second egg gave a sharp crack, splitting open with a suddenness that made even Cregan jump. Another dragonling emerged, this one a dark, smoky blue, with wings that seemed almost translucent in the firelight. It stumbled forward, letting out a tiny roar that was more of a squeak, and promptly tripped over its own claws.

His son let out a whoop of joy, scooping the clumsy hatchling into his arms without a second thought. “Papa, did you see? They’re both here! We did it!”

Cregan rubbed a hand over his face, torn between laughing and banging his head against the nearest wall. “Yes, I see,” he said, his voice strained. “But do you have any idea what this means? Dragons, here, in Winterfell?”

“They’ll be safe here,” his daughter said firmly, as if she had already thought the whole thing through. “We’ll take care of them. They’re ours.”

Cregan looked at his children, each now holding a wriggling, squirming baby dragon, their faces shining with joy and excitement. He could see it in their eyes—that fierce, unyielding sense of responsibility and love that only children could have. For them, this wasn’t a mistake or a danger—it was a miracle. Their dragons had come to life, and they were ready to embrace them with open hearts.

He let out a deep, resigned sigh, shaking his head even as a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Alright, alright. We’ll find a way to keep them. But you two—” he pointed a finger at each of them, his voice stern despite the warmth in his eyes, “—will have to take responsibility. Feeding, training, cleaning up after them. They’re not to be toys or playthings. Dragons are dangerous.”

“We promise, Papa!” they said in unison, their voices so earnest that Cregan almost believed them.

“And no more hatching dragon eggs in the hearth, understood?” he added, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t think Winterfell’s ever seen this much excitement in one day.”

His daughter giggled, stroking the tiny green dragon’s head with a gentleness that belied her usual rough-and-tumble nature. “No more hearth hatchings. We promise.”

Cregan looked at his children—his wild, wonderful, dragon-blooded children—and then at the two new lives they cradled in their arms. The absurdity of it all hit him suddenly, and he let out a low, incredulous laugh. Who would have thought? Two baby dragons, born not in the hot skies of Dragonstone, but in the icy heart of Winterfell.

“Come on, then,” he said, shaking his head as he turned back to his bemused bannermen. “Let’s see what your mother has to say about this.”

As they made their way across the hall, the dragons chirping and squeaking softly, Cregan couldn’t help but marvel at the scene. Only his children could turn a quiet day into something this… extraordinary.

And though he’d never admit it out loud, a part of him was secretly thrilled. There was never a dull moment with dragons in the family, after all.

[filmsmakkari]

the tale of a princess and her fair lady

rhaenyra targaryen x velaryon!reader

Summary: The daughter of House Velaryon makes a promise to her princess

CW: None!

A/N- I have not written and published a fanfiction since I was 14... bare with and pray for me.

The chamber was silent as a young girl with silver hair knelt before hundreds of candles beneath the stained-glass windows of the starry sept. Though she had never been a believer in gods and myths before, her love and worry filled her so deeply at present that she was brought to her knees in prayer.

Lady (Y/N) of House Velaryon had been in love with Princess Rhaenyra of House Targaryen for the better half of a year. They’d known each other since childhood and had always been quite close. Being the only two daughters of the great Valyrian houses in the Red Keep, they’d always felt that no one could understand them as well as each other. Their relationship, which had always toed the line between platonic and romantic, had turned into an unadulterated love affair the day Rhaenyra realized that her disdain for marriage to a man had never truly been about marriage, but more so the man.

Ever since, (Y/N) and Rhaenyra had been living in pure bliss, catching each other’s eye, walking with linked arms in public, and worshiping each other’s bodies during those private moments brought on by the cover of night. In recent days, however, the girls have been slightly at odds with each other, as (Y/N)’s parents have posed a potential marriage between Lady (Y/N) and King Viserys to strengthen the realm. Rhaenyra had hardly been able to look at her lover as she could soon become her stepmother, and she didn’t want it to be more painful by prolonging their relationship until the moment (Y/N) stood at the altar.

On this day, the 13th of the eighth moon, the princess had taken a most dangerous risk in flying to her family’s seat of power, Dragonstone, to subdue her wretched uncle Daemon, who had been squatting there for a year and who had just stolen a dragon egg for his unborn bastard child. (Y/N) had gotten wind of these plans and miraculously arrived at the dragonpit just before Rhaenyra took flight. (Y/N) had implored her princess to be safe, telling her that she would not know what to do if anything happened to her. Rhaenyra, overcome by the love and emotion she had been repressing, could not think of anything else to do but cup (Y/N)'s cheeks and pull her into a kiss. (Y/N)'s eyes widened in shock for a moment, but she quickly got over it, placing her hand on Rhaenyra’s cheek and wrapping her free arm around her waist.

How lovely that kiss was, (Y/N) sighed, remembering it. Rhaenyra had left after their lips broke, and (Y/N) had been in the sept worrying ever since. Eyes closed, she murmured promises to the seven that she would never sin again if Rhaenyra was protected.

Upon hearing a familiar voice softly calling her name, (Y/N)’s eyes fluttered open. She quickly turned her head to see none other than Rhaenyra Targaryen. Her princess. The purest love in her life. Her everything.

(Y/N) ran to her lover, immediately cupping her face and kissing her fiercely. Rhaenyra met (Y/N) with the same passion, grabbing her tightly by her waist and pulling her closer. 

Two dragons burning together under the midnight sky. 

The kiss communicated everything they had been too afraid to say. “I’m sorry.” “I miss you.” “I need you.” “I love you.”

The two girls finally broke apart for air, giggling shyly in the throes of their young love. 

Suddenly serious, Rhaenyra looked deeply into (Y/N)’s eyes. A pure shade of violet only found in those with the true blood of Old Valyria, with little flecks of blue- a trait passed down from her seafaring ancestors. She then scanned (Y/N)’s entire body, her shimmering silver hair, braided at the top, loosening into long coils past her backside—the curves of her breasts and hips, the softness of her hands, and the way her brown skin shone in the moonlight.

“A true Valyrian goddess, you are,” she said.

(Y/N) looked down shyly at the compliment. Rhaenyra lifted (Y/N)’s chin with her finger and stepped closer, leaning her forehead against hers. A moment of sweetness and intimacy. 

“Kivio naejot sagon rūsīr issa va moriot,” Rhaenyra said quietly. “Dōrī jorrāelagon mirre tolie hae ao jorrāelagon issa.”

Swear to be with me always. Never love any other as you love me.

(Y/N) exhaled. “Oh, issa dārilaros. Nyke kivio, jaehossi uēpossi arlȳssī."

Oh, my princess. I swear, by the old gods and the new.

[aemondsbabe]

From Ashes, Fire | Claimant Pt 3

summary: dragons take what they want, you and your brother are no different. but what will be left to burn in the name of happiness?

pairing: dark!aemond x sister!reader

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, dark aemond, angst, angst but happy ending, very cersei/jaime coded moment that's all i'll say, major character death, noncanonical death, very brief descriptions of injury, blood, i promise it's nothing graphic, reader turns to the dark side lol, piv sex, unprotected sex, oral sex (f receiving), minor breeding kink, possessive aemond, possessive reader, let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 8.3k oops

a/n: this is it, the grand finale! i had so much fun with this series and i hope y'all enjoy the last bit!

gif creds to @aemondtargaryensource

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

🔪read part 1 and part 2 here!

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"Love is the bane of honor, the death of duty."

“Jaehaera, please,” Helaena’s voice is gentle and melodic even as she scolds her daughter, pointing at one of the straw-stuffed dolls in her tiny hands, “You must share with your brother; how about you let him play with the knight, hm?”

One of Maelor’s little fists wraps tightly around your pointer finger as you chuckle at the displeased frown on the toddler’s face when she shoves the doll in Jaehaerys’s direction, though her lips quickly lift into a smile at her mother’s praise. 

“Good, that’s very sweet of you,” your sister smiles, watching her eldest two children play, sitting cross-legged beside them on the plush blanket she’d had spread out on the grass. 

A cool breeze blows through the grassy field while you idly look around at the many red tents and campfires, observing the groups of people gathered around – knights sat at one of the many wooden tables, a few servants peel vegetables brought from the Keep, and various nobles, lady’s maids, and other court patrons shuffle about. 

Taking a deep breath, you turn your face toward the sun, cooler now as day turns to evening, and savor the first moment of peace you’ve had in nearly a week. The days since your marriage to Jace have been… eventful, to say the least, with each new duty feeling like another stab to your already fragile heart. Respite hadn’t even found you in the night, each one spent fending off your new husband’s advances with excuses of your menstrual flux having come early, headaches, and various other ailments. He was getting anxious, you could tell – each night he pushed back a little more, arguing the importance of consummating the marriage, reminding you of the vows you had both uttered in the Sept. 

But how can a vow mean much if the Gods know it was only ever a lie?

You had felt your mother’s eyes on you at every turn, watching you and your brother like a hawk. Though as the days progressed her fiery stare cooled to one of guilt – a penance for subjecting you to the same fate that had befallen her. You suspected that was why she and Rhaenyra had organized this little trip; a celebratory hunt they’d called it, to commemorate the rift between your two families finally being healed. 

“Dear, dear wife,” your oldest brother slurs, goblet clutched in one hand as he staggers toward you and Helaena, groaning when he flops down on the bench next to you. “Oh, you look… ravishing,” your lips quirk up into a smirk as he drapes an arm around your shoulders, giggling and making faces at Maelor. 

“What did I tell you,” your sister says through a huff of laughter, violet eyes finding yours, “They ignore you until they’re drunk.”

If only that were the case, you think as you force yourself to laugh in time with her. 

“That is quite rude,” Aegon chastises, brows furrowed in offense while he takes a messy swig of wine, a few red drops run down his chin. “Do you see how she treats me?” He pouts, leaning closer to you with a wry grin, “The deed is done though, yes? Bastard knew where to put it?”

“Aegon!” Helaena hisses, swatting at his knee. 

The two fall into a playful round of bickering, thankfully leaving you out of it. With a sigh, you let your gaze wander again, tumbling thoughts muffling your siblings voices. 

“It’s not as hard as it looks, here,” Daemon’s voice catches your attention and you watch as he points a knife at the belly of a deer he and Lucerys had hunted earlier in the day, showing the boy where to cut, “Get your knife in there – good, like that, and now just cut downwards, one clean movement…” You glance away as blood spills from the beast’s abdomen, staining the grass below it.

Looking over the treeline, you try to ignore the sick feeling building in the pit of your stomach, though you know it won’t be settled until Aemond’s back at camp. Biting at your lip, you let out an irritated huff when you can’t make out any movement in the distance, no sign of your brother or Ser Criston, even your husband. 

You’d only spoken to Aemond once since your marriage – a hushed conversation hidden away in an alcove when the two of you had a spare moment alone after supper. He’d held you while you’d cried against the crook of his neck, shushing you and running a soothing hand up and down your back. You remember the way his jaw felt, teeth clenched as he rested it atop your head, letting you tuck yourself into him while he vibrated with barely contained rage. 

“I can’t do this, I can’t,” you lamented, peering up at him with a mournful sob as your fingers clung to the dark jacket he wore, “They’re planning on going back to Dragonstone! Dragonstone, Aem!”

“Shh, little one,” his hands had cupped your cheeks, wiped away your tears with calloused thumbs, “I’m not letting them take you.”

His words had held such conviction, you’d wanted nothing more than to believe him, yet you’d shaken your head anyway. “I don’t think there’s any stopping them, this time,” your breath had hitched with each word, “You heard Rhaenyra, they’re leaving as soon as we’re back from the hunt and she would never agree to leave Jacaerys here, never.” 

You had known you were spiraling, head spinning as you’d looked up at him, and yet the words tumbled out anyway. “I hate him, I wish he’d just… just disappear!” It was a childish little jab and yet, your heart had leapt into your throat the moment you’d said it. You were expecting to feel the clawing ache of guilt gnaw at your stomach, however, a weightlessness followed. You’d never felt lighter than in that moment – tucked away in the shadows, a secret you’d harbored since childhood finally set free.

Aemond had stayed quiet, but you saw the way his violet eye sparkled, the gears turning in his head.

Your words had echoed in his head, calling out to him like a siren’s song – the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. 

Finally convinced that the three men are truly not just going to materialize at the edge of camp, your gaze shifts to where your mother and Rhaenyra sit, huddled together beside one of the many firepits. Bouncing little Maelor on your lap, you’re vaguely aware of Aegon and Helaena idly chatting beside you, something to do with how your brother believes some such thing about the Small Council is a waste of time – a frequent complaint of his since taking the throne. 

You’re hardly listening though, head cocked to the side while you watch the two women laughing and animatedly conversing; they remind you of the young girls at court – youthful and carefree, too wrapped up in one another to notice much around them. 

That’s why she let them go together, that shadowy voice in the back of your head hisses, Too distracted to know better. You clench your jaw, only halfway aware of the stinging pain at your cuticle as you dig a nail into it.

“What say you to accompanying me on a hunt, nephew?” Aemond had asked earlier in the afternoon, voice low as he slunk over to where you, Jace, and your mothers had been sitting at one of the wooden tables, picking through a light lunch the cooks at the Keep had prepared.

“Aemond,” Alicent had sighed wearily, leaning heavily on her elbows while Rhaenyra regarded your brother with a cool indifference – evidently unaware of your family’s tensions. 

“What? I merely wish to bond with my dearest sister’s new husband.”

“Uncle,” Jace had finally spoken up, pointedly grasping one of your hands that had sat on the table, “As much as I would love to accompany you, don’t you think it a bit unwise for only the two of us to go? If I remember correctly from my youth, your father used to take a whole host of men into the woods with him…” 

“Do you not think yourself man enough to take on a measly buck, nephew?”

“Aemond!”

“Don’t fret, mother. ‘Twas only a joke, a tasteless one, I admit,” your hackles had raised at that, at how quickly he had stood down, so wholly unlike your brother, “Besides, I’ve taken the liberty of asking Ser Criston to accompany us as well.”

It was then, at the mention of the knight, that Rhaenyra had leaned closer to Alicent, the two of them laughing softly and sharing knowing glances while your half-sister whispered into her ear. 

“Surely the three of us are more than capable of subduing a deer or two, don’t you think?” 

Jace had balked at that, sighing heavily as his grip on your hand tightened ever so slightly. 

“I think it sounds like a wonderful idea,” you had coached your lips into a tight smile when you interjected, “Doesn’t that sound like a lovely idea, mother?”

“Hm?” She had blinked, finally parting from Rhaenyra, the ghost of a smile still on her lips. 

“For Ser Criston to accompany Jace and Aemond, to go hunting with them.”

“Well, I –”

“Surely that would be safest, yes?” You pushed, glancing at Jace before locking eyes with Aemond, “A knight with them, a Kingsguard no less.” 

“I think it sounds like a fine idea,” Rhaenyra had smiled, squeezing one of your mother’s hands, “They should take the time to bond, no? Savor it while we’re together these last few days.” 

“Yes… yes, a fine idea,” she had immediately agreed, always swaying to your half-sister. 

“Wonderful,” your brother murmured, a slow smile spreading across his lips as he clasped his arms behind his back, “I’ll have Ser Criston ready the horses.” With that, he had stalked away, giving you one final glance. 

“You truly think this a good idea?” Your husband had questioned, turning to you while your mothers got lost in yet another hushed conversation.

“Of course!” You had nodded, clasping one of his hands in both of yours, “Aemond is… odd with his affections. This is just his way of attempting to rectify things, I’m sure of it.” 

“I suppose…,” he had sighed, running a hand through his dark hair.

“It’ll be fine,” you had urged, going so far as to lean over and press a kiss against his cheek, one of the scant few times you had initiated any affections. 

Those words had echoed in your head while you watched the three men sheath their swords and load various bows and arrows onto their horses, the midday sun suddenly feeling much too warm against your skin. 

It’ll be fine, you had reminded yourself for the millionth time when they set off, horses galloping along a narrow path that led into the Kingswood, He’s not letting them take me, it’ll be fine. 

“Oh, shit,” Aegon whispers beside you, nearly dropping his goblet. 

You quickly follow his eyeline, looking to where he stares at one of the small paths that lead into the camp – the sight wrenching a hitched gasp from your throat. 

A hush seems to fall over the entirety of the camp, only for the quickest of seconds, before chaos erupts. Aemond stands before one of the horses, a grey one you recognize as Jace’s, steadying it while Criston pulls your husband from the saddle, smearing the side of the animal with thick streaks of red. 

Daemon quickly runs over to assist while you hastily hand Maelor back to Helaena, hardly looking in her direction as you do. 

“Jace? Jacaerys?!” Rhaenyra calls, picking up her skirts as she sprints over, violet eyes wide with terror, “What is it? What’s happened?”

Every noise sounds muffled when you make your way over to the huddle of commotion, Alicent following closely behind. A strange detached sensation fills you while you watch Criston and Daemon lay Jace down on a nearby bench, blood immediately soaking into the silk fabric of the pillows. 

It feels as if everything is happening both too quickly and too slowly all at once – a few of the other knights rush forward, hastily pulling his tunic out of the way before pressing stark white medical linens to the gaping cut on his side. They bark orders over his body, yelling for the servants to bring water and more linens. 

You feel your mother and Helaena grabbing at your arms and it’s only then you realize you’re shaking, swaying in place like a leaf on a branch; you know they’re talking to you but their words are dulled by the rushing of blood in your ears.

Somewhere in your periphery, you register the sound of Daemon’s voice, thick with desperation as he shouts question after question at Criston, “What happened? When? How? How long ago? How could you, you were supposed to protect him?!” They blend together, echoing through the haze in a roaring hum. 

Distantly, you register the feel of another warm body pressing into the small pack you find yourself a part of. Helaena shushes someone next to you and your gaze tears itself away from the pools of crimson gathering on the grass just long enough to realize that it’s Luke. Your heart breaks at that, a sharp pang in your chest at the fact that the poor boy is distressed enough to seek comfort from your family, of all places. 

“No! No, no, no!” Rhaenyra’s wails slice through the fog clouding your mind in such an exacting manner that your knees buckle, “Jace, Jace, look at me, please? Sweetling, please look at me!” She sobs, leaning over her son, one hand cradling his cheek. 

Unseeing brown eyes stare, unblinking, up at the hazy orange sky while yours focus solely on a single, paralyzing flash of violet. 

He’s not letting them take me, it’ll be fine. 

The Sept is eerily quiet, normal for this time of night but unsettling all the same; the occasional fizzling noises of the dozens of flickering candles is the only way you’re able to discern that time hasn’t simply halted. Pale moonlight shines in through the windows, bathing the floor in a star-shaped pool of light and making the whites of the painted eyes resting atop Jace’s face glow like beacons. 

You had picked out the stones and painted the eyes on them yourself, taking them from a spot in the gardens you knew he had favored when you were children and spent hours sourcing the pigments to make just the right shade of brown – one that reminded you of the rich chocolates that had been imported from Essos for your betrothal feast. 

“A wife’s duty,” your mother had said.

Rhaenyra had glared at you the whole time; silently, you wondered if she somehow knew it wasn’t duty that drove you – only atonement. 

Atonement, your mind echoes as you sit upon the cool stone steps beneath the Seven-Pointed Star, leaning your head against the bannister as you force yourself to look at his body, still atop black silks. 

Must one feel guilt to atone? Must I atone for not feeling it? When will it end?

Those questions had plagued you in the days since Jace died, bled out like a hunter’s boon in the field by the Kingswood. They’d settled over you like a fever, an ever-present haunting ache, made only worse by the soft, sinful voice in the back of your head that whispered the truth – that you didn’t care, that you don’t even now. 

You hadn’t cared, even as blood seeped from the gash at his side, even as you forced yourself to kneel by his still warm body and press gentle kisses to his forehead – the performance of a good wife. 

You hadn’t cared in the carriage ride back to the Keep, letting your mother and your sister hold you while you cried – I’m sad, I’m sad, I’m crying because I’m sad, I’m crying because I should be sad.

And you hadn’t cared when Aemond had come to you in the dead of night, had slipped into your chambers – your chambers – through one of the many hidden passageways in the old castle. 

“How?” You had asked, tracing patterns onto the pale skin of his bare chest while the two of you laid tangled in your silk sheets. 

“A boar,” he answered plainly, speaking through a sigh while running his fingers over the thigh you had draped across his hips, “Just as I’ve told you the last four times you’ve asked.”

“Aemond,” you sighed in that same tired tone your mother so often used; your eyes had narrowed when you saw the corner of his lips just barely twitch up into a smile; were it any other time, he would’ve made a cheeky comment about the similarity. 

“I’ve told you,” his grip tightened ever so slightly on your thigh and his other hand had grasped at your chin, guiding your eyes to his, “We had been tracking a buck, had gotten close and dismounted our horses, and had, I assume, stumbled into the beast’s territory and it charged at us.”

“Brother,” you had whispered, shaking your head and cupping his cheek, “Have you forgotten that I can tell when you lie?” 

He had stayed silent for a long while at that, jaw clenched while he stared at some point off in the distance, lips drawn into a tight line. Eventually, you had laid your head down, resting your cheek on his shoulder while you tried to accept that you wouldn’t be getting the truth that night, if ever.

It was only then that he had spoken.

“Please, let me protect you.” 

“Protect me?” You had looked up, brows furrowed as you studied his face, “From what?”

“From the law –”

“Our brother is king, if he says it was not murder, if he says it was an accident, which he already has done, then no one will question his –”

“Fine, then,” he had snapped, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, “From the damn Gods! I…” He trailed off, sighing heavily while he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“... the Gods?”

He’d finally looked at you again and your heart had pinched meanly in your chest when you saw tears gathering in his violet eye, “They will judge me harshly for what I’ve done, whenever the time comes, but… I will not subject you to the same fate.”

You had scoffed at that, had rolled your eyes when he looked away shamefully and had climbed atop him then, straddled his hips and turned his face toward yours, “I don’t give a shit about the Gods.” 

“What?”

“I don’t,” you repeated, leaning down until your forehead touched his, “If they were good Gods, if they cared, they would not have subjected me to that sham of a marriage in the first place. They would’ve guided our mother rightly, but they didn’t.”

“Sister, I –”

“And I hate that our nephew paid for that, Aemond, I truly do, but I am the one who told you to do it.”

He had shaken his head while a mournful peal of laughter clawed its way out of his throat, “You didn’t tell me to do any–”

“Perhaps not directly,” you interjected, smiling sadly while you cupped both of his cheeks in your hands, running a thumb over the scar beneath his eye, “But I did. I could’ve told you not to, could’ve said I didn’t mean it, could’ve cautioned our mother against letting him go with you, but… I didn’t.”

“No… no, I suppose you didn’t,” he sighed, swallowing thickly as he tried in vain to blink away tears.

“I didn’t,” you echoed, your words hushed and cooed, like a mother soothing an infant, “I know what you’re capable of, I knew it then, and I didn’t.”

He nodded, his breath stuttered in his throat as a single tear rolled down his cheek. 

“Because I knew you’d protect me… and you did.” 

“I did,” he mumbled, nodding up at you as his face twisted and a small sob bubbled from his lips, “I did, I did it. I did it, I did. For you, for us.” 

“I know,” you murmured sweetly, stroking a hand over his long hair while you pressed sweet kisses against his forehead. You held him as he cried, huddled together in the dark of your chambers 

And you hadn’t cared when you realized you were smiling. 

“The hour is quite late, little one,” the suddenness of his voice makes you jump, though you settle quickly. 

“So it is,” you smile and look over your shoulder, tilting your head up while he walks down the steps to join you, “The hour of ghosts, yes? Fitting.” 

He huffs as he sits beside you before regarding you with a slight smirk, “I suppose it is,” he murmurs, only sparing the red and black draped body on the altar a passing glance.

“Why are you here?”

“I was looking for you… Hel said you would probably be here.”

“Mm,” you nod, idly running a finger over the pattern on your skirts, finding a morbid sort of beauty in the way the rich black silks glimmered in the candlelight. 

“Why are you here?” Aemond asks, eye following the line of your profile. 

“Praying.”

Without looking, you can practically feel him rolling his eye beside you, huffing a little breathy laugh again, “Have you forgotten that I can tell when you lie, sweet sister?”

Hearing your own words from the night before parroted back to you pulls a laugh from you as well, though you wince as your giggle echoes throughout the Sept. “It’s funny,” you sigh, glancing about the cavernous space before finally looking at him, “This is the only place where no one wants to be.” 

He hums next to you and nods his head, lets the two of you sit in silence for a moment before you continue. 

“I don’t have to pretend when I’m here.” 

“Pretend?” 

Biting at your bottom lip, you nod and lean into his touch when he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “That I’m sad… that I feel anything, really,” you sigh, breathing the words more so than saying them, “All Rhaenyra does is cry, Daemon is ready to strangle anything that moves, Lucerys is despondent to the point of being mute. Even our own mother cries for him and I cannot muster a single tear that isn’t a farce.”

Your eyes trail back over to Jace and you regard him with a mournful stare, staying silent for a long moment as you try to will yourself to feel sad, to feel angry, to feel guilty… yet nothing comes.

“Everyone grieves differently,” Aemond mumbles beside you, though his words only serve to make you more bitter, “Perhaps, in time –”

“In time nothing will happen,” you snap, grimacing at the harshness in your voice, “I’m not sad and I am… I’m tired of pretending I am.” You murmur, leaning your head on his shoulder. 

Aemond is quiet for a long while, though you can feel the energy radiating off of him in waves – you’ve always been able to tell when he has a lot on his mind. You’re content to simply let him think, taking his silence as a cue that it’s your turn to let him sort through things. 

“You… are happy, though? Yes?” He finally asks after several long minutes, going strangely rigid next to you as if he’s afraid of your answer, “I know you say you aren’t sad but…”

“Aemond,” you sigh, sitting up and staring at him as a slow, creeping smile spreads across your face, “I have never been happier.”

“Truly?”

“Yes!” You quickly shift yourself on the stairs, turning yourself more toward him and placing a gentle hand on top of his thigh, “Big brother, you saved me.”

He opens his mouth to speak but you don’t let him get a word in edgewise before the emotions you’ve been bottling up over the last few days finally spill over and you practically throw yourself into his lap, straddling his hips. 

“Brother, I've been tethered to him since I was eight and you have freed me from that,” you say softly, voice hardly carrying in the air. Slowly, carefully you pull his eyepatch off, the only one ever allowed to do so; there is a sadness in your smile when you gently trail your fingers over the crease of his scar, “We both lost something that night and have suffered for it ever since.”

Without another word, you press your lips to his and savor the groan your kiss pulls from him. His hands grab at your hips in the same instance yours card through his hair while your lips move together in a practiced rhythm. 

Impatient, one of your hands travels down his chest and stomach, though you hardly have time to pull at the hem of his dark tunic before he grabs your wrist, stopping you. 

“Aemond,” you huff, fighting against his grip. 

“Surely you don’t mean to defile this place in such a way,” he murmurs, violet eye sparkling as if he were challenging you, even as he glances over your shoulder, “What would your dear husband think?

You grin at the lecherous smirk on his lips, heart pounding in your chest as a familiar ache settles at the apex of your thighs. You give one final glance over your shoulder before turning back to him with a dismissive shrug. “Husband in name only,” you remind him, yanking your hand out of his grasp and trailing your fingers over the growing bulge beneath his trousers, “I have only ever been devoted to you.”

A rough growl leaves his lips and he clenches his jaw, narrowing his eye. “We will burn for this, sweet sister,” he huffs, pale cheeks flushing while he stares up at you, one hand still settled on your hip as the other comes up to cup your jaw. 

“The Seven can have their say,” your cunt clenches at the way he looks at you – surprise, lust, even reverence giving such an intensity to his gaze that it nearly knocks the wind from your lungs, “The Old Valyrian Gods can as well, I don’t care. Aemond, I don’t.”

Your hand finally, blessedly, pulls free the ties at the top of his trousers and you quickly find his length. The sharp grunt that’s wrenched from his throat when your hand wraps around it echoes through the Sept, each iteration of it making the fire in your belly burn brighter and brighter. 

He doesn’t attempt to stop you when you plunge a hand beneath the fabric of your black skirts and hastily tug your smallclothes out of the way, he merely studies you in awe, as if watching a newly hatched dragon spread its wings for the first time. His gaze makes you shiver, though you dare not look away.

“What do you care about, little one?” He murmurs suddenly, unable to help himself from glancing between your bodies, licking his lips while he watches you use your fingers to prepare yourself as you rub your own slick through your folds. 

“You,” you whisper, shuddering at the way you both gasp at the same time when you rut against his already throbbing length, “You are the only god I’ve ever worshiped, big brother.”

A loud groan bursts free of his lips at that and the hunger in his eye nearly catches you alight, and yet he still grabs at your hips tightly, preventing you from sinking onto his length – so out of his element, wholly unused to being taken in such a way. “Come, let us go to my chambers,” he tries, breathing your name against your neck as he leans up, “Where I can take you properly, hm? No risk of anyone interrupting…”

Undeterred, you simply shake your head and lean forward, pressing your lips against his in an eager, near feral kiss. It’s mostly teeth and tongues and thankfully, it’s enough to shock him into loosening his grip, just enough for you to take what you want. You bite at his bottom lip when you sink down onto his length, hard enough to taste iron, making him growl into the kiss, the sound of it deepening to a low groan at the feel of your tight cunt around him. 

The feel of his cock stretching you open somehow only gets better each time and leaves you gasping in his lap, your hands grabbing at his shoulders for leverage while you begin grinding yourself against him, impatient and ravenous. “Ohh, f-fuck,” you curse, squeezing your eyes shut while your walls flutter around him. 

Aemond’s chest heaves under your hands while he stares up at you, lips parted ever so slightly as breathy groans spill, unbidden, from them. Opening your eyes, your gaze is immediately drawn to a little smear of red beside his mouth and you lean forward – licking his pale skin clean without a second thought. 

“Little minx,” he smirks, meanly grabbing at your hips again and bucking up into you. He huffs a soft laugh at the sharp moan that bursts from you, sounding louder still in the large open space of the Sept; there’s a dangerous, challenging gleam in his eye that makes you shiver. “Go on, then,” he rasps, trailing a hand up from your hip to cup the underside of your breast, his touch warm even through the bodice of your gown, “Worship your god.”

A soft, stuttered moan wrenches itself from your lips at that and you quickly obey, staking your claim over him. As you find your rhythm, rutting wildly in his lap, the only sounds echoing off the walls are that of panted breaths and the slick, wet noises from where the two of you connect. “You’re mine,” you breathe, leaning forward to bite at his throat, determined to mark him in as many ways as possible, “Y-You’ve always been mine, Aemond.” 

He nods his head, hands scrambling at the ties on your bodice, determined to free your breasts. “I’m yours?” He taunts, sighing victoriously when he finally manages to practically rip the top of your gown open; his tongue darts out, wetting his lips at the sight of them and he allows himself a few seconds to appreciate the way they bounce so enticingly with each of your determined movements, “Show me, then… show me who I belong to, sweet sister.”

Something snaps inside you then, breaking and clicking perfectly into place all in the same breath; the feeble thing that was holding the dam inside of you shut disappears. Whatever greedy darkness Aemond has always harbored within himself has been slowly seeping into you since the night of your betrothal feast and now, it seems, it has finally settled into your bones as well. It’s as if he can sense it in the same instance you do and gives a subtle nod of his head, commanding you to give in. 

With renewed vigor, you grind against him harshly, pressing your hips as far down onto him as you can manage until you can feel his cock pressing against the entrance to your womb. The thought of him there, of the possibility of his seed catching, of the possibility that it may already have, spurs you on further. 

“I would kill for you, too,” you say lowly through clenched teeth, licking up the side of his neck until you can whisper into his ear, “I’ll do anything to have you, my love, I don’t care what it is.”

A low groan reverberates from within his chest, both of you all but snarling as you move together; his hips rut up against yours, unable to hold still any longer, and he bites a path down your neck until he reaches the softness of your breasts. You gasp as he teases at one nipple, flicking at it with the tip of his tongue while his fingers toy with the other one, only to cut yourself off with a loud moan when his lips seal around it. 

“I would burn this city to the fucking ground if that’s what… what it took, brother,” the words tumble from your lips when you card your fingers through his hair, cradling the back of his head and holding him against your chest. Your head tilts down, heart pounding in your chest while you watch him savor the feel of your warm flesh in his mouth; his violet eye snaps up and his gaze bores into yours, making your cunt clutch greedily at his length. 

Feeling the knot building quickly in your belly, aided by the way your sensitive pearl brushes against the small patch of hair at the base of Aemond’s cock, you only grow more needy – craving confirmation that he is yours, that no one will be able to take him from you again. Your breath catches in your throat when you recall a conversation the two of you had had a few nights ago, the night of Jace’s death.

The two of you had been cuddled in your bed together, panting in sweat-damp sheets, when he had cupped your cheek and turned your face to his. 

“What is it?” You asked, familiar with the faraway look in his eye – God’s knew where he could’ve been in that moment.

“Marry me.”

His whispered demand had knocked the air from your lungs then, the whole world may as well have come to a grinding halt on its axis. “Aemond, we must wait, you know this. I hate it as much as you do but –”

“We need to wait for a Westerosi wedding, yes,” he murmured, leaning over you and shushing you with a soft kiss, “Too soon and it looks suspicious.”

“But –”

“But… a wedding in the tradition of our house need not wait, little one,” the determination in his eye had shocked you then, had warmed you from the inside out, “Our sister and her cunt of a husband hardly waited until Laena and Laenor were cold before they married… we could do the same.”

You had stayed quiet after that, too much death and change and uncertainty clouding your mind to give him an answer, and yet you knew he was right. Rhaenyra and Daemon had married in secret, so soon after Laenor’s sudden passing that it had always seemed a bit odd to you. Yet, no one ever questioned it; your own father had accepted it without so much as a blink, writing the marriage into law with no fuss. Aegon would do the same for you, you felt certain. 

Nothing was stopping you, nothing that mattered, anyway. 

That thought fuels you now as you rock on Aemond’s lap, both of you barreling toward your eventual ends. Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging him away from your breast despite his growl of displeasure. Just as he had with you, you cup his cheeks, focusing his attention on you. 

“Marry me.”

The rhythm of his hips hitches at your words and he fucks up into you harshly, moving you more desperately against him as another loud, guttural moan echoes through the chamber. 

“Tonight,” you continue, brows furrowing as you stare at him, greedily drinking him in, “I cannot wait any longer, brother, tonight, please…” 

A vicious, conquering smirk grows on his lips, white teeth gleaming in the low candlelight like a snarling dog. “You wish to be mine, is that it?” He teases, reaching between your two writhing bodies to rub hungrily at your pearl, savoring the pretty breathy moans he earns. 

You’re shaking your head before he can even finish speaking as an unrelenting, all consuming possessive ache starts spreading out from your heart, flowing through your blood vessels like fire. “I don’t wish it,” you pant, forehead resting against his while the wildfire burning in your belly threatens to burn you whole, “I told you, I would kill for you and… and, fuck, I swear it. A-Aemond, no one will have you ever again, never, none except me…”

Your words descend into a barely intelligible murmur as you finally let go, pushed suddenly over the edge at the thought of being so tightly bound together that no one would be able to tear the two of you apart again. Your brother growls again at the feel of your cunt pulsing around him, the movements spurring him toward his own end. 

He grabs at you when he follows you into oblivion, holding you against him as if you’d disappear otherwise. The feel of his spend spilling into you, filling you, nearly sends you over the edge again and you cling to him just as harshly, holding him while he trembles beneath you. 

“You are a vicious little thing,” he says softly after some minutes, holding you against his chest while the two of you catch your breaths.

“I learned from the best.”

He only sighs at that but you don’t need to look at him to know he’s smiling. “I would do it again for you,” he mumbles, eye fixed on Jace, “I would do it a thousand times over.”

He speaks in a reverent whisper, promises of death and destruction as sweet as a prayer on his lips. 

Aemond’s hand is warm in yours as he leads you through the winding corridors below the Red Keep, the flickering light from the torches lining the walls making the various statues and reliefs dance in your periphery. 

“I’ve always hated that he’s down here, stowed away,” he murmurs, yet his voice still carries some among the stone hallways.

“Mm,” you hum in agreement, glancing into each shadowy alcove you come across while you try to ignore the wild beating in your chest – the way your heart clenches at the thought of finally being so close to what you’ve always wanted. “Yes, he should be out in the sun, somewhere he can be celebrated.”

The old cellars under the Keep have always seemed so haunting to you, so cold and empty. The thought of the walls down here being lined with the ashen remains of generations upon generations of your ancestors had never failed to send a shiver down your spine. Yet, they unfold before you now like paradise; even the still, musty air begins to smell as sweet as honeyed wine. 

For the briefest of seconds, guilt joins you – walks alongside you, invisible like the Stranger. A stuttered heartbeat, that’s all and then it’s gone, at the thought that Jace would join them tomorrow, still warm from Vermax’s fire. 

How ironic, you think, glancing up at your brother and admiring the way the light gleams on his sapphire eye, That a place that holds so much death would be where our lives finally begin.

“I don’t want to wait any longer,” you’d said again, retying your bodice while Aemond tucked himself back into his trousers and searched for his eyepatch.

“Nor do I,” he agreed, stuffing the small scrap of fabric into a pocket – the streets of King’s Landing would be deserted enough at this time of night that he could get away without wearing it. “Tensions are bound to rise after tomorrow, after everything is said and done; I don’t want to leave anything to chance.”

You had nodded and followed him out of the Sept, through one of the many old, forgotten tunnels that only a scant few knew existed, the list of which definitely didn’t include the guards stationed at the front of the building who had escorted your carriage earlier that evening. 

While he had helped you onto the back of his horse, the two of you shared a knowing look, each of you already thinking the same thing. 

Turning down one final corridor, your heart thuds in your chest as you’re finally met with Balerion’s petrifying gaze and, just like every other time you’d been in his presence, a little huff of reverence leaves you. Your eyes dance over the rows of his razor sharp teeth, gleaming in the glow of dozens of candles, and you can’t help but imagine the horrors those jaws have inflicted, the pain they wrought while subduing the continent – all in your family’s name. 

“Targaryens have always taken what we’ve wanted,” Aemond murmurs beside you, staring up at the gargantuan skull with just as much respect as you are, “Tamed our desires in fields of fire.”

“And rivers of blood,” you turn your heads at the same time, soft smiles on your lips when your eyes meet, like you’re sharing sweet words of love rather than painting pictures of horrors. 

Perhaps that is what wrath is for us, you wonder, your eyes flicking between violet and sapphire when you turn toward your brother, What is death if not the sweetest of devotions?

He takes your hands in his, glancing down when your fingers intertwine before looking back up at you; you can feel yourself blushing under his intense gaze, heart squeezing in your chest as he looks at you like that in and of itself is an honor. There’s such softness in his eye, you would think him incapable of violence if you didn’t know better. 

“You truly wish for this?” He questions one last time, needing to be sure. 

“I’ve told you, I do not wish,” your hands squeeze his, “I need this, Aemond… I would kill for you, for this – for us. Anything, just as you did.” 

Your voice trembles when you speak, the intensity of your hushed promises making your head spin because you would. The want you feel, that you have always felt, is not some soft yearning thing. It’s not so simple as some mere whisper uttered in the dead of night at a holy altar while your skin is awash with the glow of candlelight, no. 

No, your want is something far more insidious – something deep-seated. An oppressive, clinging thing that has always coaxed you further and further down into that shadowy part of yourself; the part that has always reminded you too much of him. 

The demon, lurking in your periphery, that has always begged you to look, has tempted you since childhood with the sweetest of promises, finally rejoices. 

Aemond nods, a satisfied smile pulling at the corner of his lips, and you watch as he lets go of one of your hands to unsheath his dagger. The sight of the worn leather handle makes you smile bashfully, though your core clenches all the same, and you gasp when you feel another drop of his seed soak into your smallclothes. 

“You know the words?”

Again, he nods and your head cocks to the side curiously when a wash of pink grows on his pale cheeks; he smiles again and fixes you with that same intense stare. “I used to spend hours reading them, over and over, when we were children,” he whispers, leaning closer to you like he’s revealing some deep, dark secret, “I always wanted to get them perfect for you.” 

A little peal of laughter echoes through the cellars before you swallow thickly, trying to tamper the tightness at the back of your throat as the backs of your eyes sting, tears pooling in your waterline. He cups your cheek and you smile when he brushes one away, a pleased hum leaves his lips when you nod. 

Aemond raises the dagger, glancing between its shining blade and your lips while you ready yourself, one hand clenching at the black silk of your skirts. “I’ll be gentle,” he promises. 

You hold stock-still, gasping when he presses the cool edge of it against your lower lip, yet your eyes don’t leave his when he finally cuts – nicking your delicate flesh just enough to draw blood before offering you the dagger. Grasping it, you mirror his steps exactly, just as careful with him. 

Setting the dagger to the side, you both reach up at the same time, swiping a thumb over your own lip before reaching out. Your arms intertwine when you brush each other’s foreheads, leaving behind two crimson lines. 

His gaze never breaks from yours as he takes the blade again and carefully cuts his palm, holding it out to you again and waiting while you do the same, gasping at the sharp sting. Finally, the two of you join hands, blood mingling together as a few drops of it splatter on the stone floor as Balerion bears witness to your union. 

“Hen lantoti ānogar, va syndroti vāedroma, mēro perzot gīhoti, elēdroma iārza sīr,” he recites, murmuring the words with care, making sure to enunciate each syllable, to make the vows unmistakeable to whichever ghosts may be listening, “Izulī ampā perzī, prūmī lanti sēteksi, hen jeny māzīlarion,” (Blood of two, joined as one, ghostly flame, and song of shadows. Two hearts as embers, forged in fourteen fires, a future promised in glass.)

Aemond pauses, taking a breath as he squeezes your hand with his, echoing your smile.

“Qēlossa ozūndesi, syndroro ōñō jēdo, ry kīvia mazvestraksi,” he finishes, all but breathing the last few words as his eye grows misty. (The stars stand witness, the vow spoken through time, of darkness and light.)

The two of you stand still for a moment like you’re waiting for the world to crash down around you and you can feel his heart beating in time with yours as your palms press together, both of you seemingly in shock at finally, finally having everything you’ve ever wanted. 

You can’t tell who moves first but suddenly you’re crashing against him, dagger clanging as it hits the floor, while the two of you clutch at one another desperately, uncaring of the blood smearing on your clothes. 

Your lips press against his like they’re a lifeline and you moan at the touch, swiping your tongue over his while you grab at the lapels of his jacket. His hands cup your cheeks, staining one with red, before carding through your hair. 

“Gods,” he groans, resting his forehead against yours while the two of you pant, breathing out soft laughs. “My little wife…” He says the word slowly, lets it drag over his tongue. 

“Husband,” you reply between soft kisses to his cheek, head spinning at how a word that once had to be dragged from you, that had scraped against your skin like thorns, now felt like silk slipping cooly over you. 

Your brother growls deep in his chest and his eye flutters shut for a second before his hands are at your waist again and he’s walking you backwards, only a few paces, until you’re pressed against one of the stone columns surrounding the great dragon’s skull. Though your landing is soft, it wrenches a gasp from you all the same but you don’t have time to question his intent before his lips are on yours again.

You moan into the kiss, matching each of his deep groans with one of your own as your tongues tangle together. “Aemond,” you pant when he begins trailing kisses down across your jaw and neck, “What –”

He nips at your cleavage then and you can feel him smirking at the loud whine he pulls from you, soothing the skin after with a sweet kiss before sinking to his knees before you. The sight is enough to make you weak – the man that loves you more than eternity itself, who loves you enough to do terrible, monstrous things, kneeling at your feet and staring up at you like you are his salvation. 

Your hands tangle in his soft hair while he pulls at your skirts, pushing them up and out of the way, kissing your thighs as he goes. “You had the chance to worship at your altar, sweetest little wife,” he pants, groaning when he pushes your smallclothes to the side and licking his lips at the sight of your cunt, still wet with your combined spend, “Now let me worship at mine.”

That’s the only warning you get before he dives in, lapping at your center with a loud, satiated growl. Your head thuds back against the column while your eyes are fixed, half-lidded, on Balerion, on the fire that surrounds him. 

You understand, then – the curtains of fire that blanketed the continent were necessary to conquer it, just as blood was necessary to bind the two of you. Perhaps one day you’ll be called to answer for that, but even then you would do it a thousand times over; even if the dark, shadowy parts of yourself, of him, lead to the deepest pits of the Seven Hells. You would do it, again and again, for him. 

You were always meant to burn together.

thank you for taking the time to read! hope you enjoyed! :)

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[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x oc (part viii)

a/n: today on a special angst-fluff episode, war is here. Claere faces off with Sylas and Cregan is pissed as fuck.

"The North remembers," they said, but in the face of dragonfire, memories of ash smouldered in secret.

The saying haunted Cregan Stark’s mind as he stared up at the approaching stone walls of Winterfell, each one steeped in history, in blood, in the scars of northern pride. The wildlings had brought ruin here before, flames that had charred whole villages and left deep wounds in the land and its people.

Now, with Sylas the Grim’s ruthless host threatening their borders, the North knew what it faced—a familiar terror comes to life in a new skin. And yet, this time, that terror was woven with something the North found even harder to bear: Claere. Their frustration with her burned as deep as their fear of Sylas. She was a tempest, one with a dragon’s shadow, and the tempest had now come home.

The ride back from Castle Cerwyn had been tense, Cregan keeping his jaw clenched as Claere remained distant, her silence like a wall. Her eyes held that distant, unreadable look he recognized all too well—the look that told him she was utterly unreachable elsewhere. And when the raven had come, when they’d learned the wildlings had already torn through Queensgate and were now barreling toward Winterfell, Claere’s decision was swift and absolute. She had urged her dragon, Luna, and flown on ahead, faster than any horse could travel, her need for solitude all too clear.

Back home, Winterfell was in turmoil. Word of Sylas’s raiders had spread quickly, stirring panic and outrage among the smallfolk and the highborn alike. Fear clung to the stone walls, and every murmur seemed to echo with the name of the wildling king who rode south of the Wall, the one who dared invoke a queen’s name—a southern majesty who bore a northern title, one that Winterfell was not wholly at ease with. But Cregan had no time for doubt or hesitation. His vassals, his bannermen—they would follow his lead or face his wrath.

In the great hall, the mood was dark and simmering, like a storm straining at its bounds. It has been this way ever since Claere had stepped foot into his home.

Lord Bolton, face sharp as a flint, crossed his arms and let his displeasure be known. “We’re to fight her war now, are we, my lord? Our sons and daughters—our lives spent to drive back the blood she’s drawn? What loyalty do we owe to a Targaryen?”

Cregan’s eyes darkened, his fists tight by his side, but he remained composed. “Our loyalty is to the North. This enemy does not care who reigns here; only Winterfell falls. And you will address Lady Stark with respect.”

Lord Ryswell, his brow heavy with disdain, shook his head. “But it is the White Dread's wings that drew their eye. This Sylas did not come for Winterfell—he came for her. Let her face him with her beast; let her burn them herself. Must we spill our blood to clean up her folly?”

Cregan’s hands trembled, his patience thinning like a frayed cord.

“If you would run when danger calls at our gates, then perhaps you belong south of the Neck, Lord Ryswell,” he spat, stepping toward him with a fury that made the air crackle. “Do not forget who leads here. You’re bound by the oath to fight for the North, and if you turn your back on that now, I will have your head before the wildlings can take it.”

Ryswell tensed, glancing around as other lords shifted uncomfortably. But he did not back down. “This is your queen’s doing, Lord Stark. She must carry the burden she’s brought upon us, and not cower behind our banners while Winterfell suffers.”

With a flash of uncontained rage, Cregan seized Ryswell by the collar, his grip vice-tight, fingers digging into the thick fabric as he hauled the lord off balance. The impact against the stone wall was brutal, echoing in the quiet tension of the hall, and Ryswell’s startled breath hitched, his eyes widening.

Cregan leaned in, his face mere inches from Ryswell’s, voice low and simmering with menace as he hissed, “If you question my wife's allegiance to the North, then you best prepare to prove yours. She has done more for my people than your risen banners.”

Lord Bolton dared to govern order over the Stark court. "My lord, please—"

“Let me make one thing clear." His voice reverberated louder. "I will fight for her, and the North will fight for her—whether you bend or break.”

He released Ryswell, who stumbled back with a dark glare, but Cregan paid no more heed. He swept his gaze over the others, a steely finality in his eyes.

“We stand together, or our realm falls.”

Unbeknownst to them, Claere lingered in the archway of the hall, a palm against the cool stone as if bracing herself against a tidal wave. She had known the risks, known the delicate line she walked when she ventured past the Wall. And yet, in the depths of her mind, she had believed the danger would end there—with her. That it would be her own fate to face, her choice to defend, and her consequence to bear. She had never thought it would ripple out, consuming not only Winterfell but every corner of the North in the threat of savage war. Now, with Sylas the Grim bearing down on them, the cost was spreading like poison through a wound, infecting all she held dear, casting a shadow over the very halls that had given her sanctuary.

The impact of her actions goaded her, as though Winterfell itself whispered its disappointment. She felt her stomach churn as Cregan's voice rang out, his fury cracking against stone and iron like thunder, defiant, desperate to protect her.

“And I will not allow any man here to see that happen.”

But she could feel the resentment in the lords' voices, their scorn a silent sentence upon her. Their words seemed to cut deeper than any northern frost, digging into her heart until the shame became unbearable.

Without a word, she turned away from the door, her footsteps echoing hollowly as she walked into the dim solitude of the hall.

Claere moved through the towering gates of Winterfell as if stepping out from a world she could no longer right. The northern wind tore at her cloak, pulling stray strands of silver hair across her face, but her gaze was steady, her jaw set with silent resolve.

Just beyond the walls, Luna lay blanketed in a thin dusting of fresh snow, her pearly scales glinting beneath as she shook herself free, the icy fragments scattering around her like stardust. Claere approached, running her hand along the dragon’s warm, rumbling hide, fingers tracing the edges of Luna's scales.

"Eman naejot addemmagon se odre," she said to herself and her dragon. I have to pay the price. Only me.

Luna’s golden eyes narrowed as if the dragon understood more than the simple cadence of her words, the fire at the heart of those depths a spark of both promise and warning. The dragon let out a low, vibrating hum, pressing her enormous head down toward Claere in something almost like tenderness. Claere, hands splayed on Luna’s snout, whispered into the space between them, her voice scarcely above a breath.

“Iksan zūgagon, Luna," she admitted in a whisper. "Kessa ao dohaeragon nyke?” I am scared, Luna. Will you help me?

The response was a fierce snort of smoke as if Luna were granting her blessing and all her reassurance. It was not enough.

Dutifully, Claere climbed the ropes of the saddle and mounted her steed, her knees pressing tight against Luna’s warm scales, and then, with a shout that cut the still air—“Soves, Luna!”—they took to the skies. Fly, Luna!

The winds sliced against her, battering her with an unyielding chill as they soared. She had forgone her riding leathers in the haste of her choice, the coarse wind whipping at her skirts and cloak, cutting against her skin. But the discomfort was a faraway thing and such was the spontaneity of dragonblood. She flew fast, intent, her mind ablaze with thoughts of everything she had left behind and what lay ahead. Her vision sharpened as she scanned the frozen lands below, hunting for signs of the enemy’s encampment.

And finally, there—sprawling like some savage scar against the land—a camp of tattered tents and ash-dusted fires spread in defiance of the snow.

The wildlings’ camp was a raw display of grit and disorder, tents lashed together with hide and bone, rings of fire smouldering where warriors gathered in restless clusters. The sight of her shadow looming overhead sent them into frantic motion; men and women darted for weapons, cries ringing out as they readied for the worst. But Claere had no intention of launching fire or fury from above. She descended steadily, bringing Luna’s menacing form to the ground with a long, deafening roar that sent nearby men staggering.

Two wildlings rushed forward, their faces painted in streaks of ash, axes drawn, arrows already nocked in their bows. They moved with lethal purpose, but Claere was unfazed, her gaze like tempered steel.

“I must speak to the one who calls himself Sylas the Grim,” she called, her voice emphatic, tenacious.

She could feel the wild energy of Luna at her back, a silent reminder of the fire she could unleash with a mere command. Her heart hammered in the pause, yet her expression held no threat, no violence. Instead, her intentions were more profound—steeped in duty and sacrifice, fueled by a desperate love that outweighed all her fears. She was not here to rain death but to offer herself to the one who wanted her, the one who had torn peace from her hands.

“Tell him the Dragon Queen in the North is here.”

X

Claere stepped into the dim tent, the heavy fabric rustling behind her as it closed, sealing her within a space that reeked of sweat, smoke, and damp fur. Her eyes adjusted to the flickering torchlight, revealing a figure looming at the centre—a man so solid and coarse that he seemed an extension of the savage north itself.

Sylas the Grim. He was far taller than Cregan, broad-shouldered and massive, his age betrayed by streaks of grey in his wild mane of red hair. He wore pelts and leathers, smeared with the earth and blood of countless battles and raids, and every inch of him seemed sharpened by a life spent enduring the elements and taking what he desired.

Two guards, as fierce as hounds, lingered on either side of him, but with a single dismissive flick of his wrist, they shuffled out.

"I want her to myself," he said to them.

Sylas’s mouth twisted into a grin that split his face into his bushy beard, yellowed teeth gleaming. His eyes traced her form with a gluttonous curiosity like she were some rare prey he’d finally snared after a long, arduous hunt. Claere moved further into the tent, her posture poised, her gaze inscrutable, her calm an unsettling contrast to the predatory air he exuded.

She dipped into a curtsey, uncertain how a man like this might wish to be addressed. “My lord, allow me a proper introduction. I am Claere Stark, Lady of Winterfell.”

He let out a bark of laughter, coarse and unrestrained. “My lord? Am I your lord? I'll be King Sylas soon enough.” His eyes roamed over her, lingering at her shoulders, then her face, savouring every inch. “You’re too little for a queen. Just a baby. How old are you?”

A faint chill settled into her voice. “Six and ten, my lord. My mother is still the queen.”

Sylas’s smile widened, a feral gleam lighting his eyes. “And you will be someday. You're already a woman.”

The words hung between them, fraught with the ominous weight of his intent. Claere’s pulse quickened beneath her skin, but she remained as marble, knowing his hunger for power, for something beyond the life he’d known, radiated from every gesture. Her dragon, her birthright, the North—these were the spoils he craved. He leaned forward, his massive figure closing in, an aura of raw ferocity emanating.

Sylas's lips twisted into a grin that dripped with satisfaction as he stepped closer, his broad frame casting a shadow that swallowed the light around them. He folded his arms, leaning back with a smug, wolfish glint in his eye.

“Did you fly all this way for me?”

“I did, my lord.” Her voice was measured, smooth—a tempered blade he hadn’t yet managed to dull.

“Oh, I like it when you call me that,” he mused, his eyes glinting with perverse pleasure. “Makes me feel like a god.” He let the words roll over her, savouring each one, circling her like a predator with fresh meat. “So,” he continued, his voice lilting with mock surprise, “you’ve come to beg for mercy, then? The little queen, down on her knees? Not to kill the Stark boy?”

Claere lifted her chin, her expression as serene and cold as winter’s first frost. “You wanted me,” she said, her words quiet, unyielding. “Now you have me.”

A ripple of something feral passed through him, his grin widening into a leer, his pride feeding on her defiance.

“I don't plan on letting go. Now tell me, does the North know it bends to me through you?” His gaze roamed over her, possessive, as if she were no more than a prize he had finally claimed. “I wonder, does the wolf know that his doe strayed into the wild?”

“If you require words,” she replied, “then speak them plainly. But do not think to bait me.”

Sylas let out a bark of laughter, filling the tent with his raw, unrestrained mirth.

“Words, little queen?” he sneered. “No, I’ve got no need for words. Only the strength to take what’s mine.” He took another step toward her, his gaze alight with victory, his looming presence attempting to smother the quiet resolve in her eyes.

"Winterfell,” he paused, his gaze hardening, “the Iron Throne. And with you by my side, the North will rule the South.”

She saw it now, the intent beneath his words, as clear as day: he wanted her claim, her blood, her dragon—and through her, dominion over the entire realm. He sought the legitimacy of her claim, so unlike the Free Folk who lived outside the law. She felt the desire in his gaze sharpen, like a wolf that had tasted blood. Claere remained unbowed, every inch of her regal bearing intact, meeting his eyes with a steady defiance that amused him.

“You're a pretty girl. None are like you past the Wall—shiny things are rare in the white woods,” he mused, lifting a calloused hand to touch the edge of her lip with his thumb. His skin was rough, the gesture slow and deliberate, a feigned intimacy that carried a threat.

“I've heard about your kind. Nasty cunts, you lot. Kings with dragons for cocks. Queens that piss fire. Brother-fuckers. What were you doing out there in the snow, hm?”

His thumb lingered, the weight of it pressing against her lip, but her eyes were deadened, as though she were looking through him rather than at him. His proximity, his words—none of it shook her. She saw him for what he was, a man intent on conquest, and she would not give him the pleasure of rattling her.

“Only what’s trivial to your eyes, my lord,” she answered with measured calm, her gaze unwavering.

“Aye, maybe so,” he grunted, though the words fell bitterly from his mouth. His gaze hardened, refusing to be bested by her poise. “But you were still stupid enough to catch my eye.” His words held the bitterness of a hunter who’d finally cornered the game he’d long sought.

In truth, Sylas had spotted her months before, that slip of silver moving through the snow, a ravishing figure set apart from the northern world. He saw his chance then—a dragon rider alone, his path to dominance over more than just a scattered wildling host. He could claim the North through her, and if fate allowed, the world beyond it.

Finally, he moved his hand away and stood back, his grin widening. “But why’d you come to me? These are my lands now. You could’ve burned all my men from up there with that dragon and saved yourself the trouble.”

Claere gave a small, almost careless smile, the tilt of her head catching the dim candlelight in the tent. “You wanted me, didn’t you?” she replied, her voice smooth, level.

Sylas let out a scoff, though the amusement didn’t reach his eyes. “Came for a good fuck with a king?”

Claere blinked. “I've got that settled, my lord.”

“Ooh. No, no, that’s not it. I see it in those weird fuckin' eyes.” He bent to her eye level, the smell of woodsmoke and something sharper coming off him in waves.

“You came to kill me,” he said.

“Hmm.” Claere’s lips curved slightly, her smile a barely there promise, tinged with dark certainty. “Fortunately for you, it isn't my hands that bring your death.”

The smile faded from his face, leaving a flare of anger there, a crack in his façade. His eyes narrowed, and before she could move, his hand shot out and twisted in her thick braids, pulling her head back roughly, his face inches from hers. Claere stubbornly smothered a cry of pain in her throat.

“You think that wolf of yours is going to protect you, huh?”

Claere only sighed, her calm as impervious as ever, even as her hair tugged sharply. Her eyes, blank as winter’s endless fields, never left his face, every ounce of his threat barely a breeze against her. And just as he opened his mouth to press further, a shadow passed over the tent, the sound of heavy breathing growing closer—a thunderous exhale, deep as the earth.

“I was born with a guardian.” Claere countered softly. “My dragon is here. The wolf is a blessing.”

Sylas’s fingers twitched against her scalp, but his grip was weaker now, a flicker of doubt creeping into his predatory stare as Luna’s shadow shifted just beyond the tent walls, her breath a low, rumbling growl that vibrated through the earth beneath them.

Claere’s eyes glinted with quiet defiance as she met his gaze, her lips barely moving as she murmured, “I could say the word.” Her voice was silk over steel. “Let her burn us both here, finish this battle before it ever begins. But my husband waits for me—and he’s ready to repay in kind.”

Sylas’s face twisted, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “You think I'm scared of that boy? I killed his Night's Watch commander. I killed all those crows. I rode through the Wall for you, little queen, I don't care if he's shitting bricks when I put my axe in his head.”

“Strange,” she replied smoothly, “that you would bring all these men to capture a single girl before you march on King's Landing.” Her gaze drifted over him, cool and measuring. “Or is that all you can manage, my lord? Three thousand strong, and not a one with the grit to face the boy who stands in your way?”

He sneered, tightening his grip on her hair, another now closed around her neck, yet something in his posture had faltered, his shoulders stiffening. “I don’t need to fight him to take what’s mine.”

“Then why not march to Winterfell yourself?” Her smile was taunting, almost pitying, like a spark dancing in the shadows. “Do you fear he’ll be waiting for you at the gates? Do you fear he'll cleave your head before you can cross him?”

Sylas’s jaw clenched, his dark eyes blazing with something close to fury.

"I've seen Cregan Stark fight," she went on. "He doesn’t tire, doesn’t yield. Your three thousand could be thirty thousand, and it would make no difference. You cannot break him, he is winter itself."

His grip on her hair tightened. “Careful, girl. You’re not as untouchable as you think.”

“But I am,” Claere replied, unruffled, leaning in until her voice was a whisper only he could hear. “You know it as well as I do. Your strength lies in numbers, yet here you are—grappling with a girl and a shadow.” She leaned back, bored now. “Go home, Sylas, if you value the lives of your men. They didn’t come here to die for your pride.”

Sylas’s sneer softened, a slight uncertainty that only strengthened her resolve. He might have come to conquer, but at that moment, it was clear who held the true power in the tent.

A sudden blink released him of hesitation. His fingers roughly released Claere’s hair with a grudging smirk, as though her words had somehow shifted the game in his mind. He let her step back, looking her up and down as if appraising a newfound bounty. A flicker of excitement gleamed in his eyes—a dark eagerness that reeked of arrogance.

“Go on, then,” Sylas drawled, waving her away with a lazy flick of his hand. “Run back to your wolf and tell him I’m coming. No more raiding, no more warnings. I'll take his head his doe and the entire North at Winterfell’s gates myself.”

Claere held his gaze as she stepped back, unruffled, allowing a cool smile to curve her lips. She brushed her hands down her silver curls, arranging them around her shoulders patiently.

“Tell him yourself. I’m certain he’d love to hear it from you. My husband loves a good fight, you see.”

Sylas laughed, a booming, feral sound. “Oh, I will. I’ll bring him to his knees, make him watch while I put a prince in your belly. You’ll forget that Stark soon enough, little queen, or he'll just go deaf from hearing you scream.”

His smile was wide, boastful, but behind it lingered the faintest hint of unease—a silent recognition of the words she’d left with him, like whispers of ice drifting through the heat of his fury.

“Primitive talk from a primitive man. You’d better bring all of your legions, then,” she replied, her voice soft, but her words as pointed as any blade. “You’ll need them.”

“Little silver-haired bitch,” Sylas indistinctly growled under his breath, as if speaking aloud would bring forth the White Dread's fiery ire.

And with that, she politely inclined her head and turned, stepping out into the icy winds with her chin held high, leaving Sylas in the shadow of her dragon’s looming presence, casting him in darkness.

X

Cregan sat hunched over a sprawling table strewn with hastily drawn maps, half-finished sketches of battle formations, and advice from every corner of his bannermen. Some had urged caution, wary of the wildlings’ numbers and the risk to their forces. Others, bold and battle-worn, advocated for a bold strike north, encouraging him to meet Sylas with all the fire and fury of Winterfell’s strength. Yet for all their words, Cregan found himself constantly drifting back to one thought—to ride north alone, with Ice at his back, and hack down the wildling scourge himself.

The capriciousness of his decision kept him so absorbed he didn’t hear the door open or her soft steps on the stone floor. It wasn’t until she brushed past him, a warm hand resting on his shoulder, that he looked up, startled. All the exhaustion in his eyes fled, a reaction to whenever she graced him with her presence. He sat up straighter, eager to have her close.

Claere. She wore a faint smile, so casual, so beautiful, like she hadn’t spent the last days keeping to herself, hiding in plain sight, avoiding him like winter's fever. Before he could speak, she leaned in and kissed the arc of his cheek.

"Husband," she greeted quietly.

He stilled, pleasantly confused, but found himself responding instinctively, returning her kiss with a soft press of his lips to her temple. She stood beside him, hands clasped behind her back, violet eyes inspecting his plans, her experience an unspoken mystery. A hurricane in the guise of a summer breeze.

Then, he noticed it—a faint, unfamiliar scent. His brow furrowed as he sniffed the air again.

“What is that?”

She held his gaze, placid as ever. “Dragon. I was riding Luna,” she answered, her tone simple, almost childlike. Her eyes sparkled with innocent mischief, but the smell lingered, feral and sharp, more like wild meat than dragon flight.

He looked closer, and that’s when he saw it—a sickly green, darkening bruise hidden under the veil of her silver hair, two thumb-sized marks pressed just below her hairline. He stood up, anxiety overwhelming in a second, reaching toward her, but she sidestepped him smoothly, her gaze sliding to the floor.

“I fell,” she murmured, her voice light as air.

He let out an incredulous laugh, reaching for her chin to tilt her face toward him. “Here I thought you despised lies.”

Claere’s cool, unflinching gaze remained fixed on the floor for a long, unbearable second before she lifted it, unbothered by his anxieties.

"I flew to the wildling camps on the undern. To meet with Sylas the Grim.”

For a heartbeat, there was only stunned silence.

Cregan's hand dropped from her chin, falling to his side as if struck. Finally, when her situation registered, the words came, heated and fierce.

“You what?” Cregan’s voice was low, simmering. He rubbed at his eyes, sighing out, before he pointed to her bruise. "He did that then?"

She nodded. "I pushed him too far. My mistake."

“Are you mad?" he hissed.

She swallowed hard, stroking at the numbing bruise on her neck, and said nothing.

He flouted her concerning remark. "I defended you to my council—to men who would sooner see you gone than risk their lives for you! I’ve called all my banners, raised every able sword in the North—for you—and you thought it wise to stake your life before that wildling scum?”

He looked at her, half-expecting her to flinch under his fury. But she only watched him back, observant, enduring as stone, her lips pressed thin. Her calm only ignited him further.

“I spent hours preparing our defences, convincing them to stand with you, while you—” he clenched his fists—“while you went and met with the very man who could've struck you down with his bare hands. Alone!”

The crack came swift and sharp—a fire flaring to life behind her violet gaze, a flash of defiance as fierce as the flame inside her.

“I don't care, Cregan. I wanted to do the same for you.” she snapped, her silver tongue lashing. “I want to defend you. To protect you, before Sylas. For you.”

A tremor silenced the room. It was the rarest thing, her rage—rare, and somehow more daunting than his. It stole his breath and wiped the words clean off his tongue.

Cregan stared, thunderstruck, a storm gathering behind his eyes. Her words seemed to settle into him only slowly, like a wound too deep to notice at first. Claere’s fingers twitched at her sides, her lips pressed tightly together as if she were struggling to hold back her own words. She looked away, jaw set with a resolve that didn’t quite hide the tension beneath.

He exhaled harshly, dragging a hand through his hair. “Claere…” he began, voice rough with something caught between anger and hurt, “Do you even realize how careless this was, love?”

Her words came out painful. "It's all my fault."

His expression shifted, his initial anger tempered by an ache in his gaze as her admission, bare and raw, settled over the room like the aftermath of a storm.

“It’s my fault,” she echoed, her voice breaking just a little. She didn’t look at him, didn’t dare meet his eyes as the shame tightened in her throat. “I did this. They are right.”

Cregan felt his own frustration melt, a tide pulling away to reveal the harshness of his own words. He moved closer, his arms reaching out but stopping short, hovering as if afraid she’d slip through his fingers.

"Sweetling. Claere," he said, his voice a mere plea. "There's no use in laying blame, especially on you. You know I would raze half these men myself before I let them tear you down."

She shook her head, her hands clenching at her sides. “I've been an impediment for too long. We both know it. I expected things would change with time. Yet I'm playing at something I never will be...” She trailed off, and a heavy silence settled between them, her own helplessness almost unbearable.

Like hell, he would let her forget her worth for a piece of piss.

He reached for her, fingertips tracing the edge of her cheek before coming to rest under her chin, tilting her face toward him with evident resolve.

“The North will fight, but not out of fear or obligation. Because of you,” he declared to her, his voice rough with feeling. “You are of Winterfell now, Claere. And for that, we will fight.”

For a moment, her gaze flickered with uncertainty, her lips pressed tight, yet he held her there in his arms, grounding her with his assurance.

Gently, he brought her into a kiss, his lips brushing hers with a tenderness that spoke of comfort and promise alike. His hands cradled her face, his fingers threading softly through her hair as if each touch could smooth away the weight she carried. The kiss was slow, unhurried, he tasted the salt of her worry and the steel of her will, sensing the guardedness that lingered beneath her quietude. Yet his touch was firm, anchoring, a proof that there was nowhere safer, no one more ready to bear her burdens with her.

When he drew back, he lingered close, his forehead resting gently against hers, his eyes flashed with something like awe, and a low chuckle escaped him.

“You must tell me, how in the gods’ names did you manage to meet Sylas and walk away with but a bruise?”

Claere shrugged with quiet, unassuming grace, her gaze sliding past him as though recalling an idle, inconsequential memory. “I spoke with him, that’s all. Said what needed saying.”

He continued to prod. “That is all?”

“Yes. I simply suggested that if he truly wanted our kingdom, then why he hadn’t contested the King in the North himself instead of raiding innocent villages .” Her eyes met his with a calm intensity. “It seemed only fair.”

He let out a surprised laugh, brows lifting, “Fair? You took his mind off his prize and sent him marching for my gates, thinking he had something to prove?”

She simply pursed her lips, cool and composed, as if she hadn’t, with a few words, diverted the entire course of Sylas’s plan. “A bit of truth and a bit of pride can go a long way with a man like him. I thought you’d understand that.”

Her eyes flashed, calm yet watchful, and beneath her delicate, almost passive demeanour, there was a quiet ferocity that struck him. She had always worn her strength in the subtlest of ways, but in this moment, he saw her for what she truly was—a fierce, unyielding force wrapped in silks and cool smiles.

The words hit their mark—a subtle, artful dig, he had somehow overlooked.

“Why would I understand that?” Cregan’s voice was thick with mock offence, though a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Claere only arched a brow, sidestepping him with an elegance that was more of a dare than a retreat. “Oh, you’ve always had a certain… charm,” she replied, her tone deceptively light. “Men like you, like him—always so confident of their own strength. Pride blinds.”

“Pride blinds, is it? Huh, c'mere, girl. You dare speak to your lord that way?” he challenged, feigning a warning as he lunged forward, catching her around the waist. He lifted her clean off the floor with a mischievous groan, her soft laughter lilting as he spun her in a playful circle.

“Cregan!” Her laughter slipped out in breaths, both startled and, at last, easy, though her hands settled in half-protest against his shoulders. When he set her down, her cheeks were lightly flushed, her smile lingering. It was as if some sense of normality, away from the chaos, had come back into their lives.

“Guess it’s true then,” he murmured, his lips close to her ear. He urged a line of kisses from her ear to her throat, nuzzling his nose into the soft arch of her neck.

She slid her hands up to his neck, scraping her fingers lightly into the hair at his nape. "And you’re just stubborn enough to prove it.”

“I thought I’d married a princess with a pet dragon,” he teased, nuzzling into the soft curve of her neck, “but it seems I’ve got myself a queen with the cunning of a shadowcat.”

She raised a brow, almost daring him to press further. “And does that surprise you, my lord?”

His laughter boomed out, genuine and unrestrained, as he spun her again in a wide circle. "Not one damned bit."

X

Cregan stood tense in the night, sleep far from him, his silhouette sharp against the faint light filtering in from the slivered moon. The night air was thick with chilling doom, yet inside their chamber, Claere lay curled in quiet repose, her face softened by the kind of peacefulness that had eluded her during the day. It was almost bizarre, the way she could sleep so soundly amid the tension that hung over Winterfell. But perhaps, he thought, this chaos was the very place where she found her solace.

His gaze wandered to the heavy shadows beyond the walls, tracing the dark line of the woods against the horizon. The forests seemed to breathe with a life of their own, brimming with anticipation. He felt it ploughing on his chest, a premonition building like a slow storm.

Then it came—the steady, unmistakable drumming of many hooves and, seconds later, the crackling glow of fiery beacons lighting the night. The panic was quick, the sentries efficient, but somehow, Cregan had known. It was as though he’d been waiting for it all along.

He reached for Ice, his grip steady on the ancient sword’s hilt, and started toward the door. His stride displayed his finality, purposeful toward the death that came for him.

Sylas was here sooner than he’d expected, but in a way, the sooner, the better.

The crunch of hurried footsteps sounded from the corridor, and a guard approached, his face pale under the torchlight. “Lord Stark! Sylas the Grim… he’s come alone, my lord. Just rode up and called for you. What are your orders?”

Cregan’s eyes narrowed. The arrogance—or the conviction—it took to ride unguarded to Winterfell’s gates spoke of Sylas’s brutality and audacity, a message he knew all too well from his Free Folk brothers.

But then, a thought struck, clear as the northern wind. That meant Claere’s plan had worked—her brilliant, precarious little gamble had actually lured him here.

“Alone,” he murmured, almost to himself, and a fierce grin ghosted across his face. His clever Claere had managed to provoke the beast to come alone, his defences abandoned. Sylas had foolishly fallen for it.

With a calm that belied his steely resolve, Cregan replied to the guard, “Open the gates. If he came for a reckoning, then I’ll meet him myself.”

He felt the chill in his blood turn to iron as he stepped into the night.

X

thank you for reading! I'm so sad to be nearing the end :(

question for my loveliest people: who do you imagine as Sylas the Grim? I imagine someone with the same features (but nowhere as close in character) as Tormund Giantsbane.

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @lv7867 , @piper570 , @danikasthings , @acsc8 , @justdazzling ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

[lady-pug]

Written Between the Lines

Chapter IV - Where Lions Preen and Dragons Feast

Summary: Yours and Aemond’s relationship flourishes as you wait for your wedding to arrive. But when Jason Lannister steps out of line, insulting not only yourself, but also your mother and your future husband, you putting him back in his place elicits an interesting reaction from Aemond.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Word count: 4,8k

Warnings: canon-typical incest (uncle-niece); smut, so minors DNI; oral sex (female receiving); Aemond being pussydrunk; Jason Lannister being a major asshole; Aemond is a simp through and through (I plead my case)

Notes: Hello my dears, how have you been? I bring you the next chapter of this series (this is also my second time ever I writing smut so bear with me please, I apologize in advance)

Just to explain some things, Aemond and Reader call each other husband and wife in High Valyrian even though they are not married yet because apparently there is no word for betrothed, fiancé, bride, groom or anything similar in High Valyrian, so they call each other that (it’s meant to be more affectionate than a indication of their relationship status anyway)

Also, I again used an online translator (if someone spots any mistakes please let me know and I’ll correct it right away), translations are in the end notes.

Thank you so so much for reading, I hope you've enjoyed this story so far and that you enjoy this chapter!

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Things had been calm, albeit quite hectic all the same, at least for a while. On the very same night after the spectacle that was the hearing over Driftmark, King Viserys had passed away in his sleep. Your mother, bless her soul, was with him when it happened, and promptly called for the maesters’ help but there was no longer anything they could do, leaving his body in the care of the silent sisters. Her coronation, reluctantly, happened on the very next morning. Rhaenyra wanted time to mourn her father, but an heir had no time to mourn a king, for the realm demanded a new one. Or, in this case, a queen.

In order to remind the lords of all the great houses of the oath they’d sworn to King Viserys almost twenty years before, Rhaenyra sent out every dragonrider to all corners of the Seven Kingdoms. Daemon flew to Riverrun; Jace paid the Lord Cregan Stark a visit; Baela, accompanied by Rhaena, was sent to the Vale; Aegon and Helaena took flight to Casterly Rock to negotiate with a promise of maintenance of Ser Tyland Lannister’s chair on the Queen’s Small Council and a future betrothal between Jaehaerys and Jason Lannister’s daughter, Cerelle; Luke headed to the Reach. 

You, on the other hand, were sent to speak with the Prince Qoren Nymeros Martell with a proposition to join the Seven Kingdoms under Targaryen rule, which he of course refused and practically laughed in your face. But you were nothing short of prepared, coming up with an alternative: should he recognize your mother as the Queen of Westeros, even if Dorne remained an independent kingdom, he could keep the Stepstones and incorporate it into Dornish territory. You’d even personally aid them with your dragon in driving away the Triarchy; the only catch was, after that, he’d have to maintain it of his own accord. If he was successful in keeping the Stepstones going forward, they were his to do what he pleased so long as he kept open commerce with the rest of the realm. He’d eventually caved in, an impressed smile adorning his features (and a proposition to warm your bed, which you politely turned down) as he agreed to your terms.

The only two great houses who gave any indication of trouble accepting your mother’s claim to the Iron Throne were Houses Baratheon and Greyjoy. Lord Borros Baratheon, although vexed at having to bend the knee to a woman, didn’t seem so bothered after negotiations with his cousin, the Princess Rhaenys, and a proposal to wed one of his daughters to the previous king’s youngest son, Daeron. Lord Dalton Greyjoy, on the other hand, was quick to bend the knee to Rhaenyra the moment he set his eyes on Vhagar flying above Pyke, the sheer size of her rumored to be bigger than the whole castle itself, and Aemond barely had to do any negotiations at all.

All of this, allied with the extensive gatherings of the Small Council (which Rhaenyra decided not to change most of its members for the time being, just rearranging their positions and reinstating Lord Corlys Velaryon as Master of Ships) meant yours and Aemond’s wedding got pushed back several weeks, if not moons, the last thing on anybody’s minds at the moment. The betrothal itself was only announced after the return of the last of the dragonriders to King’s Landing, almost a whole moon after the death of your grandsire. By then, the expected date for the birth of your mother’s and Daemon’s babe was approaching, and so it was decided to wait until after the babe was born so as to not cause Rhaenyra unnecessary stress that came with planning a whole wedding feast.

In the meantime, you and Aemond would spend every waking moment in each other’s presence; wherever one was, the other was never too far behind. Especially after your betrothal was formally announced the two of you could often be found walking together around the gardens, your hand tucked on the crook of his elbow, or breaking your fast together. Sometimes you’d be found reading together in the library or you’d watch him train on the balcony above the courtyard. Your handmaids often jested with you calling him your shadow, as he never strayed too far, almost like a lost little puppy. 

What the ever watching eyes of court didn’t see, however, was the way you’d often drag Aemond by the hand to some deep alcove away from everyone, or to the darkest hallway of in Maegor’s Holdfast, holding tightly onto the lapels of his leather doublet and crushing his lips to yours. Sometimes the kisses were unhurried, soft and gentle, everything you’d once dreamed of in your youth when your father, Ser Laenor, would tell stories of knights and princesses. Other times the kisses were fervent, passionate, his hands locked on tightly to your waist to stop them from wandering elsewhere. He’d been getting better the more you practiced together, more deliberate, sometimes catching you unguarded with a finger under your chin and a tilt of your head upwards, or a hand on your head and nimble fingers tangled in your hair. These stolen kisses, stolen moments, you shared had become the highlight of your days, and you suspected they were his too.

Almost two moons after her coronation you’d, regretfully, turned down your mother’s offer to spend some time with her in the middle of the morrow, promising to do so during the afternoon’s tea.

“You just want to gawk at your future husband training with a sword, don’t you?” she spoke, not even trying to hide the smirk hanging from her lips, much to your dismay. You felt the tips of your ears burning but didn’t try to deny it, for she knew you too well and could spot when you were lying.

Scurrying off to the courtyard you were pleasantly surprised to find it was practically devoid of the usual onlookers, not even the ladies of court were perched on their spot on the balcony, probably due to the gray and chilly weather that had briefly taken over the capitol. 

Only a few knights occupied the yard, engaged in heated training matches. On one corner Ser Erryk, who had been appointed by your mother as your sworn protector, sparred with his twin, Helaena’s sword and shield. Jace was also present, slaughtering a hay stuffed dummy with his sword; normally Daemon would supervise his and Luke’s (and your own, in secret) instruction, having picked up where Ser Harwin left off, but with the late stages of his wife’s pregnancy he chose not to venture too far from her side should she need his assistance. And Aemond, dedicated as ever, found himself in a match against Ser Jason Lannister, who had been briefly summoned away from Casterly Rock by his brother for some reason or another.

Emboldened by the lack of people who would possibly berate you or gossip behind your back about your ‘unladylike’ conduct (and considering you didn’t particularly care for the opinion of the likes of Jason Lannister) you decided to join the men in the courtyard, sitting down on some crates near where your betrothed was sparring, meaning to watch him from closer than usual.

Aemond was good. He was more than just good, he was phenomenal. He moved effortlessly, swiftly around the makeshift battlefield, embodying the first rule your father ever told you when he began to train you: ‘the sword is an extension of your arm’. He was one with the steel, moving with a graciousness that rivaled that of the greatest dancers. You could only imagine how many hours he had put into achieving such mastery, considering the incident had most likely completely changed his depth perception. Watching him fight, even as just a training exercise, winning match after match against Ser Jason, was doing funny things to your heart as it beat wildly in your chest, heat expanding from your cheeks and down to other places.  

The sun, partially hidden by gray clouds, was already high up in the sky when both men decided to call it a day. Aemond had already re-sheathed his sword and was making his way towards you when Ser Jason stopped him, trying to engage in some rather interesting conversation.

“My prince,” the man started, loud enough for you to hear, only getting an impatient hum in response “I hope not to take up too much of your time. I was just hoping you could maybe have a word with your grandsire.”

“What about?” Aemond’s eye barely flitted to the man in front of him, his gaze settling on you over Jason Lannnister’s shoulder as he talked his ears away.

“The changes in the Small Council.” he shrugged, as if it was the most trivial thing in the world “Lord Velaryon being named Master of Ships barely seems fair, especially with the state of his health.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, you see my prince, with a new reign just beginning I was hoping to be named Master of Coin.” he explained, finally gaining Aemond’s attention “But with the announcement of Lord Corlys for what was once my brother’s post, Tyland has now been appointed Master of Coin instead.”

You could see Aemond pursing his lips in thought, somewhat amused with the whole tirade Ser Jason was making.

“But you are the Lord of Casterly Rock, my lord. Shouldn’t that be enough for one man?”

“Ah, but to be granted a seat at the King’s Small Council is a great honor!” he kept on talking, not even noticing the slight jab aimed his way “Although the Queen’s Council just doesn’t have that nice of a ring to it.”

“Do you question your Queen’s decisions, my lord?” your betrothed asked, clearly meaning for Ser Jason to fall onto his trap and put his foot in his mouth. And oh, did he do it.

“I mean,” and that had you perking up on your seat “she hasn’t been known to always make the best decisions. My bet is she did this to appease Lord Velaryon about the death of his son. I simply don’t buy this tale of him being murdered by his squire. I am most sure she and that husband of hers had him killed so they could be together, she always had eyes for him in her younger years.”

He was speaking as if you weren’t even there, not noticing or simply not caring for your presence. You’d always known Jason Lannister was a fool, but you never took him for an idiot.

“She is a woman after all. They are more emotional creatures, thinking with their hearts rather than their brains.” he chuckled maliciously “Although a woman like Rhaenyra Targaryen probably thinks with her cunt more than anything.”

You were on your feet in an instant and even Aemond seemed surprised as the man started bad mouthing your mother, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, calling her every possible name under the sun.

“She would fuck any man who even glanced her way. Who knows who the father of all of her children even is? It might be one father for each offspring, we might never know.” Aemond’s expression got increasingly darker as the man talked about your brothers and you “The ones sired by her uncle are more likely to have purer Targaryen blood than the other three. What was she thinking, naming one of those counterfeits as heir?”

One moment you were watching the whole thing go down from afar and the next you were between the two men, holding Aemond back with both hands on his chest.

“You dare speak lowly of my betrothed, my future wife?! Your future queen?!” he tried lunging at Ser Jason but you stopped him, using all your strength to keep him from strangling the moron “I should have your tongue cut out and feed it to Vhagar, then feed her the rest of you along with it!”

“Aemond!” you held his face in your hands, firmly yet gently forcing him to look at you instead of the object of his ire “Ivestragī ziry jikagon, valzȳrys! Issa sepār mirrī vala, iksā sȳrkta than zirȳla.”

He exhaled sharply, nostrils flaring at the effort of calming down, until you eventually felt him nod curtly against your hands.

“Might I remind you, Ser Jason, that the one you speak ill of is none other than your Queen, the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, and that the last man who called her a whore lost his head for it at the hands of that husband of hers.” you spoke over your shoulder, throwing his words right back at him, smirking mockingly “And if my memory serves me well, Lord Lannister, you actually sent in a request to take her hand in marriage when she was younger, a request she herself rejected. So, by your own words, she would fuck any man who even glanced her way except for you.”

Aemond stared at you wide eyed, and you couldn’t decipher if his expression was one of indignation or awe. As for Ser Lannister, whereas any smart man would have stopped talking by now, Jason Lannister was no smart man, and it seemed his wounded ego and pride only fueled his loose lips.

“You hide behind a woman, my prince? I never took the One-Eyed Prince for a coward. What next, are you going to kneel at her feet and worship the ground she walks on?” he chuckled cruelly before mumbling under his breath, just loud enough for the both of you to hear “Maimed freak.”   

The ringing in your ears and the way your name fell off of Aemond’s lips in a warning tone were the only indication of your next moves, and the next moment you found your hand wrapped around the handle of his sword. He couldn’t react fast enough, for you had already unsheathed his sword and turned, the tip of the blade pointing at Ser Jason’s neck. 

“How about you kneel?” you hissed at him, noticing the other two knights and your brother intending to move forward and intervene, but they stopped with a gesture of your head.

The sword was longer, heavier than you were used to, but it would do. You held the Lannister’s stare daring him to move. He, in turn, unsheathed his own sword, clashing it against yours and proceeded to try to attack you. 

One lesson Ser Harwin had taught you that had stuck with you for the rest of your life was that most of the knights in the realm were physically stronger than you. It was a given fact. But you were faster, more agile, not wearing several pounds in steel armor that slowed you down meaning you were light on your feet in turn.

“The realm isn’t a nice place for ladies such as yourself, princess.” you remember him saying, a wink thrown your way “The world will not play fair, so you must use every advantage you are given.”

So you waited, dodging Ser Jason’s every blow. You waited for a moment, for just one small falter on his part. It didn’t take long; he was angry, humiliated even, and thus he was reckless, giving you a large window of opportunity to strike. In an instant, while his arm was pulled back way above his head to strike down at you, you twisted your wrist, hitting him square on the nose with the pommel of your sword. He tumbled to the ground, one hand clutching his now bleeding nose and the other blindly feeling around for his sword, which had fallen out of his hand during the fall.

“Yield.” you pointed Aemond’s sword at his neck once more “Yield and those present might just be merciful and overlook your transgressions, forget your treason.”

Both Ser Erryk and Ser Arryk had their hands placed on their own swords, prepared to defend you at a moment’s notice and arrest the treacherous lord should you just say the word. Jace, on the other hand, looked like he was trying his hardest not to burst out laughing at the situation, a strained smile painting his face.

“Why don’t you control your wife?!” Ser Jason spat at Aemond, gurgling on his own dripping blood as it ran down his face.

“She is not yet my wife. And besides,” Aemond smirked playfully at you, despite you not being able to see him “no one can control her.”

Seeing as he was vastly outnumbered, Ser Jason couldn’t see any other option than to accept defeat, raising his hands. Once you were sure he wouldn’t try anything funny again you turned back around, giving Aemond back his sword before stalking off, fuming at the man’s audacity.

You didn’t get very far, however, feeling a large warm hand wrapping around your wrist. You turned around, ready to give whoever it was a piece of your mind, but you faltered once you realized it was Aemond who had reached out to you. His expression was firm, determined, as he started dragging you by the wrist, finding one of the secret doors that lead to the hidden tunnels in the Keep and pulling you behind him with a steadfastness similar to the one he held himself with on the training yard.

“Aemond?” you asked while he pulled you deeper and deeper into the secret passages “I’m sorry.”

You feared you might have offended him. When you started approaching the age suitable for marriage, your mother had sat you down to explain what you should expect and to prepare you for what was to come. She told you most lords expected their wives to be proper, never speak out of turn and bend to their every whim with a head bowed. You replied, indignantly, that what they wanted then was a servant they could sire children with, something that prompted a full belly laugh from Daemon who had been standing closeby. You were worried that, by putting Ser Jason Lannister back in his place for insulting not only yourself and your mother, the Queen, but also your future husband, your actions reflected poorly on Aemond himself.

He only stopped walking when you were very far into the tunnels, turning you around and pushing your back against one of the stone columns. He was standing so close to you, staring at you so intently, you couldn’t help but swallow nervously.

“Please, uncle, forgive me! I do not know what came over me, he started insulting you and I just-”

The force with which he crashed his lips against yours was so intense it almost sent you tumbling backwards; your head would have surely been slammed against the wall behind you were it not for his hand gently cradling the back of it to prevent you from hurting yourself. He kissed you fiercely, and by the Gods, had he gotten good at it. His tongue moved against your own with rapid movements, his fingers tangling in your hair and tugging, electing a small breathy whimper out of you, to which he hummed in return, nipping at your bottom lip. He shoved one leg in between yours, keeping them apart, crowding you even further against the wall as his slender fingers pulled at your hair again to tilt your head to the side, allowing his lips to trail a path down your neck to the junction of your shoulder.

“Ñuha nēdenka zaldrīzes,” he groaned against your neck, nibbling softly at the skin “ñuha zaldrītsos mīsagon nyke hen mirrī kēlio.”

Arousal pooled in your core at his words, not even realizing your hips had started mindlessly moving back and forth against his thigh. It was over all too soon, however, as he took a step back from you, to which you whined at the loss of contact. But what he did next surprised you even more.

Aemond sank to his knees in front of you, his hands caressing from your hips to the back of your thighs. 

“W-what are you doing?” you asked breathlessly.

“Proving some of Jason fucking Lannister’s words right.”

It dawned on you then what he meant, as he started bunching up your skirts.

“Are you going to kneel at her feet and worship the ground she walks on?”

“Hold these for me?” he asked softly, holding the front of your dress bunched up against your navel, and the way he was looking up at you with so much adoration almost broke your heart.

“Aemond, I told you, we can’t-”

“Fear not, ābrazȳrys, this will not break your virtue.” he mentioned, hoisting one of your legs bend over his shoulder.

He spoke with so much conviction you wanted to believe him.

“And how do you know that?”

“Aegon may have mentioned something of the sorts.” he said casually.

“Are we trusting what Aegon says now?” you asked, exasperation dripping from your voice.

“My brother may be an idiot, but his expertise lies in two places:” he explained, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world “his wines and the pleasures of the flesh.”

Your laughter echoed in the empty halls.

“Aegon does not strike me as the type to know how to please a woman.”

“I said he knows the pleasures of the flesh, not necessarily how to do it right.” he chuckled along, before his expression turned serious once again. He turned his head slightly, laying a kiss on the side of your knee “But if you really don’t feel comfortable, we can simply forget this ever happened and just wait for our wedding night.”

You pondered for a moment, not wanting for this moment with him to end. You were rather quickly realizing that there wasn’t much you wouldn’t do for him, and that thought brought a light fluttery feeling to your stomach.

“No no, I trust you.” you smiled reassuringly at him “If Aegon says it is fine, then I trust your judgment.”

“Good.” he inched closer to your core, pushing your smallclothes to the side “But please, stop talking about my brother. His name is not the one I want to hear coming out of your mouth while I feast on your cunt.”

As he was about to dive in, a hand holding onto his locks prevented him from doing so just yet.

“Would you rather I chanted Daeron’s name instead?” you jested, giggling at the annoyance that took over his features.

“I​​ksā iā ōdres.” he pinched the skin on the back of your thigh where his hand was resting, his other hand snaked around your leg perched over his shoulder, helping to keep you balanced “Ñuha brōzi kessa sagon se mērī mēre ao hīghagon.”

“I mean, you did agree to marry-” your jesting was interrupted by a soft moan that left your parted lips, the feeling of his tongue licking a broad stripe between your folds catching you off guard.

Never in your entire life had you felt anything like it. A tingling feeling spread across your entire being, starting from where his lips and his tongue were diligently moving against your soaked slit. He worked smoothly against you, alternating between gentle strokes of his tongue over your entrance and soft kitten licks on your little bundle of nerves on the apex between your thighs.

“A-Aem…-” you tried uttering his name, now completely lost to the blissful sensations he was eliciting out of you, your fingers knotting on his hair and pulling hard.

And then something in him changed. Like a switch had been flipped in his mind, his grip tightening on your thighs as he started devouring your cunt with renewed vigor with a groan, its vibrations against your skin sending your toes curling from unbridled pleasure. You couldn’t fathom what could have possibly caused it, if it was the way you tightened your hold on his silver strands, the breathiness in your voice or, as you’d later be reminded, the accidental use of a long forgotten sobriquet you hadn’t given a second thought to in several years. 

Aemond feasted upon you like a man on a mission, desperately leaving open mouthed kisses and broad licks against you cunt like he was starved. It felt like he wanted to memorize the very taste of you should he perish tomorrow, pulling moan after moan from you. Had anyone been venturing these tunnels, they could have surely guessed what was happening, the wet noise of his mouth against your cunt and the way you weren’t even trying to muffle your cries of his name giving it away. 

The way his tongue worked in vigorous movements, swirling swiftly around your clit and then down to your entrance again, had you shoving his head even closer to you, canting your hips against his face. The motion caused his sharp nose to bump against your clit, prompting a sharp whine to tumble from your lips.

You couldn’t help rocking your hips against his lips, feeling something warm and almost tangible, like liquid fire, steadily pooling in your core. You felt the pressure of it mounting higher and higher, like a coil threatening to snap, streams of pleasure climbing up your spine and turning your mind into mush. Your thoughts were hazy, like a fog had taken over your thoughts, and you could barely register that Aemond was murmuring something on your skin, but what you couldn’t tell. 

Opening your eyes again, for you haven’t even realized they had fallen closed, you stared down at him in between your legs. He looked ethereal, his eye closed as he savored you, some strands of his normally neatly groomed hair messy from where your fingers had pulled. You wanted to see him, for him to gaze up at you, so you grasped his fingers which lay upon your thigh and gave them a little squeeze. His eye fluttered open almost lazily, violet hue half-lidded as he stared up at you. For just a single moment, your traitorous mind was reminded of Aegon, for Aemond looked like he was honestly drunk on your dripping cunt, like it was the finest of Dornish reds he had ever tasted, expression fogged up as if his mind was far away. The small pang of guilt you felt at the comparison was quickly replaced by blinding pleasure as he, upon you smiling down at him with quivering lips, wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked sharply.

Then that coil snapped, your head thrown back in ecstasy. That liquid warmth spread over your body like a tidal wave as your muscles trembled, and had he not been holding you up you’d have surely dropped to the ground, consuming every part of you and leaving a pleasantly tingly feeling in its wake. He switched back to gentler motions as you rode out your high, eventually coming to a halt when you finally stopped twitching. He dropped your leg and climbed to his feet, a glazed sheen against his chin and lips as they found yours, the tangy taste of your cunt invading your senses as he kissed you softly, so very different from just moments ago.

Aemond pulled back, resting his forehead against your own, both of your breathing hard against each other’s mouths.

 “I’d get on my knees every day if you asked it of me.” he mumbled.

Your heart fluttered at his words, clenching in your chest. 

As he embraced you, you couldn’t help but notice the bulge that had formed in his trousers, but as your hand started to untie its laces, he stopped you, intertwining your fingers together.

“Later.” he whispered, laying a soft peck on your lips “I wanted to do this for you.”

“Let me assist you, like you have done for me.” you pleaded, voice a bit hoarse from how loudly you had been chanting his name in pleasure.

“Tis’ but a small inconvenience. I will take care of it by myself later.”

You pulled back only slightly in his arms to look down between the two of you and couldn’t help but jest.

“It seems like quite a large inconvenience if you ask me.” you smirked.

Aemond stared at you, expression blank, for but a beat before bursting out laughing, and you decided right then and there, in his arms, that it was your favorite sound in the whole world. You’d get on dragonback and watch all of Westeros succumb to dragon fire if it meant he’d never stop laughing. You could only hope on bated breath your wedding arrived sooner rather than later, for you couldn't wait to spend the rest of your life with him.

High Valyrian translations: - ivestragī ziry jikagon, valzȳrys - let it go, husband - issa sepār mirrī vala, iksā sȳrkta than zirȳla - he is just a little man, you are better than him (meant as in ‘it isn’t worth it’) - ñuha nēdenka zaldrīzes - my fierce dragon - ñuha zaldrītsos mīsagon nyke hen mirrī kēlio - my little dragon defending me from a little lion (‘little dragon’ meant affectionately while ‘little lion’ is meant with condescension) - ābrazȳrys - wife - iksā iā ōdres - you are a pain (meant as in ‘you are a menace’) - ñuha brōzi kessa sagon se mērī mēre ao hīghagon - my name will be the only one you scream

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[yournowheregirl]

Eddie used to be a pretty fearless person.

He ran red lights almost on the daily, provoked his bullies while his bruises from the last run-in were still healing and agreed to shady drug deals in the dead of night.

Having a kid changed all that.

As soon as Hayley was born, Eddie found himself riddled with anxiety every waking moment of the day. Scared to drop her, scared she’d get sick, scared she’d break something, scared that someone’d take her from the playground if he looked away for just one second. Even Wayne had to pry Hayley out of his arms when he had to go back to work and assure him that everything would be fine.

Lucky for Eddie, none of those fears ever came true. Until today.

They’d just gone through Hayley’s night time routine - reading a chapter of that Narnia book Jeff had gotten her, singing her good night song together, kissing her forehead and sharing I love you's - and Eddie’s about to close her bedroom door when Hayley’s squeaky voice suddenly speaks up.

“Dad?”

“Yeah, sweet pea?”

“I wanna join the soccer team.”

And just like that, with six little words, one of Eddie’s personal horrors suddenly becomes a reality.

His daughter is a jock.

“Uh, let’s… let’s talk about that in the morning, okay? Sleep tight!” Eddie says quickly and closes the door behind him.

As soon as he knows Hayley’s fast asleep, he dials one of the two numbers he knows by heart.

“Hello?"

“What have you done to my daughter?” Eddie seethes.

“Well, hi to you too, Eddie.” Chrissy says on the other side of the line. “What’s up?”

“Hayley wants to join the soccer team and it’s all your fault, Chris!” Eddie is pacing up and down his living room now, trying to calm himself down without reaching for his cigarettes - he quit when Hayley was born and this is not going to be the reason that’ll end his seven year streak.

“And how is that my fault, exactly?”

“You- you have poisoned her mind with your jock ways! Hayley isn’t a jock! She likes dragons and castles and fantasy worlds, as is her right as my daughter. I mean, her middle name is Arwen for fuck’s sake, being a nerd is in her goddamn DNA!”

“Okay, Eddie, breathe.” Chrissy says calmly. “Hayley’s always been a curious kid, it’s in her nature. She always wants to try new things and then move on to the next big thing. Remember how she wanted to become a drummer after she saw Gareth play? And then she abandoned the drum kit after two weeks?”

“Right.”

“Maybe this is just another phase, maybe she overheard some classmates and wanted to join in on the fun.” Chrissy says. “Just take her to try outs and see what happens, there’s always a chance she doesn’t like it.”

Eddie lets himself fall onto the couch. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs in defeat. “Fuck, you’re right.”

“I’m always right, Eddie, how have you not learned this yet?” Chrissy giggles.

Which is how Eddie finds himself waking up at the crack of dawn that next Saturday. Well, he was supposed to sleep in for another thirty minutes or so but Hayley was so excited about try-outs that her high pitched screams and jumping on his bed woke him up regardless.

Hayley’s excitement carries on during breakfast and she barely keeps still as Eddie braids her hair. She’s even dead serious about the color of her hair ties, saying that they have to match the colors of the soccer team (aptly named the Purple Cobras, so obviously the hair ties have to be purple as well).

And any other morning, Eddie is trailing behind his daughter, making sure she hurries up so they’ll get to school on time, but not today. Now, she’s already got her coat on and bouncing from one foot to another in the hallway and calling him out instead.

“Dad, come on!” Hayley whines. “We’re gonna be late.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” Eddie huffs as he puts on his trusty leather jacket - if he’s gonna freeze his balls off by being outside all morning, at least he’s gonna do it in style. He can’t help but laugh at Hayley, who’s now jumping up and down from excitement. “Geez, you better save some energy for the try-outs.”

“Can we go now?” Hayley sighs and scrunches her nose in annoyance and yeah, she really is his kid.

“One ride in the Munson Mobile, coming right up!”

Hayley doesn’t shut up about the intricacies of soccer the entire drive to the local soccer club, apparently Chrissy (the traitor) had helped her read up on the rules and now obviously Eddie had to know all about them as well.

Half of what Hayley’s saying flies over his head, partly because he’s never really cared for sports but mostly because he can feel his anxiety growing with every passing second.

What if Hayley gets injured? What if some tackles her and she breaks her leg? Or worse?

What if she is an amazing player and she needs all these fancy soccer supplies and training clinics and Eddie’s forced to get another job to just to keep them afloat?

What if she’s weak at sports, just like Eddie was while growing up, and all the other kids will make fun of her and laugh behind her back?

What if-

“Dad, look, we’re here!”

The van barely comes to a screeching halt and Hayley’s already halfway out the door when Eddie grabs her by the collar and pulls her back into her seat. This obviously annoys Hayley, judging by the furious look on her face. If Eddie was a weaker man, he would’ve cowered in fear, but he invented that look so he barely feels a thing.

“Sweet pea, listen to your dear old dad for a minute, alright?” Eddie says softly. “I know you really wanna be on the soccer team but it’s still okay if you don’t make the team, you know that right? I won’t love you any less if you don’t make it or you don’t like it, just try your best, okay?”

Hayley’s face turns serious, as if the words are slowly sinking in. “Okay.”

“Pinky promise?” Eddie asks, holding out his pinky finger. Within a split second, Hayley’s tiny finger links around him and she sends him a toothy smile.

“Pinky promise.”

“C’mon, let’s kick these kids’ butts!”

Hayley giggles. “You’re supposed to kick the ball, dad.”

“Oh, right, silly me.” Eddie grins and follows his daughter outside.

But right as his anxiety has died down, it comes flooding right back as soon as Eddie lays eyes on the soccer field. There are so many kids. So many balls being kicked at full speed, with no time to duck. So many sneering soccer moms who look at him like he’s the devil incarnate. So many dangers just waiting around the corner and Eddie just want to turn on his heel and run. Hayley’s inevitable temper tantrum be damned, at least she’ll be in one piece and-

“Hayley Arwen Munson?”

Both Eddie and Hayley whip their heads around at the same time, only to be greeted by one of the coaches and shit- Eddie’s suddenly very interested in soccer.

With a chiseled jaw, soft hazel eyes and broad shoulders, the coach looks like he belongs in a Calvin Klein ad rather than a little league soccer field. He’s wearing a wind breaker, white knee socks and bright purple shorts (that cling deliciously tight around his thighs), which shouldn’t work on him but it does and Eddie just can’t look away.

Hayley (thankfully) doesn’t seem to notice his inner turmoil and instead happily waves at Hot Coach. “Over here!”

The coach writes something on the clipboard and walks towards them, crouching down in front of Hayley. “Hi Hayley, I’m coach Steve, nice to meet you. You here to try out for the soccer team?”

“Yes!” Hayley replies brightly.

“Well good, you can say hi to coach Robin and the other girls and I’ll be there in a sec, okay?”

“Okay.” Hayley nods and turns to Eddie. “Bye dad!”

“Hold up, hold up, hold up.” Eddie says quickly, once again grabbing the back of her t-shirt to keep her from running off. He kneels down in front of her, trying to look her in the eye. “Be careful, okay, baby? And if you don’t like it you can just yell and I come and get you, no questions asked. And if your laces get loose, you can yell too, literally if anything goes wrong you can-”

“Dad…” Hayley interrupts him and puts her tiny hand onto his shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay.”

Eddie laughs and ducks his head. God, this is like kindergarten all over again, when Hayley just skipped to Miss Coleman without a care in the world and Eddie was sobbing into Wayne’s shoulder as he watched her go.

“I know it will be, sweet pea.” Eddie says softly, pressing a kiss to Hayley’s forehead. She takes that as her cue to go, skipping across the field towards the gaggle of girls that surround another one of the coaches.

Eddie feels his heart burst as he sees Hayley smiling as she greets the other girls, she seems to fit right in. He sighs deeply and stands up, trying to keep his eyes on Hayley, when a voice suddenly speaks up.

“Arwen.”

“Jesus Christ!” Eddie yelps because shit, he totally forgot that Coach Steve was still there as well. “Yeah, she’s named Arwen. What about it?"

Eddie wants to eat his foot as soon as he utters the words. He’s always been defensive when it comes to Hayley, being a single dad who doesn’t look like your standard suburban dad next door will do that to you. But to do it in front of a cute guy like that? It makes him want to kick himself. Repeatedly.

But much to his surprise, Steve doesn’t seem to mind all that much. In fact, there’s an amused smile playing on his lips. “That’s from Lord of the Rings, right?”

“Uh, yeah.” Eddie replies dumbly. He feels his walls lowering down - holy shit, this Steve guy is hot and he knows Lord of the Rings? If they weren’t around a bunch of kids right now, Eddie would’ve dropped to his knees already.

“Cute.” Steve chuckles and are Eddie’s eyes deceiving him or is Steve actually checking him out? Before he gets a chance to wrap his head around all that, Steve gestures back to the field. “Well, I gotta jet. Soccer waits for no one. See you around, Mr. Munson.”

“Ew, no. Mr. Munson is my dad.” Eddie winces, remembering all the times his neighbor growing up came by to help Wayne out and refuses to call him by his first name. “I’m Eddie.”

“Well then,” Steve smirks as he walks backwards. “see you around, Eddie.”

As Eddie tries to look like a normal human being instead of a total creep - which proves to be terribly difficult when Steve turns around and puts his ass on fully display in those damn shorts - he slowly begins to realize one thing.

Maybe Hayley’s decision to join the soccer team is the best idea she had in a long time.

[lunarmoonanons]

The Small Dragon: Daemon’s Dream

🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕

Masterlist

Daemon was a strapping young lad of ten and seven. Having claimed dragon, won the respect of his house and family, and love of his grandfather. Now all he wanted was one thing. One thing that he’s wanted since he was a child.

Princess YN.

His aunt who was three years his younger. King Jaehaerys’ favorite daughter. His beloved YN. His playmate. His everything. He wanted to marry her and have her all to his own. She was ten and four years now. The age when she would be betrothed to someone respectable. And that person was going to be him. He just had to ask her first so she could convince her father to let her get married. As the old king had said often that he would rather his youngest daughter stay with him for the rest of her life.

That was his mission now. It was like the walls flowed together and the ground was swift beneath his feet. Everything felt like a dream. His hands were clammy but he felt confident. Everyone assumed they’d be together. His father, her siblings, the lords and ladies, everyone. He was sure that this is what YN wanted as well.

He didn’t remember how he got there, but he found himself in the gardens. In front of YN’s favorite flowers, looking at her as she admired them. Her long silver gold hair fell about her back and shoulders. He clenched and unclenched his hands, feeling the words lodged in his throat.

“YN…” He called out. Making her turn around and smile at him.

“Daemon. I was just thinking about you,” She smiled and held out a rose to him. “Look the white ones have bloomed just in time for my name day.”

“They’re just as beautiful as you.” He tried charming her. But as usual when he charmed her it went above her head and she never caught on that he was trying to flirt with her.

“I love the garden this time of year. It’s so warm and everything is bloomed so nicely,” She smiled and caressed the flower in her hand. Looking down at it instead of him.

The air was soft and everything looked just as soft. It was like the light was shining only on her and framing her in its light like a tale that the septa would tell.

“YN. I need to tell you something. And ask you something. Something important,” Daemon said. Looking at her, feeling all the more nervous when she looked up at him.

“What is it?” She asked.

“I love you, YN. I’ve loved you more than anyone’s ever loved you. I always have.” Daemon proclaimed and then got on one knee. “I want to marry you. I’m of age now. You’re of age. I want us to be joined before the gods together as husband and wife. I know you can convince your father that we could be together.”

YN did not smile like he was smiling. Her brows were furrowed and she pulled her delicate hand from his. Dropping her flower.

“Oh Daemon… I don’t love you like that.” Daemon felt his heart plunge to his feet. “I’ve always cared for you. But I don’t love you. Not in the way you want me to.”

“YN I want to marry you.”

“But I don’t want to marry you Daemon. I’ve never thought of marrying you,” YN stepped away from him. “Goodbye Daemon.”

“YN! YN wait!” He called out and stood but his feet were stuck to the ground. He could not move, he couldn’t go after her. He could only watch as she walked away.

~~~~

Daemon shot up from his bed. A boy of eleven having a bad dream was common. But Daemon never had such a dream as this one before. He looked around his room then at his hands. Small. He was still a child.

Daemon wiped his sweaty brow and laid back on the bed. Trying to calm himself from his own thoughts. Musing to himself that it was just a dream. He looked at the table beside his bed, focusing on the dragon doll that YN had given him for his name day. How he cherished it.

Daemon resolved to himself as he reached for that little carved doll. He vowed he would marry her. No matter what she or anyone said. Only the king could stop him. And even then he would find a way around that.

“I love you, YN,” He whispered into the dark.

[callsign-rogueone]

what would these boys be like as dads? who’s strict? who’s easygoing? who’s a spanking parent? who’s overprotective? so curious

I love this. they’d all be great dads and total dilfs

strict:

Dain. he considers himself easygoing compared to his father, but he’s still just a teeny bit uptight. so he’s staying in the strict category until we get more character development out of him. but he’s much kinder to his kids than his father was to him (I know we don’t know much about their relationship but I headcanon Aetos Sr. being a total wad, personally.)

Aaric seems to hold himself to a higher standard than the rest of his family (see his “tour of the kingdom” comment) and he’s iron squad’s new golden boy. he seems very disciplined to me. I can see that turning into him having high standards for his kids. especially if (when) he ends up ruling Navarre and they’re to be his successors. he’s a loving father, but he’s not raising spoiled brats.

easygoing:

Garrick seems very much the fantasy equivalent of “come home when the street lights come on” once the kids are older. lets them start training with swords once they’re ten or so. his kids can handle themselves, because he’s taught them to. he will still throw hands with anyone who harms them though. all of the boys would.

Ridoc owns this category. you know the meme of Chris Hemsworth holding his kid upside down by the ankle? that’s Ridoc. he always makes time to play with them when they’re little, because he’s a very fun-loving guy. they don’t have any problems opening up to him in their teens, because they know he’s going to be chill about whatever issues they have, and help them get through it one way or another.

I thought for a while about where to put Sawyer. but if we use my farm boy Sy headcanon, then he’d be pretty easygoing. country kids get up to all kinds of crazy stuff and they turn out fine — he did. I also see him having kids later in life than some of the others — he’d be more relaxed by then. especially since the continent is back at peace. (insert Anakin and Padmé meme here… the continent is at peace, right?)

overprotective:

Brennan. he’s got that parentified-eldest-daughter complex, and grew up taking care of Violet. so he’s definitely one to err on the side of caution. and he’s mending every single cut and scrape and skinned knee. you don’t need any bandaids in the house with him around.

I wanted to put Xaden in the easygoing category because he’s absolutely spoiling his kids, but we’ve all seen him with Violet — him with a kid that’s half her would be even worse, lmao. if he’s not watching them, then one of the family dragons is. he’s not afraid to square up on a kid either. not that his kids would ever be bullied — he’s taught them how to stand up for themselves. they’re little badasses.

Liam. I was torn between putting him in the easygoing category or here, because he’s a very positive, chill guy. but he’s half golden retriever, half guard dog. and there’s nothing more precious to guard than his family.

Bodhi is just such a sweetheart and is so genuinely worried about them at all times. especially when they’re tiny babies. he’d be scared to hold them at first, because what if he does it wrong… when they’re teens, they roll their eyes at his questions (who they’re gonna be with if they’re heading out, etc etc) but they know it’s because he cares — and if shit hits the fan, he’s gonna be their first phone call (metaphorically.)

none of these boys are raising hands to their kids. I won’t even consider it.

[separatist-apologist]

Burning Red

Summary: When Arina is brought with her father to Velaris, she sees an opportunity to escape the marriage she's desperate to avoid. She wants a smaller life- a simpler life.

One that doesn't involve a dragon.

For @erisweekofficial

Part Five of the Dragons Series | Read on AO3 | Wonderland | A Mythical Thing | A Fragile Little Flame | Amber Skies

-

Arina always did what was expected of her. In that way, she was a dutiful daughter to a king who had rather little interest in her. She dressed in whatever dresses were brought to her, smiled when she was supposed to and moved when she was told. And when her father said she’d be married to one of his most trusted advisors, Arina hadn’t complained.

Out loud.

But in her head, things were different. She said the word no and people listened. She screamed when she was overtaken with fury and cried when she was sad. She talked about more than the weather—and people cared about her opinions. 

Those were merely daydreams. The reality was far grimmer than even Arina was willing to admit. She was in a strange land, engaged to a man she hated and paraded about by both her father and Jack before the human delegations. 

Isn’t she beautiful? Jack must have said it a million times. Arina wanted to strangle him with her bare hands and then hang herself with her own hair. She was a decoration and nothing more, forced to play along with easy smiles and dead eyes. His words were the epitome of chivalry, the highest compliment. Everyone knew women didn’t have thoughts, after all.

Only beautiful faces—if they were lucky.

Arina didn’t like Prythian. It was teetering on the edge of war with a newly minted King that didn’t seem terribly concerned about his predicament. In fact, when she met Rhysand—who’d immediately told her to call him Rhys—she thought he found the entire thing amusing. Her own father hadn’t stopped ranting about the looming threat of the dragons, a threat that had once been eradicated.

Only to learn there were hidden kingdoms of them everywhere. Rather than dying out, they’d gone into hiding, rebuilt, and had returned. Arina hadn’t met one yet, and wasn’t allowed to—her father was terrified one would see her and steal her away in the night like they’d been doing to other women.

Jack, though, had told her once the dragons finished fucking, they began feasting. That wasn’t enough to keep her in her room when the night they were set to come. She merely wanted to see them. Her father and Jack had locked the door to her room, an adjoining chamber to the rooms they’d been given, too. Of course they had the keys—they could come and go as they liked, a thought that scared her far more than any dragon.

At least she knew death would come quickly with the monsters. With her betrothed, however…

As the sun set, Arina used a pin from her thick, blonde hair to open the balcony doors before tossing it to the neatly made bed in the corner. All the pearl pins in her hair made her scalp ache, though fashion always came before comfort. 

She wanted to run wild.

She envied the creatures in the distance, great wings beating along the wind. What did it feel like, she wondered? If she could have, Arina would have leapt from that ledge and taken off and no one could stop her. She’d fly to the very ends of the earth, build a little cottage, and live her days in total seclusion.

They’d call her a witch.

So long as they didn’t call her pretty.

None of the incoming dragons paid her any mind save for one. He wasn’t dark scaled like the others, with ribbons of color that wound around their necks. This one was pure orange, glittering in the sunlight like pure flame. Amber eyes found her as heavy wings beat closer and closer and—

She panicked, scrambling back in before he could perch those massive talons on the marble edge, open his gaping maw to swallow her whole. Standing behind the glass, she watched the creature peer in, wings still flapping. She pressed her palm to the glass as the creature huffed out a breath, fogging her view.

And when it cleared, the monster was gone. 

Arina woke to the sound of the door unlocking. It was morning if the golden light filtering in had anything to say about it. Jack appeared moments later, fully dressed in stark contrast to her with her unbound hair and her thin shift. Arina yanked the blanket up to her neck but he’d seen too much.

“You’re lazy,” he complained, gaze hungry as she pressed herself against the headboard behind her. “Why aren’t you up?

For another day trapped in this room?

“My apologies,” she murmured, praying he wouldn’t make her stand. Please, please, please—

“Get up,” he ordered, a cruel smile spreading across his aged face. He was a few years younger than her father but aging far worse. Heart pounding, Arina meekly slid from beneath the blanket so he could really look at her. In the patch of light, the thin material might as well have been nothing at all—it was see through and they both knew it. “Get dressed.”

Their eyes met again. “You can’t be in here.”

“You’re nearly my wife,” he bit out, clearly displeased she hadn’t just stripped naked. “I can be anywhere I want where it concerns you.”

Arina was going to be sick. “I—”

A loud knock on her bedroom door interrupted them both. Arina scrambled back, snatching the first gown she saw before vanishing into the bathing chamber. She’d narrowly escaped this time, interrupted by good fortune or fate, but Arina knew she wouldn’t get so lucky again.

She needed to leave.

Arina had spent years coming up with plans, mapping out escape routes and deciding how best to get as far as she could as fast as she could. She’d never mustered up the guts to do so, though, afraid of what would happen if she got caught.

Would Rhys look for her? And how hard? The real danger seemed to be the dragons and they were all currently occupied at the summit, arguing for peace and perhaps one human woman a month to eat or fuck or both. She was merely some minor Kings daughter. Sure, they’d look, but for how long and how hard? If she could just vanish into the woods, Arina thought she’d be fine. She could figure it out from there.

Make her way to a river or the sea, get on a ship and completely disappear. She’d change her name. Cut her hair, if she had to. Dirty her face, put on pants—whatever it took to never be recognized again. The trick was getting out, and Arina suspected she knew how. 

She came out of the bathing chamber dressed in a burnt umber dress made of crushed velvet. She’d pinned half her hair off her face and wore the same satin slippers she always did—she wasn’t permitted anything sturdier. That didn’t matter—she’d go barefoot if she had to.

Arina was only allowed one place in the palace without supervision, and that was the library. Everywhere else was off limits to her without a male escort, and if she asked Jack or her father, they’d tell her no. The library, however, was seen as acceptable.

And Arina loved to read.

Jack had mentioned it would be useful to have a well-read wife to teach his children, the thought alone enough to make her wish she was illiterate. The library was on the ground level of the palace, with doors everywhere. She’d spent the day reading, return after dinner, and then slip out. By the time Jack realized she was missing, Arina ought to have a full night on him. 

No one was at the door, so Arina left a little note just inside the room that anyone with eyes would see.

Went to the library.

She should have gone to breakfast. She couldn’t stomach the thought of sitting beside her betrothed, legs clenched tight to keep his hand from sliding too far up her thighs. Every meal was like that, making it impossible to truly eat. If she let her guard down for even a second he was trying to pull up her dress or touch her over the fabric. Every moment was a nightmare.

You can do this.

The only person ever in Rhysand’s library was a lonely scholar who merely nodded at Arina from his desk, spine permanently hunched. She offered him a smile she hoped seemed genuine, if only because it was. She picked a little chair half hidden in the stacks, close enough that she could slip between two and make her way out onto the veranda without anyone noticing.

And then she sat down, book in hand, and began her daydream. She couldn’t focus on the pages, anxious and desperate for time to move faster. 

Time seemed to slow down, and the library was more popular than it had ever been. An auburn haired man stepped in a little before eleven. He had a pair of familiar amber eyes and the kind of aristocratic features that marked him as royalty. She knew a prince when she saw one. He found her, though he didn’t come any closer. He didn’t speak at all. He simply turned from the room and left her to stare at the clock and imagine what she’d do when she no longer had to look over her shoulder. 

He returned later in the afternoon, and this time when the man’s gaze found her, he came to her, too.

“Your father is looking for you,” he said by way of greeting.

“Don’t tell him I’m here,” she replied.

“You left a note,” the man replied with the faintest hint of amusement. “The whole palace knows you’re here.”

“So you’re, what? An errand boy?” she replied, certain that would wound his fragile ego. 

The man smiled, and Arina wished he hadn’t. He was beautiful, radiating cool warmth she wanted to get closer to. That kind of impulse would only lead to ruin, so Arina remained in her chair, trying her best to stare him down even though he towered over her. He was build like a warrior, muscular and broad beneath a cream colored coat and wine red pants. His black boots cut just below his knee and were so polished she could see the lights gleaming off the leather. 

Even his hair was perfect, pushed off his face in a faux casual sort of way—she knew he’d spent time agonizing over each strand. Something about him seemed a little fussy. Still, his strong jaw, high cheekbones, and full mouth were reassuring, in a way. 

She wasn’t sure which way, only that the sight of him settled that restless impulse racing through her. 

“Have you eaten?” he questioned, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Maybe he was restless, too.

“I’m not going into that dining hall.”

His expression darkened. “Why not?”

Arina couldn’t tell him the truth—he wouldn’t care, besides. “I don’t know you.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I won’t hurt you.”

“Not intentionally,” she said without thinking, half drunk on the power she felt just saying whatever she wanted. His eyes blazoned with heat that wasn’t for her.

“Did someone hurt you here?”

“What do you want?” she demanded. Arina wasn’t telling this man anything. He’d betray her inevitably, even if he thought he was some sort of chivalrous hero. 

“Come with me.”

“No.”

He sighed, and if he’d been less principled, she imagined he would have stamped his foot, too. “Please?”

“”Oh, well since you asked so nicely,” she replied, tapping her chin as she pretended to think about it, “no.”

The man let out a frustrated growl. “I’m not going to deliver you to your father or the dining hall.”

“I’m not allowed to leave without a male chaperone,” Arina informed him primly.

The man ran a hand down his toned chest. “Am I not a man?”

He had her there. “I don’t think you count.”

“Then your father should have been more specific,” he replied smugly, offering her a hand. Arina didn’t take it, though she did stand. What did it matter if she went with him? She was leaving that night regardless, and if she was caught, being alone with him was hardly the end of the world.

“What’s your name?”

“Eris Vanserra,” he said promptly, looking as though he were omitting a lot of facts.

“Should I call you Lord? Or Prince?”

A slow smile spread across his face. “Neither. Just Eris.”

Liar, liar. Still, she followed after him, annoyed by his longer legs and quick gait. He was definitely some spoiled nobleman at best. He walked like it—like women had been throwing themselves at his feet since he’d grown into his masculine features. Or, at least, he walked like he knew he was handsome and that annoyed her, too.

“That makes you sound a bit like a prick, you know,” she informed him, coming out of the library half in his shadow. He’d paused in the wide hall, looking in every direction and Arina, uninterested in getting caught, stood behind him as though no one could see her.

He glanced over his shoulder. “I’ve been called worse. Why are you hiding?”

“I’m not…” But it was no use. They both knew she was lying. Eris sighed.

“This way, princess.”

“How do you know I’m a princess?” she demanded, back at his side once they turned the opposite direction, heading toward a part of the vibrant, moonstone palace she’d never seen. It was so airy and open here, with windows that towered toward the skies and swirling marble floors she could have eaten off of. The palace was far emptier than the one she lived in, and she wondered why. Didn’t Rhysand have a court? Friends? Enemies who liked to live luxuriously? Even the servants were sparse, slipping past before seemingly evaporating to mist.

“Everyone knows. It’s all your fathers advisor speaks about—the beautiful princess we’re all forbidden from speaking to.”

“Betrothed, you mean,” she said. Arina didn’t know why she told Eris that. Maybe she wanted at least one person to understand why she left. And something about him made her think he might impede the search for her. Misdirect, cause a little mayhem, slow them all down so she could slip away. 

He ground to a halt and Arina, who was still picturing how he might mess everything up for her father, slammed into his shoulder. 

“Betrothed?” Eris asked, his voice lethally soft.

“Sorry if you were angling for an arranged marriage,” she replied blithely, trying to keep the fear from her voice, “but I’m already promised.”

Arina held up her hand and the little gold band that sat on her third finger to wiggle them in front of him. “This trip is just a last stop before the—- hey what are you doing?”

Eris grabbed her wrist in one hand, fingers a vice to keep her from pulling free. With the other, he wrenched that ring off her finger and flung it out a nearby window. 

Arina shoved at his chest for all the good it did. “What was that for?”

Eris looked wild, more animal than man with his heaving chest and flared nostrils. Staring down at her, Arina waited for his explanation. Eris took a breath through parted lips and then said,

“Come on.”

“That’s it?” she demanded, trailing after as he walked forward as if nothing had happened. “What is wrong with you?”

“I didn’t realize you were so in love,” Eris sneered as a muscle began jumping furiously in his jaw. 

She grabbed his arm in an attempt to stop him. “It’s not—I’m not in love— but you won’t be punished—”

Eris spun around again, that wildness magnified. “Punished? Punished how?”

“I…just…can you go find it, please?” she whispered, hating herself for how pathetic she was. Eris looked at her for another long moment.

“Later.”

Arina didn’t argue, though she also didn’t believe he was going to try very hard to track it down, either. She’d need to stay out of sight for the remainder of the day, or keep her hand hidden if she didn’t want to be found out. The last thing she needed was to be locked up and so badly bruised there was no point in sneaking away. She’d be too noticeable with a black eye. 

Eris took her to a private patio, laid out with enough food to feed five people rather than just two. The little table was the only thing sitting against the marble, with an unmatched view of the rising mountains in the distance. 

“Eat,” Eris said, pulling out a chair so the legs scraped the ground. “I’ll….I’ll find your ring.”

“Thank you,” she said, heart racing. He’d brought her here to eat with her? “You don’t want to stay?”

He did. Hesitating, fingers holding the golden knob of the glass door, she watched as the man warred with his thoughts before shaking his head. “You eat. I’ll be back.”

He vanished back indoors, leaving Arina alone again, though without half as much misery as she usually felt. There was an inherent trust to his absence—he’d return and she didn’t need to worry. Arina didn’t know how to explain that typically she was the one no one trusted. 

Sitting in the chair, she let herself eat more than she would normally to compensate for the journey she knew was coming.

Eris returned not long after, eyes sweeping the table. “You barely ate anything.”

“I’m one woman,” she replied. Eris leaned his body against the doorframe, ankles crossed like the arms over his chest. “Did you find the ring?”

“No.”

Arina sighed. “Great.”

There was a pause in which she thought he might apologize for what he’d done, or at least explain why he’d done it. He didn’t. “You can stay, if you like. I’ll cover for you.”

“Why would you do that?”

Eris stared at her for a moment. “I like the sound of your voice,” he said, his own strained as though he’d had to push them out against his will. No one had ever said that to her before. 

“You want to listen to me talk?” she questioned.

Eris crept an inch closer. “Yes.”

Arina looked down at her empty plate. “I wouldn’t know what to say.”

He shrugged. “You don’t have to speak unless you want to.”

“I should…I should go back, actually. Before someone realizes…” Arina stood abruptly, annoyed when Eris shifted so his body was blocking her only exit. 

“What would they realize?” Eris asked in that lethal, soft way of his. “Why are you being held prisoner?”

Arina shoved past him. “They’re your laws,” she snapped, angry he wanted to both uphold the rules that allowed men to treat her like property while also being indignant when they were enforced. “Take it up with yourself.”

“Not my laws,” Eris replied softly. Arina turned, heart racing in her chest. He hadn’t moved other than to face her, still leaned against the door in that casual way of his. Eris reached for his collar, slipping one of the buttons out so she could see the glimmer of orange against his fair skin.

Scales.

“We don’t treat our females so cruelly,” he told her. 

“Because you killed them all,” she whispered, suddenly afraid. He was a dragon? No one had told her that their human forms looked like that. She’d expected a man who was more monster than anything, but Eris seemed painfully human. With deft fingers, he rebuttoned his jacket, hiding the proof he was more than just a man. 

Eris didn’t smile. “Is that what they tell you?”

“It’s the truth,” she replied, taking another step backward. “You killed your women and now you’re stealing humans—”

Eris barked out a laugh so loud it drowned out the rest of her accusation. There was no mirth on his expression, no amusement etched over his features. Only blazing hatred staring right back. Arina turned, too afraid to listen to whatever lie he’d offer up. She didn’t want to hear his justification, why he thought his people were owed more women to destroy as well.

And she didn’t want to be part of it. If he’d taken an interest in her, that was a bad sign. Arina made her way back to the library, heart racing painfully. He knew she was here—he could simply follow after her should he choose to. 

Curled up in a chair, Arina thought the day had gone from bad to worse. She expected, though, to be left alone for the remainder of it. That was naive. The whole thing had been naivety because Jack, too, tracked her down with relative ease. 

“Up,” he said, startling Arina who’d been engrossed in a book. “Is this how you waste your time?”

She was on her feet in an instant, wincing when he grabbed her upper arm with unnecessary force to jerk her closer.

“You’re hiding,” he accused, brown eyes searching her face for proof he was right. “Where were you this afternoon?”

“Here,” she said, though she knew that wasn’t true. It must have shown on her face because Jack shook her hard enough to make her teeth rattle in her skull. 

“I was here,” he said, breath sickly sweet against her face. Arina wanted to turn her head and knew better. Instead she cast her eyes downward, wondering if this hadn’t been Eris’s little plan all along. “You were nowhere to be found.”

“Then I was in my room,” Arina said, hiding her hand in the folds of her skirts so he wouldn’t see the missing engagement ring, too. “I had to use the restroom—I’m allowed to move freely—”

He hit her. Arina couldn’t even stumble backward to escape it, held in place by his punishing grip. Tears smarted in the corner of her eyes, swallowed before she could burst out sobbing. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction, wasn’t going to let him see how thorough of a job he was doing at breaking her down. 

“You’re not allowed to breathe unless I will it,” Jack hissed, face inches from her own. “You will go nowhere, do nothing unless I say you can. If I tell you to stand in a corner for the rest of the day, you’ll smile and thank me for it. Do you understand?”

Arina didn’t dare look at him. “Yes.”

“I told your father bringing you here was a mistake,” Jack said, still in her personal space. “You’re not smart enough to understand your place in all this. You are simply a woman.”

Arina wanted to go to her room and see what her face looked like. Jack, however, dragged her to the dining hall where Rhysand himself was already seated, a goblet of wine in one hand. Beside him was a man clearly marked by red dragon scales, sprawled in a chair as he spoke with an easy familiarity. Jack paused when he saw him, clear frustrated, before shoving Arina into a chair.

Across the long table sat Eris—not the nobleman's son, or the prince, but the dragon. He, too, had wine in his hand though it was all but forgotten as he stared her down.

She didn’t want to look at him, either. Arina was tired of being humiliated by men. She was back to being decorative, though how true that was wasn’t made clear until she was sent back to her bedchamber midway through the meal as a little show of power. Just as dinner was set before her, Jack instructed her to leave with a servant, plate untouched. 

No one stopped him. 

In truth, Arina was grateful for it. Anxious and miserable, she’d nearly tripped to escape both men and dragon, all of whom ignored her in favor of a strained conversation she hadn’t been paying attention to. There was no point in locking the door—and Arina knew she wouldn’t be left alone that night. 

Jack would stake his claim the only way men knew how. He’d marked her face and then he’d mark her body, rendering her worthless to every other man and completing what her father had begun. Arina went to the mirror, relieved to find there was no bruise on her face—only a fading red handprint that would be gone by morning.

She could be gone before he ever arrived, too. Pulling the pins from her hair, Arina went to the locked door, slid one of the pins into the lock, and opened the door. Everyone was at dinner drinking and talking and engaging in what she could only assume was a dick measuring contest. Maybe the dragons would eat the men and forget all about her. 

No one tried to stop her. Not when she ran through the halls or burst outdoors. None of the guards said a word when she crossed the expansive lawn for the little city below—and not one person cared when she pushed open a gate and made a break for the forest.

Arina hadn’t brought anything else with her.

But she was free. 

ERIS:

Eris stood atop a parapet, watching his little mate walk into the city.

Good. 

Beside him, Cassian sighed. “If you kill them, it’ll start a war.”

“Wasn’t that what you wanted?” Eris questioned, ignoring the urge to chase after her. He had her scent lodged in his nose—he’d find her easily enough once the sun set. His business was here for at least another hour. “My armies?”

“That’s what I want,” Cassian agreed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Not what my king wants.”

“Is he hoping for more slaughter, first? Proof that humans are barbaric? I think we all remember what they’re capable of—and what kind of diplomacy they offer.”

“It’s…complex…” Cassian said. Eris bet it was. There were no females left with which to mate with, and the dragons were coming to realize their mates were humans, now. They were curious and desperate—they wanted to start lives, have families. The war had come to his own shores, and though they’d managed not to be totally decimated, Eris didn’t have half as many people as his father had once commanded before he’d vanished, taking his mother and a brand new child born in the middle of war.

Eris never had found them. He assumed they were buried in some unmarked grave, unmourned and lost to even time itself. Eris was bitter about all of it. Humans didn’t live as long as his kind and reproduced far faster. They had an abundance of women they treated poorly, children they neglected and abused, and wars they started simply because they were bored.

Why should he be the bigger man? His mate had come to dinner reeking of fear, her face swollen with a handprint while the offending male had sat like a king, unbothered by the other humans who ignored her entirely.

And Rhysand had floated into Eris’s head, warning him against the violence he was contemplating. He could have incinerated them all with only half a thought.

You’ll frighten her.

She would forgive him—Eris was certain of it. She was already scared, but maybe she’d feel less scared knowing she didn’t have to keep looking over her shoulder. He could make her queen of whatever land she called home, could unite their territories—

“A month,” Eris said, looking at the warrior beside him. “Tell your king he has a month to decide before we withdraw. This time, if he chooses cowardice, I will lock our borders and you will fight the humans alone.”

“And if he decides on war.”

Eris grinned, “You can count on my support. We could attack them now, take their territories and decimate their armies before they had a chance to respond.”

“If I had my way,” Cassian mumbled. “Diplomacy is wasted on them—they make promises they intend to break while taking as much from us as they possibly can.”

“They only understand violence.”

“Rhys thinks we’re not better if we destroy them like they destroyed us.”

“The world would be better without them,” Eris said, wishing he could still see Arina. She was merely a dot on the horizon, long vanished into the woods. “Will Rhys be angry if I kill a human King.”

“Undoubtedly,” Cassian said glumly. 

“If it were his mate—”

“But it wasn’t,” Cassian said with a touch of finality. And it never would be, was the unspoken rest of that sentence. Rhys would never have sat across a table, forced to endure what Eris had while another male forced him to pretend none of it mattered. 

With the conversation done, Cassian turned to leave before hesitating. “If you wait, you could misdirect her family. Buy her time.” It was tempting— “She’s alone.”

If Cassian agreed with him or not, Eris couldn’t say. He didn’t turn to look, unconcerned with the other males' approval. Cracking his neck, Eris inhaled slowly before shifting into his dragon form. This was how he preferred to be—how all his kind preferred to live. Wings outstretched, scales warmed by the sun. 

He could see better in this form, could move faster, was a true predator. Besides, Eris didn’t like all the pretending he had to do around the humans, who hadn’t realized he was a dragon. Not one human ruler knew the Western Isles were controlled by dragons on purpose. Eris let them believe they’d been killed and he was what remained, hiding all traces that marked him in an effort to keep his people safe.

Some might call it cowardly, but Eris called it survival. 

Taking off, Eris inhaled the crisp, early evening air. There, beneath the stench of humans and the familiar smells of nature, lay vanilla and lime mixed together. 

Arina. 

She didn’t like him—he’d seen the fear and disgust on her face when he’d shown her his scales. Maybe it would have been better to pretend to be a human to gain her trust, but Eris wanted her to know from the outset who he was—so that when she finally claimed him, it was him, and not some pretend version of himself. 

She was going to be angry with him. If she knew he was flying over the treetops looking for her, she’d be angry before he ever touched the ground. That was a risk he was willing to take in the name of keeping her safe. He knew there were predators prowling, who would see an unarmed, defenseless female and decide to make an easy meal of her.

They’d think twice if he was there. 

Eris found her walking through the bramble, dress held in one hand to keep from dragging across the ground. He dipped, catching how her neck craned to look. He was big, wings knocking against branches before he took on his two legged form to hop beside her.

“I was looking for you,” he said, hoping his smile was charming. 

“Go away.” She tried to sound authoritative, but there was a streak of mud on her cheek and she was breathless from running.

“Where would I go?”

“Anywhere else?” she said, stalking off. Eris caught her easily thanks to his longer legs and how often he trekked through the wilderness on his own. She’d never survive without him.

“And leave you to die? Or worse?”

“What’s worse than death?” she demanded, turning that beautiful face toward him. The hand print was still faded, though the insult remained, branded against his very soul. It was the gravest of insults. She didn’t understand and Eris didn’t know how to make her.

“Your impending marriage,” he said, forcing out the words through his teeth. Her head whipped around, slapping golden curls against her cheek. Eris wanted to touch her so badly it made his bones ache. His entire life, Eris had believed like many other males of his kind, that he simply did not have a mate. Mates were said to be equals—gifts from their Mother goddess. And Eris didn’t believe he’d been granted one. Why would he, of everyone? 

He’d recognized her the moment he flew in, had felt an almost painful tugging in his chest that directed him toward her. She’d been watching on the balcony with the pair of greenest eyes he’d ever seen in his life. She’d retreated indoors and Eris knew better than to go barging in, though it hadn’t stopped him from scouring the palace looking for her the next morning. He just needed to know for sure.

He’d taken one breath in that library and had known the truth of things. After that, everything felt like a dream. He’d gone to Rhys and asked what the rules were—could he simply take her? That's how things had been when he was a child and Eris thought he was fine with the repercussions of such an act if it got her far, far away from the impending war. It had been Rhys who informed him that Arina was engaged and that he was expressly forbidden from kidnapping her.

Bullshit.

There was no rule saying he couldn’t guide her back to his home, however, which was why Eris was trailing after her like a lovesick puppy. Which, he supposed he was, even if it annoyed him. 

“You think death is better?” she asked, some of her dislike melting into a different emotion.

“He hit you,” Eris replied, curling his fingers into fists. Talons burst from his fingers, slicing open his palm before he could get himself better under control. “I think I’d rather be dead than endure a lifetime of that.”

His father had died before Eris could kill him, but he knew from first hand experience he didn’t want to waste his life trapped with his abuser. 

Arina sighed, picking up the pace again. “What do you know about it?”

Too much. Eris nearly told her, desperate for connection—to show that their experiences were mirrored, their suffering shared. A rustling in the trees caught his attention, stopping him as he inhaled. 

Wolves.

She was walking straight to them if the scent on the wind was any indication. Jogging after her, Eris attempted to reach for her but Arina was too prepared.

“Don’t touch me!” she hissed, jerking away. Her recoil made his whole body ache with hurt, causing him to forget, for just a moment, why he’d gone to her in the first place. Was he truly that offensive to her? Would she rather go it alone when he was right there?  

“I…”

They both halted at the sound of a braying wolf far, far in the distance.

“We need to go,” Eris said, voice icy. “I’ll take you back to the palace.”

“No!” she gasped, turning wholly toward him. “Please—anywhere else.”

“I’ll take you to my home,” he replied cautiously, expecting her to also reject it.

Arina’s green eyes narrowed. She’d fight him even as her throat was being torn out. “And where is your home, exactly?”

He could just scoop her up and take her. He didn’t need to ask—it was merely a formality. “The Western Isles.”

“All the way out there?”

“Look, I would love to discuss this with you but we are moments from a bloody death. Agree to come with me or I will simply—”

It was too late. Eris shifted with enough time to wrap Arina within the spiked plating of his tail, but not fast enough to avoid razor sharp teeth sinking into his throat. The wolf simply came with him as he rose higher in the air, shaking viciously in an attempt to bring him down. Emboldened, more of the wolves came running from the thick trees for both him and Arina. 

Eris panicked. He was used to fighting only to save himself, or as part of his military—not to keep his newly acquired mate alive. She was defenseless, without a weapon and in satin shoes. If they caught her, she’d be dead before Eris ever learned another thing about her.

Before he ever saw her smile.

With a taloned claw, Eris ripped the wolf from his throat and flung it against a tree, ignoring the pained scream it barked out. With his tail, Eris swept a wide arc around the pair of them as Arina came closer, saying words he couldn’t make out in the chaos.

He was in trouble. Blood poured from his wound and breathing was physically painful. Reaching for Arina, Eris held her in that same claw as he tried to take flight. More wolves latched onto his legs, ripping and tearing through his plating for the flesh below. Eris bellowed, fire erupting from his ruined throat in an inferno that only served to ruin him further.

Instinct had taken over his good sense. He needed to protect his mate or die trying. And the way things were going, Eris wasn’t convinced he’d survive. 

She might, though. Eris managed to get the starving animals off him and take flight, veering wildly to the left, and then the right, as he tried to settle himself. He could hear Arina distantly, her screams enough to set him on edge. She was afraid.

Well, he was, too. 

Managing to right himself, Eris soared as high as he dared. His vision was blurry, his breathing labored and each beat of his wings felt like a monumental task. He wasn’t certain he was up for it. Still, he flew with no real destination in mind. He wanted to get her away from the humans that, even traveling on horseback it would take them days to reach her. Eris needed to lay down. 

Darkness seeped into his vision just as he saw a clearing. A large lake lay in a valley, hidden by high, snow capped mountain peaks. The Illyrian Mountains, he realized. Cassian might find them—might find Arina, should Eris die. 

“Not the lake!” Arina cried as Eris began to descend. In truth, he hadn’t realized he was so low to the ground. Cradling her against his chest, he crash landed in the grass, likely breaking a few bones on his way down. Arina seemed unharmed, pulling from his grasp to stand on her feet. Her hair was windblown, eyes wide with fear and there was speckled of blood against the brown of her cheek. 

“Are you okay?” she whispered, reaching for him before pulling her hand back against her chest. Eris supposed it was too much to hope that she’d touch him before he died. He tried to assure he was, but the words wouldn’t come out.

He was still a dragon.

Trapped in his form, all he could do was huff out a breath and hope she was safe. His eyes closed.

And Eris was gone.

[lynessehightowerr]

Honestly, I’m sick of HOTD changing every detail they can to make team black look better.

Book-Accurate Blood and Cheese:

- Daemon explicitly sends blood and cheese after the six-year old Jaehaerys or two-year old Maelor, Helaena’s children.

- knowing that Helaena would take her children to visit Queen Alicent every night, blood and cheese bind and gag Alicent, strangle her bedmaid, and wait for Helaena’s children to arrive.

-for fun, Cheese asks Helaena which of her sons she wants them to kill. Helaena tries to offer her own life instead but they threaten to r*pe six-year old Jaehaera if she doesn’t choose a son to die, so Helaena chooses two-year old Maelor.

-Cheese laughs, tells Maelor his mother wants him dead, and then they behead Jaehaerys and run off with his head.

-Helaena is crippled with guilt and no longer able to face Maelor, eventually taking her own life.

TV show blood and cheese:

- Daemon wants to kill Aemond. However, he is unable to as Rhaenys refuses to help.

- Daemon instead orders blood and cheese to kill Aemond, a son for a son.

-blood and cheese sneak in to find Helaena alone with her children Jaehaerys and Jaehaera. Since she isn’t a son, they instead ask her to point out her son to be killed or else they’d all be killed. Helaena tries to pay them off with her necklace but they insist, so she points to Jaehaerys and they kill him. She’s surprisingly composed.

-Helaena grabs Jaehaera (who is really, really calm considering two strange men are cutting her brother to death with knives) and they run to Alicent’s room, where they find Alicent enjoying cowgirl with Ser Criston Cole.

-Helaena sits in a corner holding Jaehaerya and tells Alicent that ‘they killed him’.

-the murder take place mostly offscreen and there’s no gut-wrenching grief or big anguish from either Helaena, Alicent, or Jaehaera. Contrast that with Lucerys’ death, where the shot lingers on Rhaenyra as she strokes a hand over her womb and the pain on her face (Emma D’Arcy is a masterclass in acting), and that’s the final shot of the first season.

How this changes the story:

-Daemon goes from calling for the blood of a two or six year old boy to Aemond, who under GoT morality, did deserve to die.

-the wanton cruelty of Blood and Cheese is gone. They don’t torture Helaena or threaten to r*pe a six-year old girl. They’re two practical assassins who want to kill the minimum amount of people to fulfill their contract.

- they completely eliminate Alicent’s hours of being bound and gagged, helpless as she waits for her daughter and grandchildren to come be slaughtered. Instead she’s off shagging her Kingsguard- which does not fit with the strict religiosity that characterized her last season.

-Helaena’s visible suffering is almost gone. This makes sense in the narrative since she foresaw the ‘rats’, but they also remove her heroism and sacrifice for her children. They also remove the psychological torture that drives her mad regarding Maelor, who grows up knowing his mother chose him to die.

Overall, I’m disappointed. This was supposed to be the most gut-wrenching crime in the dance of dragons, a tonal shift in the series and a massive escalation of drama. Instead, the showrunners flinch from committing fully and we end up with a half-baked segment that fails to hit its required story beat.

[anyonewannasteponme]

Summary: Your Uncle Aegon enjoys sneaking into your room at night and making you his. Especially after you’ve misbehaved. (Also Helaena and Aemond are married because I say so)

Warnings: Incest, Explicit Sexual Content, Impact Play, Slight Non-Con

Authors Note: I want to preface by saying that I haven’t watched House of The Dragon yet so if I write Aegon a little out of character take that into consideration please this is far from perfect I just wanted to write something for fun. I just want a horrible man to ruin me <3

Your stomach was in knots, an acute feeling of dread had been plaguing you ever since you had stormed off from the disastrous family dinner. You felt awful, your Grandsire had only been trying to achieve one thing between your Mother and Brothers and Alicent Hightower and her boys. Unity. And it had been going well, until conversation had been shifted to Luke and Jaces legitimacy due to your Uncle Aemond’s unfathomable pride. Strong boys, he had called them knowing exactly what open wound to poke and prod.

Sure enough after Aemond slipped in the strong comment he and Jace were fighting. Helaena had let out a gasp as her husband got a punch to the jaw, one he rightfully deserved in the moment. You’d left shortly after, stormed out you supposed, you were furious. Unlike your brothers you had Targaryen features, like your brothers you were very much a bastard. It was just easier for everyone to pretend that you werent. You could pass as a true born Targaryen with your gleaming violet eyes and silver hair. Luke and Jace had a much harder time than yourself and you wished with all your heart that you could save them from the cruelties of the court. What had really wound you up was Aegon. The way he had slammed your brother down against the table unflinchingly had you fuming. How he could share your bed, yet insult your whole identity was a mystery.

A sharp rap on your door signalled his arrival. You knew from the brief few second pause between the previous violent knocks before a string of more followed more aggressive than the last that Aegon was at the door. “I do not wish to see you right now Uncle.” You whisper shouted, aware that if someone heard you refuse his entrance they’d likely try and send you to the dungeons. “I dont give two shits.” Aegon slurred, slamming on the door frame, the wooden piece rattling in its hinges. You muttered a variety of unladylike words in your head when you observed your sheer nightgown. Nipples slightly pebbling through the fabric. You were in no way ready to receive visitors. Especially not when you knew Aegon was already in a foul mood.

You opened the door wearily. Aegon barged in, his blond hair was ruffled, signalling his feverishness. “I saw you staring at him.” He barked suddenly, you jolted backwards, surprised but not shocked at his incapability to process your own feelings of anger and humiliation instead jumping to what was bothering himself. “What do you mean?” You said softly, careful with your words. “Dont play the fool.” He scoffed running a hand through his silvery blonde hair. Scrutinising you, as if he could see the cogs in your little brain whirring, desperately trying to process his accusations. Whilst you thought Aegon stared. Taking in your skantily clad figure, the sheer nightgown he had bought for you.

Wearing it still evoked a pang of guilt in your chest, knowing you were betraying your immediate family by having such relations with Aegon. Your mother would not know what to say if or rather when she figured out her sweet girl, her only daughter was involved with her younger brother, the epitome of unruliness and cruelty. Naturally it was futile to wish for approval you would never get from her, yet you knew the conversation at some point must occur. Especially since it had been many moons since Aegon had started visiting your bedchambers with a promise to make you a mother, a wife and a queen. A queen. The title promised to your mother.

You didnt bother mentioning that you had no interest in your other Uncle. You were devoted to Aegon and Aegon alone, but you knew he would not hear it. You had been looking at Aemond, an atrocity he would not let go unpunished. Even if you had only been staring because the conversation of your Brothers legitimacy had you on edge. You were waiting for him to target you next, worried for what would happen if Aegon was in the room if Aemond ridiculed you. Would he even defend your honour? Or would he leave you to wallow in the shame of your mothers infidelity.

“Were you waiting for Aemond?” Aegon whispered his voice husky and deep with rage. “Maybe he’s on his way now, ready to spill himself deep into the womb of his spoiled whore of a niece.” You flinched at his degradation. “Aemond is a devoted husband to Helaena.” You whimpered voice meeker than you wished it to be. The blood of the dragon ran through your veins, yet your own fire was stifled by the terrifying glint in Aegon’s eyes. He stalked towards you, expression stony and serious. More serious than you ever saw him.

“He called my brothers bastards.” You snapped, trying desperately to change the conversation and avoid his wrath. “Strong boys he called them and you sat there drank your wine and laughed.”

“Him or me.” He said simply, ignoring you trying to shift his attention, his tone sent shivers down your spine.

If you were a smart girl and Aemond was unmarried you would have chosen him. He was infinitely kinder compared to Aegon even if he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. But you weren’t a smart girl, and Aegon was not a smart man. He should have bed and married his sister, Heleana regardless of his own wants and needs.

“You.” is what you would have said, had Aegon’s hand not whipped upwards to tighten around your neck, warm and strong and unrelenting. “Him or me.” He repeated his eyes the deepest purple, bordering on black, with lust or anger you could not say. He leant in, mouth pressed agaisnt your ear. “You are not his to take.” He growled. “You are mine to fuck, to seed, to marry, do you understand my darling niece? For as long as I am alive you will remain mine.” He released you when you began to claw at his wrists with desperation for air. Your vision was blurring, tiny pinpricks of black surrounded your Uncle. Tears welled in your eyes, a stinging sensation building in your nose. Aegon released his grip. “Get on the bed.”

You wanted to claw your hair out, to scream, to cry, to beg for him not to punish you for something he had invented of his own accord. But you didn’t. You got on the bed as Aegon began to unbuckle his belt. He gave you a stern look and begrudgingly you moved into the position he wanted you in, arse up ready for his punishment. Maybe he’d fuck your arsehole until it bled, make it impossible for you to leave your room the next day, or would he spank you red raw until you couldn’t sit down because of the pressure on the blue-black bruises he’d given you. You knew he was thinking about which way he wanted to take his anger out on you.

The bed dipped with Aegon’s weight. He grabbed your hips roughly pulling you against his clothed stomach, you were arched like a stretching cat, the way he loved to take you. He administered one searing slap against your left arse cheek with his belt, you convulsed in his arms at the impact wanting to cry alloud at the pain of one strike. “I know it hurts.” He whispered directly into your ear, his warm breath tickling your earlobe and sending a flush of addictive pleasure between your legs. “But when you behave like a whore you get treated like one.” You couldn’t stop the growl that escaped your lips. Aegon let out a burst of laughter, delighted at your anger, sorrow and neediness.

“Do you not like that name my sweet?” He condescended. “No I think you like it very much.” He ran a hand down your raised thigh, the further down he traced the closer he got to your aching centre. You closed your legs, trying to hide your wetness from him. In response Aegon grabbed a fistful of your hair and wrenched your head back so far you were sure your scalp would be bleeding. “Listen to me.” He pried your legs open with the hand opposite to the one abusing your hair. “I am going to ruin your cunt. I am going to use you to make myself cum and then when your so swollen and desperate from all the orgasms I deny you I will shove my cock back in and push my cum deep inside you.” He leaned in closer. “You come before I tell you its alright then you will be punished, you fail to satisfy me and you will be punished.” With that you felt his blunt head push against your hole. Aegon was collecting your slick before slamming his hips into yours.

“Your pulsing.” He grunted. “Your pussy is trying to push me out.” You didn’t doubt him one bit, the lack of preparation had you engulfed in an excruciating stretch as Aegon pounded you with no restraint all you could do was grasp desperately at the furs on your bed and gurgle as Aegon had his way with you. He clapped a hand over your mouth as a means to quiet you down. But you couldn’t help the sounds escaping your mouth when he changed positions, pounding the spot inside you that always made you crumble around him. “Do not cum.” He growled, you mewled. It wasn’t possible. “I can’t hold it Aegon.” You gasped. “You must.” He replied curtly. He continued to brutally thrust into you. You could feel him pulsing as well, his cock twitching inside you as he continued to fuck you desperately. He was close, but so were you.

You tried to think of anything but the approach of your orgasm, wiggling in your gut like an unwanted worm. You thought of how Aegon demanded respect when he fucked you. You wondered when you saw how he interacted with Alicent if when he was with you that was the only time he was ever in control of his life. You thought about how your mother would be queen. How no matter how often Aegon said he’d make you his queen he didn’t wish to be king even a little bit.

It distracted you for a bit before Aegon began to vocalise his pleasure, grunting and groaning in your ear as if he knew how much it would turn you on. “Dont cum inside please.” You whispered. Aegon flipped you over, legs over his shoulders. “Oh I’m coming inside.” He smirked at whatever expression of horror you must have plastered on your face. “Lets hope it takes and my babe grows in your pretty girl womb.” You let out a gasp of irritation as he slowed his thrusts, the burst of pleasure you had been feeling in the moment dissipating with the loss of his deep thrusting. “You want to come for me?” Aegon asked. You nodded your head vigorously. “Then say that you belong to me. That no one fucks your cunt as well as I do. That you want no one other than Aegon Targaryen.”

“I belong to you.” Aegon resumed his thrusting, growing more frantic and sloppy as he neared his release, you keened. “No one fucks my cunt as well as you do.” If anyone walked past usually you would be mortified, sounding like a commonplace whore. Yet you could care less, having gone dumb on his cock the minute his tip met your entrance. “I want no one other than Aegon Targaryen.” You gasped as your orgasm overtook you the minute you finished saying what he had asked of you. It hit you hard and intense from Aegon’s edging. He growled as he felt you tighten impossibly around him.

Aegon cursed as he came, spilling himself deep into you regardless of what you asked. Terror spiked in your gut. “What if I have a child Aegon.” For a second you were expecting him to shut you down. To say something along the lines of “I already father a dozen bastards whats one more going to do.” Instead he pressed a kiss to your temple, “I dont think anyone would bat an eye if you and I were to wed.” You gasped, stiffening beneath him. “Are you asking me to marry you?” You whispered, barely believing what you were hearing. “I would like nothing more. If you will have me.” You felt tears prick in your eyes, guiding him back to your entrance as you pressed a deep kiss against his lips.

You always forgave him too quickly.

“If you want it to take you’ll need to cum more than once.” You whispered, tucking his hair behind his ear. Aegon grinned, pulling out and angling his hips as he prepared to fuck you again.

[justanartsysideblog]

A Whisper of Wolves

Robb Stark has heard the stories of the Mad King and his reign, and knows what happened to his grandfather and uncle when called to the Dragon’s court. It is no secret that while the North has accepted Queen Rhaenys as the ruler of the Iron Throne, they hold no love for Rhaegar’s daughter. When word comes from King’s Landing that the queen requests a Lord of the North for her council, Robb goes in place of his father who has not fully recovered from the bloody civil war fourteen years ago. When he arrives, expecting to find traces of the Mad King and his ilk, he realizes that the stories told in the North are not entirely true…and the dark-eyed queen is nothing like her grandfather.

I finally managed to finish the prologue! Enjoy below. AO3 link available here.

—

Prologue

One of Rhaenys’ earliest memories was of sitting atop the Iron Throne.

There were flickers of others, moments of lucidity among foggy recollections; the look upon her mother’s face as her father had given a token to another woman at a tourney, the sound of her father’s harp, the day her Uncle Viserys had called her “sand rat” and her grandfather had laughed.

But none were as clear in her mind as that day, when the screams had ended, and her mother had placed a heavy crown atop her head, bloodied hands trembling.

The air still smelled of smoke and the metallic tang of blood wafted through the throne room as shadows danced among the dragon skulls adorning the walls. The flickering torch light made their eyes gleam and their crooked grins seemed to stretch the more she looked at them. It was frightening, even though she knew she was not supposed to be afraid. You are a dragon, and dragons are not afraid , that was what her father always told her.

Still, she wished that she had been allowed to bring Balerion. She could feel the cold metal even beneath the cushion that had been given to her, and her little legs barely reached the edge of the seat. Her hands were placed firmly in her lap, as her mother had instructed.

“The edges are sharp, you could get hurt.”

Jaime Lannister stood to her right, armor polished bright, expression unreadable. He’d been the first to bow before her and swear fealty as her mother had stood behind her, hand warm and steady upon her back.

He had smiled when he had caught her looking, and she’d smiled back. Even though he’d seemed afraid, he’d made certain to smile at her.

She’d sat there for what felt like hours, as people came and bowed and swore their loyalty to her. They called her “Your Grace” instead of “Your Highness” and she’d tried to tell them they were saying it wrong but her mother said she was a grace now and not a highness anymore, so it was alright.

Only princesses are highnesses. You are a queen.

But her mother was supposed to be queen, when her grandfather died. She was supposed to be queen, and her papa would be king. That was the way things were supposed to be. Her papa had told her so.

“Where is papa?” She’d asked Sir Jaime, but he hadn’t seemed able to answer. Her mother had simply shook her head, and tucked a curl behind her ear.

Men in gold cloaks had lined the hall, and came and went to speak with Sir Jaime and her mother. They’d spoken to them, but they’d continued to bow to her and say “your grace” as if they’d been telling her all along. She did not know what they were talking about, but they mentioned wildfire, and streets, and “storing in safe places”.

Rhaenys had just wanted to sleep. It was past her bedtime, and she’d worried that her mother may have forgotten that she was supposed to read Rhaenys a bedtime story tonight. It had been hard to keep her eyes open, and only the reminder that the throne was sharp and could cut her had kept her from curling up against it and falling asleep.

When Lord Tywin arrived he’d knelt as well but there had been something different about his eyes when they’d met hers. Cold. Calculating. Things she had been unable to discern at so young and age, but that stuck with her for years after.

“Have the rest of the Kingsguard sworn their oaths?”

“Yes, father. All who are in King’s Landing,” Sir Jaime had nodded, voice weary. “It is done.”

Her mother had placed her hand upon her shoulder once more, before she had stepped forward and held out something gold and glittering to Tywin Lannister.

“For your service to the realm,” She had said, as she’d pinned the golden hand of the king upon his breast.

————————

The room smelled of herbs. My uncle must have overindulged last night , Rhaenys thought bemusedly. The slight furrow in Prince Oberyn’s brown as he reached for a cup of tea rather than his usual goblet seemed to prove her correct.

The morning meeting of the Small Council had yet to begin, but she knew already that the day would end in a shouting match. Ser Baelor Hightower, her Master of Coin, was frowning at his report on the recent crop yields, which did not bode well; no doubt the topic of raising yearly taxes would be brought up again. Everyone was present–no one would have dared come later than the Queen–but since she hadn’t started the meeting yet, they waited while looking over missives. Once everyone had settled she waved her hand for the meeting to begin. It did not take long for them to fall into all too familiar bickering.

Once again, her Master of Ships, Lord Gulian Swann, suggested upgrading their navy. Many of their ships needed serious repair and some were barely seaworthy. Not only this, the navy itself lacked sailors. The life at sea was harsh, and their standing navy was small and underpaid due to resources going elsewhere. Which was the counterargument given by her Master of Coin. Adding to the expenditure of the crown when naval battles were not their current priority was not something he would allow unless ordered to.

"Demand more ships from those damn Greyjoys if you need them so badly."

"I need a navy, not a fleet of pirates who are more likely to run than to fight!" Lord Gulian nearly slammed his hand on the table, but a glance at Lord Tywin's stern visage made him pause.

Lord Baelor cleared his throat, "Our coffers are put to better use elsewhere. We have the queen's ascension to the throne to celebrate, and the event must fit the grandeur of Your Grace," He nodded in deference at Rhaenys, who had silently been watching the argument. "We have borrowed too much coin. If we take out another loan we might as well give the throne to Braavos.”

“There is the option of marriage,” Lord Kevan Lannister reminded, then quickly continued as several voices raised in protest. “Not for you, Your Grace.” He nodded his head in a quick bow, “But Princess Daenearys has reached marital age. She would fetch a hefty bride price.”

Rhaenys cleared her throat. “I will be deciding on my aunt’s marriage. It is of no concern to the Small Council.”

“But Your Grace–”

“My decision in this matter is final.” Rhaenys held up her hand to silence her councilors. She knew she could not choose her own marriage partner–Lord Tywin would see to that–but the least she could do was spare Dany the same fate. Besides, Rhaenys was rather certain that supplying their naval fleet was of far more importance than a ceremony celebrating her crowning. She turned to Baelor Hightower, “Is there a way to at least supplement the manpower of our navy with able-bodied individuals from the poorhouses? Many are willing to work if able, I am told.” She glanced at Varys who gave a small nod.

“It would cost less than fixing the fleet as a whole,” Ser Swann admitted, “Though some ships will still need repair.”

“We could pay the poorhouse workers less and use the excess coin for our current repairs,” Hightower conceded. “That could last us until the yearly taxes to the crown.”

“Your Uncle Viserys should also be reminded of his duty to protect our shores as the Steward of Dragonstone,” Lord Oberyn interrupted, ignoring the subtle frown on Tywin Lannister’s face. Instead, he leaned back in his chair with a satisfied grin and took another sip of his tea. The subtle insults traded between the two was normal, and while Rhaenys would prefer that her Hand and her Uncle got along, she knew very well that would never happen.

Lord Tywin’s daughter Cersei had become a bit of a nuisance since her arranged marriage to Rhaenys’ uncle. She’d gotten increasingly demanding with her father, or so Varys told Rhaenys, and Lord Tywin was getting fed up with filling her requests.

Rhaenys had no doubt that Tywin still held hope that his daughter would give him a Targaryen he could manipulate as he wished if he decided Rhaenys was no longer worth the investment. For now, however, Cersei seemed unable to conceive–whether the fault lay with her womb or Viserys’ seed was unknown, at least to anyone outside Dragonstone. Considering none of the women Viserys took to bed were with child, he was the likely culprit. It brought Rhaenys a bit of morbid satisfaction to know that the man who had called her sandrat and her mother a whore was impotent.

Rhaenys waited to see if Tywin would object, but when he remained silent she nodded, “Send my Uncle a missive, and begin preparations for searching the poorhouses.” She cleared her throat, “I do agree that a celebration would be beneficial, but there is no need for a grand tourney. To celebrate I suggest opening some of our grain stores to the citizens of King’s Landing. They will feel gratified to the crown and less likely to cause trouble if taxes must be raised.”

“Then what do you suggest for the nobility?”

“I will hold a banquet for the loyal retainers that helped me sit upon the throne.” Rhaenys watched the council exchange pleased glances before she continued, ignoring her heart hammering in her chest, “And I will invite the Lord of the North as a guest of honor to strengthen our relations.”

There was a brief moment of silence before every council member began to shout.

[the-darkness-does-not-bargain]

Say what you would about Corlys Velaryon, he was nothing if not an adaptable man.  Alicent assumed it was a skill he learned as a sailor.  After failing to entice the King into a marriage first, he shunned the court and capital for years, acting much like a spurned lover and playing the part well.  And yet, Rhaenyra’s cock had scarcely developed when he arrived from Driftmark to put his daughter on it.

(She winced, the vulgarity of her own thoughts taking her by surprise.  Her mind was vicious today, and it spared no one.)

Laena was at least no longer a child this time.  A stunning beauty of ten and seven, she wafted into the capital as if on a cloud to vye for the princess’s hand.  One year ago, the King invited a cavalcade of highborn omegas to woo his alpha heir, from pups to maidens to yet fertile widows, until the Red Keep was fit to burst at the seams.  For a time, the haze of their scents was so thick that even mated couples became antsy, and every party and function within the walls was spoiled by collective stress.  The competition had been fierce.  There had even been fights, but at the end of it all, the Siren of High Tide stood victorious.

It was easy to see why.  Charming, intelligent, and witty, Laena was a walking honey-trap for Rhaenyra.  She had claimed the dragon Vhagar at the tender age of three and ten, and was said to spend more time up in the skies than she ever did on the ground.  She was good-humored, rambunctious even, and cared little for the drudgeries of court, preferring instead to escape to the beaches or down into the city.  She would pull Rhaenyra along on these many excursions, luring her away from her responsibilities until no half-hearted scolding from Viserys could call her back.

Even now, their heads were bent together, no doubt discussing all the things they’d rather do than attend their own wedding announcement.  They made her blood boil.  How could they stand there and be so openly disrespectful?  If Alicent had so much as sneezed in front of the court, she would've been denied supper, yet there they stood, whispering shamelessly.  And the way they looked at each other?  It was borderline indecent.

The righteous hue of her anger burned bright, but brief.  There was a traitor in her mind, one that reminded her how she used to look at Rhaenyra the same way.  With wanton affection, fond and more than fond.  The long and secret looks, which weren't secret enough to stop her mother from suspecting things, or from dragging her to the Sept to pray the unholy thoughts away.  Truly, she had no room to judge them for the sins she herself once committed.

But perhaps their enemies were right.  Maybe Reachmen were naturally envious folk.  Maybe she was doomed by her heritage to look upon the happy pair with roiling anger, to grind her teeth behind a smile and curse them inside her head.

[rvllybllply2014]

Uh idk. Something about davron adopting a baby, specifically a girl. He wants a baby with Aeron, and magic can only do so much, but it can’t do that nor would either one want it to do that. They ran away before the burning mill. Crack? I’m gonna call this crack and nobody yell at me for this.

Davos and Aeron have been together for seven years now, and friends even longer. They’re all but married in name, so Davos feels like the next step in their relationship is to have a baby. Davos knows that there is some magic that could help them have one of their own but he also knows he wouldn’t want to carry the baby and neither would Aeron. So what’s a desperate man to do? Adopt without telling his partner, it’s easier to ask for forgiveness.

Davos lucks out when he hears about an orphaned baby in town who has no family other than grandparents who really don’t want to raise them. Davos manages to locate the grandparents and offers them a bag of gold dragons. It doesn’t take the grandparents long to agree to give Davos their granddaughter. He’s also lucked out with some of her features looking just like Aeron, mainly her eyes and the way she smiles, she also has Davos’s hair color and her nose is very similar to his.

Anyway Davos manages to sneak the baby back into Raven tree hall by claiming she’s his bastard daughter. No he didn’t know about her until today when her mother wrote to tell him that he needed to come get her, she was getting married and her new husband didn’t want the baby. Once he’s back in his rooms he sends a raven telling Aeron to pack lightly now’s the time that they need to leave, war is brewing it’s not safe for either of them and he also has a surprise for him.

Aeron follows the directions from the raven but is curious about the surprise. He always knew that they would need to give up their houses and the river lands if they were to stay together and live. But he’s pissed when Davos rides up to their meeting spot with a baby swaddle on his chest. Aeron automatically assumes that Davos has killed the poor girls parents to take her.

Even after Davos explains that he paid her grandparents for her Aeron is still pissed, he took a baby from her family only to want to raise her on the run. Aeron only calms down after Davos points out that she’s a nice little similar mix between them, she has Aerons eyes and smile along with Davos hair color and his nose. Aeron absolutely melts when he realizes that. He practically rips her off of Davos’s chest and swaddles her into his.

Davos laughs and tells him, he knew that Aeron would love her just look at how tightly he’s holding her. Davos also tells Aeron that she’s about three months old. They’ll be a happy family as soon as they get to Dorne. Aeron had thought they’d go to Essos, but does concede that Dorne wouldn’t really blink at their weird little family.

As the years pass and their baby grows Davos is completely wrapped around her pinky finger. Anything that she asks for Davos will get her it, sometimes all she has to do is look at an item and Davos buys it for her. Aeron calls him a pushover, she doesn’t need everything that she asks for, or sometimes she just likes to look at something without wanting it. The most expensive items Aeron will buy her is oil for her hair, which Davos uses to help braid and brush it every night. If she has a nightmare Davos will go to her room and sleep on the floor with her, Aeron joins him with pillows and a blanket. Davos is also the one to tell her bed time stories and cries when she says she’s too old for those now. Aeron just holds him while telling him it’s okay, they’ve done a good job so far raising her this is just another milestone.

And the old gods and new gods help Davos if his little girl ever gets married. He’s a sobbing emotional mess the whole ceremony, Aeron does get teary eyed but only cries once the ceremony and party ends. They spend the whole night holding each other while telling the other that they did a good job raising her.

[captain039]

PART 2 In plain sight

Aemond x niece!reader

Warnings: AOB, swearing, HOTD things, targcest, incest uncle/niece, tension, angst, smut, sexual things, reader is Rhaenyra’s daughter (specified brown hair), plus size reader, fat shaming, self esteem issues

Previous part <-

You need to leave this place as soon as possible. You won’t go back home, not yet anyway. You don’t want to deal with that yet, the looks from your brother, the conversations with your mother, the council men. You’re about to deliver wine to the small council room, the head servant not all too pleased to see you doing nothing. You tried to explain you were leaving to which she ignored, shoved the jug in your hand and forced you to the council room. Gods you wished to slap her stupid one day. You enter just as you hear the word ‘dragon’ shouted outside, a hard rushing in. A roar echoes over kings landing and you recognise the shape of Elea and her beautiful white wings as she flys over.

“That’s not one we know” Lord Larys says as Aemond lifts his head to you.

“It is” is all he says calmly and the jug shakes in your hand. You turn to leave rushing down the stairs handing one of the passing servants the jug without word. They’d kill Elea for flying here. You’re in a midst of panic heading to exit the jeep when a hand holds your elbow.

“Calm” you gulp softly at the prince, his voice thick as he speaks high Valyrian by your ear.

“No one will hurt your dragon get it to land” he says as you both walk to leave the keep. He drags you out the red keep and to some horses nearby and you freeze shaking your head. The prince frowns and tsks before he orders a carriage.

You’re alone in a carriage with the alpha prince regent. You want to open a window, anything.

“Why did you not arrive with your dragon in the first place?” He asks head tilted but you stay silent keeping your eyes on your hands which are clasped in your laps.

You hear Elea roar and another sound of a grumbling dragon as the carriage stop. You quickly get out and see Elea flying around frantically. You see movement in the marsh ahead seeing Vhagar lifting her up sensing her rider nearby. She lies back down though as you walk away from the carriage.

“Land Elea!” You call trying to find some space where she could. She thrills and chirps before she lands ungracefully. You sigh as she head butt’s your chest almost knocking you over before she rumbles low in her throat. You run your hand over her scales on her snout smiling a little that she came to get you. She’s breathing heavily while she makes an almost cat like purr sound before it turns into a dangerous growl. You turn to see the prince standing a few meters away, hand resting lazily on his sword.

“Calm Elea” you say.

“Take her back to the dragon pit, she’ll be fed and watered” the alpha prince says and you frown.

“She doesn’t know where it is” you say.

“You do” he narrows his eye.

“Why not kill me now?” You ask.

“Your dragon would burn me to ash” he says.

“Not if Vhagar’s here” you glare thinking to your little brother and his little dragon.

“Get on the dragon little niece” he says almost an order as he comes closer. Elea growls quietly where she stands but does nothing else.

“Home, go home Elea” you say but she snorts a huff angrily.

“She won’t” Aemond says almost amused.

“Do you wish to kill me or not uncle?” You snap turning to face him. Aemonds lip quirks up a little his one good eye staring you down. You curse silently looking away and closing your eyes to take a small breath.

“What you have done is classed treason against the crown” he says.

“Nobody knows who I am” you scoff a little.

“Do you truely think so?” He asks head tilted.

“I was never there or around as far as they knew, a rumour to be nursed by servants and maids” you look back to him biting the inside of your cheek.

“I knew” he says and you feel as if the air was sucked from your lungs.

“I always knew you were hiding little niece” his words make you falter and stutter, why is he toying with you.

“Wed to me and I won’t let any of this little secret get out” you stare at him blankly trying to repeat the words he has said.

“Marry you?” You ask.

“That is what I said” he says calmly.

“You are on my mother’s rightful throne we are enemies, what do I get out of this? What do you get out of this?” You sneer, eyes angry. You hate how calm he looks and acts, hate the calming scent he lets out, you hate how it eases your inner omega. Elea rumbles low in her throat gently nudging you with the tip of her nose.

“You get to be Queen, rule by my side like your mother couldn’t” your hand cracks across his face in a forceful slap, you don’t register moving.

“Do. Not. Talk about my mother that way” he holds his cheek with a small smirk.

“Now I could have your head” he says.

“Then do it!” You snap. His hand comes to your throat quickly and a shock of panic floods through you. You breathe shallowly while he breathes heavily, his face inches from yours. Elea growls behind you and you hear Vhagar amongst the bushes.

“Calm, Vhagar” Aemond calls to his dragon grumbling softly before he glances to Elea.

“Calm, Elea” you say as she lifts her head and lets out a roar but backs away.

“No one will believe you, I am a bastard, why would I want to show myself, I am not like mother or brothers I am not made by Targaryen standards, I am hideous” the words sting your throat, then your eyes and it’s too late to realise there are tears going down your cheeks. The prince alpha stares blankly, blinks a few times as he watches your tears. His grip loosens, almost a gentle hold.

“Is that what you really think little niece?” He asks his voice disbelieving as he frowns. His thumb swiped up catching a tear.

“Gods sake Aemond-“ you feel like you’re crashing against the earth after falling off a dragon.

“Marry you? It doesn’t benefit you or your bloodline, it taints it, ruins your claim to anything” you struggle with words and your breath. His scent has gone strange, the same calming pheromones with a tinge of whatever he’s feeling.

“My prince?” You hear the guard and gasp loudly before you step back from the alpha. You hold your throat and turn away. Elea thrills sadly pressing her head against you while you cry.

“Princess Y/n” the call is loud and you tense turning to the prince and the now confused guard.

“The princess’s dragon will reside in the dragon pit while she is here, make sure the dragon keepers have her fed and watered, set up a room for the princess before we return” the alpha prince speaks assertively to the guard who nods before bowing his head and leaving with the carriage.

“You’ve never ridden your dragon have you?” He asks approaching again and you wipe your eyes.

“No I haven’t” you mutter.

“Mount” he orders walking to Vhagars position.

“Prince Aemond!” You call but he ignores you.

You groan looking to Elea who lowers her body and neck down a little happy noise escaping her.

Vhagar is large, the largest dragon you’ve ever seen as she walks over heavily. Aemond sits high above her and you shudder a little. He watches you from atop of Vhagar and you glance to the saddle on Elea. You hang your head with your eyes closed, shaking it briefly with the internal battle you’re having. You curse softly, gather your skirts and climb.

Gods that’s a long way off the ground, you begin to shake a little as you position yourself on the saddle, cursing wearing skirts before strapping yourself and holding the two handles in front of you. Elea thrills, lifts her body up and you let out an involuntary yelp.

“Fly, Elea!” Aemond calls and Elea lets out a small roar before spreading her wings.

“Elea!” You yell but it’s too late, her large wings beat against the ground and you’re lifted off into the air. You close your eyes huddle yourself to the saddle and keep your head down as you feel Elea moving in the sky. Gods you might pass out.

Your stomach has dropped and your head is light but she soon slows her movements and begins to glide. You open your eyes staring at the saddle before looking out to her left wing seeing the clouds and sky. You quickly look back to the saddle though before you take a small breath and lift your body up. You regret it quickly seeing how high up you are before the wind rushes your face and a feeling of freedom hits you. Your body relaxes, your grip loosens as you look out to the sky and clouds. You laugh then. Looking at the sky’s vastness. You hear a roar behind you though and then seeing Vhagars large form behind you. You gulp a little as the large green dragon glides beside you, wing tip to wing tip with Elea, her rider looking to you. It’s a strange look one you can’t quite make out from the back of Elea but you look away. You look to the earth shuddering a little bit admiring the beauty of it. Vast land and trees. Elea roars her song before Vhagar joins also and another laugh leaves you and you look back to the prince a strange feeling rushing over you as he stares back too.

Next part ->